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.

Treat myself as a good friend

I’m walking with a friend. She tells me that the seam of her sock has bunched awkwardly and is hurting her little toe. ‘You’ll have to put up with it’, I say, ‘there’s no time to stop. We’re already late in starting these fresh knocks. In fact, you dithered about far too much at home and made us late in the first place.’

I’m asking myself if I would really say this to a friend. Of course I wouldn’t. I’d say ‘Oh we must find a place to sit down straight away. It’s really important that you’re comfortable. That’s the most important thing of all’ Perhaps I would even have noticed her discomfort without her having to mention it.

My practice tonight is to treat myself as I would treat my own good friend. I stop and sort out the wrinkle in my sock.

A way to change

I’m talking to Satyaraja on the phone, telling him about yesterday. About how it felt like a speeded up version of my last visit to Dublin, where I went from enthusiastic, joyful and inspired, to overwhelmed and exhausted in the space of a week. In fact it felt like a speeded up version of my whole life. I say ‘I’ve got to learn to be more aware’. He says, ‘It sounds to me like you need more metta for yourself’. I’m startled ‘What do you mean?’ I falter. He explains that what struck him was me missing a meal, cutting short my meditation. He says I can use incidents like these as clues. I’m embarrassed at the thought of working on such a basic level. But I’m excited. I don’t want to live the rest of my life with the viciously spoken phrase ‘There’s so much to be done’, driving me. And here is the way to change.

Meeting someone

‘I’m on my way to a sort of interview. It’s for a sort of counselling job for drug and alcohol addiction. Have you got the time? Well I’ve been there on the other side myself so I know what it’s like. I’m not like a man trying to tell a woman what it feels like to have a baby. D’you know what I mean? It’s common sense really. Have you got the time, again? I tell people they can drink if they want. But it’s not compulsory! It’s down to the company you keep too. For some people it’s normal to crack open a can first thing in the morning. I’ve been all over with the Navy. People in this country don’t know how lucky they are. Look at this park. It’s beautiful, isn’t it? I could walk through this park and get enough to live on for a day. I’m Mikey, by the way.’

‘My name’s Albert. I’ve been fishing in this park for a good few years now. Ther’s a long waiting list for the permit. I’ve got a bit of a problem with my shoulder now so I use this sling to throw the bait. Look, I’ll show you. I use maggots for bait. No, we don’t eat the fish we catch. We put them back to keep the lake stocked. By wife buys fish. We’ve been married 56 years. I still remember the first day I saw her, working in the press factory. I said to my mate, ‘That’s the woman I’m going to marry’. I didn’t get to talk to her much that day and then I went and joined the Navy. But I came back and went to see her in my uniform. We’ve got four children, eight grandchildren and two great-grandchildren. Come back and talk to me anytime you like. I’m here till four o’clock this afternoon.’

‘We’ve been to feed the ducks and we’ve watched the squirrels and now we’re on our way home. Mind you that could take an hour and a half! He loves pushing his buggy along himself. Oh Freddy, don’t sit in that puddle! Oh well, he’s kneeling in it instead! I don’t mind him getting wet, but I don’t want him to get cold. I’m just teaching part-time now so it’s lovely to have these mornings with him. He’s got cousins in London – we do visit, but they’re much older than him. My mum’s just round the corner and she loves taking him. We’re all going back to India this Xmas for a family holiday. ‘

This morning Jo ordered us ‘Get your jackets, your housekeys, you’ve got 25 minutes to go, meet someone, and come back!’ Now we’re taking turns at being that person while the others ask questions. I’m elated. I never would have believed I could have done this; that we all could have done it. And I’m moved. I hope Mikey’s interview was successful. I’m glad I got the chance to wish him well.

I’ve decided to go out early tonight. I’m full of energy from the morning’s workshop so I’m going to my old patch as well as my new patch. They’re a good bit apart so I’ve changed from my skirt to my trousers so that I can walk as fast as possible. My bag has eight or nine envelopes all with standing-order forms and personalized notes for the people from my old patch in case they are not in. I wrote them in the free time this afternoon but they took a bit longer than I thought so I had to leave the meditation early and skip having a snack before leaving to get them finished. But I’m in such a good mood I don’t mind. I’m wearing my Fred Bare beret and extra lipstick and everyone says I look gorgeous.

Everyone is in Alokada and Santasiddhi’s room when I get home. I collapse on the spare bed. The Irish guy who’d said to come back at 9 on Tuesday had his living room light on but no-one answered the door even though I knocked three times. He was my last hope. Lindsay’s had a great evening and has four standing orders. She says ‘I was really inspired by Subhadramati in training yesterday; how she talked about the charity really helped me to communicate tonight’. Lying there, exhausted and crestfallen, I don’t know whether to feel pleased or to burst into tears.

Remembering the Cherry Orchard

We extend the birthday celebrations with lunch at a French café. I love sharing my birthday with the community and I’m taken back to being 24, my first birthday in the Cherry Orchard (the Wild Cherry now). I can remember it so clearly sitting at the big table surrounded by the whole team; the big pile of birthday cards; the warmth.

Knocking my new street is like cutting through cream-cake. Nine people in a row say ‘That’s interesting. What a lovely booklet. May I keep it for a few days to read it properly?’ I cross to the other side of the road. The sixth door is opened by a forty-something woman with a young boy. As the word ‘India’ leaves my mouth urgently beckons me inside. ‘I know’, she says’ ‘It’s awful. It’s on TV right now. Those poor children selling one of their kidneys.’ By this time I’m inside, sitting on the floor with her. The last minutes of the news Documentary are still showing. ‘Tell me what I need to do to give you some money.’ She’s saying. I pass her a standing order form and she fills it in for £10 a month. Her boy oversees, making sure she gets their e-mail address correct. ‘A mother sold her little boy’s kidney’, he tells me solemnly.

My Birthday

I’m woken by a tap on my door. It’s Alokada bringing me a cup of tea. It’s my birthday!

In the afternoon we all go to a live broadcast of ‘Poetry Please!’ at the CBSO Centre. At the end Alokada marches up to Roger McGough and comes back with my ticket autographed and with birthday greetings.

A jinxed evening

I’m sitting on the toilet reading a ‘What’s on in Birmingham’ that an out-of-it-looking guy pretending to be a Big-Issue vendor sold me. There’s an ad with pictures and the caption ‘Candy Shop; a Sweet Selection of High-Class Ladies; Catering for Individuals, Parties, Couples and Fetishes’. I wonder vaguely what it might be like to try. I’m waiting until I think everyone has gone to bed before I come out of the bathroom because I can’t bear to talk to anyone. This means I can’t risk going to the other bathroom for my toothbrush but I don’t care. Just before I started knocking tonight I rang a friend to hear ‘I’m in the middle of an Amazon order and my dinner’s on the table’. This set the tone for the evening. The woman who’d said ‘Call back on Thursday, we’re always in’ was not in or not answering. George at number 33 with whom I’d had a long friendly chat about his work with special-needs kids, and about our work seemed to have changed personality. ‘I’m busy and I’m not interested’, he snapped. I convinced myself that the evening was jinxed and it was all because of that phone-call. I mentally rehearse the cool tone I shall use the next time I talk to my friend. But the satisfaction that this brings is lukewarm and doesn’t last.

Requesting Ratnasambhava's help

I’m asking for Ratnasambhava’s help in becoming a good fundraiser. Then it starts to dawn. Hadn’t I realized that he’s been with me all the time, guiding me straight to the doors of people who are just waiting for the opportunity to be generous?

My precept for the evening is to talk to myself as if I was my own best friend. I tell this to the young couple who have invited me into their house, swept away piles of papers covering the table and chair, and given me a mug of tea. They’re delighted. ‘That’s just the kind of thing we talk about all the time’, they say, ‘we love discussing all the various responses we have when things go wrong’. He’s an atheist and is fascinated to discover that Buddhism is an atheistic religion. ‘Who is the Buddha then, if he’s not God?’, she asks. We talk about human potential and about the freedom and the challenge of having no external authority telling you what to do. When I go outside into the autumn night I don’t feel cold anymore; I’m warmed through.

To be a REAL fundraiser

Manjusvara gently touches the back of my rucksack. This means, ‘It’s time to leave now. This woman is friendly but she’s saying ‘No’’. When we’re back on the pavement again he says, ‘There wasn’t anything you could have done differently’. He says, ‘We can’t make someone say ‘Yes’, ‘No’, or ‘Maybe’, we can only learn to recognize when they’re saying those things’.

I realize that I don’t think that the standing orders I’ve got already count because I got then too easily; they came from people who were just waiting to give. Manjusvara says, ‘You did do something; you were there.’ I’m not fully convinced. The more experienced fund-raisers who have visited us are full of anecdotes about how they’ve transformed the most unlikely of situations; converted the most unlikely people. I want to be like this; to be a REAL fundraiser.

Appreciating the booklets

The mother’s head is draped in a pale green mantle and her face is heart-shaped. Her light brown skin glows, her eyes look down and her lips are parted. She points to words in a book and the boy’s eyes follow her finger. He perches on her knee in the posture of royal-ease so that together they look like a depiction of the Madonna and child

She looks about five or six years old and she’s completely surrounded by towers of bricks that reach way above her head. On hand rests against their rough surface and her sea-shell-pink fingernails contrast with their dull brown, baked-earth colour. Her pink frilly dress is completely torn away at the shoulder. She’s slightly frowning.

He’s sitting on the platform of a train station. His brown striped jumper is unravelling round the neck. A key threaded onto a string dangles at his chest. His back is straight; his gaze clear and steady. I’d guess his age to be eleven or twelve.

Her hair is in looped pigtails, tied with red ribbons in double bows. She has silver rings in one nostril and a golden bracelet on her wrist. Her dress is white with a green Peter-Pan collar, a green sash and a green ruffle around the bodice. She holds, as if to offer it, what at first I think is a sheaf of wheat. But Vandanajyoti tells me it’s a broom; that the girls make them. Her lips are smiling and so are her eyes.

We gaze into the faces of children and parents whose photographs make up our booklet and, from the shrine, they gaze at us, communicating that the triumph over prejudice and ignorance is a triumph for us all. We’ve been ritually empowering the booklets before taking them out to give to people. Alokada steps into the candle-light and picks up the first bundle. Tears fill my eyes; my hand moves to my heart.

The overcast sky

It’s been raining all day and the sky is overcast. I’m walking along the canal tow-path talking to Satyaraja on my mobile. I tell him that after our last phone-call my heart felt like my blown-inside-out umbrella; tattered and ineffectual against the rain. But that I’d rather have that than a heart in a suit of armour. I tell him about the thing with the man. I tell him that Vishvantara said these incidents are like thumb-nail sketches of our lives; miniature versions of the things that really matter to us; enabling us to learn about ourselves because the full feelings don’t overwhelm us. I tell Satyaraja that my love for him is worth the grief of our separation and I’ve stopped walking now and I’m weeping. I ask if he minds that my feelings were so intense around my exchange with the man and he says ‘Why would I mind?’ The sun appears and blesses the watery green and purple gardens on the opposite bank.