Maybe the door-bell isn’t working. I knock. A young woman answers. I tell her that we’re a charity from India. ‘Yeah, I’ll sign up for that she says’. ‘Oh’, I answer, ‘Have you a connection with India?. ‘Well I love the food’ she answers. Next minute I’m in her trendy living room while she’s filling in the form. I can see she’s making it out for £10. I lean over ‘This section here is about our Buddhist work – we’re a Buddhist –run charity’. She ticks the 30% box. I fresh-knock the rest of the doors in the street with a spring in my step.
A few nights ago I had a long talk with Ulrika from Sweden and her two blonder than blond children. She’s over here to study and I wonder if she hasn’t made many friends yet. Her husband was away and she doesn’t have an English bank account. Tonight he’s back and not pleased. ‘No way am I doing a standing order’, he grumps. ‘You’, he glares at her, ‘were annoyed when I gave money away the last time’. ‘Not annoyed – just surprised’ she counters and carries on chatting to me. He emerges with his wallet and takes out a fiver. She glares at the note. ‘Oh give me the form then’ he snaps. The little boy provides a way in. ‘Daddy was on a plane and it was so windy’. I ask about his journey. He’s softening now. I thank them both for their contribution and tell them what a difference it will make to peoples lives. They all smile and call goodbye.
I’m looking forward to re-visiting Rick, the hippy with the amazing cultivated jungle of a front garden. He fetches the booklet for me. So it’s a no then. ‘I’ve thought about it a lot he says, and I’ve decided that I want to concentrate on helping inner city Birmingham kids’. I say that it sounds like he’s in the process of clarifying his values. ‘Yes’, he says excitedly and reading your booklet has been part of that process. He tells me about his work. He teaches woodland crafts and once he got the kids to write a list of their hopes and dreams. What he thought would be a pleasant exercise had him in tears. Had all the teachers in tears. The kids said ‘I want furniture for our house’. ‘I want my dad’. Then he stops himself.. I’m talking all about me he says and apologises for not supporting us. I tell him he is supporting us; that this conversation helps me to knock the next door. He looks delighted.
My last call-back of the evening is to Catherine, a nurse. It’s about quarter past nine and when I knock she peers through the curtains. I flash my leaflets and she smiles and comes to the door. She invites me in for a cup of tea, apologizing for the mess. She’s studying and papers are spread over the sofa. She isn’t particularly chatty so I sit quietly as she fills in the standing order form, enjoying my drink.
We’re walking around the room getting in touch with joy, sadness, anger, fear. It’s a clowning weekend workshop with Jayachitta. We allow the fear to manifest in our whole bodies. Then just our eyes. Looking at another, the fear in my eyes, I’m deeply relieved. For once I don’t have to hide it.
I dream that I’m sitting on the floor with others around a low table. Across from me is a man who is both Tony, my first boyfriend, and my boyfriend, Satyaraja. A huge Alsation dog walks in and lies against me. I’m scared that it will bite me and scared that it will smell my fear. I tell the man that I’m frightened. He springs up and starts wrestling the dog. The dog flies into a fury, snarling and raging. I see how beautiful the dog is and I realize that he is valuable; a pedigree. I know immediately that I have made a mistake I don’t want him to be injured. It is only habit that made me call for help. I wish I’d stayed with the dog against my side and stayed with my fear and I know I could have done that. The dog retreats, beaten, and I see his blood on the man’s hands. I feel deep regret.
It’s a morning off. I stay in bed till ten past nine. I go to the flower shop. The assistant asks if she can help. I don’t mutter ‘I’m just looking’, without meeting her eyes. I say ‘I want to buy flowers for five friends’. She makes suggestions. I spot bunches of roses next to bunches of carnations. Ten roses, five carnations – perfect. I wonder about the colours. Maybe she can help? Between us we decide on red carnations with white roses. I’m just about to take the two bunches away when I hear myself asking if she can make them into little posies for me. She smiles shyly, ‘If you don’t mind waiting’. She shows the first arrangement for my approval. It’s lovely. She finishes off each bunch with red ribbons and green raffia. I can’t believe how much trouble she is taking over them and how delighted she seems to be in doing so. When I tell Vandanajyoti she says ‘You gave her a chance to show her skill; to shine’.
When I call back to the family at number two the man is hoovering the top landing. He invites me into his kitchen. His son is playing Play Station in the living room. When I ask he tells me he’s signing up because we are Buddhists even though he knows little about Buddhism. He asks me what difference Buddhism has made in my life. He asks about door-knocking as Buddhist practice. He asks what the key to a successful interaction on the doors is. ‘So Buddhism is about increasing awareness; about seeing things in a bigger perspective.’ He sums up my garbled answers so precisely I burst out laughing and tell him he’s articulating Buddhism better than I am. He tells me I exemplify what I’m talking about. The washing machine goes onto its spin-cycle. I tell him about the Birmingham Buddhist Centre. He says he’d be interested to learn to meditate; he gets irritable at work and because he supervises many people he can see that this has a lot of consequences. I tell him that that’s a strong motivator then, and that I’ll bring him a leaflet from the Centre.
When I look at my card I see that my next call-back is next door. I remember this house; its bright walls and the big orange abstract print on the wall. And I remember Sandra’s chattiness and smiliness. She had been feeding her baby in its high-chair and her top was all splattered. She’d heard about the Dalits and was interested in our work. Tonight the blinds are closed. I knock. An older woman comes to the door. ‘Hello’ I smile ‘I’m from a charity…..’ ‘Not interested.’ The door slams shut. ‘and I’m here to speak to Sandra.’, remains unuttered. Damn damn damn. What an idiot I am. I should have phrased it the other way round. I overcome the emptation to bang the door again.
Manjuka is training us in acknowledging the house-holder’s responses. He says, ‘Forget your agenda. Just have a conversation.’ At tea-break in the kitchen we play at not doing this.
‘Would you like some dinner?’
.‘No, I’m not hungry’
. ‘I’ll just give you this sausage then’
. ‘I’m really not hungry’
‘I could cut it up for you……..’
We fall about laughing.
After lunch I phone Satyaraja. He’s been on retreat so we haven’t talked much since I’ve been here. I tell him something I’ve been scared to tell him before. I tell him that when I’m apart from him it’s hard to think of him with tenderness; it makes me miss him too much. I nervously wait for his response. He says ‘Oh I’m so glad you told me; I’m so glad we’re talking like this’, and he tells me he’s realized he has his owns ways of holding back and he tells me what they are. I tell him I want my heart to be open to loving and grieving; to grieving and loving.
After the call I sit down to write my blog but I can’t settle. To make things worse the people on the Karuna Team in London have started to respond to what I’ve written. Jo e-mails to say she loves it. Santavajri texts to say how moved she is. Sudaka thinks it’s great advertising for Karuna. I try to write about the Pakistani man who looks 55 at 75 because his grandfather taught him to avoid greed. About the elderly lady whose door I nearly didn’t knock when I saw the hand-rail, who was having a computer lesson and who, hearing we were working with ‘Dalits said ‘one can always stretch a little more’, and gave me £2.50. She’d been to India and met a man who told her he could never become a lawyer because he was an Untouchable. But I wrote all this kind of thing last week. It doesn’t work anymore. I’ve used it up now. I press delete; delete; delete.
It’s a difficult night. I thought I was OK but my new street has posher houses and although I imagine my black Alsation at my side, the heat of his body against my leg, my stomach is tight and acid. I almost forget to go back to the man with the Buddhist centre leaflet, walking out of his street and having to double back. But outside his house I remember the intensity of our conversation and suddenly I feel shy. I hope no-one is in and I can push the leaflet through the letter box. When he opens the door I don’t know what to say. We just look at each other. I give him the leaflet. I say, ‘ we might cross paths again one day’. He answers, ‘yes, you never know where life might lead’. Or something like that. Back on the pavement a blustery wind is getting up and the rain is coming on. My umbrella blows inside out and two of the spokes dangle loose. It’s after that that the doors stop opening.
There’s no way I’m going to tell anyone on the team about this man. I’m afraid they’ll think I fancied him. But as soon as I get in the car I tell Lindsay. Back home I tell Jo. Jo listens and says, ‘Grief. It sounds like you felt grief.’ My body starts to tremble. She says ‘it sounds like your feelings took you by surprise’. She says 'are you going to write about this in your blog?’.
As soon as I wake up I know why I get so angry when people are in but don’t answer their doors. I want to beat their doors down. I want to grab their throats and say ‘at least have the guts to face me’. I want to crawl away ashamed. It’s because of Dad: all those years he didn’t talk to me; didn’t talk to any of us. I’m eating breakfast alone in the community kitchen. I'm appalled. This Appeal is making my whole life parade before me.
In meditation Sahaja’s sculpture of the Buddha in the Birmingham Centre’s garden comes to me. The figure is skeletal; the spine a thick metal pipe bang in the middle of the torso. My breath is that backbone. It’s my only hope. There’s no way my brain can sort everything out. The backbone supports the soft belly-full of feelings. Breath;backbone;staff. Feelings;belly;begging-bowl.
I tell the team about marching to Vinny’s house last night determined to get our leaflet back. The night before that I’d seen the blue pulse of TV light through his blinds but he hadn’t answered. Last night, on the second rap the door opened a fraction and a woman’s face peered over the chain. ‘I left a leaflet with Vinny’, I announced. She ducked down then poked it through the gap in the doorway. Standing with it in the street I felt mortified. The leaflet was of no use to me and now I could never go back to that house. And then the truth of the situation dawned. It hadn’t been Vinny with his bald head and heavy earings and big dog not answering the door the night before last.. It had been this woman – scared to open the door on her own after dark. I was filled with shame.
When I finish telling this I look around at the team. In their eyes I see sadness; and I see kindness. I tell them about Dad. I’m shouting. I’m crying. I’m washed clean.
Manjuka is watching me knock doors. I’m in the posh street again but tonight I meet friendly people and have lively chats. I’m showing off. But the last woman puts me in my place. Or I put myself in my place, which is lower than her place and I retreat, abashed.
Manjuka has noticed that I make continual responsive-listening sounds. At first I think he’s praising me. But he goes on to suggest that this habit makes it harder to assert myself – giving the example of this last woman. I see what he means but wail that it’s a lifetime’s habit. I’m awash with so much feedback. I need a pithy teaching. ‘OK’, he says, ‘you’re great in relation to the Sangha Jewel. You connect with people well. You’re good on the Dharma Jewel, leaving space for things to happen; the Blue Sky. Now concentrate on the Buddha Jewel. Stand like you’re standing on the Vajrasana’. As he speaks, my body straightens of its own accord and my feet plant themselves into the ground.
I dream I sooth a screaming baby to sleep. I dream I ask for the leader of a gang of youths which is surrounding us. I pacify him and he hands me his knife.
Vishvantara has come for the weekend. Lindsay and I pick her up from the station along with Lindsay’s twin, Rachel. The others are waiting for us for the Rejoicing in Merits ritual. Vishvantara joins us in the shrine-room and rejoices in us. I feel proud and happy.
I tell him we’re working in India. He sighs, ‘a billion people; so many people’. I ask him how that makes him feel and he just shakes his head. He tells me he has toothache; not acute, but it’s been nagging him for a long time. He thinks we should all be taxed at source for charity. ‘But what about the individual connection with people’, I counter. He says, ‘but I don’t want to give in order to feel good about myself. I don’t want to act out of middle class guilt’. He sighs again, ‘there are so many people in the world; six billion’. I say that the trouble with questioning our motives like that is that we can paralyse ourselves into non-action. He nods, ‘yeah I know….’ I ask him how he feels when he gives something. He says the trouble is he doesn’t. I lower the leaflets. I say that he must have given something at least once in his life. I have been reflecting on this; that every single person has been generous at least once in their lives and I see this generosity like a jewel inside them; a drop of crystallized nectar, even though it may be covered in dust or mud or encased in rock. He agrees that he has given something before. I ask him how it feels to think of that. He says it feels good. I ask in what way and he says it makes him feel connected. But then he carries on to argue that that’s just going back to his point about not wanting to give just in order to feel good about himself. I say, ‘but imagine all those billions of people; imagine if they all felt connected’. I’m quiet then, letting him imagine it. ‘And now imagine the opposite’, I say, ‘everyone living in an isolated and disconnected way. Which sort of world would you rather live in?’ We stand quietly again. He asks me for a leaflet and turns straight to the back page; the suggested donations. ‘So can I do this now?’ he asks.
It’s the end of morning meditation. I’ve spent the last five minutes in this fantasy. It was true up till the bit where I lowered the leaflets. I didn’t lower them – I had a second go at giving him one. He refused.
It’s been raining all day and the sky is overcast. I’m walking along the canal tow-path talking to Satyaraja on my mobile. I tell him that after our last phone-call my heart felt like my blown-inside-out umbrella; tattered and ineffectual against the rain. But that I’d rather have that than a heart in a suit of armour. I tell him about the thing with the man. I tell him that Vishvantara said these incidents are like thumb-nail sketches of our lives; miniature versions of the things that really matter to us; enabling us to learn about ourselves because the full feelings don’t overwhelm us. I tell Satyaraja that my love for him is worth the grief of our separation and I’ve stopped walking now and I’m weeping. I ask if he minds that my feelings were so intense around my exchange with the man and he says ‘Why would I mind?’ The sun appears and blesses the watery green and purple gardens on the opposite bank.
The mother’s head is draped in a pale green mantle and her face is heart-shaped. Her light brown skin glows, her eyes look down and her lips are parted. She points to words in a book and the boy’s eyes follow her finger. He perches on her knee in the posture of royal-ease so that together they look like a depiction of the Madonna and child
She looks about five or six years old and she’s completely surrounded by towers of bricks that reach way above her head. On hand rests against their rough surface and her sea-shell-pink fingernails contrast with their dull brown, baked-earth colour. Her pink frilly dress is completely torn away at the shoulder. She’s slightly frowning.
He’s sitting on the platform of a train station. His brown striped jumper is unravelling round the neck. A key threaded onto a string dangles at his chest. His back is straight; his gaze clear and steady. I’d guess his age to be eleven or twelve.
Her hair is in looped pigtails, tied with red ribbons in double bows. She has silver rings in one nostril and a golden bracelet on her wrist. Her dress is white with a green Peter-Pan collar, a green sash and a green ruffle around the bodice. She holds, as if to offer it, what at first I think is a sheaf of wheat. But Vandanajyoti tells me it’s a broom; that the girls make them. Her lips are smiling and so are her eyes.
We gaze into the faces of children and parents whose photographs make up our booklet and, from the shrine, they gaze at us, communicating that the triumph over prejudice and ignorance is a triumph for us all. We’ve been ritually empowering the booklets before taking them out to give to people. Alokada steps into the candle-light and picks up the first bundle. Tears fill my eyes; my hand moves to my heart.
Manjusvara gently touches the back of my rucksack. This means, ‘It’s time to leave now. This woman is friendly but she’s saying ‘No’’. When we’re back on the pavement again he says, ‘There wasn’t anything you could have done differently’. He says, ‘We can’t make someone say ‘Yes’, ‘No’, or ‘Maybe’, we can only learn to recognize when they’re saying those things’.
I realize that I don’t think that the standing orders I’ve got already count because I got then too easily; they came from people who were just waiting to give. Manjusvara says, ‘You did do something; you were there.’ I’m not fully convinced. The more experienced fund-raisers who have visited us are full of anecdotes about how they’ve transformed the most unlikely of situations; converted the most unlikely people. I want to be like this; to be a REAL fundraiser.
I’m asking for Ratnasambhava’s help in becoming a good fundraiser. Then it starts to dawn. Hadn’t I realized that he’s been with me all the time, guiding me straight to the doors of people who are just waiting for the opportunity to be generous?
My precept for the evening is to talk to myself as if I was my own best friend. I tell this to the young couple who have invited me into their house, swept away piles of papers covering the table and chair, and given me a mug of tea. They’re delighted. ‘That’s just the kind of thing we talk about all the time’, they say, ‘we love discussing all the various responses we have when things go wrong’. He’s an atheist and is fascinated to discover that Buddhism is an atheistic religion. ‘Who is the Buddha then, if he’s not God?’, she asks. We talk about human potential and about the freedom and the challenge of having no external authority telling you what to do. When I go outside into the autumn night I don’t feel cold anymore; I’m warmed through.
I’m sitting on the toilet reading a ‘What’s on in Birmingham’ that an out-of-it-looking guy pretending to be a Big-Issue vendor sold me. There’s an ad with pictures and the caption ‘Candy Shop; a Sweet Selection of High-Class Ladies; Catering for Individuals, Parties, Couples and Fetishes’. I wonder vaguely what it might be like to try. I’m waiting until I think everyone has gone to bed before I come out of the bathroom because I can’t bear to talk to anyone. This means I can’t risk going to the other bathroom for my toothbrush but I don’t care. Just before I started knocking tonight I rang a friend to hear ‘I’m in the middle of an Amazon order and my dinner’s on the table’. This set the tone for the evening. The woman who’d said ‘Call back on Thursday, we’re always in’ was not in or not answering. George at number 33 with whom I’d had a long friendly chat about his work with special-needs kids, and about our work seemed to have changed personality. ‘I’m busy and I’m not interested’, he snapped. I convinced myself that the evening was jinxed and it was all because of that phone-call. I mentally rehearse the cool tone I shall use the next time I talk to my friend. But the satisfaction that this brings is lukewarm and doesn’t last.
I’m woken by a tap on my door. It’s Alokada bringing me a cup of tea. It’s my birthday!
In the afternoon we all go to a live broadcast of ‘Poetry Please!’ at the CBSO Centre. At the end Alokada marches up to Roger McGough and comes back with my ticket autographed and with birthday greetings.
We extend the birthday celebrations with lunch at a French café. I love sharing my birthday with the community and I’m taken back to being 24, my first birthday in the Cherry Orchard (the Wild Cherry now). I can remember it so clearly sitting at the big table surrounded by the whole team; the big pile of birthday cards; the warmth.
Knocking my new street is like cutting through cream-cake. Nine people in a row say ‘That’s interesting. What a lovely booklet. May I keep it for a few days to read it properly?’ I cross to the other side of the road. The sixth door is opened by a forty-something woman with a young boy. As the word ‘India’ leaves my mouth urgently beckons me inside. ‘I know’, she says’ ‘It’s awful. It’s on TV right now. Those poor children selling one of their kidneys.’ By this time I’m inside, sitting on the floor with her. The last minutes of the news Documentary are still showing. ‘Tell me what I need to do to give you some money.’ She’s saying. I pass her a standing order form and she fills it in for £10 a month. Her boy oversees, making sure she gets their e-mail address correct. ‘A mother sold her little boy’s kidney’, he tells me solemnly.
‘I’m on my way to a sort of interview. It’s for a sort of counselling job for drug and alcohol addiction. Have you got the time? Well I’ve been there on the other side myself so I know what it’s like. I’m not like a man trying to tell a woman what it feels like to have a baby. D’you know what I mean? It’s common sense really. Have you got the time, again? I tell people they can drink if they want. But it’s not compulsory! It’s down to the company you keep too. For some people it’s normal to crack open a can first thing in the morning. I’ve been all over with the Navy. People in this country don’t know how lucky they are. Look at this park. It’s beautiful, isn’t it? I could walk through this park and get enough to live on for a day. I’m Mikey, by the way.’
‘My name’s Albert. I’ve been fishing in this park for a good few years now. Ther’s a long waiting list for the permit. I’ve got a bit of a problem with my shoulder now so I use this sling to throw the bait. Look, I’ll show you. I use maggots for bait. No, we don’t eat the fish we catch. We put them back to keep the lake stocked. By wife buys fish. We’ve been married 56 years. I still remember the first day I saw her, working in the press factory. I said to my mate, ‘That’s the woman I’m going to marry’. I didn’t get to talk to her much that day and then I went and joined the Navy. But I came back and went to see her in my uniform. We’ve got four children, eight grandchildren and two great-grandchildren. Come back and talk to me anytime you like. I’m here till four o’clock this afternoon.’
‘We’ve been to feed the ducks and we’ve watched the squirrels and now we’re on our way home. Mind you that could take an hour and a half! He loves pushing his buggy along himself. Oh Freddy, don’t sit in that puddle! Oh well, he’s kneeling in it instead! I don’t mind him getting wet, but I don’t want him to get cold. I’m just teaching part-time now so it’s lovely to have these mornings with him. He’s got cousins in London – we do visit, but they’re much older than him. My mum’s just round the corner and she loves taking him. We’re all going back to India this Xmas for a family holiday. ‘
This morning Jo ordered us ‘Get your jackets, your housekeys, you’ve got 25 minutes to go, meet someone, and come back!’ Now we’re taking turns at being that person while the others ask questions. I’m elated. I never would have believed I could have done this; that we all could have done it. And I’m moved. I hope Mikey’s interview was successful. I’m glad I got the chance to wish him well.
I’ve decided to go out early tonight. I’m full of energy from the morning’s workshop so I’m going to my old patch as well as my new patch. They’re a good bit apart so I’ve changed from my skirt to my trousers so that I can walk as fast as possible. My bag has eight or nine envelopes all with standing-order forms and personalized notes for the people from my old patch in case they are not in. I wrote them in the free time this afternoon but they took a bit longer than I thought so I had to leave the meditation early and skip having a snack before leaving to get them finished. But I’m in such a good mood I don’t mind. I’m wearing my Fred Bare beret and extra lipstick and everyone says I look gorgeous.
Everyone is in Alokada and Santasiddhi’s room when I get home. I collapse on the spare bed. The Irish guy who’d said to come back at 9 on Tuesday had his living room light on but no-one answered the door even though I knocked three times. He was my last hope. Lindsay’s had a great evening and has four standing orders. She says ‘I was really inspired by Subhadramati in training yesterday; how she talked about the charity really helped me to communicate tonight’. Lying there, exhausted and crestfallen, I don’t know whether to feel pleased or to burst into tears.
I’m talking to Satyaraja on the phone, telling him about yesterday. About how it felt like a speeded up version of my last visit to Dublin, where I went from enthusiastic, joyful and inspired, to overwhelmed and exhausted in the space of a week. In fact it felt like a speeded up version of my whole life. I say ‘I’ve got to learn to be more aware’. He says, ‘It sounds to me like you need more metta for yourself’. I’m startled ‘What do you mean?’ I falter. He explains that what struck him was me missing a meal, cutting short my meditation. He says I can use incidents like these as clues. I’m embarrassed at the thought of working on such a basic level. But I’m excited. I don’t want to live the rest of my life with the viciously spoken phrase ‘There’s so much to be done’, driving me. And here is the way to change.
I’m walking with a friend. She tells me that the seam of her sock has bunched awkwardly and is hurting her little toe. ‘You’ll have to put up with it’, I say, ‘there’s no time to stop. We’re already late in starting these fresh knocks. In fact, you dithered about far too much at home and made us late in the first place.’
I’m asking myself if I would really say this to a friend. Of course I wouldn’t. I’d say ‘Oh we must find a place to sit down straight away. It’s really important that you’re comfortable. That’s the most important thing of all’ Perhaps I would even have noticed her discomfort without her having to mention it.
My practice tonight is to treat myself as I would treat my own good friend. I stop and sort out the wrinkle in my sock.
I’ve been in Norfolk visiting Vajraghanta and Richard. The train home was cancelled so It’s half past midnight when I get home. I see there’s a new standing-order form for £25 in front of the shrine. Brilliant! It must have come as a result of Vandanajyoti’s talk at the Centre for Ambedkhar day. Then I notice it’s been added onto Alokada’s total. I’m now bottom of the league table.
Santavajri is encouraging us to get in touch with the quality of abundance. We head our page with ‘Gifts from the Universe’ and write a list. I write, ‘That bass-player showing me where to catch the 50 bus home last night’. I write ‘Walking on the Norfolk Coast’. I write ‘The door being opened by someone wearing a ‘Karuna’ T-shirt’. I write ‘Being last on the scoreboard’. And I mean it. I mean it because it’s the chance to change the habit of my life; the habit of, when the going gets tough, working harder, faster, longer. It may have partial success elsewhere, but it will never work in door-knocking.
It’s 7.30 in the evening. An old man answers the door. He’s scowling.
He says ‘We don’t give to charity’.
I say ‘Oh, you don’t give to charity’.
He adds ‘Especially not at this time of night’.
I say ‘I see. This is a bit late for you’.
He says ‘Charity begins at home’.
I say ‘Ah, charity begins at home’
He closes the door and I walk away. I argue with myself that I haven’t done anything wrong. I’ve simply said exactly as he said. It’s in our training; reflecting back. It’s not my fault if he’s mean.
After meditation I turn on my computer. I have to plan my visit to Dublin. There are e-mails about the retreat at Akasavana that I’m supporting next spring too. It looks like the others in the team haven’t received my last letters. How can I possibly do all this while I’m here?
We’re having a morning in the shrine room. It’s meant to be a gratitude bhavana, but I just sit with this feeling of stress in my skin. Gradually I realize that I’m heartbroken that the community is coming to an end. Tears flow. I love living and working in community, in communion. I remember Vajraghanta and Richard’s encouragement to discover the beauty in the sadness, and my heart softens and opens and somehow it doesn’t matter what happens in the external world anymore. I catch a glimpse of how even death could cease to appear like a monster.
The evening is flowing. I feel so well and mettaful. But the encounter with the old man last night is troubling my conscience. It stands out in relief to how I feel now and I can see that I was unkind. I wish I could somehow make amends. I find myself next door to the house of a man who said he’d sign a form and send it in the post. I know it hasn’t turned up at the office and I know by experience there’s practically no chance that it ever will so, on a whim, I hop over to his doorstep. The door flies open.
‘WILL YOU STOP COMING ROUND HERE! I SAID I’LL DO IT AND I’LL DO IT. JUST STOP IT’.
While he’s yelling I’m speaking at the same time, like a cartoon character. ‘Oh dear. I’ve upset you. I’m sorry. I was passing. I saw your light on. I just wanted to save you the trouble’. I’m talking to a closed door.
‘Oh you always come at a bad time’, grumbles the woman who answers the door. ‘Well, I suppose you’d better come in’. She adds ‘I’ve decided to give you £10 a month. What do I have to do?’ I hand her the form and try, ‘Sounds like you’ve been touched by what you read in the booklet’. ‘I told you I liked giving to charity’, she says shortly, not looking up. I decide that the best thing to do is to sit quietly. I can see her teenage son in the next room, playing on the computer, his feet on his desk, headphones on. Then her daughter comes into the living room in the shortest skirt I’ve ever seen and glittery tights. Her boyfriend is waiting at the door. When she’s gone, the women looks up, her face glowing and says ‘Doesn’t she look great’. I’m touched. What a lovely thing for a mother to say about her daughter, and I tell her so. She looks up from the form. ‘So is this your job ‘, she asks. I tell her that I’m one of five volunteers and that we all live together as a community. ‘Oh, that sounds wonderful’, she says. I tell her that our time is nearly at an end, and that I was crying yesterday in meditation, thinking of saying goodbye to everyone. I tell her about how we’ll all sit round the kitchen table tonight, sharing our experiences. ‘Oh, that must be so good to be able to do that’, she says wistfully, ‘so lovely to have people to go home to’. Her face has softened and she looks so pretty now. As I’m leaving I reach out to shake her hand. At the same time I realize that she’s moving to hug me. I smile and she kisses me on the cheek. ‘Take care’, she calls after me, ‘have a lovely evening’.
I’m oblivious to my alarm and don’t waken until ten past eight. I surrender to tiredness and half doze, half recall my dreams. I dreamt I had all my money and my map ‘my’ streets in a guitar case. But when I was in the supermarket the money and the map slipped out and got lost. I don’t know what to make of this dream except that I associate guitars with the heart. When I’m telling the dream over breakfast Lindsay says ‘Talking of guitar cases, I dreamt of one too’.
I wear my kesa under my cardigan tonight. Of all the times I’ve put on my kesa, this feels particularly significant: a reminder that Going for Refuge to the Three Jewels is the most important thing; a reminder to myself to act and speak in a way befitting a daughter of the Buddha.
It’s half past eight and I haven’t got a single standing order. Tonight and tomorrow we’re concentrating on call-backs. We’ve heard that often the most money comes in on these two nights. I’m telling myself I need to get a move on. I’m calculating how many more houses I can make it to before 9.30 which is our curfew for knocking. I pass a café. A voice inside suggests that I have a cup of tea and gather myself. To my surprise I heed this voice. The next woman I meet invites me in. She hasn’t read the leaflet. Will I take her through it? I sit back on her sofa and describe the projects. She signs up.
It’s 9.23. The young woman who answers the door says it’s not a good time, can I come back on Saturday. I explain that I’ll be gone by Saturday. She goes to fetch the leaflet. Meanwhile her partner invites me to stand in out of the rain. Suddenly the rain becomes a torrent. They invite me in properly and sit me down. They explain that it’s a precious staying-in-and-watching-TV-night. She tells me that she teaches a lot of kids who are refugees and tries to get the other kids to be aware of the hardships they’ve suffered. But the other kids are too caught up in their own stuff to really take them in. He turns his attention from the telly to add ‘We all need to learn to see just a few metres beyond our own selves’ I say, ‘Yes, we do. We need to take in that other people are people too’. He turns off the TV. She offers me some dried dates. She asks if it’s true that Buddhism teaches that all life is just a dream. We talk about how when someone close dies or gets very ill it can make you realized what’s really important in life. I tell them that for me Buddhism is an enrichment of life. We hear that the rain has eased off. He offers me a lift home.
I dream I’m with Ratnadharini. She says, ‘You know all those times you used to get angry, I’ve realized it was because you were making the scenery for plays. It was simply the effect of being so concerned with all those stage-props.’ I burst out laughing with joy and hug her, saying ‘I really am an Order member now’.
I’m sitting at the kitchen table with the Lindsay, Santavajri and Vandanajoti. Alokada and Santasiddhi have already left. We’ve spent the morning clearing up, dissolving the shrine, dissolving everything. I say ‘I wish Thursday night had been our last night. I wish I had more positive things to write in the blog. It’s supposed to inspire people’. I didn’t enjoy last night. I’d heard stories of people bringing in seven standing orders; of people making twice as much in the last week as in the whole rest of the Appeal. I caught my finger in a sprung letterbox and the £2 standing order I received wasn’t enough to make my personal target.. Someone says, ‘The truth is inspiring’. Someone else says , ‘It’s all just practice. Why should the last night be any different?’ And I’m reminded of the evening when I received my letter inviting me to be ordained. I went straight into the shrine-room to meditate. And I got distracted. I remember saying to myself ‘Just because you’re getting ordained doesn’t mean you don’t have to work in meditation’. It helps to think in this way; to remind myself that it’s all just practice.
Santavajri has bought a card for Bhante for us all to sign. We tell him how much we’ve raised in standing orders, over five years, for the projects in India. We’ve raised over £82.000.
