It's all just practice

I’m sitting at the kitchen table with the Lindsay, Santavajri and Vandanajoti. Alokada and Santasiddhi have already left. We’ve spent the morning clearing up, dissolving the shrine, dissolving everything. I say ‘I wish Thursday night had been our last night. I wish I had more positive things to write in the blog. It’s supposed to inspire people’. I didn’t enjoy last night. I’d heard stories of people bringing in seven standing orders; of people making twice as much in the last week as in the whole rest of the Appeal. I caught my finger in a sprung letterbox and the £2 standing order I received wasn’t enough to make my personal target.. Someone says, ‘The truth is inspiring’. Someone else says , ‘It’s all just practice. Why should the last night be any different?’ And I’m reminded of the evening when I received my letter inviting me to be ordained. I went straight into the shrine-room to meditate. And I got distracted. I remember saying to myself ‘Just because you’re getting ordained doesn’t mean you don’t have to work in meditation’. It helps to think in this way; to remind myself that it’s all just practice.
Santavajri has bought a card for Bhante for us all to sign. We tell him how much we’ve raised in standing orders, over five years, for the projects in India. We’ve raised over £82.000.

Dreaming of Ratnadharini

I dream I’m with Ratnadharini. She says, ‘You know all those times you used to get angry, I’ve realized it was because you were making the scenery for plays. It was simply the effect of being so concerned with all those stage-props.’ I burst out laughing with joy and hug her, saying ‘I really am an Order member now’.

See a few metres beyond our own selves

I’m oblivious to my alarm and don’t waken until ten past eight. I surrender to tiredness and half doze, half recall my dreams. I dreamt I had all my money and my map ‘my’ streets in a guitar case. But when I was in the supermarket the money and the map slipped out and got lost. I don’t know what to make of this dream except that I associate guitars with the heart. When I’m telling the dream over breakfast Lindsay says ‘Talking of guitar cases, I dreamt of one too’.

I wear my kesa under my cardigan tonight. Of all the times I’ve put on my kesa, this feels particularly significant: a reminder that Going for Refuge to the Three Jewels is the most important thing; a reminder to myself to act and speak in a way befitting a daughter of the Buddha.

It’s half past eight and I haven’t got a single standing order. Tonight and tomorrow we’re concentrating on call-backs. We’ve heard that often the most money comes in on these two nights. I’m telling myself I need to get a move on. I’m calculating how many more houses I can make it to before 9.30 which is our curfew for knocking. I pass a café. A voice inside suggests that I have a cup of tea and gather myself. To my surprise I heed this voice. The next woman I meet invites me in. She hasn’t read the leaflet. Will I take her through it? I sit back on her sofa and describe the projects. She signs up.

It’s 9.23. The young woman who answers the door says it’s not a good time, can I come back on Saturday. I explain that I’ll be gone by Saturday. She goes to fetch the leaflet. Meanwhile her partner invites me to stand in out of the rain. Suddenly the rain becomes a torrent. They invite me in properly and sit me down. They explain that it’s a precious staying-in-and-watching-TV-night. She tells me that she teaches a lot of kids who are refugees and tries to get the other kids to be aware of the hardships they’ve suffered. But the other kids are too caught up in their own stuff to really take them in. He turns his attention from the telly to add ‘We all need to learn to see just a few metres beyond our own selves’ I say, ‘Yes, we do. We need to take in that other people are people too’. He turns off the TV. She offers me some dried dates. She asks if it’s true that Buddhism teaches that all life is just a dream. We talk about how when someone close dies or gets very ill it can make you realized what’s really important in life. I tell them that for me Buddhism is an enrichment of life. We hear that the rain has eased off. He offers me a lift home.

A warming experience

‘Oh you always come at a bad time’, grumbles the woman who answers the door. ‘Well, I suppose you’d better come in’. She adds ‘I’ve decided to give you £10 a month. What do I have to do?’ I hand her the form and try, ‘Sounds like you’ve been touched by what you read in the booklet’. ‘I told you I liked giving to charity’, she says shortly, not looking up. I decide that the best thing to do is to sit quietly. I can see her teenage son in the next room, playing on the computer, his feet on his desk, headphones on. Then her daughter comes into the living room in the shortest skirt I’ve ever seen and glittery tights. Her boyfriend is waiting at the door. When she’s gone, the women looks up, her face glowing and says ‘Doesn’t she look great’. I’m touched. What a lovely thing for a mother to say about her daughter, and I tell her so. She looks up from the form. ‘So is this your job ‘, she asks. I tell her that I’m one of five volunteers and that we all live together as a community. ‘Oh, that sounds wonderful’, she says. I tell her that our time is nearly at an end, and that I was crying yesterday in meditation, thinking of saying goodbye to everyone. I tell her about how we’ll all sit round the kitchen table tonight, sharing our experiences. ‘Oh, that must be so good to be able to do that’, she says wistfully, ‘so lovely to have people to go home to’. Her face has softened and she looks so pretty now. As I’m leaving I reach out to shake her hand. At the same time I realize that she’s moving to hug me. I smile and she kisses me on the cheek. ‘Take care’, she calls after me, ‘have a lovely evening’.

Knocking again

After meditation I turn on my computer. I have to plan my visit to Dublin. There are e-mails about the retreat at Akasavana that I’m supporting next spring too. It looks like the others in the team haven’t received my last letters. How can I possibly do all this while I’m here?

We’re having a morning in the shrine room. It’s meant to be a gratitude bhavana, but I just sit with this feeling of stress in my skin. Gradually I realize that I’m heartbroken that the community is coming to an end. Tears flow. I love living and working in community, in communion. I remember Vajraghanta and Richard’s encouragement to discover the beauty in the sadness, and my heart softens and opens and somehow it doesn’t matter what happens in the external world anymore. I catch a glimpse of how even death could cease to appear like a monster.

The evening is flowing. I feel so well and mettaful. But the encounter with the old man last night is troubling my conscience. It stands out in relief to how I feel now and I can see that I was unkind. I wish I could somehow make amends. I find myself next door to the house of a man who said he’d sign a form and send it in the post. I know it hasn’t turned up at the office and I know by experience there’s practically no chance that it ever will so, on a whim, I hop over to his doorstep. The door flies open.

‘WILL YOU STOP COMING ROUND HERE! I SAID I’LL DO IT AND I’LL DO IT. JUST STOP IT’.

While he’s yelling I’m speaking at the same time, like a cartoon character. ‘Oh dear. I’ve upset you. I’m sorry. I was passing. I saw your light on. I just wanted to save you the trouble’. I’m talking to a closed door.

Gift from the universe

Santavajri is encouraging us to get in touch with the quality of abundance. We head our page with ‘Gifts from the Universe’ and write a list. I write, ‘That bass-player showing me where to catch the 50 bus home last night’. I write ‘Walking on the Norfolk Coast’. I write ‘The door being opened by someone wearing a ‘Karuna’ T-shirt’. I write ‘Being last on the scoreboard’. And I mean it. I mean it because it’s the chance to change the habit of my life; the habit of, when the going gets tough, working harder, faster, longer. It may have partial success elsewhere, but it will never work in door-knocking.

It’s 7.30 in the evening. An old man answers the door. He’s scowling.

He says ‘We don’t give to charity’.
I say ‘Oh, you don’t give to charity’.
He adds ‘Especially not at this time of night’.
I say ‘I see. This is a bit late for you’.
He says ‘Charity begins at home’.
I say ‘Ah, charity begins at home’

He closes the door and I walk away. I argue with myself that I haven’t done anything wrong. I’ve simply said exactly as he said. It’s in our training; reflecting back. It’s not my fault if he’s mean.

Bottom of the league table

I’ve been in Norfolk visiting Vajraghanta and Richard. The train home was cancelled so It’s half past midnight when I get home. I see there’s a new standing-order form for £25 in front of the shrine. Brilliant! It must have come as a result of Vandanajyoti’s talk at the Centre for Ambedkhar day. Then I notice it’s been added onto Alokada’s total. I’m now bottom of the league table.