Great Lake Zen

As a child, I felt disappointed by the sight of virgin land with no paths, gardens, or dwellings for me to explore. I felt proud of my six year old footstep, which was permanently frozen in the concrete of the neighbor’s sidewalk. As the years passed, I would cover this shrinking presence with my shoe. Glad that I was still there.

I now leave footprints all over this planet and try to cover them up with good intentions. Will the biodegradable dish soap I bought at Trader Joe’s offset my flight to Portland? On a recent trip home I noticed that my old footprint had disappeared. It had finally been replaced by clean concrete. I miss the childish delight in stepping over it. Marveling at how much I’ve grown

The human desire to leave no square untouched spurred on a race to the South Pole. Fingers, toes, and canine companions were all sacrificed for the joy in getting there first. I’m reminded of those who volunteered for a one-way flight to Mars. Their willingness to spend a lifetime ensconced in a capsule surrounded by fierce winds and yellow sand. Sharing nothing, but leaving plenty of footsteps.

Something that resonates with me about the tale of Shakyamuni Buddha was his need to be exposed to change in order to be enlightened. As a prince, the young Shakyamuni was sheltered by his father, King Suddhodana, and grew up in a palace unaware of the trials and tribulations of life. The King wanted to protect his son from suffering, so the prince grew up not knowing about poverty, pain, illness and death. For Shakyamuni, the world was a never-ending pleasure garden. He was made to believe that he would continue to exist in pleasant surroundings for eternity—never feeling sadness or discomfort. As Shakyamuni grew older, his curiosity about the world outside the palace gates grew stronger and stronger. His father was no longer able to mollify Shakyamuni’s desire to explore the town, so he relented and allowed the prince to venture outside the palace compound. The King made a great effort to hide every unsavory element from his son’s eyes. Every sick and old inhabitant of the city was hidden away.

Shakyamuni was on a mission to see everything he could of the outside world. Despite all the King’s efforts, Shakyamuni was exposed to the realities of old age, illness and death. The shock of human suffering was the impetus that led to Shakyamuni’s search for enlightenment. A basic tenet of Buddhism is the concept of suffering and impermanence. The goal is to end the continuous cycle of rebirth and suffering by achieving enlightenment. Both suffering and pleasure are temporary states. One must experience both to grow and achieve self-awareness. One will always shift between joy and sorrow.

I know of many self imposed sheltered princes in the world I live in. They unsuccessfully paddle against the stream of life. I don’t know the direct cause of this. Maybe too many parents tried to protect their children from the world, which has resulted in adults that have never been exposed to great discomfort. Maybe because there have been so many advances in medical technology, middle to upper class people are not often exposed to severe illness and death until they reach middle age. Whatever the cause, change will come to these folks regardless of their inability to grow up. There will always be suffering due to factors such as failure, divorce, loss, sickness and death. But the more challenges and changes one can face and overcome in life, the more joy and success they will experience. Actions like loving someone whole heartedly, raising a child, and working to create a satisfying career all have risks and the potential to create suffering, but they also create a rich life. Change is inevitable in this impermanent life, so why not embrace both the suffering and bliss that come with it?

Courage
—Anne Sexton
It is in the small things we see it.
The child’s first step,
as awesome as an earthquake.
The first time you rode a bike,
wallowing up the sidewalk.
The first spanking when your heart
went on a journey all alone.
When they called you crybaby
or poor or fatty or crazy
and made you into an alien,
you drank their acid
and concealed it.

Later,
if you faced the death of bombs and bullets
you did not do it with a banner,
you did it with only a hat to
cover your heart.
You did not fondle the weakness inside you
though it was there.
Your courage was a small coal
that you kept swallowing.
If your buddy saved you
and died himself in so doing,
then his courage was not courage,
it was love; love as simple as shaving soap.

Later,
if you have endured a great despair,
then you did it alone,
getting a transfusion from the fire,
picking the scabs off your heart,
then wringing it out like a sock.
Next, my kinsman, you powdered your sorrow,
you gave it a back rub
and then you covered it with a blanket
and after it had slept a while
it woke to the wings of the roses
and was transformed.

Later,
when you face old age and its natural conclusion
your courage will still be shown in the little ways,
each spring will be a sword you’ll sharpen,
those you love will live in a fever of love,
and you’ll bargain with the calendar
and at the last moment
when death opens the back door
you’ll put on your carpet slippers
and stride out.

—Ecclesiastes 3:1-8
“To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven:
A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted;
A time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up;
A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance;
A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing;
A time to get, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away;
A time to rend, and a time to sew; a time to keep silence, and a time to speak;
A time to love, and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time of peace.”

Keanu Reeves as Shakyamuni Buddha—not that well acted, but you get the idea:

It was a cold and rainy Saturday afternoon. My sinus cavities swelled from the increased barometric pressure and the cold wrapped around my bones. When I turned into my street from Sheridan road I walked passed an old and grizzled drunken man on his way home from the corner dive bar. I was walking quickly, pulling my coat close to my body and when I passed him he tried to strike up a conversation. “I love you,” he said. I kept walking, but I kept hearing his voice in the distance….”I LOVE YOU…I love you…I love you…I love you…I love you…I love you… I love you… I love you… I love you.” It was eerie to hear these words of affection slowly dissipate in the wind. Even as I opened the door to my building it kept repeating in my head…”I love you.” This is an interesting aspect of living in a city—you never know what kind of weirdo you will bump into. Or maybe he was a mystical being in disguise, whispering words of love into the air.

I live in a transitional neighborhood, which is almost completely gentrified, but still retains elements of its past. Once a pleasurable getaway for the wealthy, Edgewater turned into a haven for the displaced and unwanted in the 60s and 70s. Many homes for the mentally ill, disabled and the elderly were built in Chicago’s north side during the 50s, which along with racial tension drove people to move out to the suburbs. Currently, Edgewater is home to young families, a large gay and lesbian population, and immigrants from Southeast Asia, Eastern Europe and Africa. I was attracted to Edgewater‘s lakeside living, ethnic diversity, historic architecture, and living in an urban environment with a friendly neighborhood feel.

I am always torn on the subject of gentrification. I grew up in the suburbs of Detroit, which is a city that experienced a great amount of white flight. As much as I enjoy city life and criticize suburban living, I have to admit that I had a great childhood. I walked to school and all of my friends’ homes were accessible by bike. The concept of a “play-date” was foreign to all of the parents in my neighborhood. I lived a very sheltered life and was not exposed to crime and poverty. I recently walked past the playground of Goudy Elementary School on Foster Ave. and spotted two gang bangers, with their characteristic facial tattoos, leaning over the fence, watching the kids play as they conversed. If I had kids, would I feel comfortable allowing them to ride their bikes to this playground by themselves? I don’t know. The white yuppie in me might be fearful, but the anti-yuppie in me would not want my kids to be afraid of their neighborhood.

I have heard some good things about the elementary schools in my neighborhood, but most of the white residents would not consider enrolling their children. They wouldn’t consider moving to the suburbs either, but they fear allowing their children to play in the parks unattended or going to their neighborhood school because it has average test scores and 90% of the children live below the poverty line. These parents mostly grew up in sheltered suburbs like me, so they are trying to recreate their childhoods in the city, which means keeping their kids inside and driving them to private schools across town. They enjoy the diversity of the city in terms of food and culture, but not in terms of poverty and struggle. The Southeast Asian, Latino and African American parents in my neighborhood do not seem to have the same concerns.

I can understand the arguments against gentrification. The most undesirable members of our society need a place to live. Many of them lived in my neighborhood and they have been slowly displaced. At the same time, I don’t want to live next door to a mental health facility or senior center. The mental health centers attract drugs and crime and the senior centers are very depressing. What kind of society holes their elderly up in dirty hovels full of abuse and theft? A good friend of mine lived next to a mental health center and was woken up many times during the night by ambulances and fire trucks. I remember walking to her place one winters night and seeing an old woman walking in the street with only a thin robe and slippers. Chicago has experimented with mixed income housing, but there are culture clashes that need to be dealt with. People from higher income brackets have different social norms and are not tolerant of loud music and noise. I was awakened on a recent Sunday morning by an argument emanating from a Section 8 residence down the street. My heart sank as I watched a man kick his junkie younger brother out of the house. The younger brother walked his meager possessions down the street in a shopping cart while shouting profanities. At first I was annoyed, but then I heard the young man shout out stories of their childhood. He spoke of their parents abandoning them and leaving them out in the cold. If I had that kind of childhood, I might have come to a bad end myself.

Last week an acquaintance of mine was robbed and beaten on my street in broad daylight. After I heard this, my usual shady and friendly street seemed sinister and dangerous. It was a nice evening, but I was afraid to take a stroll to the lake, which is something I would have never hesitated to do in the past. Although I am adamantly against racial profiling, when I came home late last night I felt nervous as a young African American man in a hooded sweatshirt and baggy jeans crossed my path. I realize that this kind of fear can be dangerous. A fear of people who are different leads to prejudice.

I chose to live in a big city, so I need to accept all of the diversity, good and bad, which comes with it. I am trying to combat my fears by keeping in mind the Buddhist practice of wisdom and compassion. Fear only creates an illusion and does not reflect reality, but I can view reality by being wise and compassionate of others. I cannot use my selfish desires of what I want my neighborhood to be affect how I feel towards my fellow human beings. It is easy to be angry towards them, but anger is another form of illusion. Sometimes I think of how it would be a better neighborhood if all of the drunks, junkies, schizos, gang bangers, and crazies all disappeared. This might be true, but I should also keep in mind how they got to where they are and feel a little sympathy towards them. The Venerable Khandro Rinpoche states,

“The human heart is basically very compassionate, but without wisdom, compassion will not work. Wisdom is the openness that lets us see what is essential and most effective. As human beings, we all try our best to bring about a world based on kindness and compassion. What seems to go wrong, however, is that what I want, what I personally would like, becomes more important than the benefit of the whole community.”[i]

Oden--a Japanese winter stew

Recently the subject of food has been a hot topic. Since I am a big fan of eating, I have been following this trend. I stumbled upon Michael Pollan’s In Defense of Food a few years ago and since then I have become more involved in cooking and paying attention to what kind of food I purchase for myself. One thing that stuck in my mind was his discussion of how in recent history people have been cooking less than ever before, but there are more cooking shows on television than in the past. There is a whole Food Network for goodness sake, full of celebrity chefs and recipes fusing cuisine from all over the world. Pollan suggested that even though people are not cooking anymore, they still enjoy watching the sensual process of creating healthy meals. I recently met a young woman who admitted that she never cooked, but she enjoyed watching the Food Network because when she traveled she could dine at the TV chefs’ restaurants. I find that people enjoy eating out more than cooking, so I was not surprised.

I, on the other hand, have come to the point where I often prefer to stay home and eat my own food rather than dining out. I find that most restaurants will over salt and over flavor their dishes so I cannot tell if the food is fresh or not. Everything tastes somewhat stale or assembled as a strange concoction such as lemongrass infused cilantro and wasabi cream sauce with a goji berry reduction on top of a dried out skinless chicken breast (I hate white meat).  It’s like they want to combine every popular flavor together in one dish. Sometimes it works, but sometimes it doesn’t. I don’t want to sound too full of myself—I could never recreate the amazing spicy, sweet, and silken tofu laden green curry at my favorite Thai restaurant, Siam Noodle. About a year ago, a Coney Island restaurant opened up in Chicago and eating a hot dog topped with liquefied chili brought back fond memories of my childhood in suburban Detroit. Gone are the days when I went with my Dad to buy a new computer game for the Atari computer and we stopped at the Coney Island on our way home. The chilidog would later revisit my Dad after a mid afternoon cigar break—not a good combination. So I’m not too much of a food snob, or foodie, which is a word I find to be too hipsterish, so I try not to use it.

I was lucky to have been born in a home full of good eating. Everything was cooked from scratch and no box of Kraft mac and cheese or American cheese could be found. We always ate together as a family and the television was not to be turned on until after the plates were cleared and we had tea and dessert. My sister and I would sit on each of my Dad’s knees while he drank his tea. My Dad always worked late, so we would wait to eat until he came home. To tide us over until then, the rest of us would snack after school was out. I have fond memories of sitting at the kitchen table with my mom and sister as the sun faded and deep shadows reflected on the tile floor. We would eat cheese and crackers while NPR played in the background.

Food is not only nourishment, but it is a ritual and an art form that is to be appreciated and respected. I do not understand how one can truly appreciate food while watching television, unless it is popcorn. Otherwise, you cannot focus on the diverse textures and flavors. I still need to learn how to eat slowly and savor each bite. My fast eating habits developed as a result of growing up in a household in which my Dad would eat the last bite of lamb chop off my plate if I was not paying attention.

I believe that everyone should make time in their lives to cook because it a very sensual and rich experience. I love it when my apartment fills with the scent of curry and tomatoes. This evening I cooked an African yam soup with jalapeno corn bread. As the veggies, spices, and herbs conjoined in a bubbling broth I turned on the African music station on Pandora. After a stressful workday it was nice to be transported to another place in my own kitchen.

It is not surprising that the act of sharing a meal is prevalent in most religions. It is strange that we have traveled so far away from it. Maybe people are reluctant to get close enough to cook and eat together. They are afraid of where this sharing may lead and they do not want to give too much of themselves. The act of cooking for someone is a loving and giving gesture. It also strengthens relationships and builds a strong community. A cook plays an important role in the Zen monastery. The rituals involved in cooking are a form of meditation—cutting the vegetables, adding the right amount of spices, stirring the broth and breathing in the scents. In Buddhism, the sangha, or community, is vital in sustaining the monasteries and the Buddhist practice. By feeding the monks and lay people, the temple chef is sustaining the sangha.

I always correlate food with happy memories. The reason why I eat popcorn all the time is because I associate it with fun things, like going to the movies. When I travel, trying the local cuisine is always first on my itinerary. The main reason why I would like to go back to China is to eat the amazing Chinese food that is rarely found in American restaurants. Luckily Chicago is a city where one can easily experiment with different types of cuisine. About a year ago, I discovered Devon Street, or Little India, and stocked up on Indian spices. I have found that these spices can be added to a wide variety of dishes to create a unique fused flavor. This year I discovered H-Mart, which is a Korean supermarket in Niles (a Northwest suburb). I have been happily cooking Japanese food, which is a cuisine I was reluctant to approach in the kitchen, but now my Udon soup tastes almost as good as the home style Japanese restaurant down the street. You are cordially invited to share a meal with me in my kitchen.