tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-149919212024-03-04T22:24:20.880-08:00mangolandiaankurbhai wandering the mango trailankurbhaihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02906586841662842912noreply@blogger.comBlogger233125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14991921.post-92133500846244929892008-11-15T21:45:00.001-08:002008-11-15T21:45:49.895-08:00technical information about chaplaincypart of what we do is called the "ministry of presence".<br><br>i like that.<br><br>i'm trying to move the building over to <a href="http://mangolandia.org">mangolandia.org</a><br><br>to consolidate and so on. so if you check here, and could figure out a way to check there, that would be great. there are a few different categories. i'm still figuring out the technology.<br> <br>let me know if you have any suggestions<br><br>ankurbhai at mangolandia dot org<br><br>one love<br>ankur<br> ankurbhaihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02906586841662842912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14991921.post-5947822897420350872008-11-15T20:46:00.001-08:002008-11-15T20:46:38.583-08:00a note from denali in ahmedabad...and second, from the book, For a Pagan Song, by Jonny Bealby, which i<br>found on the shelf in the ashram house and read.. a guy's account of<br>his journey from rajasthan thru pakistan to northern afghganistan<br>following the trail of some rudyard kipling characters, searching for<br>the last non-islamic pagan tribes of the remote northern mountains.<br>very well written. he went just as the taliban was about to take<br>power, too. this is from the first chapter, where he is on a train<br>across rajasthan which mysteriously stops, he sees a lot of nervous<br>chattering among the train officials, and the train backs up a half<br>mile to find the body of a guy who fell asleep in the door, then fell<br>out and split his head open. after a furious debate between the<br>conductor who says it's bad luck to bring the body on the train, and<br>the TC, who argues that after all he has a valid ticket to jodhpur<br>still in his pocket, so he ought to be entitled to use it even if he's<br>dead. plus, he might have a wife waiting for him. the TC wins, and<br>he is plunked back in a seat until jodhpur. this prompts our author<br>to say:<p>*<br>But that's India- anything can happen and usually does. As one fellow<br>traveler put it to me: "It's the only place on the planet where<br>everything that has ever happened in the history of the world is<br>happening every minute of every day, right under your nose." He's<br>right. I mean where else could I have watched a cow casually give<br>birth in the middle of a three-lane inner-city ring road or seen<br>vultures swoop to pick the flesh of recently deceased humans? Where<br>else could I have observed a camel wandering the streets under a<br>mountain of straw while being shaved by a blind man on the pavement?<br>And where indeed at 3 in the morning after a riotous midnight dinner<br>could I have abandoned my dangerously drunk taxi driver in favour of<br>an enourmous elephant called Rubkali with "STOP-HORN PLEASE!" painted<br>across her arse? Though not always pleasant, travelling here is about<br>ten times more intense than anywhere else I've been; a vitality<br>unmatchable.<br>*ankurbhaihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02906586841662842912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14991921.post-65008296222499673842008-11-14T14:33:00.001-08:002008-11-14T14:33:21.935-08:00pivotal moments in chaplaincy: for the love of the dharmaPivotal Moments #1<br><br>It's out there, in a Fine Balance, somewhere:<br>An abusive cop<br>Beating our heroes<br>and taking bribes<br>besides.<br>Just to get lessons<br>for his daughter to play<br>the violin<br><br>Which of my luxuries<br> rest on terror?<br><br>Waves of great comfort<br>Lightness of load<br>When I get it,<br>there is no away from it.<br><br>We are made of violence,<br>and it's the suffering that binds us<br>together<br><br><br>Pivotal Moments #2<br> <br>In the movie about sacred trust<br>and patients falling in love with their pastors<br>One monk, she said,<br>"they think they are in love with me,<br>but really it's the dharma they see"<br><br>Afterwards, after words<br> and silence besides,<br><br>I said without thinking --<br>"Do you think we ever really love each other,<br>or are we always in love with the dharma?"<br><br>She thought without saying --<br>"Now let's not think on this one..."<br> <br>Then said to me, tearing --<br>"When I learned<br>as a child<br>that our fingerprints are all different,<br>I felt so incredibly alone."<br> ankurbhaihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02906586841662842912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14991921.post-25132789714080815022008-11-11T08:40:00.001-08:002008-11-11T08:40:43.349-08:00pilgrimage reductionas an ode to reconstructing education, i'm here in the house of my highschoolenglishteacher, amidst the wind and the fury of a port city extended gingerly on the quimper peninsula. there are sleeping dogs and humans upstairs and my body pulses warm from yoga and delicious hot water. we worked for 10 hours yesterday, going over the "sometimes we walk alone" manuscript with shears and curiosity, melting pats of better and looking out for the confused reader. we got through 10 days (of the 26) and have another four hours this morning before i hitchhike back to sequim to teach a four-course cooking class on squash. <div><br></div><div>ironic perhaps that the buses don't run on veterans' day, when most of the regular passengers out here seem to be down-and-out veterans.</div><div><br></div><div>but i'm always thankful for an armistice, and even hopeful this season to see a few more.</div> <div><br></div><div>last night, before we cooked dinner (pumpkin in a guajillo sauce, made into enchiladas) chris assigned me to take a chapter of the book and boil it down into a poem. a reduction he said. he's trying to speak my language, you see. so i tried -- the chapter was about an old man i met, 91 years old, who had met gandhi on the same road 76 years before, had his life changed, and spent the rest of it fighting for freedom, against the dictates of family and caste. i've probably posted that excerpt sometimes in the past.</div> <div><br></div><div>march 14th : matar : reduction</div><div>--------------------------------------------</div><div><br></div><div>This can't be real</div><div>Pilgrims are supposed to be hungry,</div><div> touching the feet of their elders,</div> <div>Hopeful, humble, invisible amidst the hubbub.</div><div><br></div><div>This can't be real</div><div>To walk into a foreign land</div><div>be trumpeted and garlanded</div><div>after long meditation on my unworthiness</div> <div><br></div><div>They take me to the statue.</div><div>They take me to the fair.</div><div>And they take me to our grandfather</div><div><br></div><div>In India, family is life.</div><div>J. gave up his life to begin it.</div> <div>To midwife a nation, besides</div><div><br></div><div>Beaten, tortured, and scorned</div><div>A shadow of a son's pain</div><div>of being a son, no longer,</div><div>to his father.</div><div><br></div><div>There's no turning back</div> <div>The future is jail,</div><div>struggle, revolution, triumph</div><div><br></div><div>As our grandfather defines ahimsa</div><div><br></div><div>----------------------------</div><div><br></div><div>That's the poem and if I could boil it down to a sentence it would be "I mean, God Damn!". But chris liked it and maybe wants to destroy the book and replace it with poetry. But he's just like that and we've both known it for years. He has a friend and colleague who saw life and everything else in Rwanda, came away with a book of poetry that includes a poem that includes some sayings he learned there, including</div> <div><br></div><div>"Let only laughter scar your face"</div><div><br></div><div>Which, I think, is even better than everything else.</div><div><br></div><div>love</div><div>ankur</div> ankurbhaihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02906586841662842912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14991921.post-48632652881498676742008-11-05T10:25:00.000-08:002008-11-05T10:27:24.624-08:00black president on line two. everyone appears to be psyched<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://punditkitchen.files.wordpress.com/2008/09/political-pictures-barack-obama-chill-out-got-this.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 350px;" src="http://punditkitchen.files.wordpress.com/2008/09/political-pictures-barack-obama-chill-out-got-this.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>ankurbhaihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02906586841662842912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14991921.post-17479160135037975962008-10-30T00:36:00.001-07:002008-11-05T10:27:45.319-08:00artists for ahimsaA note from Gandhiland to Mangoland. The famous Sonia de Otto, our dear sister, is holding a<br><br>"SynergicTraining Seminar for Artists of Ahimsa"<br><br>(<a href="http://www.somethingconstructive.net/public/owm_december_en.pdf">english </a>| <a href="http://www.somethingconstructive.net/public/owm_december_es.pdf">spanish</a>)<br> <br><a href="http://www.oraworldmanda.org">www.oraworldmanda.org</a><br><br>Like everything Sonia does, it should blow all of our minds. Do go if you happen to be in Gujarat this December...<br><br>~ ankur<br>ankurbhaihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02906586841662842912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14991921.post-30025266917937001882008-10-29T23:28:00.001-07:002008-10-29T23:28:31.534-07:00diwali greetingit's the indian new year, or one of them, and i don't particularly know what to do other than what my elders tell me. this time it was, predictably, calling my elders ("superiors") and asking for blessings. which i find altogether natural, so yesterday night and today my mother and i spent a couple hours on the phone dialing india and new jersey and california and texas, calling on uncles and aunts and flute teachers and cousins and jayeshbhais (mentors) and friends and brothers and sisters.<br> <br>it was incredible. pleasing. a rush. high. maybe from all the blessings. i had a vision of what hallmark, in its heart of hearts, beyond all the corporatism and commerce, is really aspiring towards. what if on national secretary appreciation day we really went and visited or called all the secretaries we ever knew, thanked them, and asked for their blessings and best wishes for the coming lunar year. lunacy. lunocracy. philocracy.<br> <br>getting closer.<br><br>there was some sadness too in the long dark house with the sliding doors pointed south towards snow-covered peaks. warm days and clear nights in late october (as predicted). it's gorgeous september weather. perfect for scything and coming home to mulled appled cider. my mom had lit a few candles after the cooking class calmed down and i realized only when going to bed that Diwali is the festival of lights and lighting a candle is an integral part of the ritual. i can only imagine the other parts. big feasts and visiting families, special dishes and all night dances. it's big news everytime i go to india, six months before and after the party. and here we had a couple of sad vanilla candles and no dancing and no drumming and no flirting and certainly no marriages being planned. to the relatives' collective dismay. <br> <br>so i recalled my cousin telling me it was only proper to make a "rangoli" (that is, a sort of intricate design) out of flowers, in the shape of an om, and place candles around and within it. so, in a desperate act of acculturation, i tenderly tore all the red flowers off my mother's only flowering houseplant, and assembled them into an anemic om on the checked tablecloth. with a vanilla candle a little to the left.<br> <br>we're all doing the best we can. at home and in the hospital. for the new year, the new light, and the new love.<br><br>i just saw a patient, slightly confused (we say "demented" in the hospital). he thought we were in portland and was reminiscing for that great harborview hospital back in seattle. he said his son just left a 5-10 year career in a national professional sports league and was now a chaplain. we should talk. and he loves gandhi. he even told me "I love that man. Gandhi has a big heart. Like a lion.". And he was proud "Most people follow [Gandhi's] philosophy, his theology. All the American Presidents. Like Martin Luther King Junior." <br> <br>I'd be proud, too. I'm proud that most people are into the Love if you have the angle light and the shimmering glare of ego and suffering don't blind you to what's really going on. I'm proud of the work everybody in this hospital is doing, proud of lovers driving each other to separation and partnership at airports, at comings and goings which reveal the strength of the ties below.<br> <br>Blessed are the filmmakers and the rappers (you'll see: <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Of5OJpEladg" target="_blank">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Of5OJpEladg</a>)<br>and<br>Blessed are those who cook for the <a href="http://neighborhoodcooking.org/" target="_blank">homeless </a>and the <a href="http://www.artofthetable.net/" target="_blank">winos</a><br> and<br>Blessed are those who <a href="http://www.mangolandia.org/b/wp-content/uploads/2008/10/gandhiji.jpg">imitate </a>the shadows and those who seek the flame.<br><br>After a short lifetime of worshiping the beauties of freedom and choice, independence and aspiration, I came yesterday face to face with the gorgeous surrender to duty. A woman thousands of miles away asked me to visit a friend of hers -- just because we're both in the same state, hours and busy schedules apart -- and I shocked myself at being So Damn Eager to perform the slightest service, to honor this woman who had treated me so well, took me in as a hungry son, taught me how to sort mangos. You get the idea. As Vanessa says in her yoga teacher training, "I stand ready to obey your least command".<br> <br>ready and willing here we are. festival of vanilla candles and wilted pink flowers. doing the best we can. a poem to end with, that i read earlier to the gentleman over there:<br><br>Messenger<br>(by Mary Oliver, from _Thirst_)<br> <br>My work is loving the world.<br>Here the sunflowers, there the hummingbird -- equal seekers of sweetness.<br>Here the quickening yeast; there the blue plums.<br>Here the clam deep in the speckled sand.<br><br>Are my boots old? Is my coat torn?<br> Am I no longer young, and still not half-perfect? Let me keep my mind on what matters,<br>which is my work,<br><br>which is mostly standing still and learning to be astonished.<br>The phoebe, the delphinium.<br>The sheep in the pasture, and the pasture.<br> Which is mostly rejoicing, since all the ingredients are here,<br><br>which is gratitude, to be given a mind and a heart and these body-clothes,<br>a mouth with which to give shouts of joy to the moth and the wren, to the sleepy dug-up clam,<br> telling them all, over and over, how it is that we live forever.<br><br>love<br>ankur<br> ankurbhaihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02906586841662842912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14991921.post-7810748741635937102008-10-17T14:27:00.001-07:002008-10-17T14:27:28.135-07:00a poem by becca hall<div dir="ltr"><meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"><meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"><meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 11"><meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 11"><link rel="File-List" href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5Cankurs%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtml1%5C02%5Cclip_filelist.xml"><style> <!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:Georgia; panose-1:2 4 5 2 5 4 5 2 3 3; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:roman; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:647 0 0 0 159 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style><span style="font-family: Georgia;"></span> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia;">SHOCK AND AWE</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia;"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia;">They declared war tonight. Already</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia;">guns assemble in that desert far away.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia;">And here where it is raining good California rain,</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia;">here where spring knocks at the ground's door,</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia;">eager, nervous, bringing flowers; here,</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia;">where the air swoons with roses, wearing jasmine</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia;">in her hair, I wish I could say to you, <i>Love me.</i></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia;"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia;">We've gone walking.<span style=""> </span>It is night.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia;">Street lights make hollows for the rain</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia;">to fall through, and even the cars</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia;">spray as gently as your hand would feel</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia;">in mine. But your hands are your own</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia;">and you have made them fists. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia;">One thing we agree – this night is no place </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia;">for war. The question: our part.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia;"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-family: Georgia;">Violence has its time</span></i><span style="font-family: Georgia;">, you say,</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia;">speaking I think of some righteous</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia;">revolution.<span style=""> </span><i>Everything its season.</i></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia;">I say, look at the buds just forming</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia;">on the thorn branch.<span style=""> </span>Look how we walk</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia;">as if we love each other.<span style=""> </span>How tender</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia;">the night is, each light a silver armful.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia;"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia;">All across the sidewalk the snails come,</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia;">woken by rain, leaving moon-trails</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia;">over the damp concrete, seeking each other.<span style=""> </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia;">They are so many, I cannot keep </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia;">from crushing them.<span style=""> </span>Their shells shatter</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia;">under each guilty, tender foot.</span></p> </div> ankurbhaihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02906586841662842912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14991921.post-66982240366556266782008-10-03T12:02:00.000-07:002008-10-03T12:03:00.975-07:00the prison/hospital/ashram contextThis morning I got to see a patient who needed medical care during her<br>time at the King County Jail. There's a hell of a story but the<br>important parts is that she is smart enough to be writing books about<br>her life instead of living it. She meditates when she's not too<br>connected to the vices to do so, so I'm going to bring her one of the<br>little books on meditation that Reverend Heng Sure gave me a few<br>months ago, at the Berkeley Buddhist Monastery. And then I remembered<br>this passage from Vinoba and couldn't help typing it up...<p>Prison Life<br>----------------<p>It was in jail that I experienced real Ashram life. All I had were a<br>few clothes, a tumbler and a bowl. What place could there be for<br>following the vow of 'non-possession'? Bathing, eating, working were<br>according to rule, going to bed and getting up by the bell -- a<br>perfectly regular life! One was not even allowed to fall ill! The vow<br>of control of the palate was practiced every day; even the Ashram was<br>not a better place for that. There was also plenty of time for thought<br>and reflection. So even the jail could be made a part of the spiritual<br>exercise of Ashram life.<p>I was even given a period of solitary confinement in a cell measuring<br>nine feet by eight. In one corner was a stone hand-mill and in another<br>an earthenware piss-pot. There was no work to do, no book to read, no<br>pencil or paper, no chance even to go out. It was enough to drive a<br>man mad.<p>However, I drew up a daily timetable for myself: ten hours for sleep,<br>two or three hours for meditation, about three hours for eating,<br>bathing etc., and eight hour for walking up and down. I covered at<br>least ten miles each day, reckoning my speed at about one and a half<br>miles an hour. As I walked I sang all the hymns I knew by heart.<p>Once I was pacing to and fro like this at about one o'clock at night,<br>engrossed in thought. The warder came on his rounds, and puzzled at<br>seeing me walking about, he knocked on the door. As I was completely<br>absorbed I failed to respond, and the poor man became alarmed. He came<br>in and shook me and asked me what was the matter. I tried to explain<br>what I was doing and what the fruits of such contemplation might be,<br>and he was very pleased. The very next day I receive a real boon - he<br>arranged for me to walk a short time daily in an open place.<p>I felt quite at ease in that cell. During the night I would meditate<br>for about three hours, and one of the warders, who noticed this, would<br>come and sit near me. One day he came with a lantern, and found that<br>my eyes were closed. After waiting for some time he said: 'Babuji, may<br>I speak to you?' I opened my eyes and he said: 'I am leaving tomorrow.<br>Please give me some teaching to guide me.' Seeing me sitting every day<br>with closed eyes he thought me some sadhu or yogi. So I gave him a few<br>suggestions to satisfy him, and he went away happily.<br>I was kept in that cell for fifteen days, and during that time I<br>realized the meaning of that verse in the Gita, which says: 'One who<br>sees non-action in action, and action in non-action, is truly an<br>enlightened being.' Finally, seeing that solitary confinement was no<br>hardship for me, the gaoler sent me back to the 'general ward', and<br>there too I felt equally happy.<p>In 1932 I was in Dhulia jail for six months. Many of my companions<br>there found jail life very dull, because they had not learned the art<br>of acceptance, and were feeling very rebellious. I decided that it was<br>my job to cheer them all up. There was no question of seeking pardon<br>or release from the Government, so I set to work to help them not to<br>lose heart, and to find some interest in life in jail.<p>During that time of imprisonment I had to take it on myself to control<br>all the political prisoners; conditions were such that if I had not<br>done so there would have been no discipline at all. They were bent<br>upon rebellion and would listen to nobody. There were about three<br>hundred of them, all 'freedom-fighters'. In my view, a solider of<br>freedom ought to do some bodily labour every day as part of the<br>discipline of freedom. The jail discipline was to require every<br>prisoner to grind thirty-five pounds of flour a day. I told the<br>authorities that these political prisoners would refuse to do such<br>work in obedience to an order, even if they were put in iron for<br>disobedience. 'Please don't insist on it,' I said. 'Instead, we will<br>voluntarily supply the whole prison with all the flour this needed,<br>and we will take responsibility for all the kitchen work also.' They<br>agreed to this proposal, so my next job was to tackle the prisoners.<br>Everyone, I said, ought to grind at least twenty-one pounds of flour<br>daily. They did not all agree at once because they suspected that I<br>might be letting them in for something which I would not do myself.<br>But when they saw me grinding, they all began to work<br>enthusiastically, old and young, seniors and juniors. They not only id<br>their own full quota, they ground also for the sick and the aged. As<br>we worked we talked, discussing ideas and extending our knowledge. The<br>place was no longer, a jail; it became an Ashram.<p><p>- Vinoba Bhave, from "Moved by Love"ankurbhaihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02906586841662842912noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14991921.post-20423144115031268412008-10-03T10:52:00.001-07:002008-10-03T10:52:27.942-07:00and with reference to the "new" financial crisis<div dir="ltr">doug henwood's book _wall street_ is now available online in it's entirety. it's the best anything i've read about the function of the modern financial markets. and well-written to boot.<br><br> you can support mr. henwood and download the book <a href="http://www.leftbusinessobserver.com/WSDownload.html">here</a>, and another copy of the pdf might even be magically attached to this post.<br><br>one world economy,<br> ankur<br> </div> ankurbhaihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02906586841662842912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14991921.post-4796051732889943412008-10-02T21:54:00.001-07:002008-10-02T21:54:57.697-07:00happy gandhi, birthday<div dir="ltr">The Guilty One (Pablo Neruda, from _The Hands of Day_)<br>-----------------------<br><br>I declare myself guilty of never having<br>fashioned, with these hands I was given,<br>a broom.<br><br>Why did I not make a broom?<br> <br>Why was I given hands at all?<br><br>What purpose did they serve<br>if I saw only the rumor of the grain,<br>if I had ears only for the wind<br>and did not gather the thread<br>of the broom,<br>still green on the earth,<br> and did not lay the tender stalks out to dry<br>and was not able to unite them<br>in a golden bundle<br>or attach a wooden cane<br>to the yellow skirt<br>so I had a broom to sweep the paths.<br><br>So it was:<br>I do not know how<br> I lived m life<br>without learning, without seeing,<br>without gathering and uniting<br>those elements.<br><br>At this hour I cannot deny<br>I had the time,<br>time,<br>but not the hands,<br>and so, how could I aspire<br> with my mind to greatness<br>and not be capable<br>of making<br>a broom,<br>not one,<br>one?<br><br>* * *<br><br>That's for you Gandhi. And for the importance of sweeping away the old egos that pile up within us, of purifying within and without, of joining hands "to raise the lowliest" and adopt the work we fear most. <br> <br>When I go back to Sequim in a couple of days, I will make a gift to accompany this poem. I will try to make a broom.<br></div> ankurbhaihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02906586841662842912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14991921.post-30379094953724778472008-10-02T21:50:00.001-07:002008-10-02T21:50:44.684-07:00the hands of the night<div dir="ltr">It's my second night in a row on call and the shell has begun to crack a little bit. I kind of knew this would happen so I gave notice at the farm earlier this week and in general am going to try to put my commitments on a crash diet (with the same implications -- they will revive immediately of course) so I can focus more on Chaplaincy. It's one month into the program and I feel very half-way.<br> <br>Half-way to nowhere and everywhere at once. The essence of the long-distance relationship. Or commute. Whatever. Three days in Seattle and two in Sequim the other two fall somewhere in between. And I feel half-captivated by this experience and half-repulsed by this environment; The hospital seems a whole lot less healthy than the mountains...<br> <br>But I'm committed, I know that much. Not in the psych-ward sense, necessarily, but in that I know there's a reason I'm swimming here in exploration, and I have no intention of calling the test off. It's fabulous getting to know the city and its people again, spending so much time around people so sick, so connected to AIDS and IV drug use, and long histories of sadness. I learn so much.<br> <br>Today I went to see a woman who didn't look like she would be going much further. She was small and dark black and frail and dying of abbreviations I haven't yet understood. And she wanted to pray and was laughing through the tubes in her face and had an ease (nothing dis- about it) of movement and smile and faith in the Good Lord. So we lifted our hearts in prayer to the Good Lord and I held her small hands in mind and she chorused every prayer I gave with hoots and hollers and hallelujah. I could feel the inspiration, had no idea what I was asking or thanking her Lord, but it just kept coming. A climactic AMEN at the end and shaking and shivering and she told right then she could FEEL the holy spirit. Feel it. And there she was, dying with the AIDS and everything, and perhaps more hopeful and confident than I have ever been. <br> <br>Those were the first hands of the night.<br>Then I went upstairs to follow-up with a patient from last night, a teacher recovering from a disastrous collision. He watched a friend die and we're talking about her upcoming memorial service. It's the first time I forgot to bring the flute and I finally meet someone who would really appreciate it. So I bring the copy Reed gave me of Neruda's _Hands of the Day_ and start reading, in English. The patient loves it, ignores the TV and closes his eyes, keeps asking me to read more. So we go through the stars and the guilt and the use of the days. As I leave he pulls my proffered hand down to the cot for a giant hug. No greater love, no greater mercy, no greater reward.<br> <br>And Neruda says:<br><br>"<br>O sun full of fingernails,<br>animal of gold, bumblebee,<br>sheepdog of the world,<br>forgive<br>our going astray,<br>we have arrived, we return,<br>we are already waiting<br>all together<br> in the corral of day.<br>Say we disobeyed that night,<br>say we left it to the sleep of the moon<br>to solve the mourning and the planets,<br>say we withdraw into ourselves,<br>into our own skin hungry<br>for love and a meal,<br> we again are<br>here<br>in the sheepfold,<br>obeying<br>your long spatulas of light,<br>your fingers that reach into everything,<br>your cohabitation of seed.<br><br>Soon everyone set about moving,<br>hurrying. Citizen,<br> the day is short and there the sun is like a bull<br>kicking in the sand:<br>hurry in search of your shovel,<br>your lever,<br>your kneading trough,<br>your thermometer,<br>your whistle,<br>your paintbrush or your scissors,<br> your plaster,<br>your freight elevator, your political bureau,<br>your potatoes at the market:<br>hurry, Ma'am, hurry<br>Mister,<br>over here, this way, put your hands to good use,<br>we are running out of daylight.<br> <br>The sun, with stakes, pierced joy,<br>hope, suffering,<br>it traveled from one side to the other with its rays<br>parceling out, attributing lands,<br>and everyone has to sweat<br>before it leaves<br>with its light for somewhere else<br> to begin and begin again,<br>while those on this side remained<br>motionless, sleeping<br>until Monday morning.<br clear="all">"<br> </div> ankurbhaihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02906586841662842912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14991921.post-36215327948847648802008-10-02T00:04:00.001-07:002008-10-02T00:04:20.227-07:00back at harborview<div dir="ltr">on the way here, on the commute (tending towards epic) across three buses, one ferry, and thirty blocks, i have been reading a book by richard seltzer entitled "letters to a young doctor". there's a lot going on with this older surgeon writing about the beauty and terror of the profession, but it's this passage that seems to mirror Vinoba that i'd like to share... a passage that, I would opine, is true for a great many people and professions outside of surgeons and surgery...<br> <br>"<br>It is so difficult for a surgeon to remain "unconscious," retaining the clarity of vision of childhood, to know and be secure in his ability, yet be unaware of his talents. It is almost impossible. There are all too many people around him paying obeisance, pandering, catering, beaming, lusting. Yet he must try.<br> <br>It is not enough to love your work. Love of work is a kind of self-indulgence. You must go beyond that. Better to perform endlessly, repetitiously, faithfully, the simplest acts, like trimming the toenails of an old man. By so doing, you will not say _Here I am_, but _Here It Is_. You will not announce your love but will store it up in the bodies of your pateitns to carry with them wherever they go.<br> <br>...<br><br>Alexander the Great had a slave whose sole responsibility was to whisper "Remeber, you are mortal" when he grew too arrogant. Pehraps every surgeon shold be assigned such a deflator. The surgeon is the mere instrument which the patient takes in his hand to heal himself. An operation, then, is a time of revelation, both physical and spiritual, when, for a little while, the secrets of the body aer set forth to be seen, to be touched, and the surgeon himself is laid open to Grace.<br> "<br><br><br>This bit about "love of your work" is what I've been so amazed by the few and true workers I've seen on this planet -- they have dissovled the boundaries between being and doing such that there appears to be no work, no worker. A prodigious ratio of happening to effort and worry. And it reminds me, too, of Gandhi's words about Vinoba -- how he could do so much, how he could do anything, because he let God shoulder all his burdens...<br> <br>Meanwhile, on the home front, I am still very slowly and carefully going about this learning, this work. There is a lot of subject and object going on here, like the first few times one uses a hoe, slow deliberate movements full of fear at killing a desired plant. It's full of too much unneeded weight and effort. It's full of missed spots, practical perspectival lacunae. I know the scene. Today I jumped a bit, sharpened my tools, by hanging out at a nurses station. Talking like a human being, joking and unstifled by my tie and office. We joked until I pulled out the on-call pager to show them the number, and it rang.<br> <br>So I went to see a gentleman who knew he wasn't yet feeling the trauma he experienced. And he was worried he would get surprised, blindsided and thrown into the water like the vehicle that hit him. I'm always so impressed. Impressed at the awareness of the patients -- the woman who asked me if she should commit suicide and immediately answered herself, knowing that God wouldn't approve, that her heart whispered "no". I'm so blessed to be there with these humans as they heal, as they heal deeply not just from their acute ailments, but from the years and memories and guilts and sorrows that have built up to throw them in this sterile beeping prison of compassion...<br> </div> ankurbhaihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02906586841662842912noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14991921.post-39156047176495168772008-10-01T23:48:00.001-07:002008-10-01T23:48:15.406-07:00a salutation, a namaste, of sorts<div dir="ltr">a friend sends me these lines from ezra pound:<br><div class="gmail_quote"><div dir="ltr"><div> <br>"<br></div> <div>O generation of the thoroughly smug<br>and thoroughly uncomfortable,<br>I have seen fishermen picnicking in the sun,<br>I have seen them with untidy families,<br>I have seen their smiles full of teeth<br>and heard ungainly laughter.<br> And I am happier than you are,<br>And they were happier than I am;<br>And the fish swim in the lake<br>and do not even own clothing.</div> <div>"<br><br></div></div></div><br> </div> ankurbhaihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02906586841662842912noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14991921.post-56267772846862734362008-09-24T22:31:00.001-07:002008-09-24T22:31:50.350-07:00still figuring out religion<div>It's my third week here as a chaplain at harborview. I'm still astounded by the beauty of their weapons, as l. cohen might say -- the bright lights and electronic equipment, the hundreds of calmly suffering patients, the intense amount of healing, the intense lack of healing.<br> <br>I'm blown away by the size of the project, the hospital in general, the mission to serve -- about all else -- the inmates of the county jails and the indigent and the non-english speaking poor, and all the rest of us that the statue of liberty still welcomes (i think). This place is a long way down the red road from "small steps" and "one person at a time". You can't have machine that bring back people's breathing and electrical currents with that kind of change. I think. Maybe.<br> <br>So that still says nothing about chaplaincy and this experience and that's probably because I feel too green to do anything. So instead I'm going to share some passages I've read in the past few weeks. Some offerings I shared with fellow chaplains and fellow patients, during prayers and reflections, ministries of presence and compassion. They all run together towards their true nature as one.<br> <br>That's perhaps the only surety I have in all this -- that separation from our true nature, our true nation, what I can, in my little jargon, the "One Love" -- is illness. And in that sense we are not well -- perhaps joyously and aware -- we are separated from our true selves, we are sick, we are in a giant late capitalist hospital. It's with that understanding that I record the gospel raps of brothers in the psych ward and hold the hands of recovering crack addicts crying about our future. It's only that handspun cord that makes all the shaking and tears and prayer make sense and not jumble.<br> <br>So there's that. Johnny Cash whistles in the background.<br><br>1) from Neruda's _Hands of Day_<br><br>From so many rough hands<br>descended the tool,<br>the wineglass,<br>even the famous curve<br>of the hip that then pursued<br> the whole woman with its design!<br><br>The hand that forms<br>the wineglass of the form,<br>it conveys the pregnancy of the barrel<br>and the lunar line of the bell.<br><br>I ask some mighty hands<br>to help me<br>change the profile of the planets:<br> triangular stars<br>the traveler needs:<br>constellations like cold dice<br>of square clarity:<br>those hands that extract<br>secret rivers fro Antofagasta<br>until the water rectifies<br>its avarice lost in the desert.<br> <br>I want all the hands of men<br>to knead mountains<br>of bread and to gather<br>all the fish from the sea,<br>all the olives<br>from the olive tree,<br>all the love not yet wakened<br>and to leave a gift<br>in each of the hands<br> of the day.<br><br><br>2) from Wendell Berry's _The Unsettling of America_<br><br>Some prominent agricultural economists are still finidng it possible to pretend that the only issues involved are economic, but that possiblity is diminishing. I recently attended a meeting at which an agricultural economist argued that there is no essential difference between owning and renting a farm. A farmer stood up in the audience and replied: "Professor, I don't think our ancestors came to Ameirca in order to <em>rent</em> a farm."</div> <div>'Nough said.</div> <div> </div> <div> </div> <div>3) from Brother Lawrence in 1666</div> <div> </div> <div>Having found in many books different methods of going to God, and divers practices of the spiritual life, I thought this woul serve rather to puzzle me than facilitate what I sought after, which was nothing but how to become wholly God's. This made me resovle to give the all for the all; so after having given myself wholly to God, that He might take away my sin, I renounced, for the love of Him, everthing that was not He, and I began to live as if there was none but He and I in the world. Sometimes I considered myself before Him as a poor criminal at the feet of his judge; at other times I beheld Him in my heart as my Father, as my God. I worshipped Him the oftenest that I could, keeping my mind in His holy presence, and recalling it as often as I found it wandered from Him. I found no small pain in this exercise, and yet I continued it, notwithstanding all the difficulties that occurred, without trobling or disquieting mself when my mind had wandered involuntarily. I made this my business as much all the day long as at the appointed times of prayer; for at all times, every hour, every minute, even in the height of my business, I drove away from my mind everything that was capable of interrupting my thought of God.</div> <div> </div> <div>4) from some Advaita text, possibly Sankara, quoted by Ken Wilber</div> <div> </div> <div>The world is illusory</div> <div>Brahman alone is real</div> <div>Brahman is the world</div> <div> </div> <div>*</div> <div> </div> <div>Not much explanation necessary, I think, but I'll step on that by pointing out I've come much further with Christianity understanding the talk of God in 3 as shorthand for the understanding so clearly present in 4; that is, that by considering ourselves in a universe that only includes me and god (atman and brahman) we are effectively considering everything we see, from the homeless woman in the hallway to a dysfunctional google calendar, to be god.</div> <div> </div> <div>And it's worth nothing that the instructions on meditation are, well, exact. That's all we need, really, if we can follow it.</div> <div> </div> <div>one love from the department of spiritual care,</div> <div>ankur</div> <div> </div> <div>ps to sign up for these updates, you can go to:</div> <div><a href="http://www.mangolandia.org/post_notification_header">http://www.mangolandia.org/post_notification_header</a></div> <div>and choose "ministry of presence"</div> ankurbhaihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02906586841662842912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14991921.post-39557821411234505992008-09-15T22:43:00.001-07:002008-09-15T22:43:06.914-07:00haymaker lisa in action, again<p class="mobile-photo"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUKxT5jZEvn4d-MTO4QlAf_9wnZd_yRDhVSxKsbOaciqpMyBXcZOlghZNT4dfmarXe05ZeV1VwmVNOrc-V72JrmHUi9EfgWyEkTF8U2z0xC6KmfdQzQFrHaSK7u4eBs287I98-/s1600-h/S5032728_2-786915.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUKxT5jZEvn4d-MTO4QlAf_9wnZd_yRDhVSxKsbOaciqpMyBXcZOlghZNT4dfmarXe05ZeV1VwmVNOrc-V72JrmHUi9EfgWyEkTF8U2z0xC6KmfdQzQFrHaSK7u4eBs287I98-/s320/S5032728_2-786915.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5246490619791565442" /></a></p><div dir="ltr"><br><div class="gmail_quote"><div dir="ltr"><div class="gmail_quote"><div><div><br>[ it may not be obvious that the scythe has contains farsi writing. but it does ]<br></div></div> </div></div> </div><br><br></div> ankurbhaihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02906586841662842912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14991921.post-47603935512430017142008-09-15T22:40:00.000-07:002008-09-15T22:41:01.911-07:00haymaker lisa in action<div dir="ltr"><br><div class="gmail_quote"><div style=""><div><img src="cid:1C944643-D2EC-478A-8076-7C85F614CA26@local"><br>[ it may not be obvious that the scythe has contains farsi writing. but it does ]<br></div></div> </div></div> ankurbhaihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02906586841662842912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14991921.post-30813725528946469182008-09-10T22:09:00.001-07:002008-09-10T22:09:45.686-07:00from "the hour of trial" in "my non-violence" by mahatma gandhi<div dir="ltr">I just want to sit for a minute and witness the faith displayed in the following lines of Gandhi. His total immersion in faith -- the clarity and firmness of his vision, his faith in humanity, his faith even in Hitler --<br> <br>"Non-violence is not a cloistered virtue, confined only to the [saint] and the cave-dweller. It is capable of being practiced by the millions, not with full knowledge of its implications, but because it is the law of our species. It distinguishes man from the brute. But man has not shed the brute in him. He has to strive to do so. This striving applies to the practice of non-violence, not to the belief in it. I cannot strive to believe in a principle: I either believe in it or I do not. And if I believe in it, I must bravely strive to practice it. <i>Ahimsa </i>is an attribute of the brave. Cowardice and <i>Ahimsa </i>do not go together any more than water and fire. It is that <i>Ahimsa </i>that every [person here] has to make a conscious effort to develop in himself."<br> <br>[NB: When Gandhiji talks about <i>Ahimsa</i>, it is the ancient yogic principle of total non-harm, at the level of intention. It can be translated as "non-violence" or "Love". When translated as Love it is most closely connected to the Greek concept of agape -- ankurbhai]<br><br>...<br><br>"You cannot build non-violence on a factory civilization, but it can be built on self-contained villages. Even if Hitler was so minded, he could not devastate seven hundred thousand non-violent villages. He would himself become non-violent in the process. Rural economy, as I have conceived it, eschews exploitation altogether, and exploitation is the essence of violence. You have, therefore, to be rural-minded before you can be non-violent, and to be rural-minded you have to have faith in the spinning wheel."<br clear="all"> <br>[written october 29th, 1939]<br> </div> ankurbhaihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02906586841662842912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14991921.post-80047100221183483312008-09-06T21:43:00.001-07:002008-09-06T21:43:08.104-07:002008 fall quarter status report: clinical pastoral educationhere is an update i wrote for the general private a few days ago. i'm<br>in the process of developing some new internet writing forums, to<br>share<p>a) new recipes and information about fall cooking classes<br>b) experiences with death and transcendence through "clinical pastoral<br>education" and other kinds of flute music.<p>clearly there might need to be some separation, as much as i'm a fan<br>of the nth root of unity.<p><br>---------- Forwarded message ----------<br>From: ankurbhai<br>Subject: 2008 fall quarter status report<p>dear investors<p>as in, friends and lovers and colleagues invested in the development<br>of the world, the soul, and this particular human incarnation of both.<p>i have a little bit of news to report for the fall season.<p>1. baby turnips are in season at nash's. i've attached a recipe.<p>2. i bought a scythe and will one day learn how to use it. there is an<br>instructional video that has been a great inspiration to me.<br>(<a href="http://youtube.com/watch?v=ugSO54WKm8I">http://youtube.com/watch?v=ugSO54WKm8I</a>)<p>3. i received some lessons in the spinning wheel and plan to make that<br>an important daily meditation in the coming months, as part of a<br>renewed commitment to gandhian ideals.<p>4. i applied and was accepted, and have now begun, a course of study<br>called Clinical Pastoral Education. those are capitalized words<br>meaning i am in training to be a chaplain. a chaplain is someone who<br>listens and offers presence to the suffering, frequently in hospitals,<br>hospices, prisons, and militaries. at harborview hospital, where i am<br>working, we are in the department of spiritual care. i have a business<br>card and pager that say "spiritual care". it's pretty interesting.<p>5. i plan to be in washington studying the CPE program until jan 16 of<br>2009. it is essentially 3 days a week and i will be working at nash's<br>produce another 2-3 days a week. i am also teaching a series of<br>cooking classes (on tuesdays). you are welcome to visit. encouraged to<br>visit! you can help me teach a cooking class.<p>6. there are various and other writing projects i'm working on, but<br>those burners have been set to simmer, along with the watercolors. the<br>flute and meditation still hit a rolling boil each morning, as it<br>should be.<p>7. i apologize for sharing this wonderful news in this non-wonderful<br>way. things have moved very quickly. i told my mom just a week before<br>and haven't had a time or phone line to call all the people who i<br>wanted to tell on the phone. please accept my humble apologies. there<br>are a number of blessings i wanted to ask for, and some i think i just<br>took without permission. however it shook down, the wheels were<br>greased and it seems i slid into this new trajectory without even<br>trying.<p>lots of love as always<br>ankurbhai<p>[<br>chaplain and haymaker<br>new dorky pager at 206 . 540 . 2091<br>]ankurbhaihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02906586841662842912noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14991921.post-58201825805910954222008-09-06T21:40:00.001-07:002008-09-06T21:40:10.218-07:00of chaplains and haymakersso there are some directions on the mango trail and i'm going to<br>publicize them soon. i've turned without turning into a old pastime of<br>humans. it's called "chaplain" or "chaplaincy" or "hats off to you<br>mark, god knows it's been a difficult summer" or something like that.<br>nothing to do with wooden boats or surreptitious lifts of the old<br>flask. so they say.<p>brother sushil sends me the following quote which sums up, perhaps<br>exactly, what impels me in this direction --<p>"It is precisely through the onset of old age, through loss or<br>personal tragedy, that the spiritual dimension would traditionally<br>come into people's lives. This is to say, their inner purpose would<br>emerge only as their outer purpose collapsed and the shell of the ego<br>would begin to crack open. Such events represent the beginning of the<br>return movement toward the dissolution of form. In most ancient<br>cultures, there must have been an intuitive understanding of this<br>process, which is why old people were respected and revered."<p>pg 285, A New Earth.<p>From a book by a gentleman named only "mr. eckhart trolle".<p>which of course reminds me of that other meister eckhart, from the<br>13th century --<p>"that which we take in through contemplation we must give out in love"<p>which is what i'm trying to do, i think. about time to start the stage<br>of productive work, to segue out of studies. of course in my case the<br>studies were informal and meandering ("tripper graduate school") and<br>productive work means going to school (Clinical Pastoral Education)<br>and getting called over hospital intercoms to arrive in a patient's<br>room and listen. that's what they say at least. my first shift is<br>wednesday.<p>formal update to follow.ankurbhaihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02906586841662842912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14991921.post-26032903179780784572008-09-06T21:34:00.001-07:002008-09-06T21:34:55.171-07:00salt march reduxthis from a march version of an american style magazine, Gentleman's Quarterly:<p>Beginning tomorrow, artist Joseph DeLappe will begin reenacting<br>Gandhi's 1930 240-mile Salt March on a treadmill inside New York's<br>Eyebeam gallery—all of which will be reproduced in real time on Second<br>Life. Yes, the self-parody is (kind of) deliberate. "I'm a spoiled<br>American computer artist paying tribute to Gandhi's life and<br>philosophy by taking on certain aspects of his march, like the<br>walking," he says. "But at the same time, you know, I'm not going<br>anywhere." Indeed. The inspiration came from DeLappe's last project, a<br>series of virtual anti-war protests inside the America's Army video<br>game that led one blogger to say he had a "Gandhi complex." Well, at<br>least he's not wearing a dhoti, opting instead for "sweats, a white<br>T-shirt, maybe, and either running shoes or Jesus sandals." Sounds<br>like a whole new complex might be setting in.<p>Reenactment: Gandhi's March to Dandi—The Salt Satyagraha Online,<br>tomorrow through April 6, Eyebeam, 540 W. 21st St., NYC, (212)<br>937-6580, <a href="http://eyebeam.org">eyebeam.org</a>, <a href="http://saltmarchsecondlife.wordpress.com">saltmarchsecondlife.wordpress.com</a><p>[ <a href="http://men.style.com/news/blog/2008/03/virtual-insanit.html">http://men.style.com/news/blog/2008/03/virtual-insanit.html</a> ]ankurbhaihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02906586841662842912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14991921.post-38814316426818721312008-09-03T22:15:00.001-07:002008-09-03T22:15:34.782-07:00more photos from the famous mr. werner<p class="mobile-photo"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaGWeAFvWJVqoHXSeRlz5lDjHsGHOW53g-6fw93jCXIRGaD37lSQ82ctzXQACKqjKRMCjPi9RER_4arssZgcOo6n3YhIHIn4dz2m_6qF6lSTOSSK2z0xxiEK6EAGFQYJwE2-zc/s1600-h/000008-734785.JPG"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaGWeAFvWJVqoHXSeRlz5lDjHsGHOW53g-6fw93jCXIRGaD37lSQ82ctzXQACKqjKRMCjPi9RER_4arssZgcOo6n3YhIHIn4dz2m_6qF6lSTOSSK2z0xxiEK6EAGFQYJwE2-zc/s320/000008-734785.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5242030498886644578" /></a></p><p class="mobile-photo"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcpPWaX1FVGOJWFzJO0Fbk4y8J0umvnQBcTKssx_eZLlLcmfNqIWpfxJxnezuYIOuJ8lZnjbv0lY_uEm8EvtoBlHuNyfM19v9jJflYj6l-kPzdG5tpVSzqAUHF72MU18eHS8Rn/s1600-h/000009-735577.JPG"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcpPWaX1FVGOJWFzJO0Fbk4y8J0umvnQBcTKssx_eZLlLcmfNqIWpfxJxnezuYIOuJ8lZnjbv0lY_uEm8EvtoBlHuNyfM19v9jJflYj6l-kPzdG5tpVSzqAUHF72MU18eHS8Rn/s320/000009-735577.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5242030503183857266" /></a></p><p class="mobile-photo"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSibJJzxqLzUF63WQRWlNoMfF7CHCbLEUxZP8CTpun_b78gXKMTsXJzLgEiIMbyoA5oV7P1TyxmcqRaw1xzZNcCAFz0A-7BwBYUZf6vimYMDArF8uVM3dqexJL1S_Xru__coES/s1600-h/06212008+(4)-736379.JPG"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSibJJzxqLzUF63WQRWlNoMfF7CHCbLEUxZP8CTpun_b78gXKMTsXJzLgEiIMbyoA5oV7P1TyxmcqRaw1xzZNcCAFz0A-7BwBYUZf6vimYMDArF8uVM3dqexJL1S_Xru__coES/s320/06212008+(4)-736379.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5242030510796061730" /></a></p><p class="mobile-photo"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV1eSXuca-gCX-BtqzLHahgCM7B_AOLG6YZSCezlIH4pry4QVO7gwRkydw_LmBFlh1UkEPFoCBiU06NuRYsKsBE0QhbDN9NwxRiKx75W1IBceWaUORfTb76zWpCfdHddU1cEZv/s1600-h/06212008+(27)-738057.JPG"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV1eSXuca-gCX-BtqzLHahgCM7B_AOLG6YZSCezlIH4pry4QVO7gwRkydw_LmBFlh1UkEPFoCBiU06NuRYsKsBE0QhbDN9NwxRiKx75W1IBceWaUORfTb76zWpCfdHddU1cEZv/s320/06212008+(27)-738057.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5242030513054309970" /></a></p>the second image, notably, is a drawing by mr. mansuoba fukuoaka in<br>the visitor book of baskarbhai save, the amazing old gujarati farmer<br>who developed (indepedently) a similar technique to fukuoaka's,<br>primarily with fruit trees.<p>it is to represent the difference between chemical farming, organic<br>farming, and natural farming (at the top of the hill).<p>"i guess i miss you / i guess a forgive you<br>i'm glad you stood in my way"<p>love<br>ankurbhaiankurbhaihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02906586841662842912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14991921.post-58597149620584404432008-08-15T09:17:00.001-07:002008-08-15T09:17:15.203-07:00[cooking can be god] farmshare recipe for 8/15 (box six)<div dir="ltr">as part of reintegrating into the farm community, i've begun to write for the farm newsletter again. here's the first taste:<br><b><br>Fennel and Dill, the Saga Continues</b><br><br>After centuries of misunderstandings, I am still bombarded with eager confusion between fennel and dill. So, let's take a few moments to set it straight. According to the British "Fennel Disambiguation Society", in a small pamphlet first published in 1861, fennel is a large perennial herb, indigenous to the Mediterranean and now found all over the world. Some cultivars of fennel -- like what you see in the box before you -- develop a large succulent bulb, while others are prized for their seed, licorice in flavor and often confused with anis. Both dill and fennel come from the Umbelliferae family, and share a scandalous tendency to hybridize, given the opportunity. Dill, a small annual plant, was considered "A wretched smelly thing", fit only for spicing soups, pickles, and salads.<br> <br>Remember, our information comes from a group of die-hard fennel-heads. Now, on to the recipes. One kind reader asks, somewhat meekly, "Can I bake it? Is that okay?" The answer, as the answers to most questions, is a resounding YES. You can bake it, broil it, braise it, fry, jump it, steam it, and grate it. It is in the box for you to do Anything You Want.<br> <br><i>Simple Grilled Fennel and Carrots</i><br><br>Your oven is already on, at 400. Since fennel's flavor is strong, especially as freshly harvested as yours, it needs little combination on the plate. I would lay the bulb flat on the counter, with its long tresses hanging over the edge. Trim the greens where the tubes hit the bulb and thinly slice through the crunchy white zone to the hard root zone. Toss the slices with a teaspoon of olive oil and dashes of salt and pepper. Lay the dressed fennel on a baking tray and slide it into the left half (very important, the left half) of your hot oven. Do not stack or crowd the fennel: they deserve our respect.<br> <br>Return to your laboratory to wash and trim your carrots. They are small, sweet, and tender. What you're about to do may not work as well with larger (and slightly tougher) table carrots, or even the bunches later into the fall. Take the whole carrots, washed and un-peeled, and toss in the same bowl where you had the fennel (fewer dishes, happier cooks, peaceful world) with a teaspoon of olive oil, and dashes of salt and pepper. Add a few drops of balsamic vinegar without telling a soul.<br> <br>Now the tricky part. Trim the fennel tresses such that any frayed or unhappy ends at the top and bottom hit the compost, and you are left with a few tray-length feathery green stalks. Lay the stalk on another baking tray and place the whole carrots over them. As the carrots roast, the greens will release their sweet perfume into the over air, penetrating the tender carrots.<br> <br>When you put the carrots in, ask the fennel if it needs to be flipped. It is done once it has slightly browned on each side. The carrots will take somewhat longer -- perhaps more than half an hour -- and may be black and blistered when you decide to remove then. At that point, after they cool, you can rub the skins off and use the carrots As You Wish -- whole dabbed with salt, blended for a soup base, sliced and dipped in hummus or pesto, or diced to throw in salad dishes. It's now your toy, and up to you.<br> <i><br>A Quick Dilly Salsa</i><br><br>This is the essence of summer flavor. Cool cucumber, pungent garlic, and the warm spice of dill. It's easy and serves as a salad dressing, a side dish (mixed into plain yogurt), a dip (for roasted vegetables), or to mix into a potato salad.<br> <br>Chop together with love and attention to the small details:<br><br>2 cloves of garlic<br>1/2 bunch of dill<br>Half your cucumber<br><br>The cucumber should be peeled if the skin is tough, and diced into small cubes. Mix everything with standard salt and pepper and a little bit of lemon juice (if you're opposed to stepping out of our climatic range of possibility). If you want to extend the sauce into a side dish, take your salsa and stir it into some yogurt, dusting with paprika as you finish. The Bradfords will go crazy.<br> <br><br><b>Eat the Flowers</b><br><br>That's right, the calendula. Take it back from you beloved, turn off the television, sit on the back porch looking up at the mountains, and pull the petals out, each by each, tossing them atop your already prepared salad of shredded spinach, torn lettuce, and grated golden beets. You peeled the beets before grating them, if I recall. If there are any of the sumptuous Sunny Slope nectarines left by the time dinner rolls around, you could slice one up and fry it in melted butter for a minute or two, and top the salad with that. So much for "I sadly smiling remember that the flower fades to make fruit", Mr. Jeffers; Here in Dungeness, we have it all.<br> <br>--<br>Posted By ankurbhai to cooking can be god at 8/15/2008 08:46:00 AM<br></div> ankurbhaihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02906586841662842912noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14991921.post-87385748383560703272008-07-26T21:50:00.001-07:002008-07-26T21:50:38.342-07:00where did the cows go?it's perhaps worth noting from the western hemisphere that at multiple<br>points in the day my mother has told me i should have remained to<br>settle in india. not in the, "i would like you to live in the home<br>country" kind of way, but more in the "christ, you're so weirdly<br>indian" tone of surprise. this after i relax into ecstacy hearing<br>pandit jasraj on her astropod or sing impromptu krishna ditties.<p>to which i just responded, "yes of course, but my teachers have<br>mandated i go to the west"<p>why?<p>"spreading a message of peace and love"<p>[beat]<p>"starting with you!"<p>it's all in good fun and we're both laughing.<p>"it's a tough start, i know. but my teachers are good"<p>which is the only true part. last night's bedtime reading, some sort<br>of treatise on how the sacred play (lila) of krishna and radha is<br>nectar (amrut) to us mortals, mentioned that in every stanza of poetry<br>we are behooved to include the name of god.<p>i'm trying to remember, grandmother.<p>until then the west wind on the delta and the east wind on lost<br>mountain are doing me well. there is a lot of slow transcription<br>happening but by the end of the week there will be updates on the<br>following projects<p>* sometimes we walk alone (being sent to a publisher)<br>* mangolandia travel agency (in website design phase)<br>* something constructive consortium (finally coming together)<br>* cooking classes and homework potlucks (for the good people of sequim)<br>* 100-mile diet weekly escapades (with local friends)<p>just trying to keep the noose tightened. also, 2nd edition bigode<br>finally got some website updates, please check them out and as always,<br>"tell all yer friends". i have now actually seen the new cookbook and<br>it looks very spiffy, thanks to donald knuth and chris gregori.<p><a href="http://www.somethingconstructive.net/bigode">www.somethingconstructive.net/bigode</a><p>upper dungeness,<br>ankurankurbhaihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02906586841662842912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14991921.post-44281095700402896042008-07-13T09:45:00.001-07:002008-07-13T09:45:52.274-07:00administrative updateankurbhai is back in sequim washington<p>can be reached at either<p>360 . 582 . 3152<br>360 . 683 . 5398<p>depending on the wind direction.<p>is working on a variety of projects which will slowly emerge from the either<p>encourages you to come visit and work on the farm or just your own (bad) self.<p>[ with love ]<p>83 lost meadow<br>sequim, wa 98382ankurbhaihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02906586841662842912noreply@blogger.com0