The Immaculate Kitchen

I knew a man who longed for contemplation.

He told me he intended to move to a monastery in a remote place. Up north. He pointed with his thumb, up.

He told me contemplation was one of the foundations of deeper spirituality.

It was mysticism. He would go to the remote Catholic monastery and develop a practice of contemplation as a response to this crazy world.

A few years later I saw him again and he was so angry. I said, how was the monastery? Was it in remote mountains by a hot spring? Was it by the sea with seagulls crying above the surf? Did you eat simple meals in silence?

He said “No. When I joined the monastery I found the same politics there I was running from everywhere else. The power struggles. The big egos. The same bullshit was there that is everywhere else.”

He was mad. It was a tremendous letdown.

…

-Are you compassionate? I ask myself.

Are you in your monastery, and is the same shit there that is everywhere else?

If so, I tell myself to take the next step.

What is that next step, anyway?

Be compassionate, I remind myself. (You are compassionate, whether you know it or not. It’s a capacity, a potential. It’s available.)

Ask what’s important. Forgive, I say to myself. Be forgiven. (It hurts so bad!)

Put people first- (on a trial and error basis- because I am human.)

****

Once I went to Orr Hot Springs and stayed overnight. It’s in a pocket of a canyon up in the mountains. Lovely.

You bring your own food and they have a kitchen there that is famous. It’s immaculate.

New shiny steel prep areas and refrigerators and a massive oven. You’re supposed to go there and make gourmet vegetarian meals yourself. And stay in the Japanese -style hostel overnight.

So I brought my yogurt and whatnot.

I just made myself yogurt and granola because, what I know about cooking?

So I gathered my stuff after breakfast and left a little drop of my corner-store yogurt on the prep counter.

All around me ex- hippies were making tofu stir fries and baking banana bread. Amazing.

So I left, but when I returned hours later after the kitchen closed and was cleaned and empty and the hippies were soaking in the hot spring, I looked at the counter of the immaculate kitchen and my little drop of yogurt I dripped was still there.

In the immaculate hippy kitchen all had been perfectly cleaned to zen perfection including and/or except my little tiny yogurt mess. It was about the size of a dime, but stood out on the counter like a cymbal dropped during a silent part of a symphony.

For me to, hopefully, return and clean up.

I have to laugh: I’m still suffering. I’ve made a mess. It’s the same shit everywhere. It hurts so bad! It’s as true today as ever.

That’s like my mantra.

There’s a moral here somewhere for me.

****

The life of compassion is not easy. We bring ourselves, and wait a minute, who keeps leaving their coffee cup on the table?

For crying out loud please pick up your coffee cup.

And remember compassion.

And what is important.

I say to myself.

I love you, fellow human beings. Have a nice day, by that I mean a beautiful day of peace and fulfillment.

And the coffee cup? I may or may not pick it up.

Work in progress, let’s say.

***

Everyday Life in an Ancient World

I went to an energy work thing once and the clairvoyant said do you have a thing for the gospels? Because you might have been back there then.

Maybe. I do know that the disciples, of a certain ancient religious order I won’t name, the men and women who belonged to it, did not get along very well.

The women bugged the men, because the women were actually better at it, and the men were in disputes over who should be in charge after the Lord, um, left. And a lot of further details still had to be worked out.

There were two leaders, after the ladies were shown the door.

And one leader was tougher than the nice traditional leader who they called “Beloved” or sometimes just “His Brother.”

“Beloved” was also shown the door- this was during the terrible uprisings in the world at the time.

So in my life, in my work, in my country, I see bitter disputes, and I of course jump right in, and then I stop.

And I look around and wonder.

What?

What do we do now?

****

Back in the days of no comfortable sandals, disputes were resolved in an ambiguous way.

We dined together. Said prayers. Glowered at each other. Muttered from The Sayings, with a certain tone of voice.

Pass the bread. I’ll have some more wine.

But I noticed that the Lord slept so well at night.

He’d get up, yawn and stretch and smile and say:

“Good morning, my beloved brothers and sisters!”

Not sure how he did that. It’s kind of a Miracle, if you really think about it.

So maybe I’ll practice that.

Good morning my beloved brothers and sisters.

Oy. That was weak. But it’s a beginning.

jk