Every has been generous

I tell him we’re working in India. He sighs, ‘a billion people; so many people’. I ask him how that makes him feel and he just shakes his head. He tells me he has toothache; not acute, but it’s been nagging him for a long time. He thinks we should all be taxed at source for charity. ‘But what about the individual connection with people’, I counter. He says, ‘but I don’t want to give in order to feel good about myself. I don’t want to act out of middle class guilt’. He sighs again, ‘there are so many people in the world; six billion’. I say that the trouble with questioning our motives like that is that we can paralyse ourselves into non-action. He nods, ‘yeah I know….’ I ask him how he feels when he gives something. He says the trouble is he doesn’t. I lower the leaflets. I say that he must have given something at least once in his life. I have been reflecting on this; that every single person has been generous at least once in their lives and I see this generosity like a jewel inside them; a drop of crystallized nectar, even though it may be covered in dust or mud or encased in rock. He agrees that he has given something before. I ask him how it feels to think of that. He says it feels good. I ask in what way and he says it makes him feel connected. But then he carries on to argue that that’s just going back to his point about not wanting to give just in order to feel good about himself. I say, ‘but imagine all those billions of people; imagine if they all felt connected’. I’m quiet then, letting him imagine it. ‘And now imagine the opposite’, I say, ‘everyone living in an isolated and disconnected way. Which sort of world would you rather live in?’ We stand quietly again. He asks me for a leaflet and turns straight to the back page; the suggested donations. ‘So can I do this now?’ he asks.

It’s the end of morning meditation. I’ve spent the last five minutes in this fantasy. It was true up till the bit where I lowered the leaflets. I didn’t lower them – I had a second go at giving him one. He refused.

Feeling proud and happy

I dream I sooth a screaming baby to sleep. I dream I ask for the leader of a gang of youths which is surrounding us. I pacify him and he hands me his knife.

Vishvantara has come for the weekend. Lindsay and I pick her up from the station along with Lindsay’s twin, Rachel. The others are waiting for us for the Rejoicing in Merits ritual. Vishvantara joins us in the shrine-room and rejoices in us. I feel proud and happy.

Facing my life

As soon as I wake up I know why I get so angry when people are in but don’t answer their doors. I want to beat their doors down. I want to grab their throats and say ‘at least have the guts to face me’. I want to crawl away ashamed. It’s because of Dad: all those years he didn’t talk to me; didn’t talk to any of us. I’m eating breakfast alone in the community kitchen. I'm appalled. This Appeal is making my whole life parade before me.

In meditation Sahaja’s sculpture of the Buddha in the Birmingham Centre’s garden comes to me. The figure is skeletal; the spine a thick metal pipe bang in the middle of the torso. My breath is that backbone. It’s my only hope. There’s no way my brain can sort everything out. The backbone supports the soft belly-full of feelings. Breath;backbone;staff. Feelings;belly;begging-bowl.

I tell the team about marching to Vinny’s house last night determined to get our leaflet back. The night before that I’d seen the blue pulse of TV light through his blinds but he hadn’t answered. Last night, on the second rap the door opened a fraction and a woman’s face peered over the chain. ‘I left a leaflet with Vinny’, I announced. She ducked down then poked it through the gap in the doorway. Standing with it in the street I felt mortified. The leaflet was of no use to me and now I could never go back to that house. And then the truth of the situation dawned. It hadn’t been Vinny with his bald head and heavy earings and big dog not answering the door the night before last.. It had been this woman – scared to open the door on her own after dark. I was filled with shame.

When I finish telling this I look around at the team. In their eyes I see sadness; and I see kindness. I tell them about Dad. I’m shouting. I’m crying. I’m washed clean.

Manjuka is watching me knock doors. I’m in the posh street again but tonight I meet friendly people and have lively chats. I’m showing off. But the last woman puts me in my place. Or I put myself in my place, which is lower than her place and I retreat, abashed.

Manjuka has noticed that I make continual responsive-listening sounds. At first I think he’s praising me. But he goes on to suggest that this habit makes it harder to assert myself – giving the example of this last woman. I see what he means but wail that it’s a lifetime’s habit. I’m awash with so much feedback. I need a pithy teaching. ‘OK’, he says, ‘you’re great in relation to the Sangha Jewel. You connect with people well. You’re good on the Dharma Jewel, leaving space for things to happen; the Blue Sky. Now concentrate on the Buddha Jewel. Stand like you’re standing on the Vajrasana’. As he speaks, my body straightens of its own accord and my feet plant themselves into the ground.

Challenging day

Manjuka is training us in acknowledging the house-holder’s responses. He says, ‘Forget your agenda. Just have a conversation.’ At tea-break in the kitchen we play at not doing this.

‘Would you like some dinner?’

.‘No, I’m not hungry’

. ‘I’ll just give you this sausage then’

. ‘I’m really not hungry’

‘I could cut it up for you……..’

We fall about laughing.

After lunch I phone Satyaraja. He’s been on retreat so we haven’t talked much since I’ve been here. I tell him something I’ve been scared to tell him before. I tell him that when I’m apart from him it’s hard to think of him with tenderness; it makes me miss him too much. I nervously wait for his response. He says ‘Oh I’m so glad you told me; I’m so glad we’re talking like this’, and he tells me he’s realized he has his owns ways of holding back and he tells me what they are. I tell him I want my heart to be open to loving and grieving; to grieving and loving.

After the call I sit down to write my blog but I can’t settle. To make things worse the people on the Karuna Team in London have started to respond to what I’ve written. Jo e-mails to say she loves it. Santavajri texts to say how moved she is. Sudaka thinks it’s great advertising for Karuna. I try to write about the Pakistani man who looks 55 at 75 because his grandfather taught him to avoid greed. About the elderly lady whose door I nearly didn’t knock when I saw the hand-rail, who was having a computer lesson and who, hearing we were working with ‘Dalits said ‘one can always stretch a little more’, and gave me £2.50. She’d been to India and met a man who told her he could never become a lawyer because he was an Untouchable. But I wrote all this kind of thing last week. It doesn’t work anymore. I’ve used it up now. I press delete; delete; delete.

It’s a difficult night. I thought I was OK but my new street has posher houses and although I imagine my black Alsation at my side, the heat of his body against my leg, my stomach is tight and acid. I almost forget to go back to the man with the Buddhist centre leaflet, walking out of his street and having to double back. But outside his house I remember the intensity of our conversation and suddenly I feel shy. I hope no-one is in and I can push the leaflet through the letter box. When he opens the door I don’t know what to say. We just look at each other. I give him the leaflet. I say, ‘ we might cross paths again one day’. He answers, ‘yes, you never know where life might lead’. Or something like that. Back on the pavement a blustery wind is getting up and the rain is coming on. My umbrella blows inside out and two of the spokes dangle loose. It’s after that that the doors stop opening.

There’s no way I’m going to tell anyone on the team about this man. I’m afraid they’ll think I fancied him. But as soon as I get in the car I tell Lindsay. Back home I tell Jo. Jo listens and says, ‘Grief. It sounds like you felt grief.’ My body starts to tremble. She says ‘it sounds like your feelings took you by surprise’. She says 'are you going to write about this in your blog?’.

Signing up

When I call back to the family at number two the man is hoovering the top landing. He invites me into his kitchen. His son is playing Play Station in the living room. When I ask he tells me he’s signing up because we are Buddhists even though he knows little about Buddhism. He asks me what difference Buddhism has made in my life. He asks about door-knocking as Buddhist practice. He asks what the key to a successful interaction on the doors is. ‘So Buddhism is about increasing awareness; about seeing things in a bigger perspective.’ He sums up my garbled answers so precisely I burst out laughing and tell him he’s articulating Buddhism better than I am. He tells me I exemplify what I’m talking about. The washing machine goes onto its spin-cycle. I tell him about the Birmingham Buddhist Centre. He says he’d be interested to learn to meditate; he gets irritable at work and because he supervises many people he can see that this has a lot of consequences. I tell him that that’s a strong motivator then, and that I’ll bring him a leaflet from the Centre.

When I look at my card I see that my next call-back is next door. I remember this house; its bright walls and the big orange abstract print on the wall. And I remember Sandra’s chattiness and smiliness. She had been feeding her baby in its high-chair and her top was all splattered. She’d heard about the Dalits and was interested in our work. Tonight the blinds are closed. I knock. An older woman comes to the door. ‘Hello’ I smile ‘I’m from a charity…..’ ‘Not interested.’ The door slams shut. ‘and I’m here to speak to Sandra.’, remains unuttered. Damn damn damn. What an idiot I am. I should have phrased it the other way round. I overcome the emptation to bang the door again.

Flowers for friends

It’s a morning off. I stay in bed till ten past nine. I go to the flower shop. The assistant asks if she can help. I don’t mutter ‘I’m just looking’, without meeting her eyes. I say ‘I want to buy flowers for five friends’. She makes suggestions. I spot bunches of roses next to bunches of carnations. Ten roses, five carnations – perfect. I wonder about the colours. Maybe she can help? Between us we decide on red carnations with white roses. I’m just about to take the two bunches away when I hear myself asking if she can make them into little posies for me. She smiles shyly, ‘If you don’t mind waiting’. She shows the first arrangement for my approval. It’s lovely. She finishes off each bunch with red ribbons and green raffia. I can’t believe how much trouble she is taking over them and how delighted she seems to be in doing so. When I tell Vandanajyoti she says ‘You gave her a chance to show her skill; to shine’.

Clowning around

We’re walking around the room getting in touch with joy, sadness, anger, fear. It’s a clowning weekend workshop with Jayachitta. We allow the fear to manifest in our whole bodies. Then just our eyes. Looking at another, the fear in my eyes, I’m deeply relieved. For once I don’t have to hide it.

I dream that I’m sitting on the floor with others around a low table. Across from me is a man who is both Tony, my first boyfriend, and my boyfriend, Satyaraja. A huge Alsation dog walks in and lies against me. I’m scared that it will bite me and scared that it will smell my fear. I tell the man that I’m frightened. He springs up and starts wrestling the dog. The dog flies into a fury, snarling and raging. I see how beautiful the dog is and I realize that he is valuable; a pedigree. I know immediately that I have made a mistake I don’t want him to be injured. It is only habit that made me call for help. I wish I’d stayed with the dog against my side and stayed with my fear and I know I could have done that. The dog retreats, beaten, and I see his blood on the man’s hands. I feel deep regret.

Is the door bell working?

Maybe the door-bell isn’t working. I knock. A young woman answers. I tell her that we’re a charity from India. ‘Yeah, I’ll sign up for that she says’. ‘Oh’, I answer, ‘Have you a connection with India?. ‘Well I love the food’ she answers. Next minute I’m in her trendy living room while she’s filling in the form. I can see she’s making it out for £10. I lean over ‘This section here is about our Buddhist work – we’re a Buddhist –run charity’. She ticks the 30% box. I fresh-knock the rest of the doors in the street with a spring in my step.

A few nights ago I had a long talk with Ulrika from Sweden and her two blonder than blond children. She’s over here to study and I wonder if she hasn’t made many friends yet. Her husband was away and she doesn’t have an English bank account. Tonight he’s back and not pleased. ‘No way am I doing a standing order’, he grumps. ‘You’, he glares at her, ‘were annoyed when I gave money away the last time’. ‘Not annoyed – just surprised’ she counters and carries on chatting to me. He emerges with his wallet and takes out a fiver. She glares at the note. ‘Oh give me the form then’ he snaps. The little boy provides a way in. ‘Daddy was on a plane and it was so windy’. I ask about his journey. He’s softening now. I thank them both for their contribution and tell them what a difference it will make to peoples lives. They all smile and call goodbye.

I’m looking forward to re-visiting Rick, the hippy with the amazing cultivated jungle of a front garden. He fetches the booklet for me. So it’s a no then. ‘I’ve thought about it a lot he says, and I’ve decided that I want to concentrate on helping inner city Birmingham kids’. I say that it sounds like he’s in the process of clarifying his values. ‘Yes’, he says excitedly and reading your booklet has been part of that process. He tells me about his work. He teaches woodland crafts and once he got the kids to write a list of their hopes and dreams. What he thought would be a pleasant exercise had him in tears. Had all the teachers in tears. The kids said ‘I want furniture for our house’. ‘I want my dad’. Then he stops himself.. I’m talking all about me he says and apologises for not supporting us. I tell him he is supporting us; that this conversation helps me to knock the next door. He looks delighted.

My last call-back of the evening is to Catherine, a nurse. It’s about quarter past nine and when I knock she peers through the curtains. I flash my leaflets and she smiles and comes to the door. She invites me in for a cup of tea, apologizing for the mess. She’s studying and papers are spread over the sofa. She isn’t particularly chatty so I sit quietly as she fills in the standing order form, enjoying my drink.

Running out of beginners luck?

We sit round the kitchen table at night when we get home and tell each other how it’s been. Then we go into the shrine-room for rejoicing in merits. Completed standing order forms are offered to the shrine and rejoiced in first then the floor is open for all other rejoicings. I’m fed-up because I’ve had no standing orders all week. In fact I know that the first two were just beginner’s luck. I’m never going to get any more at all. It’s just too hard. I can’t think of anything to rejoice in. Then I imagine coming home on my own feeling like this. Immediately I feel incredibly grateful for the warmth and support of the team around me. I step forward and rejoice in that.

Then I rejoice in the first man to open the door to me tonight. He stood upright and dignified although he was very elderly. One whole side of his face and surrounding his eye was livid purple. He asked me to test his door-bell letting it slip that he had very few visitors. He knew a lot about India because he’d lived there in the 1930’s. He said people here wouldn’t complain as much if they saw the conditions there. He told me several long stories involving India until I said I really must be getting on. He turned away abruptly when I said that and I felt bad and chatted a little more. This time he said he better let me go. But first he went into the house and brought me out a new five-pound note. I felt sad leaving him to a night on his own; to nights on his own.

That night I dream that I take Holy Communion. It’s given to me by Father O’Reilly, from mum’s parish who I can’t bear, but that doesn’t matter. I feel grace enter me and fill me and wonder that I haven’t realized its power before when it’s been there all the time for the taking. Even the word seems wonderful and I keep repeating it. Communion. Communion.

‘The Universe is re-arranging itself around you’.

I’m jogging round the park after morning mediation. An old Indian man riding a bicycle and dressed in white careers towards me. When he smiles I see his two middle bottom teeth are missing. ’You’re beautiful’, he tells me. The autumnal morning sun streams down on freshly dug flower beds and moist grass. We chat for a few more minutes. This keeps happening. It’s happening to all of us. Strangers come and talk to us in the street, in shops, in the park. Subhuti, who I meet with Dhammarati on my way home, nods when I tell him about this phenomenon, ‘The Universe is re-arranging itself around you’.

A scottish habit?

Jo is coming out for the evening with me. I’m looking forward to this. We worked together for years in the Dublin Evolution Shop. Last night we spent the evening catching up and I’m in touch with a strength of connection that is familiar to me whenever I have worked with someone in team-based right livelihood.

We decide that to take turns knocking with the other observing. After my second knock she gives me some feedback. Did I notice I was evading giving direct answers. I hadn’t noticed and asked for an example. ‘It was when that woman asked if you were looking for direct debits’, she explained. It looked like you thought ‘Oh shit’, and slithered away from the topic. ‘It’s OK to say ‘Yes, we are’.’ I recognize this habit and when I reflect on it later I realize that it’s a Scottish habit. A working-class Scottish habit. My god, I’m acting like a character from a James Kelman novel, who’ll tell a lie automatically, any lie, just so as not to expose oneself by telling the truth.

On the third knock Jo interrupts as I’m trying to show a woman the leaflet. ‘Are you just eating your dinner?’, she asks, adding ‘I see you chewing away there’. I feel a fool. I hadn’t noticed the woman chewing. But I realize this isn’t true. I HAD noticed she was moving her mouth in a peculiar way but I’d averted my eyes. The same thing happened with a man who’d just woken up the other evening. I HAD noticed his bleary eyes and drooping mouth but I’d said nothing and he’d ended up telling me he’d been asleep before shutting the door on me. I’d missed the moment when I could have connected. I suddenly think of my mum telling us not to stare, not to pass comment and I realize I’ve spotted another deep conditioning I didn’t know I had. I resolve to try to risk making observations. The scary bit is a might get it wrong. What if they’re not eating but they have a mouth deformity? What if they haven’t woken from sleep but they have a medical condition the affects their facial muscles? What would happen then?

Weekend of rest

I’m starting to feel a bit refreshed now. I’ve spent most of the weekend resting and hanging out with our community. I love the atmosphere between us – it’s playful, harmonious and supportive. Jo who works for Karuna arrives for supper – she’s going to be working with us for a few days – and introducing the team to her, I feel so happy and proud.

Run by Buddhists

I’ve go back to the Scottish woman’s house. She looks surprised to see me. I explain that theirs something I didn’t tell her. She looks worried. I blurt out that we’re run by Buddhists. ‘That’s fine’, she says. ‘You know what it’s like when you’re just new at something’, I confide. ‘That’s how I feel about everything in my life’ she says..

I call back to Joe and he meets me at the door with his form already filled in. He looks delighted with himself as he hands it to me. Earlier he told me that he’d been to India and Karuna sounded very much like something he’d be interested in. So I’ve got two standing orders now but I don’t feel I’ve done anything to get them. The rest of the evening is harder. Not many people take a leaflet and many who I call back to aren’t in.

I reflect that this has been one of the longest, most intense weeks of my life.

My first standing order

The Scottish woman and her baby and I all end up out on the street because she runs past me in her bare feet when she hears the squawking and screaming overhead. One magpie is being mobbed by his fellows and feathers are swirling down at our feet. We stay out by her gate and, as she flicks through the booklet, she takes a text message that makes her shake her head and smile. It’s her friend saying we should cheer up because there are people in the world much worse off than us. And now here I am with photos of those very people. ‘It’s a sign!’ she announces, adding ‘I wouldn’t miss £10 a month’. I can hardly believe it. A fresh knock and she’s going to do a standing order. I offer to take her baby while she fills in the form. I hadn’t even had a chance to tell her anything about Karuna or that we are a Buddhist Charity. Meanwhile Colum, the baby, who is the most enormous one-year-old I’ve ever encountered is starting to squirm.

I can see she hasn’t noticed that you can tick a box if you wanted some of the money to go towards Buddhist projects specifically but how can I start explaining all that now? Anyway I know that if she doesn’t tick the default is that it all goes to social projects, so that’s OK. The main thing is she’s done it! I’ve done it! I’ve got my first standing order. Maybe even the first of the Appeal. My adrenalin is racing too much for another fresh knock so I go back to Lance. He answers the door with the leaflet in his hand and his face stony. ‘You spend all the money on nice leaflets!’ he accuses. ‘But they’re done by our friends and they don’t charge much’, I bleat before retreating down his path.

I need to go back to the Scottish woman’s street to knock more doors there. But I’m scared to go back. What if she’s read the leaflet and doesn’t like it that we’re a religious organization. In my imagination I see her running out of the house accusing me of tricking her and taking back the standing order. When I get home I don’t put the standing order form on the shrine. I can’t rejoice in it.

Reflection on Dalits

After meditation I’m doing some writing at the garden table, thinking again about the documentary video. At the end of the film a list of atrocities is read out. Dalits killed by landlords. Women raped. The thing that sticks in my mind is a man who had his eyes gouged out. His crime – buying a piece of land. I try to imagine this man. Perhaps his wife put by a small handful of rice every day and every week they sold the rice and put the money in a cloth and hid the cloth. They had a pact between them never to take any rupees out, even if that meant going hungry, because with a piece of land they can grow their own food.

They save like this for a number of years. Eventually they have enough. He haggles over the price for the small plot but eventually it is his. He is walking home to his wife, his heart full of happiness and pride when it happens. His wife finds him lying on the ground and brings him home. How will he work now? He tried to better himself but now he’s even worse of than he started. It’s dawning on me that we’re not just working with poor people we’re working with people who are oppressed; Dalits. People who are kept down; who are punished for trying to better their situation.

Talking about this in our team meeting, tears flow.

Knocking on my first door

In afternoon meditation I think of the sweepers we saw in a video of a Channel 4 documentary. They don’t sweep with a long-handled broom, standing upright like you or I would; they crouch on their haunches, moving among the feet of people, the legs of tables, with a twig broom. They know they will be doing this for the rest of their lives. All they hope for is for their children to have a better chance. I imagine telling them that this is what we’re trying to do. Then I try to imagine and to send well-wishes to the first person whose door I will knock. I keep getting distracted; rehearsing exactly what to say. I think of Bhante. He came to tea with us yesterday; a blessing. I feel so much gratitude to him. I feel my connection with this team and then I realize that we are all connected – The Indian sweeper, the householder I have yet to meet, Bhante, this team. Joy bubbles up and I feel like laughing.

I’m knocking my first door. Jazz floats out of the open window and I’m doing a little shimmy when a skinny dread-locked guy opens the door. He’s interested in third-world charities. He’d like to work for charity. The little kitten behind him is trying to escape. He tells me it’s one of two his wife has rescued. He takes a leaflet and I find out his name is Lance. I talk to nine more people and two more take leaflets. We’ve been told to meet ten altogether. I don’t want to stop but persuade myself to follow the instructions as given..

On our own

In meditation I visualize a 12-year-old girl whose picture gazes intelligently from one of the booklets and reflect that the opportunity of a proper education is helping her fulfil her potential. I think of the five of us on the team; the hopes and fears about the project that we shared yesterday and wish for us all that we fulfil our potentials. I feel connected and enthusiastic and in the training session I shoot my hand up as a volunteer for role-play. Vandanajyoti plays a householder and Lindsay watches as I play at knocking my first door. Immediately my nerves devour my confidence. It’s much harder than I imagined. Then it’s Lindsay’s turn. She’s brilliant! I feel tiny. We all have a few more goes then break for tea.I’m amazed that everyone is chatting away normally. I’m in shock; paralysed by terror and find it hard to join in.

In the evening we’re sent out on our own to walk round our areas. When I see my first street my heart sinks. There are loads of ‘’To Let’ signs on houses which are packed close together and have front gardens just big enough for the rubbish boxes and stuffed black bin-bags that many contain.