After seeing that the cockroaches are back and then finding nobody has added a link here yet, I am a little worried that I might have entered the theater to find the weather-stained doors jammed ajar, the plush seats gone and the floor littered with plaster bits, droppings, popcorn boxes and old popsicle sticks.
Tentatively, with a sense that I might be littering myself, I offer some blatherings on [energy] and place. I wonder if I shouldn't be meditating on virtual cockroach poisons, instead. - P.
[Hoarded Ordinaries] I just spent the past two days mingling with friends old and new at the Kwan Um School of Zen's biannual Dharma Teacher retreat at the Providence Zen Center in Cumberland, Rhode Island. As I've mentioned before, I used to sit a lot of retreats at both PZC and the Diamond Hill Zen Monastery which sits across a pond and up a hill from the Zen Center. Because of all those hours spent meditating, walking, and breathing there, the property I sometimes jokingly refer to as the "cult compound" feels like a kind of spiritual home to me. The earth there is steeped with memories, and the buildings hold a special cumulative power.
[Via Negativa] A line of giant wind turbines looms over the horizon like the invaders from War of the Worlds. Their triquetra-shaped blades are spinning merrily, though a bit more slowly than I would've expected. I think about the conservationists I know who are contesting plans to situate wind turbines along nearly every ridgeline in the area, posing unknown hazards to migrating birds and bats. Now, seeing a large wind farm for the first time, I want to cry: Hand me my lance, Sancho! But the things do have a bit of grace.
[TheCassandraPages] What is absent is not energy, but anxiety. The energy I notice is mostly human-powered, and on a human scale: people walking, biking, talking, at the pace of a heartbeat or a footstep, or the lift of a coffee cup to the lips...
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