Don't Think About It

DON'T THINK ABOUT IT.

Bardo Thodol in comic format

A Comic Book Guide to the Tibetan Afterlife

The Gift

We are not going to let them down. We will live up to the gift we've been given.

Nine years ago, Harry dog joined our family after our old Sally girl lost the last of her siblings. Nine months later, Luigi joined our family. Sally was nine when Harry arrived, and with his caregiving, that big dog lived to 15.

Luigi had bad seizures all his life and Harry was always there for him. Harry would tell us when a seizure was happening and then stay by his boy until Luigi was back with us. When it took a while, Harry rested his head on Luigi. Luigi often lost his sight (and other senses) and Harry would be his guide dog. There were many times when Harry was ready to come back inside, but Luigi wasn't and so Harry stayed out. For his boy.

After Luigi died last month, Harry turned into an old dog before our eyes. A mass developed on his neck and grew quickly. His job was done. And he made sure his job was done. He made sure Luigi was taken care of before his own self. Luigi moved on. And now Harry has. They're back together, with Sally. The pack is back together.

The gift they gave was this: My wife and I have been having troubles. Outside stresses of life-- the usual stuff-- but troubles. Our hearts are now broken so wide open, with both our boys gone, being dogless for the first time in our 35+ years, that our troubles have been washed away by our tears. Our boys' last gift to us: each other. We won't let them down.

Here and There

The interactions between the living and those passed beyond is interesting to me. The times I see it most often are with our long line of the cats and dogs that have shared our lives. The recent example was with our dog Luigi, who entered our house as #3 dog to grande dame Sally and bridge dog Harry. Luigi and Sally had a special bond: Sally would bark and bark at Luigi, who would cock his head back and forth as he listened. Then he would talk back to her with modulated whines. Sally loved that Luigi respected her without kowtowing.

When Sally passed on three years ago, Luigi stopped talking.

Luigi had seizures all his life, generally a major one each week, possibly multiples. Little seizures would ripple through his body regularly. His senses came and went. He was often blind, though sometimes could see. His big Spinone Italiano nose didn't work sometimes. His hearing would come and go. But he was a spunky dude: fall down seven, stand up eight, though often with help.

We just put Luigi down. His seizures were getting worse. In the last two weeks, he had only hours between seizures, three major ones on his last day.

With all the seizuring at the end, he was very blind and a bit addled. Yet instead of walking broad-legged as a blind dog would do, Luigi single-tracked, like his beloved Tibetan Mastiff Sally. In his last days, he looked the spitting image of Sally as he moved toward me: head low, single-tracking, with a determined look.

I have no doubt Sally helped Luigi cross over. She's been here through so much of his dying process.

"Want to know your future life? Look at your present actions."

Go toward the bright light, Luigi. Feel the unconditional love. I know you'll have a great next life.

Listening to within

I'm getting back to sitting and now when I sit, I work through a loop of meditation beads to keep my monkey brain busy. I'm learning to simply listen to within, rather than try to achieve emptiness or blankness. Today I relaxed into a feeling of heading into a tube going down. I fell out of it too quickly to find out where it went. Begin again.

The Bardo

Bardo is a Tibetan word meaning "intermediate state" or "in between." The book known as the Tibetan Book of the Dead is also known as Liberation through Hearing in the Between or in the Bardo.

Many in the Buddhist world consider the time after death and before the next incarnation to be a bardo. The book of Liberation through Hearing exhorts the soul in bardo to be aware of its true mind and to not fall prey to false illusions.

Buddhism stresses the centrality and primacy of the mind. As stated in Stephen Hodge's translation of the Tibetan Book of the Dead,

The mind is the source of all things; it contains within it the possibility of enlightenment or else continued repetition of the dreary miserable round of lives in the cycle of existence. Indeed, it is the view of these teachings that the mind in its purest form, shorn of all ignorance and negativity, is inherently enlightened and replete with all the qualities one normally associates with enlightened beings such as the Buddhas. This pure primorial mind that precedes any manifestation of our own egocentric lives is said to be the very substance of reality. (pp. 8–9)

The true mind sees reality as it is, without the distortions of psychological filters or expectations. A crude analogy might be vision versus perception. Look at the following image. What do you see?

You see lines and circles. But you perceive a cat. The mind puts its filters and expectations to work to make meaning out of the lines and circles. The book of Liberation through Hearing in the Bardo keeps telling the soul in bardo to ignore what it's perceiving and just see with a true mind.

Stephen Hodge's translation of the Tibetan Book of the Dead discusses the bardo, the transitional phase, in his introductory material:

The state called here "the transitional phase" (Tibetan: "bardo") is the actual moment of change, occurring at the end of one phase and the beginning of the next. It is the state of flux itself, the only state that can really be called "real." It is a condition of great power and potential within which anything could happen. It is the moment between moments. It may seem to span an entire lifetime, like the moment between being born and dying, or it may be imperceptibly short and fleeting, like the moment between one thought and the next. Whatever its duration, however, it is a moment of great opportunity for those who perceive it. Anyone who can do this is called a yogin. Such a person has the power of destiny in their hands. He or she has no need of a priest to guide him towards the clear light of truth, for he sees already the clear light of truth in the intermediate phases that occur between all other states. Refusing to become trapped in the false belief that all about him is fixed and solid, the yogin moves with calm and graceful ease through life, confident that changes are now under his own direction. He becomes the master of change instead of slave.

To one who understands this and develops some skill in its application, the difficult uncertainties of life become no more troublesome than the bardo of getting dressed in the morning. Between waking up and getting dressed, one must decide what clothes to wear. That is all. It should not be a problem. Similarly, between any encounter and one's reaction to it, there is an intermediate space that offers choice to those who can see it. One is not obliged to react on the basis of habit or prejudice. The opportunity for a fresh approach is always there in the intermediate state for those who have learned to recognize it. Such recognition is the essential message of this ancient and profound book. (pp. 10–11)

As Robert Thurman says in his introductory material to his translation of the Tibetan Book of the Dead, Buddha taught that the psychological habit of assuming a fixed subjectivity, an unchanging identity, was a key obstacle to a good life. He insisted on the changeable, fluid soul's reality, vulnerability, responsibility, and evolutionary potential (p.16).

Being aware of each bardo as I walk through my day provides the opportunities for me to stretch toward my evolutionary potential.

Listening

Real Life is settling in, and I am again able to spend moments practicing.

I rediscovered my bone-conducting headphones. I clamped them onto my skull and it was as though music was somewhere up there in my head.

When I sat today, I made the connection of putting my visualizations somewhere up there in my head.

It's about listening, and responding to what you hear.

I figured it out

When I hear other psychopomps talk about their work, they talk about seeing the being and talking to it, convincing it to pass over or connecting with past issues and working them out. But my work is all . . . feel. I feel the attachment. I say a greeting, and I may see and "hear" a response, but not often. Usually I just connect with the light, feel the unconditional love that awaits on the other side, and feel the being leave me. I am not a wordy person and am especially not good at persuasion.

And that's what I figured out: my "skill" is that connecting with the light. I "channel" the goodness and joy that awaits. It's okay that I don't do words.

The nasty being that hollered at me about dabbling was an "incarnation" of my insecurity. I don't do things the way others do. And that's okay.

A bridge without attachments

My work situation now allows me time to resume my practice. This was made known to me: Recently I didn't feel like myself-- dark, cranky, lacking joy. On the second day, I remembered Rossco's post about attachments. I sat, met my guide, and connected with the light. I did not have any visual or auditory awareness of the attachment; it was more of a bodily/kinesthetic awareness. I showed it the pure love of the light and apparently it agreed to move on. After clearing the first attachment, I felt another "grabbing me around the legs." When I acknowledged it, I felt some nasty being yelling at me. It was angry that I was dabbling. I replied that I was offering all I had at the moment. We had a peaceful parting. I was able to remove the energetic attachments. I felt much better.

I now start each work day by sitting and making myself available.

Slow death

I've been hesitant to write this, based on something along the lines of: if you have a hammer, everything looks like a nail and if you have shamanic practice, everything looks like initiation.

My workhouse closed its doors and I was the only one happy with the announcement; it was my opportunity to begin my freelance career. But then a handful of us were asked to continue on as a new company. If I said no then I was saying no for everyone; everyone was needed to get the new company going. I didn't feel I could say no.

My job evolved into something I couldn't handle. I actually melted down at work-- more than once. It was humiliating to fail so publicly in front of people I'd worked with for more than a decade. One day I walked out, spouting to my boss, "This job and I do not get along. This job and I do not get along."

The next day I gave an open-ended notice. When they could manage without me, I'd leave. It was months before I could leave. The process was like a slow death. I was repeatedly presented with my shortcomings-- so many shortcomings! I watched my boss go through the stages of grief: denial, bargaining, anger.

Finally she called me into her office to arrange a termination date: November 18, the day my father died, the day of my one and only paranormal experience that got me into all this psychopomp stuff.

Bridge

As I sat in our drafty bathroom with the space heater blowing on me, I was warm on one side and cold on the other. It seemed so appropriate.

I had my verbal monkey brain chant Cindy's "I Give Thanks" poem:

I give thanks for this time, for this place, for this life, for this love.

I give thanks for the ground that I walk on.

I give thanks for the sky up above.

I give thanks from sunrise to sundown.

And all through the night

I am nestled in a blanket of gratitude

and love.

I give thanks.

I give thanks.

I give thanks.

It recited that while breathing, working the billows.

And I felt hot on one side and cold on the other and the Mannaz came into my brain.

I felt like a bridge.

I felt the Light open and felt like a bridge.

A week or two ago, I had a dream that I met with the indexer spirits who are helping me. They were asking why I was too busy to meet my indexing course Unit C deadline. And instead of telling them the truth--that I chose to work on Remarkable Journey instead-- I lied to them. I told them I was working on articles for Key Words. I lied! The next morning was a weekend morning and as we sat in the den, this dream came to me and I realized that the song playing kept repeating the words "You lied! You lied!"

I think the lie was that I wasn't keeping my commitment to sit. But this morning's sit was so wonderful that I think I'll be keeping my commitment.

I am a bridge.

Feeding the Ghosts

From The Wise Heart: A Guide to the Universal Teachings of Buddhist Psychology by Jack Kornfield, p. 287:

...I told Bruce that in the Buddhist tradition, when demons and hungry ghosts appear, there is a ritual practice of feeding them. In this practice we transform the worst, most rabid, most fearful energies by deliberately visualizing what we can do for them. We picture giving them whatever they want and need, even our own body, until they are fully satisfied.

My spirit guide is Buddhist (no surprise): During an early journey I was being taught that I have nothing to fear. I met a being who wanted to eat my heart and so I gave it to him, repeatedly.

Thick

I can be kind of thick sometimes.

I had a general confusion as to how a flesh-and-blood psychopomp could be of use. That is, couldn't the spirit guides and other more-knowing beings accomplish the task that I'm learning to do? Especially since I've been advised by experienced flesh-and-blood psychopomps to rely on my spirit guide for direction and assistance in the process.

So I asked my spirit guide.

And heard the familiar refrain: I am a bridge.

My services would be needed for those "earthbounds" who cannot or will not see the spirit guides who are there to help them successfully cross over. Perhaps the earthbounds' belief systems prevent them from knowing they have spirit guides to help them. Perhaps the earthbounds are confused on some level about their status and so don't know that crossing over is what they should be doing.

Because they are earthbound, they can see me even when unable to see their spirit guides. So I am the bridge between.

I am a bridge.

Mannaz

If you look up the rune Mannaz, the descriptions mainly reference its association with "man." When it presented itself to me, it was in the context of "bridge."

From the Wildspeak description of Mannaz:

Mannaz is the personal rune of the god Heimdall, who was also known as Hvitass, Rig and Mannus (hence name of rune). Heimdall was the god who had three children that in turn were the original ancestors of the three different branches of the Germanic people. It is Heimdall who stands between the deities and the humans as the bridge between them. Heimdall is the representation of the 'truth' of the divine in man. Heimdall is the god of bridges, making them, walking them, and understanding their necessity. As such Mannaz itself is a god of connecting two opposing points, and then walking that bridge in balance and harmony, to better understand the deeper nature of ourselves and others.

This is a rune of human development, the deep human development that often leads to great wisdom, access to powers and the inner divine. It is understanding who, what, why, when and how you are, through building bridges within and without the physical body. It is the balancing of intuition with the intellect, the understanding that all wisdom needs to be tempered with joy, humour and respect. The inner understanding of the relationship between divine and man, and how we bridge the gap between is revealed to us in depth when working with Mannaz.

During yesterday's sit, as I was breathing in Fuck You's and breathing out sweet caresses, I was awash in the duality of my nature and struck how this rune captured that. And how, while I don't want to be a bitch/blue, I don't have to be an angel/red. I can be somewhere in the middle, purple.

Tonglen

When I sit, I often see my drum as a membranous doorway that I'm pushing through. That's partially due to the primal image above, from The Prisoner, a 17-episode late 60s television series. My internal image is full body.

I sat yesterday for the first time in a long time. A couple of days ago, I got up on the wrong side of the bed. I was a nasty bitch. I have a nasty, self-centered bitch side.

I sat yesterday with the goal of starting down the path toward eradicating that demon within me. Then I thought that perhaps I needed to befriend that demon. Then I remembered the practice of tonglen:

From Making Friends with Death by Judith L. Lief:

When we are in the greatest pain, we have the hardest time stretching beyond our own concerns. There is a famous story in which the Buddha encounters a grieving woman, carrying the body of her only child. This woman was completely stricken by grief. She had lost everything-- her parents, her husband, all her family, and now she had lost her only son. She would not let her fellow villagers take him or bury him; she refused to even acknowledge that he was dead. When her friends heard that the Buddha would be passing through their area, they suggested that she go and see him and ask him to cure her son. So in desperation, she traveled to the Buddha and asked for his help. The Buddha told the grieving mother that he could indeed help her but only if she brought him a sesame seed from the home of a family that had not experienced death. In great relief, the woman set out to find that seed. But as she went from house to house, she found not a single one that did not have a tale of loss. In her search for the sesame seed, gradually she was drawn out of preoccupation with her own pain as she realized the level of suffering all around her. And when she returned to the Buddha, she was ready to bury her child.

The contemplative practice called tonglen in Tibetan, or "sending and taking" in English, works directly with this powerful tendency to focus on ourselves. The practice of tonglen exposes the depth of our self-absorption and begins to undermine it. It is a practice specifically designed to remove that obstacle and the many other obstacles that stand in the way of our natural impulse toward kindness.

The practice of tonglen is sometimes described as a practice of "exchanging self and other." This is because the goal of tonglen is to flip that pattern of self-absorption around completely, to the point at which instead of putting ourselves first, we put others first. So if I were continuing that game with my daughter it would go differently: "I'm 'you,' and you're 'me'." "No, I'm 'you,' and you're 'me'." Tonglen practice goes from the starting point of putting ourselves first, through the middle ground of viewing ourselves and others equally, to the fruition of putting others before ourselves.

If our view is to focus on ourselves, the our actions will tend to feed that view by grabbing on to whatever builds us up and pushing away whatever threatens us. Our habitual activity is to protect ourselves by constantly picking and choosing, accepting and rejecting-- but in tonglen practice, once again we reverse our usual approach. Instead of taking in what we desire and rejecting what we do not, we take in what we have rejected and send out what we desire-- basically the opposite of "normal." Tonglen practice completely reverses our usual way of going about things....

In the same way that it is possible to cultivate mindfulness and awareness through meditation practice, we can cultivate kindness through tonglen practice. Through the practice of tonglen, we learn to work straightforwardly with the difficulties we encounter and extend ourselves more wholeheartedly to others. Tonglen is training in how to take on suffering and give out love. It is a natural complement to mindfulness practice, a natural extension of the acceptance and self-knowledge that come as a result of sitting meditation.

Tonglen Practice

Each time you practice tonglen, being with basic mindfulness practice. It is important to take some time to let your mind settle. Having done so, you can go on to the practice of tonglen itself, which has four steps.

The first step is very brief. You could think of it as "clearing the decks." Simply allow a little pause, or gap, before you begin. Although this first step is very brief and simple, it is still important. It is like cracking the window to let in a little fresh air.

In the second step, you touch in with the visceral world of feelings and emotions. Each time you inhale, you breathe in heavy, dark, hot, sticky, claustrophobic energy; and each time you exhale, you breathe out light, refreshing, clear, cool energy. With each breath, the practice shifts direction, so there is an ongoing rhythm back and forth. You are taking the habit of grasping and rejecting, and you are reversing it.

The third and fourth steps take that same approach and apply it to specific topics. Start as close to home as possible, with something that actually affects you personally. You should work with a topic that arouses real feelings, something that actually touches you or feels a little raw. It need not be anything monumental; it could be quite ordinary. For instance, maybe someone screamed at you when you were driving to work. You could breathe in the aggression that person threw at you, and you could breathe out to him a wish to free him from the pain of that anger. Or if you are worried about a friend who seems to be spiraling down, you could breathe in your friend's confusion and breathe out to her your strength and support. If you yourself have just come down with a sickness, you could breathe in that sickness and breathe out your feelings of health and well-being. The point is to start with something that has some reality or juice in your life.

Once you are under way, it is good to let the practice develop on its own and see where it takes you. In this case, no matter what comes up in your mind, you breathe in what you do not like and breathe out what you do, or you breathe in what is not so good and breathe out being free of that. For instance, after you breathe in that driver's aggression and breathe out your soothing of that anger, what might come up next is your own anger at being so abused first thing in the morning when you had started out in a pretty good mood. You could breathe that anger in and breathe out the ability not to take such attacks so personally. In that way, your thoughts follow along naturally, revealing more and more subtle layers of grasping and rejecting.

When you let whatever comes up, rather than directing your mind along a particular theme, you find that everything that arises feeds right back into the practice itself. For instance, if you feel bad that you cannot do tonglen properly, you breathe that in-- in turn, you breathe out your wish to be good at it. Because the habit of grasping and rejecting runs so deep, there never seems to be a shortage of topics for tonglen.

In the fourth step, you expand the practice beyond your own immediate feelings and concerns of the moment. For instance, if you are worried about your friend, you expand that concern to include all the other people now and in the past who have had similar worries. You include everybody who has suffered the pain of seeing someone they are close to in danger or trouble. You breathe in all those worries and breathe out to all those countless beings your wish that they be freed from such pain.

In tonglen practice, we start with our own concerns, because those are what usually preoccupy us, but we do not get stuck there; we extend out to others. There is very little in our own experience that has not been experienced by countless other beings. The point is sincerely to include other beings in our practice. By the way, this does not mean only humans; it includes such beings as dogs, insects, birds, even bacteria....

If you are sick, that is also a good time to practice tonglen, taking in that sickness and sending out your wish for recovery. I had a friend who was sick for a very long time with recurrent breast cancer, which eventually spread throughout her body. As she struggled with her disease, she began to visualize that on the inbreath, she was taking in healthy energy that was clean and clear, and on the outbreath, she was breathing out her cancer, which was ugly and murky. She was trying to get rid of her cancer, which was ugly and murky. She was trying to get rid of her cancer and replace it with health. When she talked to Trungpa Ringpoche about this practice, he was very concerned and told her that she was doing exactly the opposite of what she should be doing. She was making things worse for herself by not accepting her cancer and working with it on that basis, and making things worse for others by projecting her negativity out toward them. He told her to practice tonglen instead. The odd thing is that once she change her practice, her condition stabilized and she lived far longer than anyone had expected. During this period of borrowed time, she was able to make a real breakthrough in her understanding of life and her relationship to death.

Keep Going. Keep Practicing.

Tonight my lesson was: Keep going. Keep practicing.

I drummed for a long time trying to break out of my verbal left brain and cross over into my right. I felt like my drum was a membrane that I needed to break through. But I had trouble escaping self-consciousness and my cynical ego.

I connected with my Leuki spirit guide. We melded and I danced and drummed for her and let her dance and drum through me. I kept drumming. I tried to get lost in the drumming. I tried not to try to get lost.

I danced in Leuki's long grass and caught a whiff of its grassy, sagey scent.

I kept picturing a band from my heart chakra to Leuki, a band like the one that joined Chang and Eng Bunker, the original "Siamese twins." The band grew from my heart chakra. It grew out into a long tube that became a bridge. The bridge looked a lot like the picture above (right down to the sepia tone) but it was a bridge with handrails on each side.

I slapped my foot with every step along that bridge trying to feel it. Trying to be there. I kept going.

The bridge led into a building that reminded me of a library. I ended up in a small room with yellow walls. A being who introduced herself as Abigail sat across a desk from me. We reviewed how I got there so that I wouldn't forget: Connection from my heart chakra that stretched out to become a tube then became a bridge that I walked along into the building and into her room. She nodded and directed me to look at the wall, which seemed to dissolve into another passageway to follow.

At some point I felt the presence of my indexing helpers and I got to thank them.

I felt the glow of my golden ball of protection around me. Abigail assured me I was safe. Leuki's presence was felt and assurance made that I was safe. I started to feel restless, as though I needed to go.

I was told this connection is always there. I can walk it again. And should. Keep going. Keep practicing.

I thanked Leuki and Abigail and my indexing helpers and then sang Cindy's song of thanks:

I give thanks for this time, for this place, for this life, for this love.
I give thanks for the ground that I walk on.
I give thanks for the sky up above.
I give thanks from sunrise to sundown.
And all through the night
I am wrapped in a blanket of gratitude and love.
I give thanks.
I give thanks.
I give thanks.

Trying Too Hard

I think I've been trying too hard. In wandering the web, I've found some fun sites, like Lady Skye Fyre's page on learning how to channel (and her blog) or this link on channeling through automatic writing. They have the playful attitude that I've been told repeatedly to adopt.

So I'm trying not to try so hard.

Last night I sat and drummed. I attended to the fundamentals, mainly my breathing, which I hadn't been doing recently. I saw a level of energy around me; it formed a sphere around me with something between the sphere and my belly. I was told to scan the sphere of energy. I found a glop of yuk (a "smudge") that I pulled off. As it pulled off it sort of became human with a tired demeanor. I greeted it and asked if it had anything to say to me but I didn't hear anything. So I pictured Light coming down to it and pulling it away. I found another smudge and it too became human-like when I pulled it off. When I greeted it, it sort of came at me, going for my throat. Somehow I knew this was an aspect of me-- my lack of patience. So I befriended it and filled it with light. It became honey-colored, which matched the color of the sphere of energy surrounding me. My patience and I finished scanning and kind of polishing the energy sphere.

I know that I need to work on my patience. I would rather work on it than get slapped upside the head with a patience lesson.

I love picturing the Light, summoning it, because there's such a wonderful feeling when it shows up and I hear the chorus of hello's responding to my greeting.

I love the picture at the top of this post. I'm using it for my sacred space, though last night I also found myself at my original sacred space. I really like the horse-on-springs rocking horse from my childhood that I have there. I rode it early in my journey, to sort of get me started, and it morphed into my Mannaz donkey. I was on his back and could feel the wind in my face as we flew through a purple sky.

I felt that my honey-colored patience was associated with my third chakra, which I associate with the color yellow. It seemed like the energy sphere was also associated with my third chakra.

Heart chakra

I've been receiving nice tips from someone in the Magick Forums at the Druidsfoot site in the Indigenous Faiths & Shamanistic Practices section under my post Deathwalker-in-training.

To strengthen the connection with my spirit guide, he suggested that I call this being to link in with my body as I sit in meditation. I should then notice at which chakra the connection seems the strongest.

When I tried this, I didn't feel that I could see the being or hear its speech patterns. But I did feel that I had the strongest connection at my heart chakra, which I associate with the color green. I thought my left brain was feeding me this information until I began to see green everywhere. (I don't know why I don't think that my left brain could also make me see green everywhere.)

When I reported this vague connection, his next suggestion contained the following:

Channelling is a bit like opening a heavy rusty door for the first time - it goes little by little, until the joints ease and you can move it more freely.

This sentence has been enlightening for me. For one thing, his use of the word "channelling" gave me a different perspective on the process. In addition, his analogy to a heavy rusty door is wonderful. One morning during my shower, I felt the door budge just a bit as I was lost in thought and felt something akin to a voice in my heart. Then the door slammed shut as my left brain or ego or intellect or whatever panicked. My helpful friend had also said

The difficulty with this, is letting your ego step aside for 5 minutes -because the intellect suddenly freaks out that it's losing control.

Which is what happened.

So I've been trying to let go, play, have fun while I sit. But my left brain/ego/whatever is still holding on tight.

Last night, though, I felt that I was making some progress on focusing on my heart as I meditate. As I finished last night, I might have received the koan (or it might have come from my left brain): To let go, hold on.

Find the Face

Aeschylus's belly button

Secret Light

Secret Light

Secret light,

Secret light,

I have a secret light.

-- The song my guide in Leuki form sang as it drummed through me