indigotara

the courthouse south-of-market is
its own special hell realm.
a neon sign welcomes prospective jurors.
no explosives. no firearms.
no knives. no guns.
no drugs. no alcoholic beverages.
the guards in khaki.
six gilded elevators.
long civic corridors.
peach porcelain drinking fountains.
thick wooden doorways.
the judge in black.
a robbery on a muni bus, three on one.
the accused in pale yellow.
ladies and gentlemen of the jury
do any of you ride muni?
the lawyers in navy blue.
do you think black men commit more crimes
than white men?
do you cross the street when you see three black men
coming down the sidwewalk?
establish guilt or innocence beyond
a reasonable doubt.
the chinese juror does not understand
the public defender's irish accent.
the d.a. warns this will not be like c.s.i.
in the last row female relatives
head to toe, all in white.

here is some writing by my dear friend
maw shein win,
ever a source of poetic inspiration.

osteoblasts and osteocytes  (a pantoum)


the bones of a woman the marrow groans
the aches and breaks, a fissure, a furrow
scraping and grating, bone against bone
detachment of hips, dislocation of sorrow


the aches and breaks, a fissure, a furrow
the brakes of the car an unsettling sound
detaching of hips, dislocate the sorrow
align the axel, your fluids are down


the brakes of the car an unsettling sound
the grating and scraping of weightbearing hips
align the axel, your fluids are down
dark cherry juice in drops and drips


grating and scraping of weightbearing hips
osteoblasts and osteocytes
dark cherry juice in drops and drips
honeycomb cartilage, something's not right


osteoblasts and osteocytes
scraping and grating, bone against bone
honeycomb cartilage, something's not right
the bones of a woman the marrow groans

the devil whispered from behind the trees...
"it's pretty, but is it art?"
-rudyard kipling

paulo freire was a brazilian educator who created literacy programs in recife, brazil in the 1950s and 60s. freire saw "learning to read as a political act, as a necessary step toward making decisions and sharing power." he developed materials that enabled adults to learn to read in 30-40 hours, and was convinced that "for adults learning to read should be a process of analyzing reality, becoming critically conscious of their situation, and that when that occurred enormous energy was available for learning to read."

freire was jailed in 1964, because of his revolutionary teaching practices, when the brazilian military overthrew civilian rule. he was forced into exile with his family, but eventually returned to brazil in the 1980's, and in 1986 received the unesco prize for education.

a book edited by ira shor called "freire for the classroom" gives an overview of freire's vision of empowering education, critical approaches to learning, and democratic models of social change. 
in his analysis of freire's work, ira shor addresses teachers and proposes that, "equality is excellence. because inequality leads to alienation, excellence without equality only produces more inequality. inequality leads to learning deficits and to alienation in students. alienation is the #1 learning problem."

in contrast, he continues, "equality empowers people and raises aspirations in the classroom and in society. power and hope are sources of motivation to learn and to do." the book invites teachers to "promote democracy by practicing it", teaching with "an interactive approach rather than a passive one, and replacing a "mechanical notion of education with one that emphasizes the quality of the learning process."

shor suggests that a teacher think of herself "as a creative artist whose craft is instruction", that "an exciting instructor is a communication artist", modeling "the aesthetic joy of discourse, the pleasure of thinking aloud with others."

torched

i adore this golden city
protesters dangling from
    bridge cables
unfurling banners
                free tibet.

chinatown money
crosses its arms, stomping
well-heeled feet
manicured fingers on
        fire
grabbing, gripping
cameras flash
grimacing, grinning.

you should know
our town by now
peaceniks and poets
we have high standards
        for our flames.

here is an unintentionally buddhist pome by my lovely friend richard loranger. he recited it to me from memory sitting at a sidewalk table at the revolution cafe.  we were soaking in the last of the friday afternoon sun, the fog tumbling down 22nd street from twin peaks.

Why are you so shocked

when you’re not really you, you

puny little

caring so much then ripping with teeth

as if there were constancy

in your skin

whipwind snapdragon

kamikaze sheer benevolence

don’t be a

O for the buoyant

sacrifice of latches

may you fling so far

you’re not really you

As protests heat up in Tibet, and among the Tibetan diaspora, my thoughts turn to the wisdom of Dhardo Rinpoche, my teacher's teacher. Dhardo Rinpoche was a Tibetan monk who lived in Kalmipong, India for 40 years. He worked tirelessly for his community, particularly the children. An orphanage and school he created in 1954 is still operating, with 200 students in attendance.

"People feel that life is short. Because of this, instead of working for others, they try to aquire wealth for themselves. If we live in this way we become isolated. Our lives become like bubbles on the surface of water. But people can be inspired by action. If they see something is happening they can start to give. If you work hard in the right way the effects will spread like light."--Dhardo Rinpoche

the first day of spring. a time of renewal, light, awakening. five years since my country invaded iraq. bombed the people there to bring them peace. terrorized them to make them long for our democracy. i weep with shame at the stupidity of  my president as he declares his confidence and pride in this war, as his military leaders one-by-one resign in disgust.

we saw the path to war looming on the horizon after the 9-11 world trade center attacks. my high school sweetheart died in that building, so i personally felt loss and grief and confusion. and i felt connected to victims of bombings around the world. and i dreaded what was inevitable...revenge. my friend consuelo, her young daughters, and i joined a small pack of san francisco women every wednesday then for several months, during morning rush hour, to stand on market and van ness streets, in silent protest of our military's vengeful attack on afghanistan. we held signs and just stood there. my sign read,"are we safer now?". our peaceful, silent presence seemed to enrage a lot of men. bike messengers, corporate dudes, workmen in trucks gave us the finger, swore at us, got up in our faces, shouting. i remember one briefcase-toter, close enough to kiss, pointing at my nostrils, growing red and then purple as he ranted, full volume. i looked deep into his eyes and wished he not go into cardiac arrest. i wondered if his heart would block completely.
yes, this is the problem, i thought.

once my country attacked iraq, san franciscans took to the streets in numbers. i was delighted our little protesting pack had grown. early demonstrations were lively and optimistic. it was saint patrick's day and my buddies and i dressed in irish finery. there were drum circles. there was dancing. there were costumes. after that, peace actions got angrier and i grew weary of fighting rage with rage. i didn't want to be those men on market and van ness. so i sat, with the buddhist peace fellowship, in a silent circle of meditation in the middle of protest frenzy. open awareness that spread out over the crowd, beyond the blare of loudspeakers and impatient chanting. passers-by were intrigued. this is the energy i want to cultivate. inclusive. patient. kind. quiet.

when will we evolve? when we will stop craving violence? when we will notice the effects of our actions? when will we allow ourselves to be kinder, gentler, more vulnerable, more generous? when will our hearts unblock?

there is a pea-hen, that is a female peacock, at a tibetan retreat center where we meditate in february. the daffodils are in bloom then, and the pea-hen wanders the muddy grounds, peering in the windows of the kitchen and the shrine room, sharing bowls of food set out for the two fluffy cats.

across the mountains at the zen center where we were this weekend there are wild deer, coyotes, bobcats, hawks and snakes. the moss is electric green, hugging the oak bark. the creek is full, tumbling over stones past the zendo and the dorm buildings.

for the first time, a turkey hen emerged to greet us when we arrived, strolling under the blossoming cherry tree. so unusual to see a turkey in these mountains. she must have known she was in the company of vegetarians. i noticed how much she resembled the pea hen.

a day passed and i went deeper in my meditations, seduced by the tranquility of the setting, encouraged and inspired by all the practice in that place. everything glowed. the retreatants looked so beautiful, so radiant.
i wondered to myself, "how can i love people more?"

early that afternoon the leaves seemed to glisten in a way they hadn't done the day before. as i meandered up the path , there in the oak grove was the turkey hen, with six others. a flock of wild turkey hens.
"a meditation mirage?" i wondered in silence. are they really multiplying?

more meditation, some yoga. some chanting. emerging from the puja at dusk the seven turkey hens were pecking away at the ground, under the watchful eye of a majestic male turkey. strutting through his harem, white head, long red gobble, layers of feathers, tail fanned out in elegant plumeage. ben franklin immediately came to mind, and his campaign to make the turkey, rather than the eagle, our national bird. i rarely see turkeys or even think of them, except to grieve their mass slaughter for thanksgiving dinner. i never knew they were so grand. so colorful. so proud. so peacock-like. there among the ferns. a bird so ordinary appeared quite exotic.

off to the santa cruz mountains for the weekend, to lead yoga on a meditation retreat. we stay at a zen retreat center, very simple structures in a stunning natural setting. a wander up a trail leads to a ridge with a view over a valley of pines and out to the ocean.

here is a poem by basho, a japanese monk and poet from the mid-1600's:

i like to wash,
by way of experiment,
the dust of this world
in the droplets of dew.

sei shonagon wrote lists:

elegant things
a white coat worn over a violet waistcoat.
duck eggs.
shaved ice mixed with liana syrup and put in a new silver bowl.
a rosary of rock crystal.
wistaria blossoms. plum blossoms covered with snow.
a pretty child eating strawberries.

she was a lady-in-waiting in the imperial court in japan in the late 10th century. she wrote lists about nature and about architectural detail:

things that fall from the sky
snow. hail. i do not like sleet, but when it is mixed with pure white snow it is very pretty.
snow looks wonderful when it has fallen on a roof of cypress bark.
when snow begins to melt a little, or when only a small amount has fallen, it enters into all the cracks between the bricks, so that the roof is black in some places, pure white on others- most attractive.
i like drizzle and hail when they come down on a shingle roof. i also like frost on a shingle roof or in a garden.

she was opinionated and observant. she wrote lists about people's behavior:

things that give a pathetic impression
the voice of someone who blows his nose while speaking.
the expression of a woman plucking her eyebrows.

i imagine her, elegant and silent in the court, saving her thoughts for the end of the day. her journal as her voice. i admire how she captures so much sensory detail in so few words.

things that give a clean feeling
an earthen cup. a new metal bowl.
a rush mat.
the play of light on water as one pours it onto a vessel.
a new wooden chest.

here is a poem from walt whitman's "leave of grass".  the book, now considered an american "classic",  was considered obscene by many in its day, in the mid-1800's. one reviewer called the collection "a mass of stupid filth".

fittingly, this poem is titled "germs". it strikes me as very dharmic. or at least dharm-ish.

Germs
by Walt Whitman

Forms, qualities, lives, humanity, language, thoughts,
The ones known and the ones unknown, the ones on the stars,
The stars themselves, some shaped, others unshaped,
Wonders of those countries, the soil, trees, cities, inhabitants,
    whatever they may be,
Splendid suns, the moons and rings, the countless combinations
    and effects,
Such-like, and as good as such-like, visible here or anywhere,
    stand provided for in a handful of space, which I extend,
    my arm and half enclose with my hand,
That containing the start of each and all, the virtue, the germs
    of all.

i went to teach today with only one lock for my bike. i'd left the cable in my other bag. urban bikers: always use a cable and a lock. i secured my back tire to the bike stand at the downtown campus, and when i emerged an hour-and-a-half later, it was still there. one lonely tire. and a lock. only that.
i felt so sad. so abandoned.

i stood there for a while, staring at the space that had been my bike. then i walked to the bart train, with the tourists and the afternoon shoppers.

i had had that bike 3 years. a pretty good record for this city. we'd covered a lot of road together. it was a masculine vehicle, no doubt about it. thick tires, big frame, silver, red and black. i felt fierce riding it. solid. men would stop me, grunting, "nice. bike.", staring hungrily at the fat wheels. they thought it was expensive.
it wasn't. just shiny. macho. i understand why a fella might want it for his own.

down  the escalator, onto the platform, onto the train. one lonesome seat by the door. a fat lady moved to sit beside me, the train jerked, she fell hard in my lap. she was soft and warm, wearing a polka dot dress.
"hey," i silently shouted,"can't you see i'm grieving?"

exiting the gate at my station i heard a shout. i turned to see a young man smacking his girlfriend. hard. on the head. i yelled after him. he sauntered away. shamelessly. down the stairs to the tracks. the security guard stood in his glass box, staring, immoblie, silent. i stepped onto the escalator and thought, "the first noble truth. there is suffering." i thought about violence. i thought about greed. i emerged into blue sky.

on the sidewalk i noticed how soft the day was. i remembered i'd just gotten paid. and i had the rest of the afternoon free. i could buy a new bike. i'd go see my boys at the neighborhood cyclery.

in the shop they met me sympathetically. i knew they felt my pain. just the right amount of empathy.
they didn't belittle my grief. didn't make fun of me. didn't try to make me laugh. didn't pity me. they just shook their heads and guided me to the racks. so much kindness. so much attention. my salesguy fished around for a spare part as a hold for my salvaged lock, and soddered it on to my new bicycle, free of charge.
he carefully checked all the gears, the brakes, the tires. i bought a shiny blue helmet to match my new ride and pedaled away feeling understood. connected. loss and gain. loneliness and connection. how the worldly winds do blow.

off to my evening class i thought, "this bike is feminine." it's deep purple. it's light. no dangerous bar across the frame. small handles, ladyfinger size. my hands relax around the grips. flying through traffic and up the hills, i felt joyful. i felt relieved. maybe this bike will be too girly to steal.

the trumpeter
late at night, the man with the trumpet practices in the parking garage across the street. one evening, biking home, i caught a glimpse of his forearm and the glitter of the instrument through the bars of the metal gate. only that. part of an arm, part of a horn.

his music echoes through the cavernous concrete, bouncing off car hoods, spilling out into the empty street. he must enjoy the echo, how the space magnifies the sound. he plays scales, only scales, endless scale after scale, never managing to hit a clear note. for months now, several nights a week, his off-key, monotonous rehearsal up and down the scales.

he plays so badly i have come to adore his predictable, concentrated, deconstructed performance. i envy how shamelessly he offers up his mistakes, his learning process, his commitment to practice. a cacophonous gift to the whole neighborhood.

sakura, the first word i learned in japanese
the cherry trees bloom early here. unexpectedly they appear, mid-february. in their delicate splendor, down the sidewalks of back streets, they whisper to be noticed. then the rains pluck away the petals and the winds sweep them across asphalt. ephemeral. that's why they are adored in kyoto. the fleeting nature of beauty.

here's a waka by ki no tomonori, a japanese poet from the 8th century:

this perfectly still
spring day bathed in the soft light
from the spread-out sky,
why do the cherry blossoms
so restlessly scatter down?

hisakata no
hikari nodokeki
haru no hi ni
shizu kokoro naku
hana no chiruramu

february's lunar eclipse
This month's total eclipse of the moon, according to the Earth and Sky website, "will be the last one we’ll see until December 2010. During an eclipse the moon is totally submerged in Earth’s shadow for some 50 minutes, though the moon is partially eclipsed for over an hour before and after the central totality. The eclipse lasts almost 3 and 1/2 hours from start to finish. The moon can pass through Earth’s shadow only when it’s directly opposite the sun in Earth’s sky in the constellation Leo."

That night I took my students out of class at 7pm, just as the total eclipse began, for some moon viewing. It was very fun wandering behind the classrooms, out in the parking lot, searching the sky for the moon. (Sadly, it was covered by fog.) 

I thought of ancient Japan, and how the whole court would journey to view the moon, or the spring blossoms, or the fall foliage. They would set off as a huge entourage, and sit around writing poetry to Nature. Then the court  fortune teller would tell them it was bad luck to travel in the direction home, and they would all have to wait days and days, sometimes weeks and weeks, until it was lucky to get on the road again.

Here is a poem about befriending the moon by Hafiz, a 14th century Persian poet:

FAITHFUL LOVER
The moon came to me last night
With a sweet question.

She said,

"The sun has been my faithful lover
For millions of years.

Whenever I offer my body to him
Brilliant  light pours from his heart.

Thousands then notice my happiness
And delight in pointing
Toward my beauty.

Hafiz,
Is it true that our destiny
Is to turn into Light
Itself?"

And I replied,

Dear moon,
Now that your love is maturing,
We need to sit together
Close like this more often

So I might instruct you
How to become
Who you
Are!