yifa

Venerable Yifa is the hawk of the Fo Guang Shan animal kingdom. She founded the Woodenfish program, and, before we met her, was something of a whispered-about legend. My friend who participated in the program last year didn’t tell me much about it, in the hopes that I would keep my mind clear of preconceptions and expectations—but she did tell me one thing. Watch out for Yifa.

She has the ferocity of either a woman who has spent her entire life standing up for herself—or a lawyer. She happens to be both. The first time we met her was during a “talk session”—one of our evening post-dinner classes, so to speak. Expecting a very tall, powerful figure, I almost laughed out loud when she walked in. She is tiny, about 4 feet three inches tall, but stout, like a resilient tree stump (her brown robes didn’t help this image) that refuses to be uprooted by the wild winds around her when the rest of the forest has fallen.

She invited the staff to sit with her at the front, and spent the first hour of her talk asking each one of us where we were from, why we were here, and where we expected to go. Within moments she had us laughing with her wicked and inappropriate humor.

“So many of you say you are lost, you don’t know what to do with your life. You have no job. But you are smart. Do what I did. Create your own job!” She grins toothily at us. “I didn’t have a job. I saw an opportunity. Woodenfish is my job now. And it pays nice. Easy!”

She looked around at all of us. “A lot of you came here with expectations. You already had ideas about what you will be doing here. Let me tell you a story.”

We all exchange glances with knowing smiles. We’ve already come to look forward to and love the venerables’ stories.

“One day a scholar visited a Zen master. The scholar was knowledgeable , no doubt, but he thought his knowledge enough. He lacked humility. His mind was not open.

The Zen master offered him some tea. The scholar accepted, though his cup was already mostly full. The master tipped the teapot and poured the tea, and did not stop, even when the cup was full. It overflowed onto the table. Still, he kept pouring. The scholar gave a shout. ‘Why did you do that?!?’

The master smiled. ‘You came to me with your head full of thoughts, ideas, assumptions, yet you want to learn from me. My tea is very good, but how can I share my tea with you when your cup is already full?’”

Yifa smiled at us. “Empty your cup. Open your minds. If you do those things, the time you spend here will not have been wasted. I promise you that.”

***

In one of our lectures with Yifa, we managed to touch on the subject of love. I tipped my head up from my mindless doodles, suddenly interested. I had been having a discussion earlier with my roommate about how Yifa was decidedly un-nun-like. We’d had a good laugh trying to picture her with normal hair, with normal clothes on, walking around in the city.

All of the monastics had such fascinating stories, and I still wish we’d had more time with each of them to hear their personal accounts and stories about why they joined the order. The one I was most interested in was Yifa, probably because I identified the most with her. How could such a firecracker find the minimalist (and unsuitably quiet) life of a monastic appealing?

She looked around. “People always ask, ‘Yifa, what about love? You say there is joy in monastic life. But there is so much joy in love too. Can you really deny that?’

But I am much too lazy for that. Having to decide what to wear, how to do your hair. Relationships are a lot of work. ‘There is joy in love,’ they say.

I say, 'you think I don’t know that?'”

As she gives us a wry smile, and we chuckle, I finally see a bit of emotion on her usually stoic face.

***

“So now I have a serious question. Master Huei-feng has been inundating you with rules. How does this feel? Restrictive? Liberating?” We all look at her with nervous smiles. “Let me tell you something.

Some people don’t like New York. Okay, maybe only old people like me. Young people, like you, like it. But I don’t. Too much noise. Too much crime.”

Her beady eyes twinkled.

“But when I fly above, in an airplane, it is beautiful. So many pretty lights. I like New York from the sky.

So you see, I think about life like this. Some things you may not like. But everything has a purpose. Everything and every life is beautiful. Sometimes you just need to have the right perspective to see it.”

I smiled to myself. Not only because of what this word, perspective, means to me—or because of the truth and wisdom in her words. I smiled because I quite agree with Yifa.

There really is nothing quite like the view from an airplane.

day three

The past three days have been a whirlwind.

The first was much about rules, etiquette—that in and of itself was overwhelming and had me wondering whether this was a good decision after all.
Bowing, prostrations, lining up, walking meditation. Even eating is an exacting process. Meals are taken in complete silence. All you can hear is the tinkling of hundreds of pairs of metal chopsticks, like a chorus of thousands of tiny silver bells.


I can’t decide what my favorite part of the day is—the ones in air conditioned rooms are at the top of the list. Meditation time is very relaxing and fulfilling. We had our first real lesson today. I am finding it relatively easy to make my mind shut up, at least relatively well---either that or waking up at 5:30 every morning has made me too tired to think. I may even be falling asleep without realizing it (no wonder it seems so restful!) but who knows.

I also really like mealtimes (I hope we’re not surprised—this is me we’re talking about.) The ritualistic-ness and the fact that you are literally eating with about a thousand other people is pretty unique to this experience. Not to mention I’ve actually thought ‘I want more meat’ at times before realizing that what I really want is some sort of soy meat substitute. I am used to the “don’t ask, just eat” policy that Asian food demands, so I try not to think about it. It tastes so good that I know better than to ask questions.

The flies are pestilential, however. In their 48 hours of life they somehow figure out that the dining hall is a bangin' place to be, and they’re right. No place better for a fly than a dining hall where people actually aren’t allowed kill you.


They’re not completely awful, and they don’t bite like the awful black flies in India do. They still have an irritating habit, however, of coming over to sniff you out at the worst possible times. During meditation, for example, they have a tendency to take particular interest in your nose and other similarly ticklish places.

I had a rather interesting epiphany, though. I had finished my meal and had set my bowls, plate, and chopsticks just so, in the necessary arrangement. Two flies landed on my chopsticks and began to comb them, crawling all along their length, seeking out the small morsels that had been left behind. And as hard as I had tried to listen to Master Hueifeng and not leave a single grain of rice, there were some things I couldn’t catch—and my little friends had found it.

I smiled to myself, and a droplet of the wisdom that had been showered on me since I arrived sank into my skin. We tend to think of some things with such narrow minds. Flies are pests, weeds kill. But a weed is a plant. Even flies have a purpose. Everything does something good, has its place. I just hadn’t really concretely thought about it that way before.

After dinner, I let them dance their way over my plate when I’d finished. During the evening meditation, I let one alight on me and it fluttered its way over my hand, playfully inspecting the wrinkles on my knuckles and the spaces between my fingers, its tickling bringing a smile to my face.

day one

I haven’t done a very good job of keeping a log thus far, but there’s no time like the present to start. I will attempt to redeem myself.

Despite the plane fiasco, I got on my flight out of LA at around 2 in the morning. I was seated next to an Asian kid who immediately struck up a conversation with me. He was a Stanford-bound freshman, and so full of nervous bubbly excitement and uncertainty that I smiled wistfully. I remember being there as though it was yesterday.

We discussed our feelings of lack of direction. He taught me a little bit of Chinese, and answered my questions about the infinitely confusing characters on the tray table and headrest cloth. His nervousness about riding a plane for 13 hours was very obvious, and I did my best to stay up and keep him company—meaning I stayed up for about 50 minutes and passed out for the rest of the flight. I tried, but planes always put me to sleep.

Blink, and I’m in the bowels of the slumbering giant also known as the Beijing airport—at around 4 am. As we land, I ask my Stanford friend, “Is that fog?” He shakes his head with a knowing grin. “Smog.”

It is completely deserted--we are the first arriving flight of the day. The employees who are chattering to each other in small groups, clutching their coffees, stare blearily at the odd foreigner, almost as though it’s too early for the sight. I got a little lost—one person pointed me towards domestic passport control for my entrance into Taiwan, and another to international. Even the airport staff are split on it, I guess. The customs officers yawn as they stamp our passports, barely giving them a glance.



The blood red sun slowly, painstakingly clambered over the smog as I settled myself near on a bench with a book.

Blink again, I’m on my flight into Taipei. They upgraded me to business class. I watch Bride Wars and eat a remarkably good omelette with ham. I look around and notice that I am the only woman in business class. I also notice that I am not the only foreigner—a rather cute white guy is sitting on the other side.

Blink, I’m at baggage claim, picking up my imp of a suitcase. I’m on my way to find the shuttle I need to be on when said cute guy approaches me and asks if I’m going to the monastery. I now have a 6 foot 3, blonde, Northern Californian turned Oxford-bound rugby playing travel buddy.

Things are looking up.



Another blink and my travel buddy and I are on the train. I’ve found out that he likes international studies, dark chocolate, Guinness, and reading. We spent the train ride mostly in silence, broken by the occasional comment—him buried in a book and me watching miles and miles of flooded rice paddies fly by.

Finally, we arrive. We grab our last supper of meat at a burger place in the train station and are bused in a group from there to the monastery. It is nestled at the foot of the mountains—their silhouettes are visible in the distance, giant sentinels standing watch. I have time for a quick shower and then bed. As I unzip my suitcase I smile to myself.

Here we go.

there was a time when my world was filled with darkness...

I have been so absent from this! And for that, I apologize. I'm going through one of those phases right now where I'm not really in the mood to write.

Where have I been you ask?

Well, many places. But first and foremost, I took a little sojourn in San Francisco.












Now I never thought I'd admit that I liked Northern California. Like most people tend to do, I'd had preconceived ideas about the place I was going to because of my opinions of the people I'd met who were from there. I can usually prevent myself from thinking that way, but I must admit that this time I succumbed to short-sightedness.

It happens to the best of us.

One of my best friends always said that I belonged there. That I should have gone to Berkeley. That I would love it. And I never really understood what she meant until now. I'd been to the city when I was about seven years old, but I didn't really remember anything about it.

Something about it. I'm very with miss Elizabeth from Eat, Pray, Love when she says that each city has a word that sums it up perfectly. New York? Success. Los Angeles? Play. Las Vegas? Sin.



I've spent a lot of time thinking about it, and I think San Francisco's word is Bohemian. The word itself seems inadequate but I can't think of anything else that encompasses as well the radical sense of style, the pure art of the city. It's a humming hub of culture and as a city it's always pushing its boundaries--I feel like nothing's too crazy for San Francisco (LA is crazy too, but there is a very big difference between the ways in which they're wild and out-there).




Usually I'm also partial to warm weather, but somehow things worked out in San Francisco. It's such a part of the city's charm that I almost didn't notice. Then again, I find myself wishing for rain and cloud so much lately that it may just be that my weather preferences are changing.

I almost miss that crisp, cool air--but then I remember the feeling we got driving back into LA. When we hit Lancaster we opened up the sunroof and looked out at the billions of stars flying by. It may have been yet untouched by the LA light pollution, but there was that LA smell, the tang of LA air that you just don't get anywhere else and I felt overwhelmed with the sensation of being home.



At any rate, I had a fantastic time. Thinking about living there at some point. Even though it may be a little too hip for me. Though I feel that's just my perception of the city because we spent so much time in the Mission.

Still not my favorite city, food-wise, however. I have yet to find an American city that can beat out LA. My binges on all my favorite foods in the critical window of last week before I left have only solidified that point for me.






Guess the real test will be my trip to New York in September. Bring it, East Coast! If your doppelganger over here on the west side couldn't do it, I'll betcha you can't.




At any rate, that's where I was for a little while. Otherwise, I was working (have to make the money that I spend on culinary delights somehow, right?) And now I am leaving again. It pains me to see how patchy the attention this blog is getting has been.

But I promise it will get better! I will undoubtedly be writing a ton while I am in Taiwan (my goal while I am there is to write something publish worthy--if not a full novel then at least a novella or the start of one. Think of it as a very compressed NaNoWriMo.) I'm still not sure how much time I'm going to have to write on the side but hopefully it will be ample. I won't have wireless so this blog won't see any action while I'm there (or if it does it will be very short, and hopefully very sweet). However, I am going to be at the bare minimum writing in my journal, and I am planning to update and backdate all of my entries chronologically. So it will, by the end of this, look like I'd never left. :)


I think this is good. I need this. Even though everything in my life is going great right now, and it actually almost pains me to leave because I am so happy with the way things are, this will be good for me. Though it's all good now, there are still things that I need to figure out. I still have things to think about. My original reason for doing this has somewhat disappeared, but several new ones have arisen. Besides, it is always nice to have some peace and space to breathe.

I hate to leave, but I'll appreciate it even more when I'm back. The butterflies are here, fluttering around my stomach, they're the best kind of butterflies--the ones you get when you're going on a new adventure, by yourself, with no idea what's coming. I've only had these butterflies a few times before and I treasure their presence now more than I treasure any other's.


My plane is here, my train is here.

Picking me up off the ground and carrying me somewhere new.

beauty hides in the deep...

Sorry for my lack of attention to this. I have been downloading a lot of music lately, and my poor little imp of a computer won't tolerate anything else happening while music is being streamed. It gets worn out easily, poor thing.

I am finally working again. Thank god. I never realized how ugly unemployment looked on me. That was the first extended period of time for over four years that I haven't had a job (or at least something else to do in the meantime, like pretending to be a student) and I sort of went crazy without even noticing. I thought I was relaxed enough of a person to be okay with doing nothing. In periods of intense-busy-ness, I go out of my way to take an hour or two during the day to specifically do nothing. But doing nothing all the time? For me, unhealthy. Once again I prove myself to be such a Capricorn.

No bueno.



But thankfully that turned around.

And now that I am happily working and trotting over to Judi's Deli every day for lunch, drinking in the delights of working in the hustle and bustle of skyscrapers and business and traffic and noise, I feel a little bit more at peace, a little bit more normal. It's sort of bringing me back to last summer, in a way--minus the whole not-knowing-the-language-living-in-a-foreign-city-doing-intense-legal-work thing.

It's bringing me back because I'm still exploring. One of the things I love about Los Angeles is that I could spend every second of my life exploring this, wonderful, amorphous city and I would still never finish.

Every second of every day, I fall more and more in love with LA.

Even when I have shouting matches with people who are driving and texting and almost kill me. Even when 70 year old men hit on me all 12 floors up on the elevator. Even when the bus driver determinedly looks the other way as I bang on the door of the bus, running fruitlessly after it as it pulls away.

Even when most of the people who make LA the sentimental place that it is for me, are gone for some reason or another. I make my way, I put one foot in front of the other.

Just me and the city. We're becoming even better friends, she and I.

What with all this time we're spending together and all.



So today was July 4th. Some sort of independence schtick or other. I was still recovering from celebrating Canada Day on the 1st.

Har har, but really, I had a very lovely time. I went over to a friend's and indulged in the best, most extravagant meal I've had in quite some time. Then there were cherries and cupcakes enjoyed while in the jacuzzi, then we walked over to the park to see the fireworks.

They were lovely.



Now, being your resident firework enthusiast, this brought back an important memory for me. Two years ago, today, I was flying on a plane into LA. I had been in Canada for a short period of time to visit my father.

The plane was landing, and the blanket of lights unfurled itself at the edge of my window--a sight that always makes my heart warm and tingly, and pulls the corners of my mouth into a huge grin. But on the 4th, as I was landing in the night, I saw hundreds of thousands of new lights among the pale yellow. The bright spurts of red, blue, purple, green. I saw fireworks going off all over the city, hanging just above it, suspended in midair, like low flying shooting stars.

It was one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen. And not the kind of thing that most people get the chance to see, unfortunately. It was one of those alignments of space and time that let you glimpse something so unique, so incredible.


So for now, that is my project. I've been thinking about doing it for a while--now it is going to come to fruition. I am compiling a list of what, to date, were the best, most memorable moments of my life. I have had many of them, so, so, so many. And being someone who is somewhat in love with the ordinary, that means that I have so many more moments that I consider extraordinary just because of the simplicity of them, or purely because of the people I was with--not because of what I happened to be doing, or whatever.

So I will try to keep them things that most people do not know I have experienced, would not have expected me to have experienced, or would not normally have experienced in the normal course of things. The most vivid images that I have of my past. The moments in my life that have defined me, or changed me.

This obviously will not happen all at once - I may start with a large chunk of them, but for me the more time I spend sifting through my memory, the more things I find, the more things blindside me as days go by, and I wonder how I ever locked those memories away, because they were so wonderful.

For me, this isn't so much going through, dwelling on, or living in the past. It's just going through and picking out the gems, the pretty little moments that I've glossed over and forgotten. The little bits and pieces that could be trapped in amber and kept for darker times.

Just give me moments. Not hours or days.

So keep your eyes open for that. Coming soon.