In Self and Others, the anti-psychiatrist Ronald Laing tells the story of a schizophrenic woman to whom a nurse gave a cup of tea. "This is the first time in my life that anyone has ever given me a cup of tea," the patient told her.
Since this scene took place in Great Britain where drinking tea is a daily ritual, it seemed impossible that the patient was telling the truth. But she was. Laing explains that her extreme sensitivity about being recognized or not recognized as a human being, as a human body, allowed her to express a simple and profound truth: "It is not so easy for one person to give another a cup of tea. If a lady gives me a cup of tea, she might be showing off her teapot, or her tea-set; she might be trying to put me in a good mood in order to get something out of me; she may be trying to get me to like her; she may be wanting me as an ally for her own purposes against others. She might pour tea from a teapot into a cup and shove out her hand with cup and saucer in it, whereupon I am expected to grab them within the two seconds before they will become a dead weight. The action could be a mechanical one in which there is no recognition of me in it. A cup of tea could be handed me with me being given a cup of tea."*
To be there, behind the cup of tea . . . to be there, in our body, for ourself and for others . . . to live in our body . . . . [I]t is essential for us to feel within our bodies who we are, that we are. Be a body first of all. Be a body at last. Be.
from The Body Has Its Reasons, by Therese Bertherat and Carol Bernstein (1989)
* R.D. Laing, Self and Others (1961)
Thursday, December 2, 2010
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Kitchen Koan
It is a blessing to realize that when a carrot can be appreciated as a carrot, you can just be you.
- Edward Espe Brown (in his "Eating Wisely" column in the July/August 2001 issue of Yoga Journal)
- Edward Espe Brown (in his "Eating Wisely" column in the July/August 2001 issue of Yoga Journal)
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
the walk of life - a quote by R.H. Blyth
Thus we see that the all important thing is not killing or giving life, drinking or not drinking, living in the town or the country, being lucky or unlucky, winning or losing. It is how we win, how we lose, how we live or die, finally, how we choose. We walk, and our religion is shown (even to the dullest and most insensitive person), in how we walk. Living in this world means choosing, and the way we choose to walk is infallibly and perfectly expressed in the walk itself.
Sunday, August 15, 2010
excerpt from the poem "The Appearance of Nothing" by Glenis Redmond
I remember one day
as ordinary as any other
I sashayed like wind into my
mother's kitchen
with the impatience of my youth.
Boldly declared
as I stared
into that pot of water and
uncooked rice,
"Ain't nothin' happening."
Chris, a family friend
who had placed the pot on the eye
to boil,
stepped over.
Let these words roll like eggs from
her tongue,
"There is something happening."
No lecture, no leer, no top of
finger in my face
just words plump with meaning.
as ordinary as any other
I sashayed like wind into my
mother's kitchen
with the impatience of my youth.
Boldly declared
as I stared
into that pot of water and
uncooked rice,
"Ain't nothin' happening."
Chris, a family friend
who had placed the pot on the eye
to boil,
stepped over.
Let these words roll like eggs from
her tongue,
"There is something happening."
No lecture, no leer, no top of
finger in my face
just words plump with meaning.
Saturday, July 17, 2010
A Spoonful of Perfect
For her mother, a bowl of fragrant, steaming rice, meticulously prepared every day, was a ritual, a religion, a reminder of where she'd come from, an expression of love for her family. Nora Okja Keller discovers the importance of going with the grain--and the technique of getting it right every time.
(published in the November 2007 issue of O Magazine)
When I got married a decade ago, my mother presented me with a rice cooker. Squat and beige, it wasn't the prettiest appliance, but it had a button that kept the cooked rice warm. My mother sighed with satisfaction. "Now your family will always have something ready to eat," she said.
My mother took her rice seriously. Whether it was short-grain or medium, California or Japanese, mochi or brown, while we were growing up she made sure we had it every day. "If I don't have my bowl of rice," she said once, "I still feel hungry no matter what else I eat."
I, on the other hand, was a child who was careless with rice. Blasting the raw grains under the kitchen faucet, then heedlessly dumping the cloudy water, I lost handfuls of our meal down the drain.
"Rinse more carefully!" she would scold when it was my turn to wash rice. "You're wasting too much!"
"Why the fuss?" I grumbled. "It's just rice." To me rice was cheap and plentiful; for only a few dollars we could buy a bag the size of my little sister.
You kids don't know how lucky you are, rice every day," my mother grumbled, ready to launch into one of her wartime-in-Korea stories. "When I was little, many times we went to bed hungry. You can't even imagine what some people would do for a handful of rice." My mother nudged me aside and grabbed a fistful of wet rice. "Every grain is important," she said, holding the rice to my face. "Every grain meant that someone could eat and live that day."
She dipped her hand back into the rice pot and scrubbed at the pellets under the water. Massaging the rice until the water looked like skim milk, she continued: "Take your time. Take care of the rice," she said, carefully pouring out the cloudy water, her fingers cradling the lip of the pot to hold back any floating grain. "It's like taking care of yourself."
After washing the rice three times, then rinsing three times, my mother filled the pot for the seventh time--the number of heaven--to boil the rice. She measured the water with her middle finger, the knuckles her ruler, and each time her rice came out perfect: sticky but not mushy, chewy but not crunchy.
Whenever my family visits my mother's home, we are greeted at the doorway by the scent of rice. "Are you hungry?" my mother will ask, bustling to the door. Before she hugs us, before she says how much she has missed her grandchildren, she'll offer food, telling us to sit and eat a bowl of rice.
The last time we had a family get-together at my brother's house, my mother, as usual, made the rice. While she was turning on the water to wash it, my youngest daughter dragged a stool up to the sink.
"I want to help, Halmoni," she demanded. She climbed onto the seat and kneeled over the basin to plunge her hands into the cold water.
"Like this," my mother cooed, placing her hand over my daughter's, guiding her fingers as they wiggled into the submerged rice.
My 12-year-old nephew, watching from the dining table, said, "I remember once my mom made the most perfect rice." His voice was wistful, nostalgic, as if recalling a lost love.
Shooting my sister-in-law a teasing smile, I goaded: "Just once?"
"Yeah," my nephew said sadly. "Usually we get leftover rice that's kinda yellow and hard."
My sister-in-law let out a horrified giggle and my mother's lips thinned.
Before my mother could deliver a lecture on how her grandchildren should have fresh-cooked rice daily, I jumped in. "So, ah," I asked my nephew, "what made the rice so perfect?"
My nephew, dreamy eyed, breathed, "Well, when you lifted the lid on the cooker, the steam escaped in this puff of cloud, and under the steam, the rice was like this. Like a rainbow." He held his hands in the air, palms down, in the shape of an upturned cup. "And every piece was whie and perfect, not goopy or bullety."
I nodded, caught by his reverential description, knowing just what he was talking about.
"That's right," my mother said, smiling at him. "Must be you know what is good rice because you're Korean, right?"
Later that night, as the family settled around the table for what would turn out to be a three-hour meal, my mother served that perfect rice. As we talked, trading stories about the past and present, my mother kept jumping up to scoop more rice onto our plates. "Just chokum more," she urged, ladle loaded and poised above our heads. "Just have a little more to keep me company."
And so my siblings and I and our spouses and children each held our plates up to receive second and third helpings, feasting on remembrances and rice.
(published in the November 2007 issue of O Magazine)
When I got married a decade ago, my mother presented me with a rice cooker. Squat and beige, it wasn't the prettiest appliance, but it had a button that kept the cooked rice warm. My mother sighed with satisfaction. "Now your family will always have something ready to eat," she said.
My mother took her rice seriously. Whether it was short-grain or medium, California or Japanese, mochi or brown, while we were growing up she made sure we had it every day. "If I don't have my bowl of rice," she said once, "I still feel hungry no matter what else I eat."
I, on the other hand, was a child who was careless with rice. Blasting the raw grains under the kitchen faucet, then heedlessly dumping the cloudy water, I lost handfuls of our meal down the drain.
"Rinse more carefully!" she would scold when it was my turn to wash rice. "You're wasting too much!"
"Why the fuss?" I grumbled. "It's just rice." To me rice was cheap and plentiful; for only a few dollars we could buy a bag the size of my little sister.
You kids don't know how lucky you are, rice every day," my mother grumbled, ready to launch into one of her wartime-in-Korea stories. "When I was little, many times we went to bed hungry. You can't even imagine what some people would do for a handful of rice." My mother nudged me aside and grabbed a fistful of wet rice. "Every grain is important," she said, holding the rice to my face. "Every grain meant that someone could eat and live that day."
She dipped her hand back into the rice pot and scrubbed at the pellets under the water. Massaging the rice until the water looked like skim milk, she continued: "Take your time. Take care of the rice," she said, carefully pouring out the cloudy water, her fingers cradling the lip of the pot to hold back any floating grain. "It's like taking care of yourself."
After washing the rice three times, then rinsing three times, my mother filled the pot for the seventh time--the number of heaven--to boil the rice. She measured the water with her middle finger, the knuckles her ruler, and each time her rice came out perfect: sticky but not mushy, chewy but not crunchy.
Whenever my family visits my mother's home, we are greeted at the doorway by the scent of rice. "Are you hungry?" my mother will ask, bustling to the door. Before she hugs us, before she says how much she has missed her grandchildren, she'll offer food, telling us to sit and eat a bowl of rice.
The last time we had a family get-together at my brother's house, my mother, as usual, made the rice. While she was turning on the water to wash it, my youngest daughter dragged a stool up to the sink.
"I want to help, Halmoni," she demanded. She climbed onto the seat and kneeled over the basin to plunge her hands into the cold water.
"Like this," my mother cooed, placing her hand over my daughter's, guiding her fingers as they wiggled into the submerged rice.
My 12-year-old nephew, watching from the dining table, said, "I remember once my mom made the most perfect rice." His voice was wistful, nostalgic, as if recalling a lost love.
Shooting my sister-in-law a teasing smile, I goaded: "Just once?"
"Yeah," my nephew said sadly. "Usually we get leftover rice that's kinda yellow and hard."
My sister-in-law let out a horrified giggle and my mother's lips thinned.
Before my mother could deliver a lecture on how her grandchildren should have fresh-cooked rice daily, I jumped in. "So, ah," I asked my nephew, "what made the rice so perfect?"
My nephew, dreamy eyed, breathed, "Well, when you lifted the lid on the cooker, the steam escaped in this puff of cloud, and under the steam, the rice was like this. Like a rainbow." He held his hands in the air, palms down, in the shape of an upturned cup. "And every piece was whie and perfect, not goopy or bullety."
I nodded, caught by his reverential description, knowing just what he was talking about.
"That's right," my mother said, smiling at him. "Must be you know what is good rice because you're Korean, right?"
Later that night, as the family settled around the table for what would turn out to be a three-hour meal, my mother served that perfect rice. As we talked, trading stories about the past and present, my mother kept jumping up to scoop more rice onto our plates. "Just chokum more," she urged, ladle loaded and poised above our heads. "Just have a little more to keep me company."
And so my siblings and I and our spouses and children each held our plates up to receive second and third helpings, feasting on remembrances and rice.
Julie Motz's initial experience with Macrobiotics
an excerpt from her book Hands of Life (1998):
[I]n the summer of 1985, the Gilligans' only child, Patrick, was diagnosed with a brain tumor. It threw us all into a state of shock, and he was quickly swept up into the medical world of surgery and radiation. Michelle Clifton remembered reading a book about some kind of diet that had saved the life of a cancer patient, and I was soon in a bookstore, tracking down Anthony Satillero's Recalled by Life. Just beside it I noticed The Cancer Prevention Diet, by Michio Kushi and Alex Jack, and decided on impulse to buy that as well.
I read them both in two days and emerged from the glut of words and information hopeful, if a little stunned. Satillero's book recounted the story of his recovery from a near-fatal cancer, due to a chance encounter with some hitchhikers who turned him on to a strange diet consisting mostly of whole grains, vegetables, beans, something called miso soup, and (ugh, yes) seaweed! As an anesthesiologist and administrator at a major Philadelphia hospital, he was not at all temperamentally or intellectually inclined toward a dietary approach. But his scans had been getting worse and worse, his energy was failing, and he was desperate. He later returned to the health food store where he had dropped them off, to be inducted into the strange (and as it turned our, life-saving) practice of macrobiotics.
In Micho Kushi's book I read with horror all about what the great American diet (or my version of it, which inclined more heavily toward Diet Coke than Twinkies) was doing to my body and my emotional well-being.
Kushi puts forth the simple argument that cancer, like all forms of disease, represents an imbalance in the body. A tumor represents the body's attempt to limit the expression of that imbalance to one area, so the rest of the body can continue to function. The most effective way to heal is to restore balance, and the key to doing that is to have a diet that allows the body to function easily and efficiently, wasting no extra energy on getting rid of unnecessary, unnatural, and toxic substances.
Until that time I had blithely assumed that one of Nature's greatest miracles was the ability to take whatever I ate and magically turn it into more of me. My only concern, like that of so many American women, was that it sometimes made it into much more of me than I wanted to be carrying around. Now I was discovering that with almost every mouthful, I was slowly but surely shortening my life.
Never one to embrace half-measures, I threw myself into the rituals of macrobiotic cooking, starting with the recipes at the back of Kushi's book. I figured I could make myself do just about anything for three months, and at the end of that time, I could evaluate its effects and see if I wanted to continue. So after shelling out a couple hundred dollars for the requisite equipment (pressure cooker, stainless steel pots and pans, really sharp knives, and sushi mats), I launched into a regime that seemed at first to fill up my life with shopping for food, washing food, cutting food, cooking food, chewing food (at least a hundred times each mouthful), washing dishes, and then going out to shop for food again.
Within three weeks I noticed some remarkable changes. For one, my lifelong insomnia had vanished. I, who hadn't slept soundly for two nights in a row since childhood, was putting my head down on the pillow and drifting off almost immediately for a solid eight hours, night after blissful night. My swimming time had improved, and all kinds of little aches and pains I had developed from weight training just disappeared. I could actually lower myself into the bathtub at the end of the day without creaking. Finally, my mood swings were gone--the ones that came along out of nowhere, with little voices urging me to step in front of a truck on a beautiful sunny day.
[I]n the summer of 1985, the Gilligans' only child, Patrick, was diagnosed with a brain tumor. It threw us all into a state of shock, and he was quickly swept up into the medical world of surgery and radiation. Michelle Clifton remembered reading a book about some kind of diet that had saved the life of a cancer patient, and I was soon in a bookstore, tracking down Anthony Satillero's Recalled by Life. Just beside it I noticed The Cancer Prevention Diet, by Michio Kushi and Alex Jack, and decided on impulse to buy that as well.
I read them both in two days and emerged from the glut of words and information hopeful, if a little stunned. Satillero's book recounted the story of his recovery from a near-fatal cancer, due to a chance encounter with some hitchhikers who turned him on to a strange diet consisting mostly of whole grains, vegetables, beans, something called miso soup, and (ugh, yes) seaweed! As an anesthesiologist and administrator at a major Philadelphia hospital, he was not at all temperamentally or intellectually inclined toward a dietary approach. But his scans had been getting worse and worse, his energy was failing, and he was desperate. He later returned to the health food store where he had dropped them off, to be inducted into the strange (and as it turned our, life-saving) practice of macrobiotics.
In Micho Kushi's book I read with horror all about what the great American diet (or my version of it, which inclined more heavily toward Diet Coke than Twinkies) was doing to my body and my emotional well-being.
Kushi puts forth the simple argument that cancer, like all forms of disease, represents an imbalance in the body. A tumor represents the body's attempt to limit the expression of that imbalance to one area, so the rest of the body can continue to function. The most effective way to heal is to restore balance, and the key to doing that is to have a diet that allows the body to function easily and efficiently, wasting no extra energy on getting rid of unnecessary, unnatural, and toxic substances.
Until that time I had blithely assumed that one of Nature's greatest miracles was the ability to take whatever I ate and magically turn it into more of me. My only concern, like that of so many American women, was that it sometimes made it into much more of me than I wanted to be carrying around. Now I was discovering that with almost every mouthful, I was slowly but surely shortening my life.
Never one to embrace half-measures, I threw myself into the rituals of macrobiotic cooking, starting with the recipes at the back of Kushi's book. I figured I could make myself do just about anything for three months, and at the end of that time, I could evaluate its effects and see if I wanted to continue. So after shelling out a couple hundred dollars for the requisite equipment (pressure cooker, stainless steel pots and pans, really sharp knives, and sushi mats), I launched into a regime that seemed at first to fill up my life with shopping for food, washing food, cutting food, cooking food, chewing food (at least a hundred times each mouthful), washing dishes, and then going out to shop for food again.
Within three weeks I noticed some remarkable changes. For one, my lifelong insomnia had vanished. I, who hadn't slept soundly for two nights in a row since childhood, was putting my head down on the pillow and drifting off almost immediately for a solid eight hours, night after blissful night. My swimming time had improved, and all kinds of little aches and pains I had developed from weight training just disappeared. I could actually lower myself into the bathtub at the end of the day without creaking. Finally, my mood swings were gone--the ones that came along out of nowhere, with little voices urging me to step in front of a truck on a beautiful sunny day.
Sunday, July 4, 2010
Begin Now
Begin doing what you want to do now. We are not living in eternity. We have only this moment, sparkling like a star in our hand . . . and melting like a snowflake. Let us use it before it is too late.
- Marie Beyon Ray
- Marie Beyon Ray
Thursday, July 1, 2010
on Meditation
Meditation is not a complicated act. It's to be in the simplicity of the moment, empty, seeing that nothing is needed, nothing needs to be achieved and nothing has to be improved - not because you are depriving yourself from something, but because you realize you are already content, you are already whole.
- Tyohar
In meditation, be at ease, be as natural and spacious as possible.
Slip quietly out of the noose of your habitual anxious self,
release all grasping, and relax into your true nature.
- Sogyal Rinpoche
- Tyohar
In meditation, be at ease, be as natural and spacious as possible.
Slip quietly out of the noose of your habitual anxious self,
release all grasping, and relax into your true nature.
- Sogyal Rinpoche
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
The field of living, right before you
The meaning of life is not to be found in a distant world of abstraction, but in paying attention to everyday happenings and details in one's life. One's perception has to be in the field of living. In contemplating where the truth may be found, it just might be right before you.
- Yuezhou Quianfeng
- Yuezhou Quianfeng
Monday, June 28, 2010
Lunch With God
A little boy wanted to meet God. He knew it was a long trip to where God lived, so he packed his suitcase with Twinkies and a six pack of Root beer and he started his journey.
When he had gone about three blocks, he met an old woman. She was sitting in the park just staring at some pigeons. The boy sat down next to her and opened his suitcase.
He was aboout to take a drink from his root beer when he noticed that the old lady looked hungry, so he offered her a Twinkie.
She gratefully accepted it and smiled at him. Her smile was so pretty that the boy wanted to see it again, so he offered her a root beer. Again, she smiled at him. The boy was delighted!
They sat there all afternoon eating and smiling, but they never said a word. As it grew dark, the boy realized how tired he was and he got up to leave, but before had gone more than a few steps, he turned around, ran back to the old woman, and gave her a hug. She gave him her biggest smile ever.
When the boy opened the door to his own house a short time later, his mother was suprised by the look of joy on his face. She asked him, "What did you do today that made you so happy?" He replied, "I had lunch with God." But before his mother could respond, he added, "You know what? She's got the most beautiful smile I've ever seen!"
Meanwhile, the old woman, also radiant with joy, returned to her home. Her son was stunned by the look of peace on her face and asked, "Mother, what did you do today that made you so happy? She replied, "I ate Twinkies in the park with God." However, before her son responded, she added, "You know, he's much younger than I expected."
When he had gone about three blocks, he met an old woman. She was sitting in the park just staring at some pigeons. The boy sat down next to her and opened his suitcase.
He was aboout to take a drink from his root beer when he noticed that the old lady looked hungry, so he offered her a Twinkie.
She gratefully accepted it and smiled at him. Her smile was so pretty that the boy wanted to see it again, so he offered her a root beer. Again, she smiled at him. The boy was delighted!
They sat there all afternoon eating and smiling, but they never said a word. As it grew dark, the boy realized how tired he was and he got up to leave, but before had gone more than a few steps, he turned around, ran back to the old woman, and gave her a hug. She gave him her biggest smile ever.
When the boy opened the door to his own house a short time later, his mother was suprised by the look of joy on his face. She asked him, "What did you do today that made you so happy?" He replied, "I had lunch with God." But before his mother could respond, he added, "You know what? She's got the most beautiful smile I've ever seen!"
Meanwhile, the old woman, also radiant with joy, returned to her home. Her son was stunned by the look of peace on her face and asked, "Mother, what did you do today that made you so happy? She replied, "I ate Twinkies in the park with God." However, before her son responded, she added, "You know, he's much younger than I expected."
Holy Leisure
Holy leisure refers to a sense of balance in the life, an ability to be at peace through the activities of the day, an ability to rest and take time to enjoy beauty, an ability to pace ourselves.
- Richard J. Foster
- Richard J. Foster
The Kitchen Temple
A kitchen is a place in which you prepare food - our earthly and spiritual sustenance. Food has been linked with the sacred since time began. It is only in recent years that we have lost our connection with the food that sustains us. Nowadays many of us barely register what we eat; we eat on the run, gulping down "fast food"; we pop "convenience food" in the microwave and unconsciously swallow it while watching television. Few of us sit down as a family to enjoy good food.
All the great religions teach that food is a blessing from the Divine and should be treated with immense respect and gratitude. No religious Jewish, Christian, Hindu, Muslim or Buddhist family would dream of just tucking into a meal without saying a blessing and giving thanks. In China, food is considered to be a physical link between humans and the gods; beautifully prepared meals are given as a sacred offering on family alters. In the ayurvedic tradition of India, food is a spiritual science with precise prescriptions of how to prepare and eat food for physical, emotional, and spiritual well-being. In African-American culture there is the tradition of "soul food." Soul food is food cooked with love, intent, intuition, and a sense of history. It is a living prayer and celebration, and has much to teach. Although the individual rituals and customs may vary, all these traditions have several things in common. First, they recognize that food is far more than mere fuel for the body; it also sustains the soul. Second, they believe in the mindful planning, preparation, and consumption of food. Third, they insist on the necessity to give thanks for the food we eat. Most of them also sanctify the ritual of eating together in groups - whether of friends or family.
Until the twentieth century, the hearth had always been the center of the home, It was the kitchen center around which the family kept warm, fed itself, and discussed the day's work. At day's end, family members gathered in the kitchen, preparing and eating their meals, praying, laughing, and planning.
an excerpt from Spirit of the Kitchen, by Jane Alexander
(2002 Watson-Guptill Publications)
All the great religions teach that food is a blessing from the Divine and should be treated with immense respect and gratitude. No religious Jewish, Christian, Hindu, Muslim or Buddhist family would dream of just tucking into a meal without saying a blessing and giving thanks. In China, food is considered to be a physical link between humans and the gods; beautifully prepared meals are given as a sacred offering on family alters. In the ayurvedic tradition of India, food is a spiritual science with precise prescriptions of how to prepare and eat food for physical, emotional, and spiritual well-being. In African-American culture there is the tradition of "soul food." Soul food is food cooked with love, intent, intuition, and a sense of history. It is a living prayer and celebration, and has much to teach. Although the individual rituals and customs may vary, all these traditions have several things in common. First, they recognize that food is far more than mere fuel for the body; it also sustains the soul. Second, they believe in the mindful planning, preparation, and consumption of food. Third, they insist on the necessity to give thanks for the food we eat. Most of them also sanctify the ritual of eating together in groups - whether of friends or family.
Until the twentieth century, the hearth had always been the center of the home, It was the kitchen center around which the family kept warm, fed itself, and discussed the day's work. At day's end, family members gathered in the kitchen, preparing and eating their meals, praying, laughing, and planning.
an excerpt from Spirit of the Kitchen, by Jane Alexander
(2002 Watson-Guptill Publications)
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Do-o-Raku
Do-o is the Japanese equivalent of the Chinese word Tao, the order of nature. Raku means "enjoyment". To enjoy Tao (to live with appreciation all the time, wherever we are) is Do-o-Raku. When we are aware of nature's impartial and absolute justice, we know there is nothing to worry about. In Lin Chi's words: "At one stroke I forgot all my knowledge! There's no need for any discipline; for, move as I will, I always manifest the Tao!" When we see this, we can begin to enjoy our lives fully, by distributing infinite joy and thankfulness to everyone we meet.
Interestingly, Do-o-Raku also means "hobby". So we can say that Do-o-Raku means to live our life as a hobby - which is what it is! Anything we do is a game. It does not matter if we "fail" or "succeed". Such an understanding is Nirvana - eternal peace. In the words of Paramahansa Yogananda: "Do not take life's experiences too seriously . . . for in reality they are nothing but dream experiences. Play your part in life, but never forget that it is only a role."
To live in perpetual ecstatic delight is Do-o-Raku. Those who do so are called Do-o-Raku-Mono. If you are Do-o-Raku-Mono, you are Macrobiotic, whatever you eat.
from Macrobiotics: An Invitation To Health And Happiness, by George Ohsawa
Interestingly, Do-o-Raku also means "hobby". So we can say that Do-o-Raku means to live our life as a hobby - which is what it is! Anything we do is a game. It does not matter if we "fail" or "succeed". Such an understanding is Nirvana - eternal peace. In the words of Paramahansa Yogananda: "Do not take life's experiences too seriously . . . for in reality they are nothing but dream experiences. Play your part in life, but never forget that it is only a role."
To live in perpetual ecstatic delight is Do-o-Raku. Those who do so are called Do-o-Raku-Mono. If you are Do-o-Raku-Mono, you are Macrobiotic, whatever you eat.
from Macrobiotics: An Invitation To Health And Happiness, by George Ohsawa
Saturday, June 19, 2010
The Metabolic Power of Story
an excerpt from The Slow Down Diet, by Marc David
It only takes a moment for metabolism to rearrange itself in response to our story. Recall a time when you were feeling low energy or low metabolism and an unexpected visitor or phone call instantly lifted your spirits. That person or message had a certain meaning for you, put a positive and inspiring spin on your story of the moment, which in turn spun your subatomic particles in just the right way to activate your inner feel-good pharmacy. We can invoke this same matabolic magic by rewriting our stories in any given moment and bringing the happy ending we've always hoped for into present time.
It only takes a moment for metabolism to rearrange itself in response to our story. Recall a time when you were feeling low energy or low metabolism and an unexpected visitor or phone call instantly lifted your spirits. That person or message had a certain meaning for you, put a positive and inspiring spin on your story of the moment, which in turn spun your subatomic particles in just the right way to activate your inner feel-good pharmacy. We can invoke this same matabolic magic by rewriting our stories in any given moment and bringing the happy ending we've always hoped for into present time.
Cooking Makes Cleaning Possible, Cleaning Makes Cooking Possible
an excerpt from Tassajara Cooking, by Edward Espe Brown
Being Good Friends
"All students should be like milk and water. We are all friends from our past lives." - Suzuki-roshi
Cooking makes cleaning possible, cleaning makes cooking possible. It's all the same when we are good friends with ourselves and with the world around us. To help us be good friends with ourselves and with others, with rice and cabbages, with posts and pans, we may need some rules:
Clean as you go.
Being good friends with the knives, clean and replace them in the knife rack after use.
Being good friends with the sponge, rinse and wring it out; with the towels, fold and hang them up, and wash when dirty, or before.
Being good friends with the counter, wipe it after use, and scrub sometimes; with the floor, sweep and mop. Get into the corners, and when you're done, stand the broom on end or hang it on a hook. After cleaning a greasy floor, sprinkle some salt where it's still slippery.
Being good friends with the dish sponge, don't use it on the floor. Use the dish towel for dishes, and have another for face and hands.
Being good friends with the scraps and trimmings, make some stock.
Clean the sinks! Clear the drains!
Be friends with your friends.
Being Good Friends
"All students should be like milk and water. We are all friends from our past lives." - Suzuki-roshi
Cooking makes cleaning possible, cleaning makes cooking possible. It's all the same when we are good friends with ourselves and with the world around us. To help us be good friends with ourselves and with others, with rice and cabbages, with posts and pans, we may need some rules:
Clean as you go.
Being good friends with the knives, clean and replace them in the knife rack after use.
Being good friends with the sponge, rinse and wring it out; with the towels, fold and hang them up, and wash when dirty, or before.
Being good friends with the counter, wipe it after use, and scrub sometimes; with the floor, sweep and mop. Get into the corners, and when you're done, stand the broom on end or hang it on a hook. After cleaning a greasy floor, sprinkle some salt where it's still slippery.
Being good friends with the dish sponge, don't use it on the floor. Use the dish towel for dishes, and have another for face and hands.
Being good friends with the scraps and trimmings, make some stock.
Clean the sinks! Clear the drains!
Be friends with your friends.
* * *
Blessings.
You're on your own.
Together with everything.
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