Sheltering Beauty

A softly bright hazy sky comes into view as I climb up a narrow flight of stairs and exit the Subway station at 72nd Street and Central Park West. I wait as the light turns green then cross the street.

Before setting out for a brisk romp through the park en-route to work, I scan my phone for "personal" email to see if any need immediate responses. All these movements are carefully choreographed, a schedule neatly planned to get me to work refreshed, focussed, and on time. I can't afford to be distracted.

Standing beside a fresh bed of pastel pink tulips, I pause to breathe in their gorgeous scent and attune to the chirping of nearby sparrows flitting among budding branches of a young tree.

I pick up my Blackberry and open a message from a friend living in Oregon. It says, "Saw Alex Rudinsky yesterday. He's within a week or two of dying."

The words hit me like a bolt of lightning. I stand frozen for a few seconds, unable to absorb what's happening. My mind goes blank. My feet take over and phone in hand, I walk towards the tree-shelter canopy that marks the entrance into Strawberry Fields. I put the phone away and walk the short distance to the Imagine Circle. Eyes register "Imagine" set in gray mosaic tiling.

I slowly step back then turn, facing east and keep going. Within minutes, I feel the air moisten as first drops begin to fall.

A year earlier, Alex and I reconnect at a Memorial Day buffet. It's offered by Zen Community of Oregon at its residential training Center called Great Vow Zen Monastery. The place is anything but cloistered. People are a'plenty. Alex is telling me with great enthusiasm about his daughter Anna now in her early 20's and living in New York. He and I go back over a decade, having shared many moments of "spiritual practice" as members of this Community. I have been visiting twice a year since moving.

Alex's eyes exude kindness. His smile is gentle and direct. He's the kind of guy who when he's smiling, you just find yourself going along for the ride. You feel better just standing there with him.

Now moving through Central Park, the rain connects me to a terrain 3000 miles away whose touch is familiar as it is comforting. When I finally arrive at work, sitting down and just before emailing our mutual friend; I notice my agitation. Attuning, I sense below the surface, through what feel like bubbles of rage bursting and rippling out to diffuse their energy. As this happens, I begin to feel pain, sometimes sharp and as this spreads out, the tightness in my chest feels more achy. It hits me, first the recognition of having been completely unaware until today of Alex being sick. And I'm just beginning to feel his presence in that state and realize my helplessness. A queasy hollow-like sensation courses through me. I stay there for some time attuning to its rhythm as my pulse and breath settle.

Days later, I'm standing at the post office, finally finding words to write in a card. I feel Alex's presence. A moment of being with him feels like it's happening now all over again. He is standing, painting in the Jizo Garden at Great Vow (as it's affectionately known).

This garden is actually set in a forest. It is a place to rest and reflect and be with loved ones who have passed on. Everywhere are tokens of remembrance, slowly disintegrating, hanging from whatever is within reach. Poems and artwork, small toys, and bits of fabric sewn together, accented by beads or whatever strikes the fancy of the one remembering. Throughout this place are a sprinkling of old growth trees among younger varieties, Some are evergreens, Doug Fir being the most common. These form a sheltering canopy while still welcoming in sunlight or rain in soft streaming ripples.

As I walk along the newly shaped path through these woods, I see a figure wearing a moderately broad brim hat, paintbrush in hand, facing an easel. He is standing in a wild mess of tall ferns. The canvas is filled with varying shades of green, each one reflecting a quality of light, which draws me closer.

Just then, my feet step onto a dry branch, which crackles loudly enough to draw the painter's gaze. He turns and seeing me, breaks into a broad albeit subtle grin. I'm smiling too. We meet in a moment as ordinary as it is intimate, perfectly at home in this forest garden.

Back at the post office, I place the card, crafted of handmade paper with a light green hue, in an Express Mail envelope. I bring it to the counter. The woman helping me asks, "Oregon. How many hours difference?" "Three," I reply. She says, "Oh, same as Nevada." I ask, "Do you know someone in Nevada?" She replies, "No, I'm from Hong Kong originally. I was just visiting Death Valley." I feel my legs go soft and place my hands on the counter for support. I say, "It must've been amazing." She says, "Oh, yes. The name sounds scary but it's not. It's very beautiful."

I look at her in wonderment and say nothing.

The next day just before leaving work, I call the residence where Alex has been living and say, "I'm a friend of Alex Rudinsky." The woman answering the phone says, "he died this morning." My stomach sinks into something deeper and the queasiness returns. I immediately call one of his daughters to offer condolences. I get off the phone. I leave the building and do what comes naturally. I walk. I feel the air on my face.

When I get home, even though it's late, I can't sleep. I light a candle and place Alex's photo beside it. I sit there a long time.

The next morning I go to Village Zendo for a day-long retreat. Being with friends in a mostly silent container of time and space allows me to flow with a shifting interior landscape. That forest garden becomes a stronger presence and in moments I feel myself sitting there. Afterwards, I walk to Ten Ren Tea. I pour from a large cup into a small one a rich dark brew of an earthy tea called PuEr. Over and over again I pour and sip. The woodsy aroma and taste take me back to days at Great Vow and other gardens among friends. Our hands dig into moist soil mixed together with fresh compost. This is fertile ground for new seedlings we are transplanting from the greenhouse where they've germinated.

All at once, almost before I realize it's happening, tea in hand, tears spill out. I can't hide them though feel awkward crying openly in this teahouse. Cindy and Anna, friends who work here, offer space and gentle care, bringing over a small cup of Oolong, placing a light hand on my shoulder then stepping back to their work. When ready, I tell them what's happened. Each offers comforting words and a brief, heartfelt hug. Something in me shifts as I'm held. I feel safe. I sense that this moment too is precious and these people dear to me. And it all seems so incredibly ordinary. The lack of seeming drama in the midst of a multitude of emotion allows me to relax. Able to integrate the hurt and sadness, the confusion and regret, I return to appreciating who is here now. An inner warmth moved out as quiet joy arises in me unexpectedly.

As preparations begin to close the teahouse for the night, I head out and wander through the side streets of Chinatown as the sun sets. Stumbling on a prayerful scene, I see Pakistani or perhaps Afghani workers pulling out pieces of cardboard and prostrating together. My mind flashes to Memorial Sloan Kettering Cancer Center and walking by its renovated chapel. A friend and colleague, Imam Yussuf Hassan, joins with staff, patients, and their family members in prayer. They spread out small colorful rugs and prostrate, facing east towards Mecca.

Days later, I call Sybil, a 70-something friend and writer whose compassionate way is subtle as it is imaginative. I mention Alex being "only 54" yet having lived fully. She says, "sometimes I think it's like people are all kinds of carpets. Some are meant to be prayer rugs instead of wall-to-wall." This hits home and I feel the relief of a few tears running down my cheek.

Back in Chinatown, I turn towards the river, heading west. I hear voices singing. Following the sound, I enter a Catholic church and see an Easter vigil. Holding white candles, Chinese parishioners stand as the choir sings. The candlelight resonates with the end of Shabbat, the Jewish Sabbath, on this, the fifth day of Passover. It is a time, which marks the transition from rest to activity. I stay briefly then keep moving.

Nearly a week earlier, I sit at a long table in Soho for a lively Seder with friends and their family. They get the power of togetherness. Deena is founder of Communal Table and Musho is an artist whose whimsical creations include a colorful cast of characters. The haggadah storybook we use is called, “A Night of Questions.” When it's time for the ten plagues, each of us dips a pinky in our wineglass and removes a drop, one for each plague. Opinions vary on why this is done. A popular explanation is to acknowledge that we do not rejoice at the suffering of the oppressor. Rather, we celebrate being freed from the yoke of oppression. "What's the difference?" remains a question debated at many a table.

Now, standing on the edge of Tribeca, I wait for the traffic light to change. The sky has darkened considerably. The light turns green. I keep going. When I get to the Hudson river, the flow of water soothes and the streetlamps' glow washing over its shifting surface comforts as it refreshes.

The next morning, I reset my makeshift music studio and toss whatever does not seem to be essential. Later, as evening comes, I head downtown to Bluestockings Bookstore to hear Nina Revoyr read from her new novel, Wingshooters. I hear about Nina from my friend Tomomi. Nina is her daughter.

A group of thirty or so eager listeners gather. Homemade cookies sit on a nearby table.

Nina's novel deals with complexity of character and relationships, engaging difficult themes including racism, and is being compared to To Kill a Mockingbird. Nina comes up to the mike. She reads a passage, which beautifully captures a moment where the story's nine-year-old protagonist heads out to the baseball field with her grandfather:

"Something about stepping out onto a baseball field that always gave me a thrill, as if some energy source, some element in the grass, entered my feet and moved up through my body and set off an extra charge in my heart. . . Batting is about muscle memory and repetitive motion, and you have to get to the point where you're moving perfectly and acting without thought. . . When players get into a slump, it's often because they're thinking too much, breaking down the various parts of their swing until it becomes a series of separate, fallible mechanical actions instead of a unified expression of grace."

She adds, "When I did connect, when the ball hit the center of the barrel of the bat and flew out into the field, I felt a sense of joy and freedom as powerful and true as anything I've ever experienced. . . Hitting a ball is like catching a piece of the sky and sending it back up to itself. It's like creating your own crack of thunder. And stopping a ball-especially a grounder you have to reach for, or a line drive that should have flown past your glove-is like catching a bolt of lightning."

As she reads, the sky explodes with a bright flash and soon the crackle of thunder, quickly followed by a downpour. We feel it through the bookstore's open door as a rush of moist wind. During the Q&A, which follows her reading, Nina responds (as best I'm able to hear) to a question:

"Much like a good parent, I give characters enough structure (foundation) then trust. Characters lead you and become the story. Sure, I want people to think about complexity, about racism, but if I wanted to write an opinion I would have written non-fiction. Fiction has to have real characters. What's it like for someone to be neither all good or all evil?"

Her words reverberate throughout my body as I briefly mingle, then head out the door. Time to go home.

It's late. I pick up my electric guitar, already plugged into an effects box, and put on the attached headphones. I step on the pedal to shift sound effects. My fingers start strumming, then slow down to pluck single strings. Hearing the delay of the signal, it sounds like rain falling through that broad forest canopy. I adjust the delay and attune. My body loosens its taughtness and falls in with what's flowing.

The flickering candle light casts dancing shadows across the wall, magnifying the silhoetted shape of flowers nearby. I feel my breath and pulse. Over and over fingers pluck away. I get up and move through the room as far as the cord will allow. Slowly lyrics come. I sing them softly given the hour:

"I'm standing with you. I'm standing with you in a forest garden. And the rain's comin' down. the rain's comin' down. It'll turn you around. It'll turn you around."

I feel the wet warmth of tears streaming down my cheeks in the night glow, choking through the refrain of "rain's comin' down."

My fingers strum harder now and faster. I step on the peddle and the effect, the grit of the sound building. I feel that forest floor squishing beneath me and the sheltering embrace of that forest canopy. It feels so good to play. I feel free, freer than I've felt in months. I play until my fingers shake and eventually settle. The last thing I do is record the snippet of song using my phone. No time yet to setup the recording part of this studio. I finally release into a restful exhaustion.

The next day I send the recording to my friend Naomi. She texts me within minutes, "Wow. . .it's beautiful. You should play in the public. Seriously."

My immediate and visceral response on reading this is palpable, a new interplay of joy, relief, and all of it most intimate. Not so much the being seen for who I am (an ongoing storyline). Rather the ability to express and have this connect for another. Meeting in the moment.

Days later, I check my email. Another friend in Oregon and resident at Great Vow, writes, "We'll have Alex's memorial ceremony here today. I visited Alex the week before his passing. He had big, bright eyes."

I go onto Facebook. I visit Alex's photo albums and am drawn to one of his colorful landcape oil painting of a forest scene, entitled, "Shelter." I then return to the previous page and scroll down to see his comment to friends. He's talking about the relationship between "posting" and "sharing":

"I guess I have no idea how this works. I thought anyone could look at these photos just by going to my fb page and clicking on which photo album they wanted at any time. So the difference is when I edit it, then they are "posted" and go out to everyone as when I "share" something?"

He then writes,

"And so the advantage is people don't have to think. It just visually appears in front of them, and they are happy."

Nearness

A sunny Sunday afternoon. I'm standing on Broadway in Manhattan's Soho, just south of Prince Street, carrying a large colorful poster, which reads, "Help Japan with Love." Beside me is Naomi Namba, Japanese immigrant, artist and fellow server at the Potluck Tea Party in Central Park's Strawberry Fields. Today we're joining a large Taiwanese Humanitarian Relief organization named, Tzu Chi, in fundraising efforts.

A week earlier, the world shifts. An earthquake, then a tsunami, then nuclear disaster. Something shifts in me and I need to do something. I don't know what so I do what a lot of us do. I go online to connect with my "Social Network." I'm looking for what five decades earlier, Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., calls, "the Beloved Community." What I find are many news stories and blogs, which vary wildly in what they report. The people and communities affected directly tend to put a different spin on events than those at greater distance.

I also locate lots of ways to donate online. It's confusing. Who can be trusted to get the funds directly to those in need? Do I go with familiar organizations or others, which offer matching funds, or which espouse ideologies more aligned with my own? After an hour of surfing, I am overwhelmed. My shoulders are hunched and tense. My face has moved alarmingly close to the screen. All at once, I stop. I feel my feet on the floor and come back to my breath. I get out of the chair and step back from the screen.

I leave the room and sit in a quiet place. I follow my breath until it settles as does the rest of my body. Then, it comes to me. Whom to call. Within minutes, I'm speaking with Chuck, a new friend and volunteer with Tzu Chi's office in Manhattan's Chinatown. Weeks earlier, I meet him by phone while planning an upcoming retreat at Village Zendo whose theme is immigration. The plan, as a later video I'mMigration shows, is to explore our inter-relatedness by engaging the urban environment including visits to neighbors such as Tzu Chi.

Speaking now about Japan, Chuck tells me to meet at their office on Sunday. Those of us volunteering are dispatched in groups of three or four to the streets of Soho. he tells me that days earlier in Chinatown, volunteers meet with resistance from some locals, who say emphatically, "hey, don't you know your history? Don't you know what the Japanese did to us?"

Today, I cross Broadway as the Chinese-American woman, herself an immigrant, heading up our group of four urges us on, saying, "more people will be on the sunny side of the street." Walking beside her is a young man, a high school student. She's carrying a makeshift cardboard box with a big slot cut on top and lovely artwork pasted on the front. The rest of us carry signs or flyers stating our intention, "Help Japan with Love."

My resistance starts from the outset. The scene feels like the Salvation Army. It is not exactly my cuppa tea. We are asking out loud for people to contribute. The young fellow says, "come on, show some love. Give a dollar. Help Japan."

Each time someone puts money in the box, the woman bows and says, "thank you." So does the young fellow and soon enough, so do Naomi and I. We catch on. Still, I don't know what to say. I watch as most people walk by. Quickly, I'm getting seriously annoyed. Why aren't they stopping? Why aren't they offering something?

My impulse is to say something. But what? A man walks by, late 20's, seemingly "Caucasian," and well-dressed. He's carrying what I imagine to be a $5 latte from Dean&Deluca, an expensive gourmet market at the corner. I hear myself say, "for the price of that coffee, you could help someone who has no water to drink. Give $5. Save a life." My tone is anything but inviting. He quickly walks by. Next I see a woman in her mid-30's wheeling her toddler son in one of those fancy strollers that can do everything but fly. I say as she goes by, "what if it was your child?" She gives me a look, rightly so, indicating her displeasure and confirming that this strategy is not gonna fly.

Increasingly desperate, I start a refrain, "think of the children, think of the children. please help." Folks keep walking by. Now I'm really angry and it shows. I say as a new refrain, "do you really need that dollar in your pocket?" As I'm saying it, a homeless man looking pretty dishevelled and down on his luck, walks by. He walks slower than others and his eyes are downcast. He keeps moving.

All at once it hits me. Here I am. Passive aggressive. Judgemental. Trying to connect. Not a great recipe for success. I check in with my body. Tense. Tired. Migraine tinges surging. Hungry. Cold.

Pissed off.

I stop.

Because I am suffering.

Why am I suffering? I don't know.

A Zen koan (dialogue) from The Book of Serenity, speaks to this. It's an exchange between two Chinese men and is called,

Case 20: Dizhang's Nearness:

Dizhang asks Fayan, "Where are you going?"

Fayan says, "Around on Pilgrimage."

Dizhang says, "What is the purpose of Pilgrimage?"

Fayan says, "I don't know."

Dizhang says, "Not knowing is nearest."

Why are people here? Who are these people? What's their purpose?

I don't know.

The woman with the stroller. Maybe she's overwhelmed, trying to manage her full-time career with the responsibilities of motherhood. If she's fortunate to be in a loving partnership, maybe she's in a hurry, on her way to meet that person, maybe more kids, and have some precious family time together?

Or how about the latte guy? Maybe he donated online. Maybe he's been working his tail off all week and this is his one chance to relax. Maybe he's been savoring this moment of enjoying a latte all day. Maybe it's what he needs to keep going.

Finally, the homeless guy. He might be unaware. He might need to keep his focus very narrow, focussed on survival. He moves slowly through the terrain. He takes his time. Maybe he is offering something just as significant as money. Maybe a reminder.

Stopping to consider all this, my body relaxes.

I stop judging. I stop suffering.

All because of practice. The simple so-to-speak practice of coming back to the breath, the body, and my intention.

In that moment of stopping, of inner silence, a song comes to me, a refrain. I start to sing what I hear internally. It's a familiar melody, written by John Lennon, and sung by The Beatles.

"Love, love, love"

As soon as I begin, Naomi turns to me and smiles. She starts singing. We start a soft dance shuffle, holding our signs.

"Love, love, love. . . it's easy"

People around us slow down as they walk by. They're smiling. I sing at a volume I didn't realize I'm capable of. It is heard even with lots of mid-afternoon auto traffic:

"All you need is love"

The next line comes out so loud seems like folks on the other side of the street can hear.

"Everybody now!"

Naomi's singing louder too.

"All you need is love"

Then a new line comes out of my mouth. I make it up:

"We need your help and how."

I laugh. So do people walking by. They start to put money in the box, in our hands. Bows and "thank you"s keep a steady rhythm for the tune.

We connect.

A few days later, during the Urban retreat, visiting the offices of Tzu Chi, our host tells us that street-based fundraising efforts are intended to be grassroots efforts. She says, "On the street, it's great if people give a dollar. Frankly, we raise more money online. It's not about the money. It's to awaken the heart of compassion."

Back on Broadway, I feel compassion for the people around me. They feel it.

Compassion and dollar bills flow freely. We continue to sing, to laugh, to dance, and bow.

A man who operates the nearby food-vending truck wants to contribute. The woman with the box gladly walks over and lifts up the box as he puts in a dollar. She asks him where he's from. Smiling with great pride and dignity, he says, "Bangladesh." They bow.

I snap photos and hand Naomi the camera, she snaps a few. I ask a stranger passing by. Another volunteer from Tzu Chi arrives. He snaps a few. We're having a grand time. We return to Tzu Chi headquarters and warm up. Chuck offers me and Naomi sweet red bean soup along with the rest of the volunteers.

I go home. I feel compassion for myself. I want to share it. I make a Flickr slideshow and post the link and a photo album on Facebook. I tag a few people in the photos. Within hours, Naomi posts on my wall, saying, "It was fun. People gave us a lot. Thank you!" She emails me hours later and says that her friends in Japan saw the slideshow because I tagged her in a few photos. She writes, "they were deeply moved."

I'm reminded of a verse from a long, meandering Taoist poem, entitled, "Shodoka" or "Song Verifying the Way":

I have had no reason for joy or sorrow

at any honor or disgrace.

I have entered the deep mountains to silence and beauty.

Consumed

Three squirrels are zooming around a tree as I enter Ft. Tryon park in northern Manhattan. Their tireless pace captivates me and a whole lot of folks passing through. The temperature outside is markedly warmer than it's been. Everybody's coming out it seems.

Two weeks earlier, and footsteps from here, my cellphone is stolen by two teenage boys, could be age 14 or maybe 16. Coming out of the subway, I ride up an elevator to street level. The teenagers and a middle-aged woman are also riding. I see the boys glancing at my Blackberry but am consumed, typing an email message to a guy who lives 3000 miles away. He and I meet one year earlier and are now in some kind of ambiguous intimate relationship. I am planning to visit him in a few days.

I type with a heightened sense of urgency due to confusion and impatience in wanting a response. I think I'm checking in but actually the impulse is more like checking out, not taking in what's really going on. I'm exhausted with my head painfully pounding. Another day of too much activity, too much outflow, and not enough of what nourishes.

Over a year earlier, I sustain physical injuries from such active inattentiveness, which connects with similar fixations. Some part of me is irritated and compulsively thinking that someone else is not responding as I want them to. I don't feel heard. That night, I trip and take a nasty tumble, breaking a tooth on impact with the pavement. Tonight, under different circumstances, my unconscious body registers a resonance but can't stop.

As the elevator doors open, the boys walk ahead of me as does the woman. Alone, having completed the email text, I step out into the night air, holding the phone in one hand. I am about to go up the two flights of stairs, which lead to the sidewalk. Suddenly, the youngsters come back and towards me. One says, "hey, I dropped something back there, think I lost something. Did you see anything?" I reply, "no, you might want to check back there."

They do not move. That's when I sense danger. I turn back towards the elevators, cellphone still in hand. One of them quickly grabs the phone. Then, both of them bolt up the stairs and turn, heading towards the park. I yell, "hey, stop, give me back my phone. stop, thief, someone stop them!" and race up the stairs. Up on the sidewalk, seeing them far away now, I realize the futility of my effort and also the potential for escalation of the situation. Someone at the top of the stairs, holding a cane, asks what happened. I tell him briefly. He says, "oh, that's too bad." I'm enraged, not knowing what to say so nod my head, turn and move quickly down the street. All I want to do is get home.

Minutes later, I enter my building, and a neighbor, Carlos, who happens also to be a clinical chaplain, greets me, heading out to walk his dogs. He offers empathy and tells me there has been a surge in this sort of crime in our neighborhood recently. I tell him what is most of concern to me is confidential info on the phone, contacts and such. He assures me that the young men likely will toss away the SIM card and wipe the phone of other info.

Then I tell him that I'm upset about the conditions contributing to this, and my outreach efforts. He tells me about working with incarcerated youth at Rykers prison, gang initiations, and various issues affecting "our kids" in the inner city. Then, as I'm about to move on, he says, "I'm sorry I wasn't there to help you." I see his eyes filled with compassion and care. I feel tears in my eyes. He's struck a chord. I'm hurting. We hug for a few breaths and then I go upstairs.

By now, fifteen minutes go by.

I take a quick shower and swallow two Advil capsules. "Quick acting pain relief." That's what I need. Only then do I call the local precinct and report the crime. Then my cell provider. Shortly thereafter, two officers arrive at my door. One of them is annoyed that I didn't call sooner and that I didn't call 911. "We might have caught them," he says. I offer empathy but recognize that am still in shock and don't have a simple response.

The next day, I get a call from a detective. He asks me a slew of questions including a request to describe the young men. Among these details, I say they are "hispanic." Even as I say it, I question if this is accurate, and what I mean by the word. He wants me to come down to the precinct and look at photos. I go the following night after work.

The scene is very urban, and the many TV shows I've seen of such places accurately render the scene. He says more as a statement than a question, "you know how to use a computer." I say, "yes." He gets up from his chair facing the screen and has me sit there. He says, "you'll see six photos at a time. There are about 600 in this batch, all that fit your description." He continues, "you're gonna see a lot of buttons. I just want you to click on 'next'." I nod in acknowledgement. I put my hand on the mouse and am about to begin, when he adds, "listen, people look at these and go, 'he had this feature or that, his eyes, his nose, maybe looks like this...' Don't do that. Just take in the whole face and see if you recognize it."

I look him in the eye. He looks tired. I don't know what to say. I turn back to the screen. The air is musty and cloying. Stacks of papers and folders are piled all around. I focus. As face after face appears, I scan them and press, "next." I don't see anyone who looks like the young man who grabbed the phone. What I do see are facial expressions, a wide range of bewildered, numb, scared, sad, and angry. I also see a wide range of facial features, all apparently designated as "hispanic american."

My mind flashes to a moment two months earlier, at the Brain Resource Center. Then, participating in a depression study as a "healthy subject," I am asked to view many facial expressions in quick succession on a computer screen. Like that moment, right now I shift to an awareness of flow and presence with all the emotions I'm seeing. How are these affecting me? What is my response?

The detective asks if I want to widen the search and view more photos. I agree to view one more batch. After another 600 photos come and go, he says that it's different for everybody. Some people can ID and some can't. "It all depends," he finishes. I leave the station with many questions. I'm tired and sad.

I go home and read an email message, "I am glad you weren't hurt physically. Phones can be replaced. Judys can't."

The next day I fly to Oakland, CA. After a day's silent retreat at Berkeley Zen Center, I'm heading to visit with this guy I really like even as our relationship continues to be troubling in its ambiguity. En-route on the BART train, and running late, I text him with my new phone and he responds, "No problem take your time." I smile with relief. How did he know?...

After I get there, he shares how relieved he is that "nothing worse" happened to me. I tell him it's important to me to write about it, to write stories of things that often go unseen. Then I say would like to write for various media except television. His look in that instant stops me. I sense arrogance in my tone. Where is that coming from? What do I really know about television? I've hardly seen any TV shows recently.


As the discussion becomes more heated, he says, "you are consumed by the world." These words stop me as a zen koan (dialogue) fragment comes to mind. I feel a resonance and hear my teacher speaking them, "what do you call the world?"

I'm seeing images flash by including those many faces on the screen. How do I respond?

He then tells me about issues with the police in San Francisco. He tells me about his friend in Brooklyn who was mugged violently. I feel myself shaking. I'm overwhelmed. My body flinches as it is catapulted through time.

Many years earlier, in Seattle, I'm choking, trapped in a fog of tear gas as protesters to the World Trade Organization meeting gather outside. I see broken windows of storefronts, notably Starbucks. Mostly I see non-violent protests. I am here to witness and dialogue with anyone I can. I know very little of the details of the situation, having driven with friends from Oregon, where I'm living. I see police in riot gear, all lined up, moving forward. I see protesters chained to a building. I see a lot of anger and a lot of fear. We run and run until at last, find a way out.

Now, two days after being in San Francisco, I am back in New York on a bus crossing over the George Washington bridge to New Jersey. I'm heading to the Brain Resource Center for my followup appointment. When I get there, a woman again asks me to put on a funky cap with lots of wires sticking out of it. As she puts conducting gel on my head and checks the connections, hearing some kind of European sounding accent, I ask where she's from. She shares that she's from Kosovo and moved to Brooklyn 20 years earlier. I ask about her family, having met her daughter on the last visit. Her face lights up as she tells me of her daughter's fascination with storytelling and her youngest boy's fascination with science. She tells me he said to her recently, "someday, mom, I'm going to work with you."


Then she tells me that this wiring is for an EEG (electroencephalogram), which will record my brain waves during the test. She reminds me not to move except my fingers, which will respond. We begin. Facing a computer screen, faces appear quickly on the screen, bearing many emotional expressions. It's the same test (or so it seems) as done months earlier. Again, I'm asked to identify emotions and also to choose which faces I've seen before. As face after face appears, I begin to feel overwhelmed. I activate awareness of my breath and the bottoms of my feet. I don't move. I breathe more deeply. Slowly, I feel a shift in my body as it seems to expand to encompass the room and beyond. I feel flow. The sensation is both calming and energizing.

On the ride back, I remember the story of a colleague at the hospital where I work. Brother TA as he's called, visits Catholic patients, having returned from serving for 33 years in Pakistan. He's telling me about why he finally left that country. He says, "we trained to make ourselves useless, have to let go, like being a parent, hard to cut the apron strings. We'd look around, seeing improvement in conditions. [when we arrived] they were like serfs, homeless, living in lean-tos against houses where they worked. We'd ask ourselves 25 years later, 'how did this happen?' We were busy just doing the work."

Then he adds, "[finally] They wanted us to be like grandparents sitting back... I'm an activist. That's not me. I can always do something. Wash dishes, make a dessert for the meal." Then he looks me in the eye and laughs, "But also, it's not what you do. It's who you are." I see the lines on his face. I see the glow in his gaze. I feel a powerful embrace and release.

Back on the bus, I look out the window. The sun is shining brilliantly. I sit back to enjoy the ride. Within minutes, my phone rings. Even as I answer the call, I want to get off. Something drives me to respond but I keep it short. Then, I hang up the phone and turn the ringer to "silent."

I take my time walking home.

Walking the Tao

I am greeting folks in the early afternoon as they arrive at Village Zendo, set inauspiciously at the end of a long corridor on the 11th floor of a large loft building in Mahattan's Soho.

We are gathering as Chinese New Year approaches for a happening called, Walking the Tao - a leisurely tea outing. These words are inspired by a long Chinese poem entitled Shodoka - Cheng-Tao-Ko, whose opening verse reads:

"There is the leisurely one,
Walking the Tao,
beyond philosophy,
Not avoiding fantasy, not seeking truth. . ."

We are a mix of folks who have known each other for some time as well as those who have never met. Most heard about the happening online. Some, like my friend and former colleague at Housing Works, Inc., Diana, have brought their kids along. Juliette and Sebastian have been studying Mandarin in school and are in a play later in the week, in celebration of Chinese New Year.

Fifteen of us assemble. We introduce ourselves briefly and what inspired us to come on the outing today. I suggest we might call ourselves "tea tao-ttlers." This garners a few chuckles and a few raised eyebrows. As we gather our belongings, I am delighted for how resonant this outing feels with another happening, the ongoing Potluck Tea Party in NYC's Central Park. I am awed at how dots connect.

Joining in today are Musho, who painted the wondrous party poster and happens to be a longtime fan of tea, esp. Japanese greens. His wife and founder of Communal Table, Deena, is smiling brightly as we introduce ourtselves. Many of us are foodies in one way or another. Deborah, founder of the vegetarian bistro Counter, shares that tea is a passion. Heads nod with delight in shared recognition.

Mark and Vinny share that daily consumption of tea is a pleasure and how excited they are for this outing. Zak speaks of his wife, currently living in Beijing, and how while visiting her, he was introduced and soon become enthralled with the elegant "gung fu" ceremony, which we are soon to enjoy. Days earlier, in his email rsvp, he writes, "totally stoked!!!"

Our destination: Flushing, Queens and Fang Tea, which is hosting a "tea expo," culminating after a month on Chinese New Year. As the poster for the happening says, Fang Tea:

features wonderful, small-batch, family-farm and wild-grown teas from Taiwan and mainland China. Also featured are a wide array of tea ware crafted by local and international artisans.

We head down via the elevator (except for the kids, who zip down eleven flights of stairs) and stroll out along the joyful bustle that is Broadway. Hopping on the subway, we change trains at Times Square to get on the #7, for a leisurely ride into the heart of Queens. Juliette sits down and opens her book, The Garden of Eve. by K.L. Going.

Above her head is a poster that says in big print, "Be Aware."

I ask to see her book. The back cover reads,

Evie receives a mysterious seed as an eleventh-birthday gift and meets a boy who claims to be dead. When planted, the seed grows into a tree before their eyes, but only Evie and the boy can see it - or go where it leads.

As the train shifts to being above ground, I notice through the window stretches of open space, frozen over ponds and bare trees, as well as big lots holding city buses and subway trains. On the exterior of each is an American flag.

As we travel, some enjoy conversation and some read. Sebastian sits beside Juliette, engrossed in a book of manga. I glance at frames in his book, which blend with frames outside the window. The world is passing by and we with it. Soon enough, we arrive at the last stop, as the train goes again under ground.

Here we are. Main Street, Flushing.

As we come up the stairs, Musho says, "hey, we're in China! That didn't take long." I look up and see a mammoth billboard over the busy intersection. It reads, "Welcome to China 2011." We cross the street, whose upper traverses are decorated with red paper lanterns, and arrive at a cozy hole-in-the-wall, for a round of fresh steamed buns. This place serves what I've never experienced anywhere else, calling the filling, "salted vegetables." The bright salty greens make for a tasty counterpoint to the slightly-sweet white bun.

I greet a fellow who's slurping down some noodles. He looks like he's down on his luck, clothes unwashed in some time. Still, he's quite content because at a little over $1, these are affordable eats. We exchange notes on the relative merits of the various condiments as I pass out the buns to our crew. We step outside to munch and mingle.

The sun is shining and a steady stream of people pass by. This clearly is a main thoroughfare. We finish munching and continue down the street, then cross over through small mounds of snow to the other side.

Walking through the revolving door, we enter the Sheraton East Hotel. This is home to the tea expo. As we turn the corner, a statue of a benevolent looking figure resting in a grove of bamboo greets us. This we think is the image of Kwan Yin, which represents the feminine expression of compassion. So much so that a famous tea is named after her.

As soothing music plays over a speaker, I notice a captivating poster, which displays steam rising from a kettle. The caption reads,

Let tea be your guide, and take you into the wondrous realm of the Tao.

Below this, in smaller print, it says,

From the world of Zen, bring forth the essence of tea and let it guide the experience of the Truth within your mind.

I'm thinking, "OK, here we go . . ."

We soon are greeted by Judy Chen, interpreter and liaison for Fang Tea. She offers us a tour of the expo's displays and shares a brief history of Fang Tea. Wanting to preserve the unique art of growing, harvesting, and preparing a wide range of chinese teas; relationships have been cultivated with those specializing in this. Also, international artisans continue to explore the relationship between tea and teaware. The materials used as well as the process convey a craft that is at once steeped in tradition as it is unfolding, like the leaves themselves.

She shows us a series of small teacups. On each is painted an image of one of the many implements of Kwan Yin. She is said to have one thousand hands and in each a different tool. It seems that compassion comes in many forms and each is quite pragmatic.

Judy then walks us over to a mammoth wooden table, reserved for host and guests to enjoy tea. Behind it hang seven scrolls with calligraphy. She explains that these are a series of Zen tea poems. They can be experienced as a progression in the Tao being a "way" of life, as expressed through daily activities. The last one consists of four characters.

It says simply, "Zen and tea, one way."

We smile in unison as she invites us to split into two groups of eight. She prepares to serve as host at one and a new friend, Kyle, prepares to serve at an adjacent table. Each of them has studied the art of gung fu. Their radiant faces enliven the room. We sit down.

Another server of sorts joins us. It's Naomi, who has offered iced jasmine tea beside me for several years at our Potluck Tea Party. She lives nearby. She and Michelle, another member of our tea tao-ttling group, are familiar with japanese tea ceremony, or chado (also translates as "way of tea"). They, like the rest of us, are curious about and eager to experience the Chinese ceremony.

I move from one table to the other at a leisurely pace. Unsure of what exactly is my role, my heart leads. I want to ensure that everyone is comfortable.

Judy and Kyle have chosen a "light Oolong" to start. The dry leaves are appreciated by all as the small "pot" for steeping is heated with hot water poured from a nearby kettle. This "pot" looks more like a cup and is called "Gaiwan." It comes with a lid, which serves as a filter for the loose leaves.

Each Gaiwan is superby stunning. The glaze on the one Judy uses is an unsual and sensuous shade of red. Chinese New Year abounds in the color red as it generally connotes happiness in Chinese culture. A subtle while distinctive orchid is painted over this glaze. Kyle uses a Gaiwan with a soothingly bright shade of yellow overlaid with just a few delicate blossoms.

After the tea steeps briefly, it is poured into a serving cup with a spout. Judy explains that this is the "fairness cup." She says that it ensures that everyone receives the same strength brew. She pours the tea into tiny white porcelin cups, which at the same time, are quite wide when held to the lips. This helps one sip the tea and then enjoy sniffing its sublime aroma. We breathe it all in and enjoy the first sip. I look down the table and see transfixed guests.

I get up and move to Kyle's table. I whisper to Deena, "ask him why that is called the fairness cup." She smiles and within a few minutes I overhear her asking. He offers some words and then also explains that the name literally translates as "ocean of tea." This ocean receptacle is equally stunning, and appears to be a fired clay suffused with blue-brown speckles. The name seems fitting. He pours, filling everyone's cup. Smiles flowing down the table, guests and host drink together.

Multiple steepings follow. I lose count after seven. Finally, Judy and Kyle each show us the completely unfurled tea leaves, placing them on lovely square-shaped plates. These are whole leaves. They glisten, like our faces.

For a time, we browse the tearoom and some purchase tea and teaware. As we prepare to leave, Judy introduces us to her teacher, who invites us to return. Putting on my coat, then turning the corner, I notice the poster again. The first sentence stands out:

Let tea be your guide, and take you into the wondrous realm of the Tao.

Indeed . . .

click here for accompanying slideshow

Do Nothing

Eager to go to bed after a very full day of activity, I pick up my cellphone and select from the menu, "Clock Options." I scroll down to an item, which reads, "When Charging:" I move the trackball to select one of three options from a sub-menu. I see the words, "Do Nothing." Amazed, I wonder, "how does it know?"

A week earlier, I am visiting with a friend who lives in Hyannis, MA. We go to the beach at high tide. Cold as it is, bright sunshine enlivens my whole body. Instinctively, I step up onto a rock, which is situated where low waves of water splash to meet the tiny sliver of exposed shoreline.

Smiling in shared delight, he joins me. Water splashes over my ankle-high hiking boots. The water seeps in. I say, "they're leaking. I haven't sealed them yet for winter." He asks, "do you have the stuff?" I nod my head, grinning, "yes." We keep walking.

A few days later, I'm strolling with my sister at dusk through colorfully sparkling Fourth street in Berkeley, CA. We are strolling at a slow pace, taking in the beautiful scene. She begins to photograph using my phone. We laugh. We explore.

A week later, I get on the #186 bus at the GW Bridge terminal and head to Edgewood Cliffs for an appointment at the Brain Resource Center.

I'm participating in a study on clinical depression. They include me as a "healthy subject." Three weeks earlier, surfing Craigslist for various "odd jobs" to supplement my per-diem chaplain's income, I see a listing for the study. A month goes by and then a woman calls me, saying they're finishing up the study and looking for someone meeting criteria for a healthy subject.

Finding myself on the bus, now in New Jersey, I'm watchful for where to get off. The driver alerts me. Stepping out, the streets are empty of people. The bite of cold air sets me in motion. Looking for signs to locate the place, I turn around. A young woman asks me, "Are you looking for the Brain Resource Center?" Surprised, I reply, "yes I am!" Together, we make our way.

She tells me she's freezing and hadn't thought it would take so long to get here. I ask how long she's been travelling. She says, "An hour and a half. This is a long way from Brooklyn." She then begins to tell me of how days earlier, her cellphone is stolen by a few teenagers in her neighborhood. She says, "when I reported it, the police told me this is happens a lot in the neighborhood. Now I'm thinking of moving." I say, "where do you live?" She says, "Bed Sty."

Months earlier, at July's Potluck Tea Party, I meet a young man from her neighborhood, short for the Bedford Stuyvesant section of Brooklyn. He tells me of how his grandfather, whom he refers to as, "my G" played a key role in enforcement of the Voting Rights Act of 1965 in this neighborhood. He tells me of many poor people still living in that area.

Back in Engelwood Cliffs, we are unsure what to do next. She suggests we call the Center. Naturally, my cellphone is the only choice. I enter the number and press the appropriate icon to place the call. A woman with an Eastern European accent answers. We explain our predicament. She says, "the entrance is around back." "Oh," I reply. The two of us standing there look at each other in amazement and then set out. We walk to the back entrance and enter.

When the study begins, I am asked to go to a computer, put on a headset and await instructions. Various tests commence, which involve hand/eye coordination, cognitive awareness, and responses to varying types of emotional stimuli. While stimulating, I am not particularly surprised.

Then, I am asked to enter another room. A research staff person tells me I'll be wearing a hat of sorts with all kind of wires interfused throughout the fabric. They will be studying my brain electronically. To do this, she says, "I'll need to put conductive gel on the ends of these and massage it into your head to make contact." I feel the cold touch of the gel. As she "massages," I feel pinching pain. I ask. She says, "It's normal." This process takes quite a while. Must be my head. She points to a video screen with a whole lot of yellow boxes. She says, "when these change color, we'll be able to begin." The process continues and I breathe into my lower belly, keeping my focus off obsession with pain.

I cannot do anything but sit there. Unless I decide to leave. Something in me says to remain, something here to explore, more compelling than a few dollars to pay bills. I'm intrigued. What's it like to do nothing like this?

Instructions are spoken to me over a headset. I am asked to view faces on the computer screen in front of me, each with one of four emotional expressions: angry, sad, neutral, or happy. For what seem like many minutes, I see one face after another, in what appears to be rapid succession. Then, just as I wonder how I'll be able to keep up given it bringing up emotional responses in me; the exercise stops. New instructions are spoken. I'm told I will be asked to identify which faces I have seen before.

As face after face appears, each with a markedly different expression, I stop focussing on these expressions or the emotional responses in me. Instead, I attune to the rhythm of them changing.

Face, face, face.

I hear myself thinking, "who is facing me?"

In that instant, my breath deepens and the room seems to enlarge. My body lightens. While aware of discomfort in my scalp, it too feels like a pulsing flow. There are no words for this.

When the images stop, words appear on the screen indicating the end of the exercise.

I feel a quiet sense of joy.

Then nothing.

Appetite to Connect

Walking along a sidewalk on the outskirts of Boston, my eye is drawn to a shop window displaying two rows of pumpkins. I'm in town to visit family.

Atop each pumpkin is a distinct set of eyeglasses. While admiring the playfulness of the scene, something about it captivates my attention. Before long, the somewhat overcast sky brings a drizzle, which quickly turns into a downpour. No time to lose. I keep moving.

Two weeks later, sitting with friends on a sidewalk in San Francisco, we greet passersby while holding bright green signs, which read, "No on L: Sidewalks are for people." After the event, I assemble a musical slideshow.

A week earlier, in Manhattan's Strawberry Fields, I sit at night on the grass singing along with many people gathered to remember John Lennon. The occasion: his would-be 70th birthday. A large array of candles, photos, and peace messages adorn the paved path leading up to the Imagine Circle.

Trying to capture the scene with my camera proves to be unproductive given the light level. While attempting this, I hear a familiar voice standing beside me comment on the challenge of photographing at night. Looking up, I see Marjorie Markus. She's smiling, slightly mischievously, camera in hand.

Surprised, I smile, realizing we're right where Sensing Wonder's Potluck Tea Party happens. I'm filled with gratitude for her continuing generosity and good cheer in offering her nearby apartment as the place to brew the tea as well as for her many wonderful photos of these parties. We laugh as we hug, then wander up to the Imagine Circle as more people gather. We sit on a nearby bench as forty or more voices join in a recognizable refrain, "All you need is love."

A week later, I'm sitting on the sidewalk in a soft drizzle beneath a canopy of trees along the edge of San Francisco's Tenderloin district. A series of seeming coincidences have led to my being here, among them visiting my sister who lives across the Bay.

This Sunday morning street action emerges from a weekend gathering called, "Working for Liberation: Spiritually and Socially Engaged Communities." It is jointly organized by Faithful Fools, Buddhist Peace Fellowship, and The Clearview Project. The "Fools" host the gathering. Their mission is to:

learn and educate through engaging in relationships with people who are impoverished and without housing, as well as those with homes and economic wealth. Together we address the policies, attitudes and lack of knowledge that perpetuate injustice and poverty not just locally in San Francisco, but nationally and globally. Walking and working together people of privilege and people who are impoverished help one another bridge gaps and shift perceptions that inhibit personal and social change. We work to build community by breaking through boundaries that separate us, such as economic power, religious beliefs, class, race, gender, ethnicity, and together we discover what connects us.

Today's action is in harmony with this principle. Our group of sixteen is sitting to urge voters not to ratify Proposition L, which would ban sitting on the sidewalks of San Francisco. I notice a large sign on the side of a bus-stop, which displays a photo of a Civil Rights era sit-in at a 1960's lunch counter. The caption reads, "sitting is not a crime - Vote No on L."

As we sit, motorists passing by cheer us on as do many people walking by. Kay (Rev. Kay Jorgensen), co-founder of the "Fools," greets those walking by with, "Good morning!" This connects and sometimes invites conversation. Mostly, we are just sitting. Frequently, we look up and greet those passing by with a smile. The wet autumn chill calls attention to conditions of living on the street.

The previous day, I get a taste of this as we disperse after breakfast carrying nothing but bare essentials. As we check-in with one another before leaving, I share the poignancy for me of this week's Torah portion, Lekh lekha, in which Abraham is guided by that "still small voice" to go forth from his birthplace to the "land that I will show you."

Kay offers a hug before we go. She understands. I feel a few tears on my cheek.

I think of the circumstances leading me here. I think of friends in New York City, members of spiritual communities to which I belong. This very day, members of the Buddhist Council of New York are hosting an annual event, MeditateNYC, which brings together many communities offering meditation. Members of Village Zendo offer to coordinate and support the Zendo's participation in this event, a role I often play, so I can be here now. This also is the case with members of the NY Metro chapter of Buddhist Peace Fellowship. Tomorrow, members of the Zendo will be visiting Sing Sing, a maximum-security prison, to facilitate a weekly meditation group.

Meanwhile, Mitzvah Day, an annual event, approaches next Sunday at Congregation Rodeph Sholom. The action-packed day includes many community-outreach projects such as cleaning the park, visiting the elderly, and preparing food for those living on the street. The congregation operates an overnight shelter on-site through the generosity of congregants who spend at least one night each year.

Also in mind are friends from the Zen Community of Oregon, where twelve years earlier I begin Zen practice. They are finishing up construction of a peace pagoda, which flows from previous peace-themed projects such as Jizos for Peace. This week, many of them sit in silent retreat.

Each of these communities is remarkably distinct in its expression of kindness. Even so, a steady stream of continuity courses through. All are what I would call spiritually and socially engaged.

At the same time in San Francisco, sixteen of us set out with a plan to remain for the most part within the Tenderloin and to re-group mid-afternoon. Our outing is a condensed form of a so-called "street retreat" or "plunge" into the world of street people. With no money, cell phone, or other belongings, kindness literally nourishes.

The first order of business is to locate a shelter for lunch. The time is 10:30am. We're told that one needs to arrive early to get in line. Two shelters are nearby and one is at a distance. I decide to walk crosstown to the further one.

Themes from the previous night's conversation are slowly churning as I walk. That previous night, we ponder in small groups, "what is social change?" For me, this ties in with another question, "What do I mean by liberation?" The most compelling and challenging theme is encapsulated in a phrase, "nonviolent disruption."

Having never heard this term before, I google it later and locate Mark Engler, on salon.com, who notes:

A standard narrative of nonviolence as a modern political instrument -- especially in the United States -- might start around the time of Henry David Thoreau, who, sitting in jail for war tax resistance, first argued that civil disobedience could undermine the legitimacy of the state and provoke a crisis in governance. The story . . . would soon rush forward to figures like Gandhi, who pioneered the strategy of how to apply nonviolent disruption on a mass scale, and to Martin Luther King Jr., Gandhi's most famous American importer.

During the small group in which I'm participating, Alan Senauke, Zen teacher, folk musician, and founder of The Clearview Project, refers to Martin Luther King Jr.'s character and approach in remarking, "he had a remarkable capacity to tolerate the intolerable and keep moving. He had an appetite to connect."

This phrase echoes throughout my body as I walk the next day along Polk Street, past the Tenderloin, along sparsely populated streets, which eventually course beneath the winding freeway leading to the Bay bridge. The rhythm of my footsteps sustains me during the thirty minutes it takes to get here.

My teacher's words, "include everything," inspire me to keep going.

Reflecting on a street retreat she co-leads in lower Manhattan last year, Roshi Pat Enkyo O'Hara speaks on the practice of "include everything" in the context of experiencing mealtime at various shelters operated by different religious institutions. She notes,

"During those four days, some things happened that directly faced me with my koan to "include everything," and I thought it might be useful to share them with you. The experiences concerned the places where we went to receive food"

After sharing impressions of what she appreciates and what she finds uncomfortable, she remarks,

"What is religion anyway? Most of us in this room have opinions about religion. I began to think of the root of the word religion. Its origins are disputed. . . great compassion, this is what motivates the volunteers of the spiritual groups, those who are out there serving food. . . Isn't that what we do, when we offer the gift of our attention and love, when we include everything?"

Moving under the freeway, I spot a street sign, "Potrero." I continue up a couple more blocks and wonder whether to ask someone. Then I see a nondescript sign across the street. It says, "Martin's."

Martin de Porres House of Hospitality or as their website states,

"Martin's as it is affectionately known, is a free restaurant, serving breakfast and lunch during the week and brunch on Sundays. Our mission is to serve in the spirit of compassion, understanding and love. We are a community of people with diverse spiritual practices although our roots are in, and we continue to be inspired by, the Catholic Worker Movement. Begun by Dorothy Day and Peter Maurin in 1933, the Catholic Worker phil-osophy and ideals are carried out by upwards of 200 houses worldwide in various works of mercy in the spirit of "gentle personalism."

They have been feeding people since 1971.

I arrive exhausted, shivering, hungry, and with a pounding dull ache in my head. I sleep little the night before and now feel emotions churning as much as thoughts. The place looks welcoming. Painted on the outer wall facing the street are colorful murals with words such as "peace" and "love" while not in any sort of cliched phrasing. They look like they were painted by kids.

I enter into an open-air courtyard, am cheerfully greeted by several volunteers and handed a ticket. Number 40. I'm oriented to how it works and how to make myself at home until lunch is served, about an hour later. I have been cautioned by the Fools to arrive at a shelter at least an hour before the meal as this is when folks get in line. At Martin's, there is no line. We gather in various places within the courtyard and an adjacent covered sort of picnic area.

I rest and drink in the scene. The vibe is welcoming and spacious. There seems to be room for everybody, not just physically but emotionally too. I sit on a bench and then noting some folks lying down on these, do the same. Sunshine pierces through and warms me. After a while, I get up and get a slice of fresh-baked bread from a big plastic bin. It's there to hold folks over until lunch is served. I breathe in the gorgeous aroma and take a bite - sourdough, wonderfully chewy. I smile with relief and gratitude.

I reflect on my own journey in the last year. During October of last year, my position as Staff Chaplain at Housing Works, the country's largest minority-led social service and advocacy agency for people living with HIV, is terminated due to a complex interplay of politics and funding. The majority of clients there have a history of living on the street and many are often actively in need of housing. I think about them now.

I think about how fortunate I have been in the last six months to be employed as a per-diem chaplain at two New York City hospitals. I think about waves of anxiety, which arise in me this month as this situation drastically shifts, and I apply for a second year's unemployment claim. I wonder how I will survive in the months ahead. I begin to shake as tears come in release and appreciation for the many friends and family without whose generosity, especially during the past year, I might have been facing desperate circumstances. While I don't know what is to come, I am finally able to rest.

Within minutes, someone announces that it's lunchtime. Eventually, my number is called. I get a tray and am served a bowl of spicy lentil soup, salad, and more fresh bread. It all looks amazing. I sit down at a table replete with a vase of pink carnations and bowls of freshly chopped jalapenos. An old woman with chipped pink nail polish and running mascara sits across from me. Wanting to connect, I say to her, "hey, your nail polish color matches the flowers." She smiles, looking up to the flowers, then back to her food, and says, "yup." We eat a few bites. Then she says, "how do you do your nails?"

I look down at my unpainted nails and say, "well, when I used to paint them, I'd use different colors." She looks at me and smiles. I get the sense that my response is not really connecting to what she means. I try again, "I guess I'd paint them like this," and gesture movement from the cuticle to the tip in overlapping swipes. She says, "Yeah, that's how I do it too. It lasts longer that way, doesn't chip as quick." I laugh and nod my head. Our eyes meet in a shared knowing smile.

Two men who look to be in their 60's join us. One of them asks me, "you been here long?" I reply, "not long." I remember more Fools' wisdom. Before we set out, Faithful Fools co-founder Carmen (Sr. Carmen Barsody) tells us that we might find ourselves in a situation where we'll be deciding whether to tell folks we're on retreat or whether to be, as she says, "ambiguous." I notice my inclination towards what my 11th grade English teacher Mr. Camerata called, "fruitful ambiguity." It seems authentic to the moment.

My new friend encourages me, "don't worry. It'll get better. We all make mistakes." He tells me in a tone tinged with hurt, rage, and disappointment, of being laid off by a large aerospace manufacturer after years of employment. He then goes on to tell me of his experience as a soldier in Vietnam. He says, "I told my men, if you just see women and children, hold your fire. We don't shoot women and children. But if you're carrying a MIG and you point it at me, well then I will aim right at you." Noting the incongruity of his statement (the MIG being a fighter aircraft not a firearm in ground-based combat), I still resonate with the quivering of his voice.

My mind flashes to the testimony of soldiers I have heard at the "Truth Commission on Conscience in War" earlier this year in New York City. I remember one of them speaking of the heartwrenching dilemma of children blocking a tank's forward motion. What to do?

What is truth in such a moment? What really matters? All I want to do is connect and relate. The longer I sit at the table, I realize how deeply nourished I feel. The exchange itself is kindness. Sitting here is genuine and refreshingly direct. The people eating this meal, serving this meal, the greeters, the cooks. They all offer kindness in a very matter of fact way.

This is a functional, caring community. As I get up from the table, they all wish me well. I thank them and feeling better at last, set out for the long walk back.

When I finally arrive near our meet-up place, a half hour remains until our meet-up time. I wander down the street and catch a glimpse of greenery. It's an alley between two buildings, SRO's (Single Residence Occupancies). The sign says, Tenderloin National Forest. I am captivated by its green charm and displays of artwork along the building walls and pathways.

A website for the space notes,

"Initiated by Sarah Lewison and her San Francisco State Art CityLab class on the Urban Laboratory, [it] continues to be created and implemented by the visions of a great many people in the neighborhood. . . The Forest is intended to be an inspiration and model for others to attempt gardening in the inner city."

Meandering through the forest, I bump into Tyson Casey, another participant in the retreat and Education and Outreach Coordinator for Buddhist Peace Fellowship. In silence, we smile in recognition and shared appreciation. Each facing a different direction, we part ways and keep moving.

A week later in New York City, I'm riding the subway during morning Rush hour. A man gets on and says loud enough for everyone to hear, "Good morning. My name is Craig Schley and I'm running for representative in the 15th district. I need your support." As two able assistants offer info flyers to passengers, he states his credentials and vision, among them being founder of an organization called, Voices of the Everyday People (VOTE People).

He then offers to shake hands with anyone who wants to. In greeting a man standing by a door near me, I hear them laugh. Craig turns to face the whole car and remarks, "Man says, 'you must not have a lot of money to ride the subway.' Well, I don't have a lot of money. And you know what Muhammed Ali said, 'You got to have skill but you need more will than skill!' "

At that, a whole lot of passengers laugh, some saying, "that's right!" He waves goodbye at the next stop, thanking everyone for their time, and gets off.

I look around. Nearly everyone is sitting now. I wonder who has money and who does not? Who is planning to vote and who is not? Tired of thinking, I listen to the rumble beneath my feet.

The train is moving.