With that in mind, I’ve decided to keep my blog entries short, simple, and mercifully unwise. All that I really know about is my own practice anyways. I’m currently doing two hours of sitting meditation per day, one in the morning and one in the afternoon because if I wait until the evening I can’t sit worth a damn because I’m falling asleep while sitting. Over the years I’ve tried to figure out how sitting meditation has actually changed me. Thai Master Achan Chah said that chickens sit still on eggs for years, and they never get any wiser. On the other hand, he spent countless hours in sitting meditation over many years, and he taught his students to do the same. Go figure. The point is there’s more to it then just sitting. One Zen monk that I heard said that Americans were very sincere in their practice, but that too often they put too much emphasis on sitting meditation and didn’t realize that sitting was only a small part of practice. I think that figuring out how to live a daily life in accordance with Buddhist principles is the tricky part. For many people that’s where reading the books comes in, and that’s where you have to be careful or your head will explode.

On July 13 a crew of three tile installers subcontracted by Home Depot started the process of power-hammer blasting out about 1000 feet of Saltillo tile from our home. Great. Within four or five days (they said) they’d have the Saltillo out and our new porcelain tile installed. They did get all the Saltillo out (took four days), and they did start installing the new tile. On what turned out to be their seventh day of work the crew chief came to Martha and me. Problem. They were about 80% finished with the job, but the twenty-five boxes that they had left didn’t match the tile that was already installed.

Up until that point the ducca of home improvement had been of a more or less average pain in the neck, garden variety sort: three days with no air conditioning and one hundred degree temperatures while they blasted out the Saltillo and the air in the house filled with a fine red clay dust that is Saltillo returning to its true nature. No worries. We barricaded ourselves in the master bedroom, stuffed towels under the door, and melted under the ceiling fan watching DVR episodes of “The Young and the Restless”. The more significant problem is about the fact that Home Depot can’t match the tile because it’s been discontinued. So now it’s August 2, and we’re waiting for a new crew to come, hopefully this week, blast out the installed tile, and then start all over again installing the new tile that we’ve chosen. Since the 13th we’ve spoken to and met store managers and assistant managers, expediters and chief expediters, site inspectors, and installation managers. We’ve recalled repressed knowledge gained through experiences in this and past lives: some people are very good at doing their jobs and some aren’t; some people do what they say they’re going to do and some don’t; some people return your phone calls when they say they will and some don’t.

Since the 13th we’ve had a toilet sitting on the front porch because they’re tiling that bathroom. The washer, dryer, stove, and hot water heater are sitting on the back porch. Cold showers are stimulating in their own way, but a hot one would feel good about now. I’ve mentioned these inconveniences to my new friends several times. I have occasionally picked up Vibes of Compassion, but in general the whole lot of them seems to be uniformly devoted to helping me with the ascetic aspects of my Buddhist practice by teaching me the lessons to be gained through frustration, suffering, and patience in the face of adversity. Thanks guys.

You don’t need a monastery to practice Buddhism. All you have to do is wake up every day and get out of bed. I’m confident that one day this job will be finished. In the meantime we are comforted by the mantra offered by the television monk Frank Costanza: “Serenity now.”

tom elkins

Firethorn Temple

http://www.firethorntemple.com

It was mostly relatives sitting around my childhood kitchen table, but there were also neighbors and occasionally strangers. There was always a red checkered table cloth on the table that was made out of what mom called oil cloth which I don’t see these days, but I assume it is still around. There was always a sugar bowl on the table. I think most people put lots of sugar in their coffee back in the 1940’s and 50’s, and there was always a pot of coffee on the kitchen counter.

I suppose our kitchen was a center of activity because my maternal Grandma lived with us. Grandma Fritz had nine adult children. They all came to visit, sometimes with their families in tow, sometimes not. Almost all of my blood relatives were either German or Polish, but the neighborhood was a true melting pot of European ingredients. Ethnic jokes were ubiquitous, skillfully slicing, and not taken particularly seriously by anyone that I knew. Those were the days before political correctness. “Ethnic humor” was part of the fun. Folks were folks, and the general wisdom had concluded that there were saints and scoundrels in every group.

So people came to visit, and we sat around the kitchen table and talked. Kids were welcome. I started drinking coffee when I was seven and have an old yellow picture to prove it. My brother Al and I would sit there drinking coffee and eating olives, the pits of which we would try to spit into the trash container across the kitchen when my mom wasn’t looking. People only sat in the living room when there was some sort of holiday celebration or something grave had happened, like a death. Other than those times, folks sat in the kitchen drinking coffee and talking.

Talking about what? Well, everything. Who had died. The obituary page from “The Cleveland Plain Dealer” was religiously consulted on this one every day. Who had just had gall bladder surgery. Who was still on the wagon. Who had fallen off the wagon. On and off the wagon were important topics. On the wagon = not drinking. Off the wagon = drinking again, and probably “on a bender” which meant not likely to be seen for several days. Who was feuding with whom (Do you believe it! Again!) in the neighborhood. Gossip was always on the agenda. Rumors were born, embellished, and on rare occasions dispelled. Knowledge (and yes, sometimes wisdom) was laid on the oil cloth, examined, passed around, and ingested. Justice was determined. Culture was transmitted. Truth was confirmed. Most of the time I think people left feeling a little better, a little more connected.

The List is kind of like that. I actually know only a small percentage of the people on the List, but I feel like I know quite a few that I’ve never met. Of those that I’ve actually met over the years, I have many personal favorites. There’s D.D. Ardoin, who goes by Cujo I think. You may remember that Cujo was a mad dog. I don’t know why D.D. goes by Cujo because he’s decidedly unlike a mad dog. Probably has something to do with his sense of humor which is well developed. D.D. is actually Dr. Ardoin, a dentist. I think he’s retired. Someone told me that when he’s judging he’s a real bug on teeth, which would make sense I suppose. The next time I see him I’m going to ask if it’s true. D.D. reminds me of my Uncle Namar. He was the oldest. He never said much at the table, but when he did say something it was always worth careful attention. D.D. is one of those people that when you go to a show and see them you think, “Hey, there’s (whoever). I gotta be sure to talk to him/ her at some point today.” I like to read stuff about structure and movement by Carolyn Martello, Carolyn McKenna, Randy Chesnut, Christina Grainger, Ann Schultz, and others. We’re fortunate in GSDs to have so many people like these and several others on the List that have been around for a long time and really know the dogs.

Just as it did in the kitchen of my youth, sometimes it gets a bit raucous and heated on the List. As a peaceful Buddhist, I’ve never been involved in any of that (he said). I will admit that observing the sparks fly as a List lurker is a guilty pleasure for me, one for which I will surely pay in my next life. Inexorable karma, but then for every yin there’s a yang, as there must have been in the long ago days at the kitchen table.

tom elkins

Firethorn Temple

http://www.firethorntemple.com

The first, that it flies to the highest point;

The second, that it does not suffer for company,

not even of its own kind;

the third, that it aims its beak to the skies;

the fourth, that it does not have a definite color;

the fifth, that it sings very softly.”

By San Juan de la Cruz, “Dichos de Luz y Amor”

tom elkins

Firethorn Temple

http://www.firethorntemple.com

Be sure to visit our new home on the web: www.firethorntemple.com

Thank you.