Growing up Catholic in America my ideas about monks centered around what I had surmised from books and movies. They lived in drafty and damp seclusion usually in 12th century monasteries, even in America. They were called Father, Brother or Friar and wore hair shirts and equally scratchy brown sack tunics tied at the waist with a rope. They all had Moe Howard haircuts, sang Gregorian chants quite well and made some pretty darn good champagne.
The unbelievable lightness of being
March 25, 2012 By | 12 CommentsFor months I had been in a state of dis-ease with my Buddhist practice, wondering where my beliefs fit into my life and what I held as dear.
Love the one you’re with
February 13, 2012 By | 9 CommentsI sank into the massage table, every cell of me ready to be pummeled and coaxed into relaxation. Since this was my first visit to Russell I made sure to tell him I like a very deep massage. Placing his hands on my back, he said he knew why I liked it rough: my body felt like petrified wood.
Oh, that can’t be good.
Coasting towards Samadhi
August 30, 2011 By | 6 CommentsI was this close to nibbana. Really, I was. This past weekend I had the blissed out experience of being on retreat. I sat and walked and ate with mindful awareness on my breath and the arisings and fallings within me. Ven. Bhikkhu Sona, the abbott of Birken Forest Monastery near Kamloops, BC, came down […]
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