• can you transmit sore throats by email???? #

• changing passwords…..so hard for the elderly techno-challenged…… #
• struggling to wake up…..and it’s long after noon. #
• off to play bridge with some retired teachers…. #

Geshe is a Buddhist academic degree for scholars, requiring about twenty years of study. The geshe degree is a scholarly degree and should not be confused with the spiritual function of a “lama”; a lama is a person with spiritual insights which allow him or her to spiritually guide disciples. A geshe, on the other hand, is a keeper of the Buddhist knowledge. [Wikipedia]

I hate to admit how this got started, but when I was a freshman in college at Purdue in 1962, I read a book by a “Tibetan Lama” named Lobsang Rampa. He turned out to be a plumber from Scotland writing channeled misinformation about Tibet and Tibetan Buddhism. Still, I was enthralled with Tibet and read what other books I could find. There wasn’t much information about Tibet available in the early 60’s, though I enjoyed reading a number of books about India, including my favorites, The Mountain is Young by Han Suyin and The Far Pavilions. Deep in my heart, I formed a wish to meet a real Tibetan lama. Living in the American Midwest, I did not think that much of a possibility.

It is interesting to experience how wishes are granted as one journeys through life. In 1982 and 1983, I went on retreats at Bethany Springs, a retreat house close by Our Lady of Gethsemane monastery near Bardstown, Kentucky. One of the monks who had lived at Gethsemane was Thomas Merton, the famous writer and peace activist, who in 1968 journeyed to Darmsala, India, to visit the young Dalai Lama, who had escaped in 1959 from the Communist Chinese takeover of Tibet. In his Asian Journal, Merton wrote about his arduous trek to northern India and his profound meetings with HH, the Dalai Lama. The two, speaking through translators, found a common bond, and one meeting turned into several. Merton died of an accidental electrocution a couple of weeks later in Bangkok, Thailand, but he had set in motion a dialogue between Buddhist and Christian monks that continues to this day.

In his sophomore year at The College of William and Mary, my oldest son Jim took a class in Buddhism. He then returned home at the end of the semester and swiped my entire shelf of books on Buddhism. I was gratified to have my child become interested in a particular interest of my own, though he has still not returned the books. Jim then discovered he could study Tibetan through Indiana University’s outstanding foreign language department. He subsequently discovered a “gift” in the ability to read and translate Tibetan and later Sanskrit. Before he graduated from IU with a degree in Religious Studies, he met a lama named Geshe Sopa, who was the Director of Buddhist Studies at the University of Wisconsin. Eventually, Jim went to live and then to study with Geshe Sopa, earning his Ph.D in Buddhist studies from the University of Wisconsin in 2001. 

While Jim was a student at IU, I attended some functions at the Tibetan Cultural Center and met [receiving line kind of meeting] the Dalai Lama’s brother, Thubten Jigme Norbu, Buddhist monk, professor of Central Eurasian Studies, oldest brother of the XIVth Dalai Lama, and the 26th reincarnation of Takster Rinpoche. I read his autobiography,Tibet is My Country, which whetted further interest. I was fascinated with the ancient Tibetan beliefs, including the idea of Rinpoches, “precious ones” who incarnate again and again into the same position. According to Tibetan beliefs, the Takster Rinpoche, Professor Norbu, had incarnated 26 times as the abbot of the Kumbum monastery. How amazing to be a reincarnated lama, to be discovered while the child of a peasant as the incarnation of a high lama, and to be educated at the highest level at an important monastery, to have inherited the wealth and position of abbot, to escape from Tibet with the help of the CIA, and to end up as a professor at a university in the Midwestern United States.

Of course, Jim knew of my desire to speak with a Tibetan lama, so in 1993, when he was living at Deer Park, Geshe Sopa’s home near Madison, Wisconsin, he arranged for me to have an audience with Geshe Sopa. One does not just sit down for a chat, I discovered. When I arrived at Deer Park after an eight hour drive from Salem, I was ushered into the kitchen where four monks were making tsampa—butter sculptures made of salted tea, yak butter, and toasted barley flour. These sculptures are especially made for the December Butter Lamp Festival. When I saw what they were making, I said “tsampa,” which brought delighted smiles to their faces—-probably from my mispronunciation. I was visiting during Thanksgiving weekend and they were deep into preparation for the coming festival; the table and counter were lined with small sculptures. I later learned that one of the young monks was a rinpoche and the old monk was a high lama named Geshe Topgay.

Soon, I was escorted into Geshe Sopa’s presence; he received me formally, in monk’s robes, seated cross-legged on a platform in his room. The platform, about five feet high, was draped in crimson silk and colorful thangkas with gold embroidery. I had the disconcerting feeling of being in another time and another place. After I had bowed a greeting, he kindly asked me to sit and inquired about what I wanted to know. I was overwhelmed and could not think of anything to ask but finally managed a question about how he escaped from Tibet. I am sure that is not a question with which to use a high lama’s time, but he told me about his journey over the Himalayan mountains four months after the Dalai Lama’s, a frightening, hunger-filled journey through the high mountain passes. Then I asked him about the Neuchung Oracle, Dorje Drak-den (Nechung), the principal protector divinity of the Tibetan government and the Dalai Lama (see History of Nechung Monastery), the one who told the Dalai Lama he must leave Tibet and named the places on the path of the safe journey to India. The Dalai Lama explained this oracle’s directions in his autobiography Freedom in Exile. Again, this was an unexpected question, but Geshe Sopa responded by explaining. Slowly, I relaxed and he began to question me about my beliefs. I think he grasped that my knowledge and thoughts were very fragmented. He began to tell me the basic teachings and tenets of Buddhism, speaking gently and kindly. Eventually, Jim helped me back away from his presence and leave the room properly, still facing Geshe Sopa. I remember being dazed the rest of the evening. I met Geshe Sopa several times after that and he was always smiling and cordial. I have never forgotten that profound hour in his presence—a dream fulfilled and a true honor for me to be in the presence of this holy man.

http://www.ualberta.ca/~japple/

Where does one begin?  The horror is beyond belief, as is the sadness. The facts are beginning to emerge that the shooter in the Virginia Tech massacre was a student who went back to his dorm room between shootings.  I cannot fathom how someone so deranged thinks and plans. I can only think of what happened from the point of view of the students and teachers–and parents.
 
Of course, one personalizes all such horrifying information, so my first thought was of my son who is a young university instructor, developing a university teaching, researching, and writing career. He’s on the “front line” of a major Canadian university, teaching a full class load. At least three Virginia Tech professors and three or more instructors were killed in this incident, one professor reportedly blocking the door with his body. In my illusions, I thought my gentle Buddhist son was in a relatively safe profession, far from the killing and violence that characterize so much of our society and world.  I think of the six years [compacted, my university studies actually lasted from 1962 to 1980] I sat in university classrooms where one is focused on the lesson and taking notes. A gunman entering the room would have been surreal, something that did not compute. The mind does not easily switch from academic content to diving under a desk for protection. I thought of my niece Elizabeth, studying at a large Midwestern university, my nephew Jon studying education in the southwest, and all of my former students in university classes around the nation. I cannot get my mind around the thought of a peaceful classroom violated by a gunman who comes shooting through the doorway, showering the classroom in a hail of bullets.
 
The shootings at Kent State flashed through my mind, too.   May 4, 1970—so long ago–the U.S. military [National Guard] vs. protesting students—but so unthinkable to my generation—that a university, the place for open minds, would become a killing field.  I was reminded, too, of the shootings at the University of Texas in 1966, the bombings at the University of Wisconsin, and other events.  This horror is similar in that the shooter was a student, shooting and killing his fellow students, as well as professors, with fierce intensity.
 
My sympathies also go to the university authorities and police. Monday night CNN and other media were pushing and promoting harsh criticism of the authorities for not realizing the connection between the shootings and failing to notify students. Of course, the logistics of notification are complex and shutting down a major open campus is not exactly easy. Today [Tuesday] the criticism seems modified. How hard it is for the authorities to deal with scathing criticism and commentary as they must continue the duties of dealing with the enormous problems of the aftermath. One of the worst things about our news media is that the lowest thoughts, opinions, and comments of traumatized people are broadcast and magnified, as if they are the final say on an event. The viciousness of our media, Paula Zahn, for example, is just appalling; Monday night she challenged everyone she spoke to, trying to spark dissention and hatred towards the police and university officials.  It was most heartening this afternoon [Tuesday]  to watch the memorial service and see the audience rise to applaud—long and loud–the beleaguered university president. He asked for support and thanks for all of the police services—noting how the local, state, and federal agencies had rushed to their aid. The work of the university administration and all of the police agencies continues non-stop, while the arm chair critics blather in the safety of their homes, not involved in the massive job of assistance, clean-up, and support.
 
While Americans are horrified at the enormity of this shooting, university shootings and killings continue apace in Iraq. Our media gives the problems of the universities in Iraq scant attention in comparison to entertainment, celebrities, sports, and sometimes shootings in America. What if such shootings and massacres were happening all over the US, day after day, as they are in Iraq? What might our passive and complacent citizens do?
 
After watching the memorial service Tuesday afternoon at Virginia Tech [April 17] , which had many wonderful speakers, I was irked to note that the evening TV news shows [we were watching NBC] played President Bush’s remarks. Of the speakers, I thought he was the most banal, but he received the most coverage.  Professor Nikki Giovanni, poet and English professor, was absolutely wonderful, giving a spark of hope and spirit in the midst of sadness.  
 
Richard Cohen, commenting in The Washington Post.
 
For unconventional thinkers, an “otherworld” point of view which is most apt—and the bitter truth  
 
In the mean time, I am sad, so sad for the students, parents, faculty, administrators, university staff, Virginia Tech, the state of Virginia where many of my ancestors lived and died, and for our country.

When I was young and slender, it did not matter that I liked clothing styles and colors that do not look quite right on me. As I have aged, and gained, it matters more. Who wants to look like a big muffin? All sorts of problems have emerged with my wardrobe: color, size, fabric texture, fabric design, fit, not to mention, shoes.

An ash blond, now going gray, with green eyes, I look best in the soft summer colors. I know that, having attended a “color” session, where I learned that the oranges, yellows, and reds I wore in my 20’s and 30’s are not my thing. Blues, greens, and violets are my colors. At the moment, red and black are the winter colors that have dominated merchandise offerings in my size—-and beige. I refuse to wear black near my face, though I do wear black slacks and skirts. Beige makes me “disappear,” as if I am not there, while red makes me look, and feel, violent. Whoever designs/selects colors for large sized women ignores the proper color schemes so carefully worked out by color “therapists,” instead providing a endless selection of blacks. I suppose many fat women like black because it makes them feel more slender; it makes me feel ready to attend a funeral.

Cotton is my fabric of choice, followed by linen, silk, and rayon. Polyester makes me uncomfortable–too harsh on the skin–while acrylics cause some breathing problems–all those little loose threads which are inhaled. Cotton knit is my favorite garb. Of course, it is neither elegant nor formal. It is not particularly easy to care for, either, as it must be steam pressed to look decent, though one only looks decent as far as the car before the wrinkling starts. Same problem with linen. Generally, even with my grumbling efforts to press my clothing, I look like I slept in whatever I have on in about five minutes, at best.

Texture is important. I have some polyester slacks that slide all over me and make me slide all over chairs. I hate them. I like the feel of cotton knit; it gives and one does not slide all over furniture. My skin is very tender, part of the Fibromyalgia problem, so soft clothing is a must. My favorite daily clothing is worn out t-shirts and cotton pants, which I wear until they are literally rags. The more ragged, the more comfortable. My family is used to my ragged clothing, which I only wear around my home, but it occasionally shocks visitors. I make an effort, well, a slight effort, to be more presentable in public.

Not much choice in fabric design is available for large ladies. I’ve learned not to wear large prints, which make me look startling. While I like small flowered prints, they are not flattering. What looks best and what I like to wear are slacks and tops in contrasting or blending colors. What is available for fat ladies are tacky printed tops which are not long enough to cover all the offending parts, like hips and pot bellies. 

In an effort to placate large women, merchandisers such as Talbot’s or Land’s End or even Lane Bryant present clothing in the same styles as those for slender women. Of course, slender women are not desperately trying to cover hips, fat arms, and pot bellies with yards of tent-like fabric. Clothing designed for the slender types often looks dreadful on large women. If one has a pot belly, a neat little sweater that boxes off at the waist is NOT just-the-thing. Often, style advisers tell large women to use long lines to “fool the eye.” And, where are these long line garments to be found? Beats me. I have not found many, though Lands End and Junonia sell cotton tunic tops for large ladies, which I purchase by the dozens. 

Shoes present a different problem. Comfortable shoes, like men wear, are not fashionable for women. They are hardly available for women, though I have resorted to purchasing some men’s Rockport’s, which are so-so in comfort level. The trouble with men’s shoes is that they are heavy. High heels, pointed toes, slick soles are the lot of women. When I was slender, I loved wearing fashionable shoes; they did not hurt my feet back then. But, even then, I wondered why modern, well-educated women persist in wearing uncomfortable shoes in which they can neither run nor even walk well. Now, having also given up the hated panty hose, I like to wear open-heel, slip-on shoes, with socks; the kind of shoe that has a running shoe bottom. This style requires slacks, as it looks unbelievably awful with dresses. It does not look “correct” with dress clothing either, but I have discovered that I can walk in these shoes and that they provide a broad, flat base on which to stand—very nice when one is rather unsteady. 

Anyone reading this far, realizes, of course, that my style is called “frumpy.” The problem is that I no longer care. I admire my friends who look elegant and sleek, who can wear exotic clothing with panache, who unerringly select styles that flatter them and look chic at the same time. I am hanging on to “frumpy” because I think “fishwife” is the next step on my way down to the bottom of the fashion cellar.

Women’s dress clothing is a trap. We pride ourselves on being emancipated and we look with horror on past restrictions such as ancient Chinese foot-binding. Fashion dictates that women wear bras, girdles, pointed toe shoes, high heels, panty hose, tight jackets which restrict the arms, clunky jewelry, not to mention hairstyles and make-up that require a lot of fuss. We have not come a long way….baby.