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Right Speech is often tricky to  understand and even trickier to put into practice. In our latest post, Adrienne Hodges shares her experience of this basic tenet of the Eightfold Path.

On International Women’s Day this year I left a private, women only, Facebook group that I have been a member of for years. A trans woman asked the administrator of the group if she could join. Rather than just agreeing to her request, the administrator decided to canvass the group for their opinions. There then followed an outpouring of fear based hate, with only a few brave souls (me included), who said that they were happy to accept her into the group. Fear and hatred was clearly the majority viewpoint, or at least the viewpoint that was being shouted the loudest.

My comment was short, to the point (that I was fine about welcoming her to the group) and sat amongst all the other comments that were nasty, vitriolic and discriminatory. However, I did decide to reply to one particular person in an attempt to quietly put an alternative perspective. I did so with some trepidation as I felt I might get a testy reply. And I did. She invited me to leave the group as I and my opinions were not wanted. There were quite a few additional remarks directed at me that I won’t repeat here. I took a step back for quite a while in order to come to a decision on what to do next. I did, briefly, consider trying to engage with her further. But wisdom got the better of me, so with some sadness, I quietly quit from the exchange and from the entire group.

All beings have Buddha Nature. Our practice is based on Love and Compassion. So for me to agree that a trans woman can join our group was a ‘no brainer’. What did require more reflection and contemplation was my reaction and response to the expression of strong opposing thoughts and feeling to my own. When is it good to speak? When is it good to stay silent? What was it that I wanted to achieve by entering into the fray of on-line discussion? I really did know that the likelihood of me changing anyone’s mind was fairly slim. I also had some further hesitation because I did not want to give more fuel to an already heated debate, nor give anyone a further opportunity to express anger and be hurtful.

Over the last couple of years I have been looking more deeply into Right Speech as a Buddhist. There are always plenty of opportunities to practise adhering to this principle. Right Speech asks us to speak in ways that reduce suffering rather than increase it. So far so simple. In reality it becomes most challenging when we are faced with strong opinions, particularly around difficult and sensitive topics such as gender, identity, and inclusion. As I experienced in my interchange on Facebook, these conversations can quickly become emotionally charged despite our best intentions . When I was tackled, rather aggressively, about my wish to be inclusive I felt that my deepest values were being challenged, misunderstood, and dismissed. My mind moved rapidly into defence: I could feel my opinions hardening, my emotions rising and I felt a compulsion to respond. I felt hurt and attacked. So in my pausing before responding and, trying my best to be mindful, I gave myself the space to wonder what else could happen aside from giving myself a chance to be calm and grounded? Could this open up the possibility to consider what might be going on in the other person’s mind? If they were also feeling misunderstood, fearful and dismissed there would be little point in responding emotionally or ramping up the dialogue.

There are few occasions when a knee-jerk reaction has led anywhere helpful. Immediate reactions often come from hurt, fear, or anger rather than clarity. As a parent I discovered many times that what looked like a crisis resolved itself without any intervention from me when I allowed space rather than rushing in. Not responding immediately can sometimes be the most skilful way. But silence can also allow harm to continue. There have been numerous times when I have silently left a conversation that, for me has turned tricky. Casual racism and sexism is everywhere. But I know how crummy I feel in my gut when I feel I could have said something but didn’t. Right Speech shouldn’t mean avoiding hard conversations. Sometimes harm must be challenged.

So what is good to do?

For many years I worked with high risk violent offenders in prison. These men had learned to communicate through aggression. If they felt judged or dismissed, they quickly became defensive or hostile. But when they experienced being listened to—without immediate condemnation—something changed. They could begin to speak differently. They could move from aggression to expression. As a team we were trained specifically to ‘get ourselves out of the way’ in order to truly try to understand that persons experience or point of view. This getting ourselves out of the way meant that we needed to stop just ‘listening’ in order to reply, correct or defeat the other person. We needed to let go of our own views and opinions, and our thoughts about their motivations and beliefs. Only then would it be possible for defensiveness to drop away and real communication could happen.

Apart from pausing to truly listen I have been looking at actual ways to speak up when, for example, someone assumes that I agree with their comments about immigrants or transgender issues. Non-Violent Communication (NVC) has been around since the 1960’s. It encourages speaking from our own experience rather than blame and uses four steps: observation, feeling, need, and request. An example of how this might work in practice might be that, instead of the rather attacking “You are being transphobic”, an NVC approach could be “when I read comments excluding trans women, I feel concerned because I would like our group to be a space where everyone is treated with respect”. The hope in trying this approach would be to invite reflection and to keep dialogue possible. I am aware that starting to speak in this way could sound rather ‘clunky’ to begin with. It will take practice – which is what we can definitely do as Buddhists – and, after a while, when we find our own voice, it should become more natural and easy.

So it seems that Right Speech begins long before we open our mouths. It begins with awareness of our own reactions, our own fears, and our own attachments to being right. It means asking ourselves – will what I am about to say (or write) reduce suffering, or increase it? Are we speaking to understand, or to win? Are we looking to open up dialogue or is what we are about to say going to close it? Am I being curious or just dogmatic? Am I trying to win the argument or am I trying to understand?

When we stand firmly in the belief that we are completely right and the other person completely wrong, dialogue usually ends. But if we recognise that each person is trying, in their own way, to express something of their inner life, then the conversation can remain human.

And finally……, science supports what spiritual traditions teach us: the words that we use will actually shape our nervous system. Studies in interpersonal neurobiology shows that hostile communication triggers the brains flight or fight response, while kind words activates the parasympathetic nervous system – the body’s natural state of calm. In other words, when we speak with love and compassion we rewire the body for empathy.

“Words Can Change Your Brain” Newberg and Waldman 2012
“The Developing Mind” D J Siegal 2012
“Nonviolent Communication: A Language of Life” Marshall Rosenberg 2003

 

Have you ever been on a Zen retreat or thought it is something that you may like to try? This guest post, written by Sara Lawlor, uses the short story form to explore the thoughts and emotions, which many of us who have taken part in such a retreat, have experienced. It is a little longer than our usual offerings. We hope that you enjoy it. We would love your feedback.

Fred began his packing with a sense of trepidation. ‘This could be an awful mistake!” he thought. What would it be like at the monastery? How would he cope with three days of silence? Would he manage to sit still for the meditation sessions? And should he really be leaving the farm in the hands of his brother-n-law? He frowned, as he stuffed another pair of warm socks into his holdall. Lately things had been challenging, to say the least. The farm was struggling; Fred was working longer and longer hours just to keep afloat and make ends meet. Maybe, just maybe, he thought, the wise monks could help him find a way to cope; even give him a sense of hope. Fred had driven past the monastery many times over the years but never gone there. Now he was taking the plunge – on his daughter’s suggestion – in fact, she had booked him onto the retreat as a Christmas present. ‘It’s probably completely bonkers – someone like me going on something like this’, thought Fred. He was a sturdy man who had always been thought of as tough, practical and masculine. But since the divorce and the empty nest, he didn’t feel quite so resilient. ‘I hope I can cope with vegetarian food for three days’, he thought, with a sigh.

*

Meanwhile, in another part of the country, a woman called Freya was sitting on a train, hurtling through the windswept countryside. It was a long journey to the monastery. ‘I hope it will be worth it,’ she thought, as she munched on a felafel and salad sandwich and stared out of the window. After four hours on the train, she would have to take a bus to a small town and then a taxi from there for the final lag, out into the middle of nowhere. Freya was looking forward to three days of peace and quiet. Things had been hectic in her job working for a large charity. And as a single mum with two teenagers, as well as aging parents to support, Freya felt stretched to the limit. ‘I hope these wise monks will help me find a way to be calmer,’ she thought, as the train rumbled along. ‘I wonder what the food will be like. Hopefully they know how to cook decent vegan food.’ She had made sure to tick the special diet box on the registration form.

*

The remote zen monastery on its lonely hillside, was buzzing with action, as a group of Buddhist monks prepared for their visitors. Booked onto the three-day silent retreat for beginners were twelve people, many with busy and stressful lives, all eager to find peace and stillness. Some were travelling a long distance to get there; some were more local. It was early January, that bleak, dull period after Christmas and new year and the weather was dark, stormy and cold.

*

At six o’clock that evening, the twelve visitors found themselves seated in the rather austere monastery dining hall, around a long table. A female monk sat at the head of the table, wearing simple brown robes. She introduced herself as Reverend Oshun. She had a kind face with rosy cheeks, warm brown eyes and a gentle manner. ‘She seems to emanate a sense of peace and calm’, thought Freya. A large pot of soup was passed down the table. Each person served themselves and then silently passed the pot on to their neighbour. Bread came next, handed along in a basket. Then came a plate of sliced cheese, followed by peanut butter, for the vegans. When everyone had served themselves, Reverend Oshun recited some words about the Buddha’s life, then rang a gong – a signal to begin eating.

‘This silence is deafening’, thought Fred, wincing and trying not to slurp his soup. At home, he always ate with the TV or radio on, no matter what. ‘And this soup could use a bit more flavour’, he reflected. Further down the table, Freya was enjoying the silence. Mealtimes at home were always noisy – arguments often broke out between her moody teenagers. ‘It’s nice to be cooked for,’ she thought, ‘and not a bad soup.’ She was struck by the attention to detail she saw everywhere around her – small things such as each person’s name pinned to a spotless white napkin with a tiny golden safety pin.

*

At 7.30pm a gong sounded and everyone assembled in the temple for the first meditation session. A huge, magnificent golden Buddha sat in splendour on a pale green altar which was decorated with fruit, flowers and candles. The temple was softly lit; its light blue walls were painted with billowing white clouds; a feeling of deep peace and stillness seemed to permeate the space, along with the delicate scent of Japanese incense. Each of the retreatants had a mat with a cushion to sit on, facing the wall. A monk called Reverend Gabriel waited for everyone to settle. Fred noticed how brightly his eyes shone out from his aged, lined face. The monk explained how to sit in a relaxed but upright pose and how to watch thoughts as they came. He spoke of not attaching to the thoughts but just letting each one go, again and again.

“Don’t try to think or try not to think”, he told them, “the mind secretes thoughts, like the liver secretes bile. Just let each one go, don’t follow it. Remember – our thoughts are just thoughts. No need to believe them or attach to them.” He instructed everyone to breathe naturally, keeping their eyes half open. “We don’t shut out the world by closing our eyes”, he added. He then rang a gong three times, to signal the start of the first meditation session. 

‘Here we go,’ thought Freya, trying to sit up very straight on her cushion. Her first thought was: ‘I hope I can do this right.’ And after that, thoughts came thick and fast. Freya tried to watch them and not get involved but it was harder than it sounded. Her next thoughts were about her two teenagers. What was their dad cooking for them? Would they remember to let the cat out? Had they got the washing in?  It seemed impossible to stop these thoughts! Freya remembered the advice – just keep letting thoughts go. She was shocked to find there was barely a single moment without a thought. Most of them were trivial and boring; some provoked anxiety. ‘Oh my God,’ thought Freya, ‘My mind is like a noisy monkey, jabbering away nonstop!’ Despite trying not to, she often found she got lost in the thoughts. After fifteen minutes, her back began to ache. Then the thoughts changed to ‘My back hurts, how much longer can I sit like this? I really want to stretch.’ Then: ‘This is pointless. Why am I doing this to myself?’ Again, she tried to drop the thoughts as they arose but they seemed relentless. 

Fred, on his cushion, was experiencing a similar deluge. His mind immediately went to the farm. ‘Did I lock up the dairy? Will Mark remember to switch off all the lights in the outbuildings? God, my knees hurt! I hope this is going to get easier! What about that delivery of hay – I wonder if it arrived.’ He tried to follow the monk’s advice and let go of these persistent, tedious thoughts but he found he got caught up in them. When the gong finally sounded, Fred felt his shoulders slump with disappointment – he had managed to get himself to this beautiful and peaceful place, only to find he had brought all his stress with him! At 9pm, the twelve retreatants filed quietly out of the temple and into their dormitories. Freya found herself sharing with three other women. She longed for a friendly little chat, even in a whisper, but her roommates looked somewhat serious and didn’t make eye contact. As she settled down to sleep, Freya felt a sudden stab of home sickness. Fred found himself sharing a room with five other men. He settled on his bunk quickly and pulled the covers over his head, glad of the silence.

*

At 6am the following morning, the retreatants assembled in the temple again and took up their positions on their cushions. Freya felt bleary eyed and barely awake, as the gong sounded and the morning meditation began. ‘Here we go again,’ she thought, hoping she would do better this time. But immediately the thoughts started up. ‘Did I remember to tell the kids to do their homework? Hope my manager was happy with that report I wrote. The other people on this retreat look so serene, I wonder if their minds are as busy as mine.’ Then the thoughts tailed off and Freya found herself nodding forward, as a fog of sleepiness overcame her. Again and again, her head jerked forward as she battled to stay upright. By the time the gong went to end the first session, Freya was beginning to feel she was failing badly at this. Fred had found himself dealing with escalating anxious thoughts about the farm. ‘Am I going to go bankrupt? Should I sell off some land to developers?’

*

Breakfast was a welcome relief – a hearty porridge accompanied by nuts and seeds and fruit. Freya was pleased to find soya milk as an alternative to dairy. But Fred thought longingly of his usual full English with eggs, crispy bacon and sausages. After breakfast came ‘working meditation’. A youngish, fresh faced monk called Reverend Declan appeared and explained that working in silence together and being fully present in each task was a very important part of the day. Freya was assigned to the kitchen with several others, to help prepare lunch. Outside, the storm had passed, the winter sun looked bright and alluring and Freya felt a longing to work outdoors. The kitchen seemed dark and fusty and the monk in charge there a little severe. ‘Why couldn’t they have given us the choice?’ she wondered with a sigh. ‘I’m sick and tired of all the kitchen work I do at home.’ Fred was asked to work outdoors with a few others, helping one of the monks chop wood. ‘As if I don’t do enough physical outdoor labour,’ he complained to himself, ‘why couldn’t they have given me something gentle such as kitchen work, chopping vegetables?’

Meanwhile in the kitchen, Freya was feeling a sense of indignation. She was given the task of grating a huge block of cheese. Her mind began to rage about the dairy industry and its link to the meat industry. How could monks, who were supposedly enlightened beings, not be vegan? she wondered, her jaw tight. She noticed with some annoyance how calm and relaxed the other retreatants around her looked, as they chopped vegetables.

Out in the monastery grounds, Fred was busy swinging an axe. He observed the hills around him – with sheep and cows dotted all around – his beloved homeland. ‘This is perfect grazing land’, he thought to himself as he chopped wood. ‘Why the hell don’t the monks keep cows and sheep and eat meat? They could produce their own milk and butter. It’s so obviously the sensible thing to do. ‘Furthermore, he reasoned, ‘it’s totally hypocritical to eat diary produce and not meat. Don’t the monks realise that the dairy and meat industry are linked?’

*

After the work session, a gong sounded and everyone gathered in the common room for a silent tea break. Sipping her tea, Freya picked up a book and opened it randomly. Her eyes were drawn to the words: 

• ‘Think of neither good nor evil; consider neither wrong nor right;
• set up not your own standards; 
• with the ideal comes the actual; 
• when the opposites arise, the Buddha mind is lost.’ 

   She pondered over these words. Fred sipped his tea slowly, staring out of the windows with a blank expression and wondering what would be for lunch. After the tea break, came the second meditation of the day. By 11am the retreatants had taken their places on their cushions in the temple again. For the first half hour, Reverend Oshun gave a talk. She spoke of dropping off body and mind, just sitting naturally, like a child, letting go of thinking. Then there was a ten-minute walking meditation, moving at snail’s pace in a large circle round the temple, before sitting again for a further half an hour of silence.

  This time, Freya found her mind fixating on the kitchen, ‘Surely monks should realise the dairy industry is cruel and linked to the meat industry. The monastery should be vegan if they don’t want animals to be killed.’ Freya tried to drop these thoughts. When she did, she noticed a momentary feeling of stillness, spaciousness and sense of relief opening up. But then the same thoughts would return like a plague of mosquitos, whining round and round inside her head.

  On his cushion, Fred’s mind had gone into overdrive about the vegetarian diet at the monastery, when the land around it was, he believed, the perfect place for grazing animals. ‘They could support local farms like mine by eating meat. They shouldn’t be buying in dairy produce if they’re not willing to face up to eating meat.’ Whenever Fred paused and dropped these thoughts, he felt a fleeting sense of peace. But then the thoughts returned with a vengeance, as if he had a screeching howler monkey sitting on his shoulder.

  *

  Finally, the gong rang and the retreatants filed into the dining room for lunch. A delicious aroma filled the air. A large pan of tofu and mushroom stroganoff was passed down the table, followed by rice, and then a healthy-looking salad of cucumber, lettuce and tomato. 

  ‘Delicious vegan fare,’ thought Freya, with a smile.

  ‘Actually, not too bad for vegetarian food but a bit of meat wouldn’t go amiss,’ thought Fred.

  *

  After lunch came a welcome hour of free time. Freya went for a walk and breathed in the sharp, fresh air. She took in the wild beauty of the sweeping green hills; she listened deeply to the birdsong, as if properly hearing it for the first time in many years. She had the sense that her mind was quietening down just a little, with more pauses between the thoughts. Fred had a long hot shower. He felt some of the tension being washed away by the soothing hot water. The third meditation of the day started at 2.30pm; both Freya and Fred found it hard to stay awake.

  *

  At 4pm everyone assembled in the common room for tea and questions. Reverend Declan, the young fresh-faced monk, greeted them. He spoke about being present with each moment, accepting our experience as it is and fully entering into it. He invited questions. Freya took a deep breath, then raised her hand. 

  “To be honest, I’m finding the meditation sessions hard,” she said, ‘I just can’t believe how busy my mind is! Either that, or I keep nearly falling asleep. And my back and knees hurt after about fifteen minutes. Everyone else looks so still and serene! I find myself wriggling to get comfortable.” Reverend Declan looked around the room.

   “Can anyone else who is having a similar experience please raise their hand?” he asked. Freya was amazed to see nearly all the hands go up! Reverend Declan smiled and everyone began to laugh. He spoke of opening to our experience, whatever it is and not judging it, just allowing it to be as it is. Others asked questions. One woman shared that she felt as if she had a rebellious child inside her who was angry and resistant to the timetable. A middle-aged man confided that he felt extreme fear arising whenever he sat still. Then Fred spoke of feeling disappointed that he seemed to have brought all his stress and worries with him. By the end of the tea and questions, a feeling of shared understanding was felt in the room; it seemed everyone was in the same boat.

  At 5pm, they all gathered in the temple for evening service. The monks recited Rules for meditation. ‘Life passes as swiftly as a flash of lightning; in a moment the body passes away; do not waste time.’ Freya felt a shiver as these words penetrated her being. She experienced some exquisite moments of peace, where her thoughts dropped away and there was only the melodic sound of the monks’ voices. Dinner of tomato soup and bread followed around the long table. Fred noticed that he was getting used to eating in silence and that the soup was surprisingly tasty. At 7.30pm they were back in the temple again for the evening meditation session with vespers. Freya thought how beautiful this sounded, sung by the monks. She was getting more used to sitting still even though her mind was a tiny bit less busy. Fred noticed he was thinking less about the farm.

  *

  Next morning, after breakfast, jobs were handed out by Reverend Declan again. This time, Freya found herself being allocated to the dining room to clean and tidy it alongside Fred. The two spoke quietly, to introduce themselves and decide who would dust and who would vacuum. Their eyes met. Impulsively, Freya found herself whispering, 

  “It’s quite a programme, isn’t it?” 

  “Certainly is,” Fred whispered back, “my poor knees!” He gave a wry smile.

  “Mine too”, agreed Freya “and my busy, busy mind!”

  “Ditto,” Fred agreed. 

  “All this silence is tough too,” went on Freya, “I’m just not used to not talking!” She smiled, relieved to be able to speak to someone. Fred nodded.

  “Wished I was working outside yesterday in the sun, like you,” she continued, “I didn’t enjoy the kitchen work. To be honest…” she looked over her shoulder, then leant a little closer to Fred, “I think the monastery ought to be vegan, if they really care about all living beings.”

  Fred frowned. “Well, actually I was thinking that if they want to be truly environmental, they should have grazing animals and eat meat,” he whispered.

  Freya looked horrified. “Eat meat?” she exclaimed, her voice rising, “Oh no!  Killing animals is not OK! And as for dairy farming – it’s equally cruel!”

  “Well, I agree the dairy industry is linked to the meat industry,” Fred nodded “but being vegan isn’t the answer.” His jaw tensed. “It means importing nuts and soya beans from far off places. Air miles harm the planet far more than eating local meat…”

  “No!’ Freya burst out, her voice reaching a higher pitch, “How can you say killing poor, innocent animals is OK?” she felt her heart racing. What an idiot, she thought.

  “But think about it,” countered Fred, his voice also getting noticeably louder, “What people need to realise is that If we didn’t farm animals for food, they wouldn’t exist! All this veganism is ruining farming in our country. I’m a farmer – I should know!” I can’t believe the stupid woman doesn’t see that! He thought, the colour rising in his cheeks.

  “I’m not a fan of mansplaining, thank you!” Freya snapped, her voice now at louder than normal volume.

  “And I’m not a fan of bloody vegans!” barked Fred, turning away.

  At that moment, the dining room door opened. Reverend Declan appeared, looking unusually stern. He put a finger to his lips. “Please, remember this is a silent retreat,” he said in a quiet but firm voice. “For the benefit of yourselves and everyone else, we ask you to please keep the silence.” Freya muttered an apology and turned away to dust the windowsills. Fred rolled his eyes and stomped towards the vacuum cleaner.

  *

  That afternoon, Freya signed up for a one-to-one talk with one of the monks. As she entered the little meeting room, she was struck again by Reverend Oshun’s warm smile, upright posture and peaceful demeaner; a small statue of the Buddha sat serenely on a table in a corner of the room with a candle burning in front of it. Freya sat down. Reverend Oshun’s deep brown eyes regarded her, full of compassion. “Please feel free to talk to me about whatever you want,” the monk invited, “or ask any questions.”

  “Well,” Freya began, the words tumbling out in a rush. “I came to the monastery wanting to find peace and feel calmer. But… I’m actually feeling quite angry some of the time. The use of dairy products upsets me – I’m a strict vegan. And, to make things worse, I’ve just had a nasty little conflict with a very ignorant man called Fred who says monks should eat meat! He even went as far as to say that we vegans are ruining farming!” She felt her face growing hot and her voice trembling. Reverend Oshun sat very still and said nothing for a few moments. Suddenly, Freya felt ashamed.

  “I’m sorry, er… I don’t mean to be so negative…” she said, breaking the silence.

  Reverend Oshun smiled. “Can you allow yourself to feel where the anger is in your body and breathe right into it? she asked, “just let the feeling be there and connect with it?” 

  Freya tried. “It’s right here in my chest,” she said, “like a tight, throbbing ball.” 

  “Yes, see if you can let the feeling be just as it is and stay right there with it,” the monk went on, “but drop the thoughts about dairy produce, veganism and the conflict you just had with Fred. Let each thought go. It’s important you don’t fuel the anger with storylines. Thoughts are just thoughts; we don’t have to believe them.” Freya tried this. Each time a thought popped up, she tried to let it go and just breathe into the raw emotion she was feeling. The anger in her chest seemed to grow stronger, like a raging fire ball. She sat very still and after a while, it began to soften. Then, to her surprise, she found tears coming; Freya rarely cried. Reverend Oshun handed her a box of tissues.

  “And now, allow the tears,” the monk guided her, “breathe right into the pain you’re feeling.” Freya did this. She felt as if she was touching a deep well of sadness, underneath the anger. She breathed into it, trying to let go of self-judgement and shame. For a while, the tears continued to flow. Then she began to feel calmer, as if a weight had been lifted from her shoulders.

  “Everyone is seeing the world from their own particular view point.” Reverend Oshun told her, “We are each looking out of our own little rabbit hole, as it were, all from a different angle, so we all see a different view from everyone else’s. Each of us believe our view is the right one. We say in the Buddhist scriptures, ‘With the ideal comes the actual; when the opposites arise, the Buddha mind is lost.’ “

  “I read that this morning in the common room!” Freya exclaimed.  Reverend Oshun suggested that Freya miss the next meditation session and go and take a rest instead. She gave her a story to read. 

  *

  Freya was grateful to lie down and relax on her bunk. She read the story:

  “Once there were three blind men, who came upon an elephant. The first man grasped the tail. ‘An elephant is like a rope,” he declared. The second man reached out and touched one of the elephant’s legs. “No! An elephant is nothing like a rope. It’s like a pillar,” he argued. The third man touched the elephant’s trunk. “You are both wrong!” he bellowed, “An elephant is not like a rope or a pillar. An elephant is like a branch.” The three men began to argue and fight. They shouted louder and louder at each other until the poor elephant ran away…”  As she reached the end of the story, Freya smiled, then fell into a deep and peaceful doze.

  *

  Meanwhile, Fed had asked to see one of the monks too and was ushered into a small office. Reverend Gabriel greeted him with a warm smile and once again Fred noticed his beautifully weathered face and startling green eyes. 

  “How can I help?” he asked, motioning for Fred to sit down.

  “I’m sorry, to say this,” began Fred uneasily, “but I think I’ve made a mistake coming here. I’m not finding much peace, only stressful thoughts which go round and round. And just now, I had a nasty little episode in the common room with a woman called Freya. She really annoyed me, banging on about veganism. I feel I should probably leave now and go home.” Reverend Gabriel’s face was open and kind. 

  “Can you allow yourself to be with your stress, just as it is?” asked the old monk, “What if you were to accept it and not try to change it?” 

  “Well, I thought the whole point of coming here was to try and get rid of it,” said Fred a little gruffly.

  “That’s what many people think,” smiled Reverend Gabriel, “they want a magic wand! In our practice, we don’t try to change our experience; we just try to be present with it, allow it to be as it is, get to know it. Can you sense where the stress is in your body?”

  Fred said he felt a rock of tension in his stomach. “Try breathing into it,” advised the monk, “say hello to it. Don’t fight it. Drop any thoughts that arise. Our scriptures say “Think of neither good nor evil, right nor wrong.” The monk smiled. “As for wrong or right about meat or veganism or the dairy industry, nothing in life is ideal, there’s always a compromise. We all just do the best we can in our particular circumstances. We try to cause as little harm as we can but it’s never perfect.” Fred felt his tension lessening. Just talking about his experience and breathing into it, in the monk’s presence, seemed to be helping. He decided he wouldn’t go home just yet.

  *

  That evening, in the temple, Reverend Gabriel invited each person to come up in turn to the altar and make an offering. He instructed them to take a pinch of incense and drop it onto the burning charcoal, then bow and silently ask to let go of something. Gongs were rung and the monks began to chant, processing around the temple in a line. The twelve retreatants began moving slowly behind the monks. When Freya reached the altar, she looked up at the peaceful, serene face of the huge golden Buddha and made a bow. Picking up a pinch of incense to offer, she wished to let go of her self-righteousness. When it was Fred’s turn, he found himself wishing to let go of his anger. Afterwards the retreatants sat in silent meditation for half an hour. Freya noticed that she was beginning to experience moments where thoughts dropped away, leaving her with a deep well of stillness. Fred found his knees hurt less and his mind felt clearer than it had for a very long time.

  *

  The next morning – the last day of the retreat – at 6am, the retreatants filed into the temple for their final meditation. The monks sang the morning scriptures, bowing, ringing bells and lighting incense. As Fred sat listening, he was amazed to find himself wishing that the retreat was longer.  As Freya listened to the beautiful chanting, she felt a sudden unexpected sadness that this was the last day of the retreat, just when she was beginning to feel settled and more peaceful. After the meditation session, instead of breakfast, the monks asked all the retreatants to strip their beds, clean their dormitories and to pack up their belongings, ready for departure. Then, they should assemble in the dining room.

  *

  At 11am, the group entered the dining room. Reverend Oshun explained that there would now be a farewell brunch and the silence could be broken – everyone was invited to talk. The long table had been replaced by four small tables. Little, handwritten place names had been laid on each table, indicating where each person should sit. Freya found her name and sat down. When she saw the place name opposite hers, her whole body tensed: Fred! She was about to jump up and move when Fred plonked himself down opposite her. Their eyes met. Then the dining room exploded with the deafening sound of voices, breaking the three-day silence. 

  “Look,” said Fred loudly, leaning towards Freya to be heard, “I’m er… sorry about our little disagreement yesterday. I felt really bad about it.” He smiled and Freya felt her shoulders relax. 

  “I’m sorry too,” she found herself saying, “I think I’ve learned a lot about myself on this retreat. I can be very opinionated.”

  “Me too,” admitted Fred, having to almost shout to be heard above the din, “ All that meditating! You really do begin to see the traps of your own mind.” Freya nodded. On each table was a big pan of sizzling vegetarian sausages, with grilled tomatoes and mushrooms, accompanied by a dish of baked beans and a basket of corn bread for everyone to help themselves. 

  “Are you glad you came?” Freya asked.

  “Definitely am,” Fred replied, tucking in. “I can’t say it’s been easy for me but I actually think it’s done me good. What about you?”

  “Same,” Freya answered. “I found it very challenging but I feel calmer and clearer than I did.” By the end of the meal, Freya and Fred were chatting away like old friends and had exchanged phone numbers. 

  *

  A gong sounded and the room fell silent. Reverend Oshun stood up. After she had thanked them all for coming and commended them for persevering until the end, she finished by reading out some words, spoken by the Buddha:

  “Thus shall you think of all this fleeting world, a star at dawn, a bubble in a stream, a flash of lightning in a summer cloud, a flickering lamp, a phantom and a dream.” Over the next hour, the twelve retreatants said their goodbyes to each other and to the monks; gradually everyone drifted off. 

  *

  Fred had offered to drive Freya to the train station to save her getting a taxi and a bus. As she stepped into his big gas guzzling Range Rover, she was amazed to find she did not feel her usual negative judgement of this kind of vehicle. Instead, she was experiencing a feeling of acceptance and lightness. Fred was noticing he felt a new sense of peace and a glimmer of enthusiasm for the farm’s way forward.

  “Do you think you’ll ever go back to the monastery again?” he asked Freya, as the Range Rover swung along narrow winding country lanes.

  “Actually, I think I very well might,” she replied, “maybe later this year. What about you?”

  “Me too,” he smiled, “somehow, it’s given me a new perspective. I’m not going to take life so seriously!” They shook hands warmly as they parted at the train station.

  *

  Back at the monastery, a gong was sounding. The monks were filing into the temple to sit together in silence.

   

After a busy week in which I had had meetings with a number of NHS health professionals, from various disciplines, about issues with my husband’s ongoing healthcare, I sent the following text, to my grown up children: Battle number 3 of the week fought and won. Dad is having the cataract, from his right eye, removed.

I felt a sense of smug achievement as I wrote those words. It is true that, through my persistence in advocating for my husband who finds it difficult to advocate on his own behalf, I had managed to get decisions, previously made, reversed and in my view, a better course of action planned in pursuit of his health and wellbeing but the language of battle that I had used in my text and its implied sense victory was ‘off’. My intuitive self was immediately uncomfortable with my choice of words and my body felt out of sorts with itself. I was claiming a victory, which was not mine to claim and placing the people whose time and skills had been freely given, in the role of conquered enemy, which was neither just, fair or true.

To give context to those who do not know the circumstances surrounding my so called ‘battles’, my husband, David, is chronically ill and quite disabled. The course of our lives, as they are lived now, began in 2007, when his immune system collapsed as a result of taking anti-TNF drugs to treat his rampant rheumatoid arthritis. An infection, which started in the base of his joint damaged right foot, turned to sepsis. At this time, in our local NHS history, GPs could refer patients directly, from the community to a specialist ward at the hospital, without the need to be triaged through A and E. This had its benefits in that there was no waiting for hours on uncomfortable chairs, trolleys or the floor in some instances, before being admitted. The downside was an over reliance on clear communication between the GP and the receiving hospital staff about the symptoms and possible causes.

In David’s case, a miscommunication between the GP and the hospital about a suspected infection meant that the severity of his condition was not picked up, for several days. It wasn’t until an abscess formed on his leg, as the infection searched for a route out of his body and something akin to a scene from Alien burst out of him, that appropriate blood tests and microbiology were ordered. By this time, sepsis had well and truly got a grip of his body.

However, neither the diagnosis or the implications of this were explained to us. My husband just got more and more sick and it was only when I overheard two doctors talking to each other, one on either side of my husband’s bed, that I suddenly realised the seriousness of the situation. By this time, he was so unwell that he was rarely conscious and when he was awake, he was confused and disorientated. As his wife, I felt voiceless and unseen. Professionals were talking to each other as if I wasn’t there. Things were being ‘done’ to my husband, the consent for which he was physically incapable of giving. My enquiry at the nurses station about what was going on was met with a noncommittal response and I was told that I would have to speak to a doctor as they weren’t at liberty to talk to me without David’s permission.

So, I went home, confused and upset. I wanted to understand and to advocate for him, to step in and partner the professionals, to be part of the decision making on his behalf but I was shut out. Perhaps, I didn’t use the right words or approach the right person at the right time but there were no signposts for the friends and relatives of someone who was so ill that they could not speak for themselves. I felt that I had two choices, to either accept that, at some point, someone would tell me what was going on but on their terms and in their own time or to fight the system with the only weapon that I had any skill in wielding- the written word. It is said that ‘the pen is mightier than the sword “ and, since the age of nine, when I helped my single-parent, dyslexic mum fight the social security system to get the appropriate benefit entitlements, I have sharpened that blade and taken it into battle to advocate for children, in my role as an education professional or claim my consumer rights when companies and services fell short of their customer obligations.

So, I wrote a letter to the consultant, whose name was written on a label, at the head of David’s bed but whom I had never seen. There was anger in my heart, as I wrote, using brevity as my blade- two short, pithy paragraphs, sharp and pointed – and copied to the charge nurse who ran the ward, the Patient Liaison Service (PALS) and the Chief Executive, whose name I had noted on a board, in the foyer of the hospital. I put David’s name as the sender but signed it on his behalf, clearly sounding the message that whilst he was incapacitated, it was me they should be dealing with.

In less that twenty four hours the mood changed. The staff eyed me with an uncomfortable reserve when I entered the ward and I was summoned to a meeting with the consultant, who took me into a private office and explained the situation. It was a sunny, Friday afternoon, in July. The room was small and stifling. He began the conversation by acknowledging my letter and telling me that relatives were the bane of the medical staff’s life. I let that go, though emboldened by the letter’s effectiveness, I had several rebuffs circulating in my brain. I needed to understand my husband’s condition, so I let him continue. He didn’t pull any punches. Without ceremony, he informed me that my husband was gravely ill and was expected to be dead by Monday. I could have gone on and asked why, as David’s next of kin, I had had to fight to get that information but his blow was brutal. I needed to retreat and regroup. So, I thanked him for his time and his honesty and went home to phone my children and David’s siblings.

David did not die that weekend, or any other day in the weeks that eventually turned into four months in hospital. Skilled people looked after him. They treated his renal failure, they infused him with strong antibiotics, they drained litres of pus from affected joints and eventually amputated his infected, lower right leg when swabs came back positive for methicillin resistant staphylococcus aureus (MRSA). In short, they saved his life. I was grateful and humbled.

So, was my battle language justified? It got me what I wanted – clear communication. But I lost something, too. I had framed the situation as a war within my own mind. I had created a ‘me and other’ scenario, which felt justified in the moment when adrenalin was coursing through my veins and I was determined to gain some insight into the situation but it has also left its scars. Both then and to this day, some (but not all) of the members of staff who looked after him, and still do, eighteen years later, approach me with caution. I am the trouble-maker wife. I also lost, momentarily, my inner peace, my core centre. I was trying to advocate for something perfectly reasonable but the associated emotions were anger, fear, panic and a feeling of isolation, which, had I been wise enough, I would have dealt with first. These emotions give birth to the flight, fight or freeze responses in the amygdala of the brain. Approaching difficulties when we are in this state of mind can lead to consequences that can have a long fuse and are difficult to recover from.

By and large, over the eighteen years since ‘the big event’, I have learned how to check in with myself before acting. Sometimes, what needs to be done is obvious and happens, naturally. At others, it is a question of letting things percolate, on the back burner of the mind until a clear course of action evolves. And, inevitably, there can be times when neither of these two things apply but there is still a need to act, not quite knowing for certain what is right. At these times, to view the other person or situation, with compassion, not seeing them or it as ‘other’ helps us be mindfully assertive, rather than battle-like, leading to more respectful relationships with people and, just as importantly, with ourselves. Looking back over my life, I can see why my fight and flight behaviours are so ingrained and this is even more reason to take time to pause first and act later.

My text message to my children slipped back into old language patterns. I had spoken of battle, yet no battle had taken place. The three discussions with healthcare professionals that I had had that week all resulted in positive outcomes, which had reversed some previously made decisions about care that I had judged to be unacceptable. I had not, however, waged war with them.

On the contrary, I had expressed my concerns, provided them with additional, relevant information and discussed the options and the possible consequences of each. In the first instance, a phone call to a physiotherapist, who had known us both since those early days of David’s recovery and convalescence in 2007, had triggered a multidisciplinary meeting to discuss a plan of action for treating his right knee, which has been swollen since February, rendering David unable to wear his prosthesis and therefore unable to walk. The meeting was fruitful and gave us both hope.

The next day, I had stood firm when I was told that David did not qualify for a continuous blood sugar monitor under NICE guidelines because he was a type 2, rather than a type 1 diabetic. I had pointed out that his arthritic hands were not capable of taking his own blood sugar, even if he wanted to. I had said an assertive ‘no’ when it was suggested that I should take his bloods, on the grounds that I would not always be around to do so and for them not to be taken, regularly could be dangerous. The professional saw the logic in this and conceded but it was done agreeably.

And a factual and reasoned letter from me, to an ophthalmic consultant, written in the spirit of enquiry, not insistence, had triggered a rethink into whether it was possible to remove a deep cataract from David’s right eye, helping him to see people as more than grey shapes and share in the watching of a TV show. It was a week in which there was a meeting of minds that were receptive to varying viewpoints.

Did these outcomes make me feel like I had won a battle – a little – but on reflection, the ‘victory’ belonged not to me but to the willingness of all involved, including David himself, to enter into a dialogue of equals, letting go the habit energy that fuels discord and the need to defend his corner. My text message to my children was born of that habit energy and was not well worded. My body and mind knew it, as soon as it was sent. Happily, my children know me well and will set me straight, again.

The Buddha is attributed to have said,

Do not believe in anything (simply) because you have heard it ; Do not believe in traditions, because they been handed down for many generations ; Do not believe in anything, because it is spoken and rumoured by many ; Do not believe in anything simply because it is found written in your religious books ; But after observation and analysis, when you find that anything agrees with reason and is conducive to the good and benefit of one and all, then accept it and live up to it.

 In this commentary, by Nigel Shipston, he speaks in praise of doubt as a valuable safeguard on the Buddhist path.

Trust and faith are seen as a major part of religious training across all faiths. They implore us to drop habitual and conventional ways of viewing ourselves and others, encourage us to connect more deeply with the transformation of the spirit.  In Zen,  we sit and follow the Precepts trusting that this will benefit ourselves and others but not knowing in what ways.  All will be revealed…….eventually. 

And, of course, there is a sense of trust that is about our feeling (and being) safe. We open our hearts,  and how we understand the world can profoundly shift, leaving us vulnerable and uncertain. At these times,  we need confidence in our tradition,  our teachers and our Sangha to help us to navigate these challenges. There is a sense that trust is hard to gain but quick to lose. And the people who hold power in religious organisations need to be mindful of that.

But , I’d like to sing out a praise for doubt. Doubt is what got us started on our spiritual path in the first place. Before anyone started talking to us or organising us, we, on our own, started to question things and set out to investigate further. And I was pleased to hear the Buddha’s teaching: “Don’t take my word for it.  Check it out for yourself”. I read that Buddha would recognise Buddha and that we were to take responsibility for our own training as spiritual adults.  I think this is something that can be forgotten. 

Do I trust enough to take the next step? Yes,  but I will continue to keep hold of my doubt and my questioning. 

Fear and despair, palpable where ever you turn. To not contribute to despondency, to remain present, focused, open and grounded in trust is a contribution towards peace that should not be underestimated.

 

 

 

Peace does not mean an absence of conflicts; differences will always be there. Peace means solving these differences through peaceful means; through dialogue, education, knowledge; and through humane ways.”

– Tenzin Gyatso, the 14th Dalai Lama

In our latest blog post, Mo Henderson explores what it means to be part of a Buddhist community, pointing towards a need to embrace and include all forms of training within the Sangha Treasure. 

‘Harmony in the sangha pertains to the entire sangha’

Daizui MacPhillamy

I remember meeting Rev Master Daizui in the year 2000 at Throssel Hole Buddhist Abbey in Northumberland. On leaving he said ‘ play your part partners’. I have always remembered those words and believe it is important for each of us to individually act in ways which serve the sangha or any community or family to which we belong.

For a Zen Buddhist, to nourish ourselves and others means a daily practice of meditation, aligning with the Precepts, study of the Buddhist Teachings , including the Four Noble Truths, Eightfold Path and doing our best to train and guard the underlying values of Buddhist Teaching. For those of us who train in the laity the values we develop and learn to treasure are naturally expressed in our daily life.

‘Harmony is called the sangha Treasure’  Dogen

When there is disharmony in a sangha or other kind of community, it has consequences for everyone.. Doubts and suffering may arise in different ways and each of us can feel pain based on our own memories, experiences and tendencies. Recently, I have been reflecting about how I can serve others in terms of helping to create harmony or at the very least not cause harm. For me, this involves sharing what I know through experience and speaking what I see as the truth even if this is not easy.

When I observe or intuitively sense an uncomfortable truth, I have a tendency to stay silent and mistake not speaking out and backing down for kindliness and compassion towards others. I am learning this may be a distraction from speaking the truth in a skilful way (and not getting upset by doing so). In realising and accepting the truths I observe, there is a sense of learning to stand my own ground and to risk speaking out, otherwise am I living a lie? Guarding against my own assumptions and projections is a priority, otherwise confusion between what I ‘know’ and what I ‘don’t know’ can affect my response to what life brings. There’s much I don’t know, however understanding and accepting ‘unknowing’ is part of the practice too, how can we ‘know’ in an interconnected world, where all is flow and change and at the same time, use logical thought and its synergy with life, as equally important to express things in a wholesome way?

I believe all of these things based on practice and values can be offerings towards a cohesive sangha, constantly contributing to transparency, inclusiveness, trust and openness which serve to bring people together. From my experience, secrets can actually cover up lies and not only disturb one’s mind, but disturb the whole group in which we belong.

In my view, this is why ethics and boundaries are essential in order to inform, and protect members. Rules don’t have to be severe, but can function to gently point to what is expected from members of communities in a kindly, firm and respectful way. This contributes to people feeling safe and able to speak out.

I believe an essential part of community life or any group involvement is acceptance of individual differences. I was once part of a work group in which one person was clearly wanting things to be done their way, without listening to or taking into consideration what others were willing to offer. People gradually disappeared or made excuses to go and do something else and the person who had taken over the group seemed unaware of how their actions had affected others. I believe it is important for vigilance and self enquiry about one’s own intentions and motivation towards others needs and getting to know people is imperative and helpful in seeing those who may not be serving the community and causing harm. In this kind of supportive environment, daily life can be conducted in a transparent and open way, with people being aware of their own and each other’s needs, speaking out and being supportive when needed.

Face to face embodied communication is a wonderful way to live a life of offering to others. Actually ‘showing up’ at group retreat in person, to practice with others, is an opportunity to manoeuvre around challenges of disagreement, dislike and personal preferences. Learning to listen to yourself and others and to observe one’s own responses, not disappearing or avoiding when feeling uncomfortable is a real sangha treasure. From my experience it’s kind of experiencing your sitting place on the move. Then as lay practitioners our practice can be expressed in the wider sangha, local communities, family and work groups, all teaching us to be still with daily life and allowing the opportunity to share our ‘sitting place’ in daily life.

But what of ‘indirect’ communication? We are living in a world of amazing technological systems, AI with chat boxes, instant news, texting, podcasts, social media groups and zoom, all bringing different pressures and challenges. I have experienced being part of virtual zoom groups with fellow practitioners and have enjoyed communication with a small team. From the beginning a bond was quickly formed and communication flowed easy with a sense of ‘knowing’ each other due to our common practice.

I know there is an active development of online Buddhist communities both global and local and wonder how well people get to know and learn about each other? How are newcomers introduced virtually to Buddhism? Some of these zoom groups have between 40 and in some webinars 10,000 virtual attendees! Can you imagine Shariputra teaching on zoom and meeting members in breakout groups, unmuting yourself to ask a question? Responding on screen in a type of ‘edited reality’ can be a barrier rather than a bridge to building trust and communication. At the same time, there can be many benefits from making connections with others in that way, especially for those who are housebound or living in isolation.

Virtual reality can be viewed as neither good nor bad, it’s challenges can be addictive, obsessional and a distraction from the reality of daily life. I observe this in many as their mobile phone appears to have become part of their hand, with continual texting and surfing Facebook or other social media, often seemingly oblivious to what is happening around them. Being mindful of choosing virtual options aligned with the values and principles of non-harming can be difficult, but can be part of helping to deepen practice, so, even online sangha has the potential to be wholesome with wise discernment.

This brings me back to the importance of the communities in which we belong and being vigilant to remember to prioritise self-enquiry in relation to how we express our daily practice. In my view accepting differences and trying to contribute by sharing truths in an appropriate, open and translucent way is beneficial and a treasure for everyone.

 

In our latest blog post, Chris Yeomans reflects on her experience of a family conflict and how being still can transform a tense situation, giving us a helpful perspective on how feelings arise and how to deal with them.

For the last year and a half, I have been involved in a long – well I don’t know what to call it really.  I don’t think it’s a row if I haven’t responded in kind, so ‘trouble’ from my husband’s family is perhaps the only word. I have never experienced anything so unpleasant and with it the whole range of emotions and feelings:  deep hurt, grief, loss and bereavement, rage, a sense of injustice, despair.

Eventually, after a drawn-out and careful negotiation, during which my husband’s family called all the terms and I worked very hard at ‘letting go’, we met up for what they called ‘peace and reconciliation’, although I couldn’t see quite how this might happen if any mention of what had gone on before was expressly forbidden.  So it was very unlikely there would be any resolution, it seemed to me. But I tried to let go of that ‘opinion’ too.

But, for my husband’s sake, who felt he was losing or likely to lose his family, I found I could agree to almost anything and we met for dinner.  It was a surreal experience, sitting chatting and exchanging pleasantries, whilst all the time unable to blank out, completely, the way I had been treated and the things that had been said and written.  These were people whom I had genuinely loved and trusted and whose support I had greatly valued.  They had devastated me, but finally I found I felt nothing for them and I left the restaurant  feeling a free woman. Which led me to explore the whole business of feelings and emotions and maybe relationships.

I read a bit and searched on the internet, finally coming across this, which I more or less agree with  ‘Emotions come first, followed by feelings. Emotions are the body’s initial reactions to a stimulus, like a sudden rush of adrenaline or a physical sensation. Feelings, on the other hand, are the subjective experiences we have after interpreting these bodily reactions and thinking about them.’

I remember a monk once saying that the feelings of excitement and fear are almost indistinguishable, physiologically.  It just depends on you knowing what you are expecting to be experiencing and then giving them a label.  

And in that situation, I found I didn’t really feel anything very much.  It was socially not difficult.  But the relationships which we had, and which I had treasured, had been destroyed and there was simply nothing there.  So what does a relationship need to ‘work’?  It was so odd to be in the presence of people about whom I had once cared deeply and to feel absolutely nothing.

It seems to me that every genuine relationship is based, if not on love, at least on trust.  If there is no trust, it is impossible to have a relationship.  And also, following that old ‘I’m OK, you’re OK” theory, you need to know that the other person does at least have some positive regard for you.  That they ‘like’ you and interactions with them leave you with a good feeling.  I had none of that with these people.  I suspected they strongly disliked me, they certainly had expressed distrust of me, and they had treated me in a way I would not have thought possible.

So I was left that evening with this rather odd feeling of being on a film set, where nothing was real.  I was just glad to escape unscathed, though I think they’ve lost their appetite for a fight.

Being able, even in the toughest times, to know how to be still with the situation is invaluable.  And not to hit back, particularly when you know that the person attacking you is likely to lose control, be abusive or storm out of the house.

I have not so far had a lot of success in feeling genuine compassion for them.  Nor have I been able to bow to them as Buddhas.  Work in progress I suppose.  But for the moment I am enjoying the peace of being free from so much emotion.  I am transformed (people tell me!) and energised.  I don’t think I realised quite what a toll this was taking on me.  I was a broken woman, but I am healed.  To be relieved of such a burden is a truly wonderful thing.

This short item follows a train of thought that I had about the significant value of people who live or work alone. I offer you, Tree Survey

Last week, a survey of England’s non-woodland tree population, commissioned jointly by the Department for Environment, Food and Rural Affairs (DEFRA) and Forest Research, revealed that trees which stand-alone make up to 30% of the nation’s tree cover. These trees, which live and grow in parks, gardens, hedgerows, fields and streets, have significant value in improving our air quality, capturing carbon, regulating the climate and giving us humans protection against emissions from cars and industry.

A map of these benevolent trees, outside of woodlands (TOW) has been created, using aerial and satellite technology, which can inform the Government and other agencies about where the gaps in the tree population are and how best to support conservation in the future.

It got me thinking that the value of lone trees, apart from being rather beautiful, is perhaps underappreciated. Their underground mycelium transfers water, nitrogen, carbon and other minerals in the same way that larger groups of trees do and are just as valuable, if not more so, to creatures, including us humans, that do not live near forests or larger wooded areas.

It also started me thinking about people who, either by choice or through circumstance, stand alone.  The single parent, going it alone for their children; the reclusive artist, producing paintings that thrill the soul; the shy, neurodivergent person, who cannot face the outside world but who uses their talents, creatively ; the night porter, asleep in their chair; the meditator, rising in the early dawn to reflect upon themselves; the checkout operator in the all night supermarket; the solitary gardener, who weeds at twilight; the potter alone in their shed; the writer working into the night, not to create a bestseller but nevertheless transferring minerals of thought from inner consciousness onto the page, not worrying whether their words will be read; the cleaner, alone in the deserted office block; the delivery driver, on the long-haul trip. These are the singular, stand-alone people who contribute to the whole in their solitariness: their mycelium invisible but nevertheless doing its work, underground. You are valuable and as upright as trees and you are very much appreciated.

Are compassion and empathy out of fashion? In this post, Karen Richards gives a shout out for random acts of kindness.

Half-term and I am waiting at a bus stop, in the centre of Shrewsbury, with my granddaughter, Nel.  She is staying with me for the regular school holiday sleepover, with Nan and Granddad and her Telford cousins. But before that sleepless night of sugar fuelled frivolity, we sneak a morning together, just Nel and me, and visit Paws Cafe, where we have languished on deep leatherette sofas, drunk coffee and cola, eaten cake and spent a feline filled hour with the many cats that live there; nonchalant but friendly, indifferent yet seeking the attention of the many hands that reach out and stroke them, we leave relaxed and smiling and ready for the journey home.

There is no queue at the bus stop and no sign of a bus, either but a woman in a wheelchair, ensconced below the awning of a nearby shop, shouts out cheerily to passers by. She talks to babies, cooing and reaching out a hand to touch them. She comments on the weather and wishes people a nice day. Every so often, she  asks if anyone has any change. No-one has, but she persists. People carry plastic these days. Whatever happened to cash? I listen with my back towards her – my sight is firmly focused on the approach of the midday traffic – and slowly gather the drift of her story.

Still no sign of the bus. “We must have just missed one”, I tell Nel, apologetically. I’m not quite sure why I feel the need to apologise for something out of my control but I am sorry and concerned, too – I so want her to have a nice time.

The schedule for the rest of the day starts to niggle in my brain and I begin to rearrange future events in my mind to make the day work as planned. I have left my husband, who is particularly unwell right now, in the capable hands of my daughter but she will have to leave him soon, to get on with her own plans. There is an anxiety somewhere in my chest. I notice it, I embrace it, I become internally still. Out of this turning towards the worry comes a more settled state and then practical solutions start to dart from my head into my hands: text messages are sent, reassurances received. It is all fine. I look up the street in the direction that the bus will travel and mutter more apologies to Nel, who probably hadn’t factored this long wait into her vision of time spent with Nan. She is fine, too; alternating between texting photographs of the cats and chatting to me about school. 

And all the while, the woman in the wheelchair, sits underneath the awning and calls out, “I need seven pounds for seven days.” I park my concern about the late bus and getting home and listen, without turning to face her, while she explains to a passing shopper that there is a homeless shelter nearby but to gain entry she has to raise seven pounds for seven days stay. The passer by is polite, “I hope you get it” she says and leaves without depositing any money in her cup.

My mind less clouded by worry about getting home, now, I remember that I have a small change purse in my bag, kept for parking payments, supermarket trolleys and ice creams, in the park. I take it out and Nel and I exchange a glance, our thoughts are aligned. “Would you like to give her this?” I ask and bypassing the crumpled five pound note that has previously been stuffed , hurriedly between the seams, I take out a two pound coin and hand it to Nel. She smiles and nods. The woman thanks her, says “bless you” when she receives it.  But, it is not enough. It is not merely maths, my heart knows it. 

Surely she will raise the rest by nighttime, I think. Still, I face the direction that the bus will travel and ponder the five pound note, secure in my bag. I really want to give it to her. It is my natural inclination but I am fighting it. I can feel the imprint of fear in my chest. I listen to the fear and the sound of the woman’s voice, explaining again and again why she needs to raise seven pounds for seven days to a constant stream of people who wish her well but do not give her what she needs. I don’t give her what she needs, either.

I take a few moments to breathe and, contrary to the busyness around me, settle into the quiet of meditation and I ask myself, ”Why?”  I look at those fluttering feelings of fear and remember the young girl that I once was: the fresh faced adolescent who gave without hesitation; who responded to disasters by raising money from jumble sales and raffles; who gave her pocket money, without a moment’s hesitation, to anyone who needed it; who listened to people’s troubles; who sat on a grass verge with a dying pheasant and stroked its wing but who slowly got a reputation for being too kind and then, into adulthood, picked up on the subtle feedback, from society, that somehow kindness is synonymous with weakness and that to give freely is naive and demonstrates a personality that is not able to take tough decisions – as an employee too gentle to be effective (I have debunked this myth many times) and a mother too soft with her children for their own good (my adult children are upright, kind, talented and wise).  

Our true nature is kindness, pure and simple, but non of us is immune to the cynicism of those that we come into contact with, throughout our lives. Maya Angelou said, “It takes courage to be kind”. Those words are true more so now than ever.  It does not seem fashionable to care. For those who do, it takes a certain amount of courage to go beyond social conditioning and respond to the needs of those around us. For, “Tenderness and kindness are not signs of weakness and despair, but manifestations of strength and resolution “  says Kahlil Gibran.

On that day in late February, I open up my little change purse, take out the crumpled five pound note, smooth it out a little and hand it to Nel. She knows what to do. The woman thanks her and then shouts her thanks to me, too. 

“I’ve got it!” she cries as she turns her wheelchair in the direction of the centre of town “I’ve got my seven pounds!”

The bus arrives. Nel and I go home.

“Unless someone like you cares a whole awful lot, nothing is going to get better. It’s not.”
— Dr. Seuss

There are many different kinds of love – romantic, physical, spiritual, universal – each kind prompting a connection with something both inside and outside of ourselves. But love can also be ‘tricky’, requiring a certain groundedness and insight, as Chris Yeomans explores in her piece, Love is Universal Migraine

“Love is universal migraine,
A bright stain on the vision
Blotting out reason.”

I found myself recently quoting this poem by Robert Graves to a friend and it set me pondering. Love, being ‘in love’, seems to cause more problems than it solves.  Nigel Slater recently said in a radio interview that the thing he most didn’t want to be was ‘in love.’

Like so many I guess, I fell in love and got married (albeit at an unusually advanced age!) and slowly, or not so slowly, the shine wore off.  It became possible to see how far I was projecting qualities onto someone, based on the flimsiest of evidence, that I couldn’t possibly know for sure.  And that in its turn leads me to the thought that we can’t possibly know anything for sure, least of all the shifting and changing realities of another person.

I am ‘in love’ with Stanley Tucci. I am ‘in love’ with Monty Don.  I was once ‘in love’ with Inspector Morse and he is a completely fictional character. All of this is fantasy, based on an idea of what those people would be like if I were to meet them or marry them.  I am inclined to be hard on myself and dismiss it all as rubbish, but the same friend referred to above suggested that it would be more helpful to look at the triggers behind these thoughts.  What is it that hooks me in to certain individuals and what might it show me about myself?

The same can also  happen with spiritual teachers, particularly those who wear robes or other garments that signal their spiritual authority and the promise of some form of ‘enlightenment’. All sorts of different feelings get conjured up (robes being much like uniforms and we know that “every nice girl loves a sailor.”).  But when we see these scarlet and gold robed beings in their slightly old-fashioned, brown,‘going out’ clothes, we sometimes get a very different idea.  There is a balance of course, a middle way.  Awareness must, as with most things, be the key.

But how much does this happen all the time in daily life?  We meet someone and we decide instantly whether we would get on with them or not.  John Cleese in his book ‘Families and How to Survive Them’ says that we pick up tiny signals that give us clues about what we might have in common with a person, even ‘across a crowded room.’  If this is true, then our reactions might not be so random.

But the interesting part is discovering what can be relied upon and what cannot in the picture that we have built up of another person.  Years of friendship uncovers what seems genuine and real.  A brief acquaintance may never reveal any truths, relative or not.

So the moral to all this?  We will probably always judge a book by its cover, but it’s worth reading a few chapters before we are sure of what we are dealing with.