Yesterday, on my way through the Willamette National Forest and over the Santiam Highway my brakes began to grind — metal to metal — and the drive (already stressful) became quite harrowing. Today was filled with busy-ness as I left the car at the repair shop and walked through the city exploring and doing necessary errands. As evening fell, I felt the call to venture back outside for my usual walk.

This is, of course, not Butte. The air is warm, moist, and heavy. Even with the brisk wind that moves through I am not refreshed. I wander through the streets and feel the seductive pull of this place. Trees — maybe hundreds of different types — fill the campus along with grasses, shrubs, and flowers. I can see they are all tended and cultivated with great care. Wooden benches are placed strategically along walkways, beneath the canopies of leaves, and along garden paths. I pause to smell the roses, to experience the texture of glossy leaves, to listen to fall of water over rocks, to peer up at huge, mysterious blossoms.

This is not Butte — it is not the minimalist and subtle experience of high desert vegetation. It is lush beyond any place I’ve ever lived. As I said, it is seductive. I want to spend hours listening to the sounds of wind through each of the different trees, to watch the patterns of light through the grass gardens, to learn the qualities of each and to know them. I could become lost in these luxuriant beings.

Today, it seems like too much. Instead of looking out my windows at views of the East Ridge and the Highlands, I see garden apartments and the Matthew Knight arena

Instead of strolling in the cool mountain evening I walk through hot, still night. And yes, instead of trash strewn alleys, I walk out into clean walkways and tidy gardens. Instead of barking dogs and drunken students, there are … well … barking dogs and drunken students.

I know, I know … all things change. My experience here will change from day to day and I am sure to discover much to appreciate about this new home. It is, as I said, seductive. So clean, so green, so tidy. I can see myself flourishing here in many ways. But … this is not Butte. I’m not sure I can say that I flourished in Butte — the high desert doesn’t support much lush flourishing — but I did grow strong and sturdy. And Butte gave me enough to continue on my way …

“Life is suffering” … is a rather inadequate translation of the Buddha’s original insight in Pali, which was that life is dukkha: let’s say discomfort, disquiet, stress. The root of the work, kha, means “space” or “hole” and the traditional image of dukkha is that of a cart with a misaligned wheel, so that the rider is jolted hard by every rut in the road. Ugh! Ugh! Ugh! (or in Yiddish, Oy! Oy! Oy!). Ginsberg’s Failure

This quote from an essay by Steve Silberman has been rumbling round in the back of my mind over the past few weeks. I walk out on ‘my’ trail in the warm Montana evenings in my teva sandals, and often little stones will fall into that small space between tender foot and solid rubber. I walk on, and try to find a way to allow that discomfort … dukkha … until I am forced to stop. I lift my foot, balanced delicately, and make a space for the stone to drop out. Ahhh, release of suffering.

Release from Suffering

The stone is obvious — material and real — and the release from suffering is just as clear. Stop, and let it go. Still, I’m always interested to observe how long I’m willing to suffer in the hopes that it will magically resolve without my action. Even in this, I want to absolved of responsibility for ending my own suffering. Dukkha.

There are other experiences of dukkha that are just as obvious, but less material and real. I carry that suffering a long, long way. Hoping that it will magically resolve itself — that I won’t need to take the action of stopping and letting it go. I carry anger and resentment, I carry anxiety and procrastination, I carry hope. Hope is so often the killer of possibility — hope allows me to refrain from action to bring about real change.

I was talking with a friend yesterday about her divorce proceedings and the ever-increasing antagonism and bitterness between two people who had been together for 30 years. She is trying to keep herself uplifted through counseling, friends, and reading inspiring books. I admire her willingness to find ways to remain firm and clear without becoming as ugly as the situation that surrounds her.

She spoke about one book that encourages her to believe this is all happening for ‘a reason’ and that she, her children, and even her soon-to-be ex-husband were all going to become better people because of this ugliness. I worry about that kind of belief. It seems to encourage people to leave those little stones in the bottom of their shoes and to limp along until their feet toughen up. It seems to be asking people to release themselves from the responsibility of releasing themselves from dukkha.

As I understand it, dukkha is not war, famine, rape, or disaster. It is the daily insults of living — those small things that we must endure as humans. We suffer when we are stuck in traffic, when we are forced to interact with an unpleasant coworker, when our favorite coffee isn’t available at the grocers. We suffer because of our hopes, our expectations, our unwillingness to stop and take out the stone — to walk a path that has no stones or wear shoes that keep them out.

Silberman goes on to say:

But Buddha, schmuddha. One of my favorite Zen koans is “who was Buddha’s teacher?” You don’t need a spiritual parent to tell you that contentment is elusive and fleeting, that every thing and every place you treasure is in the process of being transformed into something unrecognizable…

We have the same teacher as Buddha: the ever-changing experiences of our lives. Whatever those experiences may be. I don’t believe that are ‘given’ to us as challenges to overcome and somehow earn points that we can never cash in for something that we value. I believe they are inevitable experiences of beings who are somewhat aware and conscious of their experience. I believe that it is our privilege to learn how to use our awareness and consciousness responsibly and kindly. Buddha’s teachings are one path toward coming to terms with the dukkha we encounter and taking responsibility for our suffering … and our joy.

Fireworks over Butte

I suggested to my friend that she not wait around for some kind of enlightenment to appear from these experiences of suffering as she moves through the process of divorce. That she actively engage with the process and create her own learning. That she make space every day to release the little stones accumulating in her shoes so that she can walk through this difficult journey with some comfort. I will try to remember this good advice for myself.

Six months before my 50th birthday I packed up my PT Cruiser with (almost) everything I owned and drove away from my home of the past 15 years in western Massachusetts. I was headed to Butte, Montana – a place I had never been, never seen. As I drove westward into the open spaces of possibility—a return to academia never entered my mind. Not even once.

I took the usual path of finishing high school and entering college immediately; graduating from SUNY Geneseo with a B.A. in Psychology. After working in a crisis center for three years (two of them during college) I realized that counseling was not my calling and I wandered into the world of project management. Over the next 20+ years I worked in software (before the IBM PC!), a multi-national corporation, law offices, higher education, and non-profits. I also explored some unusual career paths that included initiating and managing a farmers market and making cheese on a goat farm.

Rawson Brook Goats

I didn’t feel ‘old’ approaching 50, but true transformation was what I was looking for as I moved closer to the half-century mark. So, I decided to move across the country. I kept a blog of that transitional time so that family and friends could follow me as I prepared, traveled, and settled into a new life. A few days before I left, I wrote:

“There is something exquisitely bittersweet about letting go of so much that I thought I needed. The trips to the town dump have not simply been the physical action of dragging all those bags and boxes down to the car and then tossing them with a satisfying ‘thump’ into those huge bins: it’s all that comes before as I handle each item that has been in my life and ask myself, “even though I’ve loved this before … is it still a part of who I am today? Is it a part of the woman I am in the process of becoming?” More often than not—I’m saying “no”.”

My first six months in Montana went according to plan: I found a place to live, took a sensible job, and dated a good man. None of those worked out long term. The small Montana town and the job created a clash of two entirely different cultures and even with lots of shaking, we never mixed as well as oil and water. In the meantime, I had met some of the professors at the Montana Tech campus, had begun writing and publishing the local arts foundation newsletter, and was encouraged to apply for a master’s degree in Technical Communication.

Butte Montana

Honestly, I didn’t really know what ‘technical communication’ was. I did know that I would hone my writing skills, as well as my nascent skills of web design, digital imaging, and desktop publishing. I would also study subjects that were new to me: ethics and rhetoric, semiotics and multimedia, risk communication and film making. And yes, my desire for transformation seemed more possible than ever.

There is no way to truly express what a privilege it is to receive higher education: to sit with others of like and unlike mind and explore topics in depth … to have a mentor bring you (sometimes kicking and screaming) into a scholarly state of mind … to teach a class of first-year students and watch the light in their eyes begin to shine when they ‘get’ what it means to write and think clearly and well. As my fly fishing friends along the Big Hole River might say: I was hooked. And this was not a ‘catch and release’ experience.

I was hesitant to apply to PhD programs and continue my academic journey, I was pretty sure that no one would want to invest the time or financial support for an older student. I applied because I wanted more of this life—research, teaching, thinking, and conversations that nourished me deeply. I applied because my thesis committee encouraged me. But, I didn’t really expect to get in.

University of Oregon

Even with all my doubts, I was accepted. I am again preparing for another set of transitions: from master’s student to PhD student, from Montana to Oregon, from student to scholar. I want to continue to share my process with others. I know how easy it is to become  caught up in the busy-ness of life’s commitments. I also know how important it is to take time to step out and contemplate the meaning and worth of what Taoism calls “the ten thousand things.” I look forward to sharing this journey over the next years with you.

You can always visit the Blogger version of the website to read about my activities between June 2009 and March 2011.

versatile you might say -

so I’m shifting my blog once again to Blogger.

Here’s the new link:

http://emma-intothewest.blogspot.com

Come visit!

ps~

if you’re subscribing … don’t forget to change it …

I’m a pretty good guitarist … I can sight-read classical music as long as there aren’t too many sharps or flats, I know all the chords and can easily play most music that you’d put in front of me. But … I don’t know how to create – how to improvise. I never learned/understood the theory beneath the music.

At my first lesson we spent a bit of time evaluating my skills (I would say I’m a good mechanic but not (yet?) an artist) and then talking about some of the basic theory. I got it! By the end of the first lesson, I was improvising just a little bit. I saw ‘the light’ … once you know and understand the theory, you don’t have to wait for an inspirational miracle … you don’t have to wait to channel it from the beyond … you just take the basic knowledge and play with it.

My first longer-range goal is to put together a set of folk and classical to play at an open mic.

That’s just one of the new songs that are playing in my life right now. Last week I made the difficult and necessary decision to step off the board of the arts foundation. There are some deep problems in the organization that are currently expressed through a financial crisis. The longer term vision is a beautiful one .. but I’m not sure if it’s one that can be achieved. My own vision for the foundation found some support, but not enough to shift its momentum.

The arts foundation was one of the first true personal connections that I made in Butte. Dan was my first real friend here – we chatted together every Saturday and Sunday through that first winter when I traveled from Dillon to Butte as he served me lattes and introduced me to the other customers who drifted in and out through the days. The people of and involved with the foundation are the basis of a greater part of my personal community now. It’s a difficult decision to walk away from something you love, still, because you know that your involvement is no longer a benefit to them or to you.

My time and energy have been freed up in expected and unexpected ways. I knew that part of the decision was to make more time for my thesis (which I am loving!). But, it’s also freed up time and energy to play – hanging out with friends, playing my guitar, visiting new places.

Some of the ‘new’ songs are old ones – like playing the guitar – it’s a visit to the past to bring that pleasure into the present. I’ve returned to a yoga practice and find that the movements and meditations are deeper and more free than ever before.

My life is settling into a summer rhythm – work at the watershed committee, research for my thesis, time and space to relax, to play, to enjoy. Friends that I’ve made over the past year are eager to share their Montana with me – so I’ll visit Yellowstone, I’ll be going floating on the Jefferson River soon, gentle hikes in new places, visits to other places around the state – or bbq’s in neighbor’s yards. Life is pretty darn good.

One on side are the hot flashes – when I leap from my bed around 4am many mornings feeling like an erupting volcano shedding heat in every direction. This morning I hurried out to the porch, threw open the window, and let the winds run havoc through the apartment. I wonder what the summer will be like, when there are no cooling winds.

On the other side of sunrise are the neighborhood dog packs. Just across the alley to the east are two sets of dogs – four in all … behind me to the south is another set of two … and to the west I hear that neighbor has five. They conspire to bark in shifts 24 hours each day. It’s my neighbors to the south that awaken me around 6 or 6:30 each morning with a shrill Pomerian yipping a counterpoint to the larger buddy in the yard … the northern set of eastern neighbors are the daytime barkers – alerting us all to each and every person, dog, cat, pigeon, and sparrow that might pass by. And then, my favorites, the night barkers – they can start barking anytime from 11pm on through about 4am. Sometimes they’re out there for an hour or more without stopping … other times its just five minutes -but then there’s the anticipation of wondering … are they really done? Some subset of the western quintet has recently taken to howling between 8 and 10 am. They are all consistent … I’ll give ‘em that.

I thought about moving … but the only way to get away from the dogs in Butte is to leave Butte entirely – so I’m teaching myself to allow it to be part of the background of my life – like the sparrows, the winds, and the fire sirens.

This weekend I’m heading over to Yellowstone for a few days. I’m hoping to see the wild cousins of my neighbors and the tamer cousins of the volcano.

You know how it is when you fall in love … every moment with the Beloved is filled with joy and every moment away from the Beloved is filled with anticipation. It’s a marvelous feeling.

And then, one day, you wake up and you see it all. You see that he picks his nose and farts, he has terrible taste in clothes, and his jokes aren’t really that funny. Like Titania waking in the morning with Bottom in her bower – you see that you’ve fallen in love with an ass. The honeymoon is over and the journey of your relationship diverges – there are three paths you can take…

You can sigh, look and around and think “well, everyone else is in relationship with an ass … I may as well be too” and you can fall into a numbness without love, passion, or connection….

You can focus on the nose, the farts, the clothes and the jokes .. the toothpaste cap, the dirty dishes, the poor taste in TV shows .. and you can fall into the horror of having loved an ass – anger, hatred, and volatile breakups are at the end of this path.

Or … you can realize that when you take the whole of the Beloved – the joy and anticipation, the laughter and long conversation – the farts, and the nose, the jokes and the clothes – and you can say – I love that ass … this is the path of a mature love.

And so – a few days ago I took my newly repaired car out for a drive far from Butte – and I found that I was no longer in raptures over the landscapes, the mountains, the rivers, the sky. I found that the unbounded joy had settled down … the honeymoon was over and I was left with a simple, deep, and quiet appreciation.

For me, this place in space .. and in time .. its not perfect. I see the good and beautiful – the bad and the ugly – and still – I love it. Not with rapturous vapors – but with a simple and solid appreciation. Perhaps, the best kind of love there is.

No .. it’s not that hot – low 80s – it’s just the sudden change that I’m struggling with.

I forget how much of an influence the outer world has on my inner world until I’m faced with sudden change. The sun … clouds … temperatures … people … how often/how long I take the time to walk, to play, to work, to sing, to write, to visit with friends. When its all flowing – when the shifts are ‘natural’ and gradual – then I adapt, easily – quickly. But when there’s a sudden bend in the river of life – I’m sometimes thrown out of my little boat of comfort and familiarity.

That’s okay.

This summer has a decidedly different rhythm from last year. My time is filled from morning til night. All of it – my choices. All of it – following my interests. All of it – allows for many opportunities to hit on sudden bends in the river.

I realized that I’ve been allowing these situations to throw me out of balance far more often than I like – so I’ve also chosen to … slow down. I’m still busy from morning til night – and – I take time to stretch, meditate, pray – I talk time to walk slowly, to enjoy an unexpected conversation, to watch the ravens as they play with the winds.