“It’s mine!”

“It’s mine!”

“It’s mine!”

“It’s mine!”

Actually, it isn’t like that at all, at least not when my dogs are playing tug-of-war. They know it’s a game; in fact, Harry shakes the stuffed orange turtle right in front of Aussie’s face, inviting her to play. Later he’ll settle down on the rug and tear the poor animal to pieces, taking the white cottony stuffing out and spitting it onto the rug, but at first he wants Aussie to play. They’ll growl, snarl, pull hard, give it everything they got—and they know it’s a game. They carry no malevolence towards each other.

Food is something else, at least for Harry. He came to me last January leaping and pawing for any morsel he could get into his bony body. In the first couple of days he literally jumped up on the butcher block table to seize a pound of ground beef and thought that the plates on the dining table were just more food bowls for dogs, requiring a little more agility. He attacked Aussie for every marrow bone and rawhide piece. Vigilance and training have paid off and he hasn’t done that in six months. But even in the worst times, it was clear there was nothing personal there, he didn’t carry an ounce of malevolence in that brindle, white-chested, thin body. He was just hungry.

How often do I carelessly brush by Aussie, step on Harry’s tail that’s slipped off his dog bed, or just  saunter right on top of Aussie lying  on the landing because I couldn’t see her in the dark! If it really hurts they’ll give a brief screech, but otherwise they’ll go on as though nothing happened, as though nobody was hurt. They can’t credit me with any kind of ill will or bad intention. Instead they look at me quizzically, I tell them I’m sorry, and they go back to doing what they were doing.

Not humans. Things happen, someone does something, somebody else gets hurt, and it goes viral. We yell and scream, we blame, we shame, call them evil. We compete with each other as to who could make the sharpest, most humiliating rejoinder, who could pack the most scorn and disgust in an online comment, laughing uproariously at how we one-up each other in vilification.

Why does the smallest cur have more compassion than we do? They can’t credit bad intentions, don’t even understand what they are. They know what to stay away from, when a situation or person is dangerous or confusing, but they don’t know evil.

Is their understanding–that no one means to do bad but harm still happens, including predation, stealing, killing, and hurting—so much deeper than ours?

Harry once jumped up at me as I lay in bed reading a volume of poetry by Seamus Heaney. The book had a wooden, painted bookmark a South American friend had given me as a gift, with a sharp point at one end. When he jumped up on the bed the sharp, pointed edge of the wooden bookmark grazed him an inch from his eye.

He squealed and fell; I looked down at him on the rug, heart in my mouth.

He looked up at me with perplexity at the strange turns life can take.

I was a basket-case full of guilt and recrimination. “How often do I say NO JUMPING!” formed, ready for shouting at the small dog. But I looked down at his eyes that carried not an ounce of accusation and I stroked him instead (not good training this time), while his eyes stayed wide open, one ear flap standing up in attention, not crediting me or the world with any evil at all.

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“Boy, do you look dumb in that skin. Where’d you get it?”

“The Boss put it on me today because it got so cold. Makes me feel warm, Aussie.”

“Makes you look stupid, Harry.”




“I wouldn’t be caught dead in a skin like that, Harry.”

“It doesn’t matter what it looks like, Auss. I feel really comfy in it.”

“But it’s not your skin, Harry.”

“Stop arguing, you two. Harry’s absolutely right, Auss. I put that sweater on him because it’s freezing today. He doesn’t have your fur, but he’s warm and comfortable. You can be in your skin regardless of what skin you’re wearing.”


The Book of Householder Koans has a koan that’s just about what it means to be in your skin.”

“How could you not be in your skin, Boss?”

“Precisely, Aussie. You really can’t not be in your skin, but humans feel prickly and itchy in all kinds of situations, and they tug on this or on that and don’t feel comfortable.”

“That’s because humans are dumb.”

“Aussie, I’ve seen you scratch and roll in the summer. I’ve seen you uncomfortable.”

“I hate bumble bees.”

“We all have things we dislike, Auss.”

“Who said anything about disliking? I hate the buggers!”

“The koan is called Old Bear and it goes like this: “Chosui would sing the following refrain again and again: ‘Old Bear, are you in there? Old Bear, are you in there?’”

“Bear? Is there a bear around? Where? Where?”

“Get a hold of yourself, Aussie. It’s a koan, and he’s asking: Old Bear, are you in there?”

“So what’s the answer? Is he in there or not?”

“It’s a koan, Auss, which means there is no one right answer. The point is that he’s asking: Are you in there? Are you living in your skin?”

“How could he not be living in his skin?”

“True enough, Auss, but so many of us feel basically wrong in our bodies, wrong in our minds, wrong everywhere—“

“Wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong!”

“We’re filled with self-criticism and self-reproach, we feel we can’t get anything right—“

“Right and wrong have nothing to do with it, Boss!”

“Precisely, Aussie.”

“Right and wrong, good and bad, yes and no—they have nothing to do with who you really are!”

“That’s absolutely right, Aussie. You surprise me.”

“It doesn’t matter what others think about you. It doesn’t matter if Penelope and Eubank growl and chase me around in the park, I don’t need anyone’s approval to feel in my body and in my skin!”

“I’m proud of you, Auss.”

“But if I don’t get my chicken jerky then something’s wrong.”

“Can you feel basically okay regardless of circumstances, Aussie? Regardless of whether or not you get chicken jerky?”

“That’s taking things too far, Boss.”

“Then that’s your koan, Auss. You can show me your answer when we get back home and I give Harry chicken jerky but not you.”

“Watch me kill him.”


You can pre-order hereThe Book of Householder Koans: Waking Up In the Land of Attachment  here.


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Walking with Bernie’s ashes

It’s a rickety flight out of Warsaw to London and then to Boston; a short delay due to fog in London.

“How are you doing?” my brother texted me yesterday.

“Well,” I wrote back. “Auschwitz was the best part.”

An odd thing to write, but as soon as we arrived on Tuesday to the gray, smoky skies, the smell of fertilized farmland, the train-crossings with barriers and clanging bells, dogs barking from the gardens behind houses, and finally the dark brown brick barracks behind the wires, it was the strangest thing, but it felt like home.

Not home at Auschwitz, home at the retreat in Auschwitz.

Disembarking at the Center for Dialogue, getting room keys, turning towards 90 warm faces from different lands. The many staff who come again and again, a humorous smile on their faces as if saying: Here we are again.

Andrzej Krajewski and I visited the Director of the Auschwitz Museum, which now gets well over 2 million visitors a year. I thanked him for his work.

“It’s you I must thank,” he said, not addressing me personally but the Zen Peacemakers. “Whenever November comes I remember that now the Buddhists are coming to do their work.”

What work is it that’s called us here so many times?

“Do the retreat for the souls that are there,” Reb Zalman Schachter, Founder of Jewish Renewal, told Bernie and me so many years ago when he gave his blessing for the retreat. Yes, but what is it exactly that we’re doing? It’s the koan of our retreat, I think, whose answer changes from year to year, an answer I present not just while I’m there but during the rest of the year as well.

You’re in a place of incomparable and incomprehensible horror, so it’s not unnatural to dwell on smaller, more bearable pains and losses. I recall a Belgian woman many years ago who wept the entire retreat over a bitter fight she had with her father. She’d refused to talk to him till the day he died. The resentful silence between an Austrian man and his SS father. Fathers seem to figure prominently in stories people have told during our years here.

When we’re in a place that dwarfs our own experiences of suffering, self-pity is replaced by forgiveness; the blame that till now was so important goes out the window. Instead, cherishing takes over—of life, parents, teachers, birds and grass, and even the gray skies over the Selection Site where we sit.

I, too, had the luxury of carrying out a small, personal errand, bringing and leaving Bernie’s ashes in Birkenau as he’d asked. It was as if this whole year since his passing pointed to this action in this place. He wanted his ashes to lie right in the middle of deep catastrophe.

A small group of us did this, the people I think of as his Auschwitz family, those coming year after year to serve this retreat. Indeed, December will mark 25 years since he and I made our first trip here as part of an interfaith gathering, when his eyes widened with recognition at seeing this place, and knowing it was his place. I never imagined that 25 years later I’d be bringing his ashes here. So much sitting there, right in the palm of your hand.

It was a very simple thing really. I held the box and person after person took a handful of the soft, grainy ash, said some words or stayed silent, and softly left it on the ground at different places: Selection Site, this crematorium, that crematorium, the spot where a friend, August Kowalcyk, successfully escaped Birkenau, the horrific White House. I thought we would run out of ash, but there always seemed to be more. We left the rest around the base of a tree he loved, and called it a day.

It was good weather, not warm and not cold, and the sun was out most of the time. “We try to preserve the neutrality of this place,” I was told. They don’t allow flags anymore, so Israeli flags don’t march in carried by school groups from Israel, nor are Polish flags allowed to be brought in, which, I gather, upsets the current Polish government exceedingly. It is sad that when narratives collide, instead of bearing witness to both we rid ourselves of symbols and call it neutrality. The best we can do.

In Auschwitz, every single thing you do feels meaningful. A cup of hot chocolate outside the Birkenau gates feels richer than anything else you possess. A warm down jacket feels more loving than your mother’s caress, and a smile against brutal cold air is a joy you never had in your life.

You return to the Center for Dialogue at the end of the day and experience the miracle of normalcy, of faces saying hello, searching for room keys, checking when will be time for dinner. All of life is smack in front of you, closer than the tip of your nose.

You’ll board a plane, fly home, the garage door will rise to greet the car late at night, dogs will wiggle their way around your legs as you pull the heavy valise across the kitchen floor to the hallway and finally look up at dark, sleepy stairs.

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Bernie died a year ago today..

Many people believe in reincarnation. My friend in the UK showed me a video of a tiny child, 2 years at the oldest, listening to classical music, a piece by the Armenian composer, Khachaturian. The child is conducting. There’s no other word to describe it. He puts his arms together, hands moving in a relaxed way till the melody surges, when he raises his arms dramatically. When a certain instrument comes in he points with one arm, as if pointing to a section of the orchestra, and when the music fades he brings his arms down slowly, as if bringing the piece to a close.

Bernie didn’t believe much in reincarnation, but to my eyes he was a Chan hermit in a past life, one of those masters who chose an independent, self-contained life, walking up and down Chinese mountains to visit with other hermits, engage in verbal jousts and test each other’s understanding. He was spontaneous, unrestrained, and full of laughter.

“He was the freest man we knew,” one couple told me. And I’d groan to myself in agreement: Yes, because he had no attachments.

“Don’t worry about this,” he’d say about one thing or another. “You’re too attached.”

“And you could use an attachment or two,” I’d say right back.

So now I’m off to Poland, and tomorrow I will bring his ashes to Auschwitz-Birkenau and leave them there, as he asked. He and I first went to the site of that concentration camp in December of 1994, almost exactly 25 years ago, before we became a couple, and while I went to pieces there along with many others, he watched the effect the place had on people. Enlightenment is not another decoration for you to wear, it’s a total unraveling. He saw that that’s exactly the impact that place had; it could change people’s lives provided there was a strong container and support for those who went there.

Bernie was a master of upayas, of skillful means, Not for him to rest in the same old tried and true techniques, the various forms of meditation and koan study, the retreats and meetings with teachers.  Not everybody wakes up in the same way, he said again and again; some ways work for some but not for others. He meditated daily, but his job, as he saw it, was to develop other means, too. So he brought people to Auschwitz-Birkenau and he took them to live on the streets.

After the stroke he could no longer think of new skillful means; he lost a lot of that evaluating, discriminative ability. Instead he seemed to go right back to essence, to what it is to be alive and awake in a very sick, disabled body. He would enjoy the irony of how a man who refused to exercise his entire life now had to do it again and again just to keep in place, just to keep afloat. When he could no longer judge what worked for others he plunged into the depths of his own self, and stayed there.

“Hi Boss.”

“Harry, what are you doing in Heathrow Airport?”

“Come home, Boss. Aussie’s chewing on my back legs and chasing my tail. We need you.”

“I’m sure you’re well taken care of, Harry. I have a job to do for Bernie.”

“Never met him.”

“The thing is, Harry, it took me a long time to realize that I married a hermit.”

“What’s that?”

“Hermits are people without a pack. They leave the pack and go off on their own.”

“Was he looking for a female, Boss?”

“I think he was looking for something else, Harry.”

“What else is there?”

“My point is, Harry, I got together with a hermit.”

“You mean you got into a pack with someone who didn’t want to be in a pack?”

“That’s it exactly, Harry.”

“Sounds like a problem, Boss.”

“Bernie was a pack of one.”

“Aussie said you used to have lots of folks around.”

“Bernie always had lots of folks around him, but they were more like visitors, see?”

“Didn’t he chase them away?”

“Sure did.”

“Boss, what’s a pack of one?”

“It’s a Zen thing, Harry.”

“Must take lots of practice.”


The blog will be quiet till Friday. Not a peep.

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I sit under a marquee of an Italian restaurant in the afternoon rain, waiting for my simple pasta dish at a sidewalk table close to Leicester Square, London.

I love London for its sense of normalcy and tradition, for its having four corners that won’t fold and self-destruct. Even in the middle of Brexit, when it looks as if half of England has lost its mind, I can still watch the BBC news preceded by a program on Prince Charles’ charitable activities, specifically his interest in the environment and organic agriculture, showing him mixing with farmers and examining very healthy-looking, black cows.

And yet London is so polyglot. Half the women in the Italian restaurant wear a hijab and I discern half a dozen languages. London is not England, as New York isn’t the U.S. Indeed, among the BBC news reports is one detailing the thousands of complaints filed by medical personnel in the National Health system of racist comments flung at them by patients. A senior surgeon from Indonesia who’s practiced for at least 20 years says he still often hears patients say: “We want a white surgeon. A real surgeon.”

The stronger the foundation, the more discord it can hold. Brexit notwithstanding, I feel that here.

Meditation does the same for me. At times I feel like the inside of me is nothing but conflict and opposing voices. Practice provides the base on which everything has merit, everything can stand.

I look at the crowd outside the National Gallery, specifically down at Trafalger Square. I am visiting the National Gallery like some oink from the provinces, taking advantage of being in a great city to check out the Rembrandts. Life and youth is everywhere, with mimes and magicians and an American musician playing Dylan. But in the midst of the crowd is Death wielding its scythe. For some unfathomable reason mothers instruct their children to stand and pose as death lifts its scythe right over their head. Brrrrr!

The friend I’m visiting with in London is a little older than me; the shadow of the Holocaust shrouds both our pasts. Emigres both, she to England and I to the U.S., we talk about our past, and it suddenly hits me: “I have nothing to regret,” I tell her. “I should never have been born. Most of the Jews in my mother’s city were destroyed, some of my immediate family as well. Those who lived survived due to the courage of my uncle and mother, who risked lives to hide people, go out to get food, and pay a monthly stipend to a Christian woman who took care of my small cousin. According to the odds they shouldn’t have survived, and I shouldn’t have been born.”

When you look at it like that, problems look small: your childhood, your adulthood, your marriages, your accomplishments and disappointments. You were ahead of the game before you were born. When I came here as a child I knew what other white American children didn’t know: how things could go awry any moment, how close to the scythe we are. Long before Zen I knew about the terrible urgent beauty of each moment.

Into the Museum and Room 22, and there is not one but some nine Rembrandts. I make straight for his last self-portrait. I once saw a documentary that was only about this portrait. He did it after he’d lost his wife and had gone bankrupt, when he was no longer popular and his last immense painting for a government building was returned and he was told to change it. Almost like the Dept. of Education returning Hamlet to Shakespeare and telling him to change the ending. He didn’t make the changes and painted himself instead.

I look at the red bulbous nose, as if he has a cold, the tired, knowing eyes.

A museum guide stops in front of the portrait and asks the family who’s getting a personal tour: “What do you think he’s saying, hey?”

The young couple and child say nothing.

“He’s saying, I’m not Rembrandt the great artist, look at me, look at me.”

Like everything else in life, the people’s reflections and projections are often as interesting as the thing itself.

I watch other couples pause in front of it, one speaking animatedly about it while the other, less interested, simply nods, and I think that that could have been Bernie and me. I would have talked passionately about Rembrandt—he sculpts and molds with paint, Bernie, see? He can control where the light goes in that way—and Bernie, the crazy Chan hermit I married who was never without people around him, would have nodded.

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In the morning the dogs like to greet me, a daily ritual.

I come down the stairs in the dark to hear a flap-flap in the living room. Aussie. looks up, inviting me to come and sit next to her on the sofa. She’s at her softest and most sensual. First I stroke her belly. Repeat for 5 minutes. Next she furrows her brow, her signal to roll one finger down from the top of her forehead to the top of her eyes. Repeat: a dozen times. Next is a soft, slow one-finger massage down her spine. Repeat: a dozen times.

It reminds me of my routine with Bernie after his stroke. The man who was up by 4 every morning wouldn’t get up till around 10. I’d listen for those sounds, come into the bedroom, and see him sitting on the edge of the bed looking out the window. Did he wonder how much longer he’d live this way? Was he gearing up for another day of exercise? Was he just wondering about the weather?

I’d sit next to him on the bed.

“How are you?” I’d say.

“Okay,” he’d say, regardless of whether he was okay or not. “How are you?”

“Fine. How was your night?”

“Okay,” he’d say, regardless of whether it was okay or not. “And how was your night?”


Nothing conversations. I miss them badly.

Harry likes to sleep late and barely opens his eyes from the black chair he’s lounging on for my performance on the sofa with Aussie. But at some point, starting to think of breakfast, he’ll jump down and smash right into my legs with all the sensuality of a tank.

“Harry, the dermatologist says that I have a bad rash but it’s not an allergy to you.”

“I knew it.”

“Especially when I explained to him that I leave tonight to Boston to fly to London and then to Poland and then drive up to Oswiecim to bring and leave Bernie’s ashes at Auschwitz-Birkenau.”

“You don’t have to do that for me when I die. “

“Thanks, Harry.  If you change your mind, let me know.“

“I doubt you’ll outlive me anyway.”

In the first Zen Peacemakers bearing witness retreat at Auschwitz-Birkenau in 1996, someone brought up the idea of doing a fire ceremony in which people working out deep feelings of guilt or shame will write notes asking for forgiveness and we’ll burn them right there by the railroad tracks. And then we remembered the fires that burned by those railroad tracks and decided it wasn’t such a good idea.

That was the same year when I, coordinating a retreat for 154 people, arrived late to the Auschwitz Museum only to be taken aside by one of the Museum personnel and told that they’re missing 26 beds that they’d promised us.

“So what do we do for the 26 participants with no beds?” I asked.

“No problem,” I was told. “We put them in former Gestapo headquarters right in main camp.”

Harry paws my leg. “What else did the dermatologist say?”

“Well, Harry, he did a full body scan and told me I had great skin. So I reached a decision.”

“What’s that, Boss?”

“When I come back from Auschwitz-Birkenau I’m marrying the dermatologist.”

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I think I’ve developed an allergy to Harry. That’ll teach me to have a night of debauchery with a dog.

One night a week ago I couldn’t sleep, tossed and turned for several hours. So Harry jumped on the bed and did what he’s always done, pushed against my body and stretched his head right towards my shoulder and cheek, nuzzling me and looking at me with big, brown, sweet eyes. He’d done this before many times and that particular night, nervous and lonely, I dearly appreciated his closeness.

“You’re such a good boy,” I murmured to him again and again.

The next day my skin felt funny. By nighttime a skin rash covered me from the top of my chest up to the chin and all along the left arm that had stroked Harry.

Who said love isn’t a mixed bag?

From the beginning, Harry was such a cuddler. On the very first January day, when my friend, Genro, and I picked him up from the Brattleboro SPCA, he jumped on the bed and, rather than staying a safe distance away, instantly pushed himself against me, snuggling against my shoulder and cheek, practically burrowing under my body.

I was charmed.

Not Aussie. “I have more self-respect than that,” she informed me, “not to mention that I have better things to do.” Like planning her next escape.

But Harry has always been the lover, the one who comes back again and again to check up on me when we walk in the woods, unlike his older sister, whose motto seems to be: Out of sight, out of mind.

I started being more mindful and restricted my love, petting him only with the palm of my hands and then washing them with soap and water, not letting him brush against the rest of my body, shutting the door of the bedroom. Once or twice we fell off and I felt him against my lower arms, where the skin started crinkling  just an hour later.

He looks at me a little confused. He can’t understand why I’m so careful, he doesn’t understand the vigilance that’s come between us.

The eczema is still there. I will see the dermatologist tomorrow and ask him if, after nine allergy-free months, I have developed an allergy to my short-hair dog. I’ll ask him if it’s possible to love someone in your heart and find resistance in the body. It’s a source of stress, I’ll tell him.

He might ask me if there are any other places of stress in my life, and I’ll say: Well, as a matter of fact I’m traveling on Wednesday night. He might ask: Where to? And I’ll say: I am taking my husband’s ashes to Auschwitz-Birkenau in Poland and leaving them there, as he requested. And he’ll say: Well, that might do it, too.



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A gloomy fall day with rain predicted for the next couple of days. I wrap myself in the gray wool shawl that Bernie had gotten me from Colombia years ago even as Harry gets busy smelling my butt. He’s not being a pervert, just smelling my pants to see if it’s the black walking pants or the black yoga pants. It’s the black walking pants and his tail smacks right left right left very fast. I put on sneakers and pick up an umbrella in case of rain, and off we go.

Once in the woods, Aussie rushes forward as if late to a meeting, and Harry, the younger brother, runs after her. I may or may not see Aussie for a while, but Harry will be back to check up on me, after which off he’ll go to find her again. He gets upset when he can’t figure out where she went.

I finally get to the creek; nobody’s there. I lean back against the tree that’s half a foot above the water, barely avoiding Harry who gallops down the trail and into the creek, drinks, and lies down blissfully up to his neck in the cold water. In early summer he was so afraid you couldn’t get him to wet his paws. He wouldn’t drink there, wouldn’t cross the bridge, wouldn’t scamper through anything liquid. Now he splashes through the creek after Aussie, who just made a rare appearance, emerging happily soaked on the other side.

We haven’t had much rain so the ground is dry in the middle of the creek, which makes it easier for them to cross. After many rains the creek becomes a sea, but now they’re already hungrily scanning the other side, their next frontier.

I don’t mind their scampering off. I like to be alone here.

We so much want to stay in the Land of Light. Years ago, Bernie asked me to write Instructions to the Cook. We were walking together down Ashburton Avenue towards the Greyston Bakery around 1990 when he brought it up, describing how it would be his “Zen manual” for doing community development work.

I listened for a while, and then ventured the opinion that while all that was well and good, the book also had to contain the dark side. It couldn’t back away from discussing the hard work and burnout, the many people who left, the lack of money that took us to the brink time and time again. I couldn’t imagine writing a book that was just full of bright and optimistic teachings.

He didn’t want that at all, of course, and eventually got Rick Fields to do the book with him. It was his best-selling book. The only “dark” piece in it was the last chapter, almost an afterthought, about his first street retreat in 1991.

Bearing Witness was more my cup of tea, and that was the book I wrote with him: retreats at concentration camps, street retreats in Holy Week, etc. Light without dark didn’t interest me; the dark had to be there. Sometimes, in my case, a little too dark.

“See you later, alligator.”

“Aussie, you’re back. And here’s Harry.”

“Not for long. We’re off!”

“Where are you running, Auss?”

“I’m chasing something, can’t you tell?”

“And where are you going, Harry?”

“I’m chasing her.”

“Aussie, what are you chasing?”

“Animals! Don’t you know anything? Can’t you smell them? Can’t you feel the movement in the air? Aren’t you awake? I thought you’re the one who’s all about being awake, so where are you?”

“Well, right now I’m walking away from the creek and back to where we left the car.”

“I know what you’re doing.”

“What am I doing, Aussie?”

“You’re thinking! That’s what you’re doing.”

“How can you tell?”

“How can I miss it? You’re not looking around, you don’t have your nose up in the air like a proper sniffer—“

“Not all dogs sniff the air, Aussie. Harry, for example, puts his nose down to the ground—“

“You don’t notice what’s under your feet, you don’t smell the bear scat that’s just behind that shrub, you have no idea an owl is looking down at you from high up that tree, you don’t sniff out all the good things of fall. You’re just walking with your head up in the air. What good is that?”

“A head up in the air is no good at all, Aussie.”


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When I sit with Kwan Yin in the early morning, everything is dark. Aussie comes out and looks out alongside me while Harry, more sensitive to the cold, sleeps late. At first, everything is indecipherable, but as the minutes go by light returns, and you can see below what I look at when dawn finally comes up.

In my last blog I wrote of the previous night when I couldn’t sleep out of anxiety about money. I got the kindest responses from readers, offerings of empathy, love, prayers, and money, not to mention practical suggestions such as taking sleep and anti-anxiety medications. I appreciated them all.

The truth is that anxiety about something or other is one of many endless conversations that go on in my brain. It’s not the loudest conversation, and certainly not the most interesting. In fact, it’s a very mechanical monologue that I’ve heard many times, with the same key words repeating for added energy (like lines to get canned applause) and even the same pauses that enable the loop to rewind and start all over.

I learned long ago that Zen practice is probably not going to get rid of many of these conversations: Yes, but what about me?—How could I have ever done something like that!—How could s/he do that to me!—What’s going to happen to me now? What it will do is relegate them into background noise. It’s as if meditation is making a deal with some ADD students: You could stay and do your thing, but in the corner of the room. Or: You could keep on talking but bring it down a little, okay? My mind operates like a pretty well-run classroom most of the day.

But on occasion the rules get forgotten and old conversations get loud and messy, a little like Harry in the car who whines louder and louder in my ear as I drive: Where are we going? When are we going to get there? WHERE ARE WE GOING? WHEN ARE WE GOING TO GET THERE?

The space of disconnection that I occupy since Bernie’s death gives lots more room for spillovers. When things don’t feel clear and certain, those kinds of conversations get louder and louder.

In the early mornings Awesome Aussie likes to remind me of not-knowing.

“If you go deep into not-knowing,” declaims the Zen dog, “you’ll find your answers.”

“That’s tricky, Auss,” says I.

“Why, Boss?”

“Because when you really don’t know, Aussie, you’re letting go of your old ways of thinking. Since you don’t know, you can be curious about everything.”

“That’s me, Boss,” she says. “I get curiouser and curiouser, until—“

“Until what, Aussie?”

“Until the answer shows up.”

“That’s my point, Aussie. You don’t practice not-knowing to get an answer.”

“Then what good is it, Boss?”

“It’s good for nothing, Aussie, that’s why we do it. Get it?”


“We practice not-knowing to go deeper and deeper into don’t know, not as an exercise to get an answer.”

“But don’t good things come out of not-knowing?”

“The minute you judge them as good or bad, you already know. See?”

“No. But I think I know what I am, Boss.”

“What’s that, Awesome?”

“I’m a sneaky not-knower.”


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“How come you’re moving around so much, Boss?”

“Because you’re pushing against my shoulder, Harry. My left shoulder, the one that aches. Can’t you just curl up peacefully without pushing so hard?”

“If I don’t push against you I don’t feel you, Boss.”

“You’re one tough little dog, Harry.”

“How come you can’t sleep? Usually you sleep pretty good. I can push against you all I want and you don’t stir.”

“I’m thinking a lot.”

“What’s that?”

“Voices talk in my head saying all kinds of things, and I connect them with a story.”

“I see.”

“You do, Harry?”

“If I had voices talking in my head I wouldn’t be able to sleep, either, Boss. They must be talking loud!”

“They are tonight, Harry. When they talk much softer it’s no problem, I’m used to having these conversations my entire life and usually they can go on without me. Tonight they’re loud.”

“What are they saying, Boss?”

“They’re saying I don’t have enough money.”

“What’s that, Boss?”

“Money is how I pay for your house and food, Harry.”

“You don’t hunt?”

“I don’t usually worry about it too much, but it’s hit me tonight. In fact, I think I’m having an anxiety attack about it.”

“Your anxiety attack is keeping me up, Boss.”

“How can it be keeping you up when you’re snoring against my ear, Harry?”

“Is an anxiety attack different from thinking?”

“It’s thinking speeded up, Harry.”

“I love speeding up when Awesome chases me!”

“This feels different, Harry. The thoughts come one after another faster and faster and get more intense till you feel that you can’t control anything.”

“Can’t you just stop, Boss?”

“Most of the time I can, but not this time. That’s when things get out of hand.”

“I know just what you mean, Boss. Aussie chases me hard and we run and run in circle, in and out of the house, but we stop when things get out of hand.”

“How do you do that, Harry? I’d like to stop my thoughts when things get out of hand, too.”

“I know it’s time to stop when Aussie starts snarling. You know how she is, Boss, she gets carried away and starts growling. Instead of chasing me in and out of the house she waits in ambush by the back door—“

“There’s no way she can catch you when you run your fastest, Harry—“

“–and she jumps out when I run past her and bangs me up good, and I’m such a delicate creature—“

“Your body’s as tough as a Pit Bull’s, Harry—“

“And when she does it again and starts snarling, I finally stop, and so does she. There’s a place we don’t go to.”

“What place is that, Harry?”

“No Dog’s Land. Dogs never go into No Dog’s Land, they leave it empty. We’re afraid of what can happen there, so we don’t go there. You should do the same, Boss.”

“What will happen to you if you go to No Dog’s Land, Harry?”

“Nobody knows. Nobody ever came back from No Dog’s Land, so we don’t know.”

“What happens if you end up there anyway, Harry?”

“If Awesome and I know how to stop, why don’t you, Boss?”

“Good question.”

“That’s why I push against you, Boss. As long as I feel you and you feel me, you’re not in No Dog’s Land.”

“But you’re hurting my shoulder, Harry!”

“That’s better than ending up in No Dog’s Land.”

“There’s got to be another way, Harry.”

“Just remember, if you stay away from No Dog’s Land, you’ll sleep better.  So will I.”

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