I first encountered the oft-cited invocation below in a newspaper column by United Congregational minister Dale Turner. At the time I assumed he was the author, but when the Internet happened years later, I found that its provenance is indeterminate. (No shade on the Rev. Turner, who frequently shared gems from his own tireless study, and undoubtedly flagged this as another in the column I read.) In fact, no-one seems to know where these memorable lines come from. One source claims it's a traditional Kenyan prayer, but I was unable to verify that, either. As for me, its very anonymity is value-added. Those many pithy, compelling observations that knock around the world, repeated for generations, unattributed or misattributed, are often the most profound; the mere fact they've travelled so far demonstrates how powerful they are. Any road, this one became a form in my Christian practice. Now twenty years further, having taken the Zen path, I see no reason to change that. So may this teaching from the great Zen master Anon be a guide and a buttress to fellow seekers in the coming year. The Truth Testimony _From the arrogance that thinks it knows all truth From the cowardice that shrinks from new truth From the laziness that is content with half truths O God of Truth Deliver us._ (Photo courtesy of Seiya Maeda and Unsplash.com.)

New Year's is upon us again, and as usual I'm in a reflective mood. This time I've got the Cowboys Fringants' _Ici-bas_ running through my head. Les Cowboys have an unusual gift for couching poetry in vernacular speech, and it only gains in power what it loses in polish. Since the group lost its lead singer to prostate cancer just last month, this song has been much in my thoughts. The video itself is a significant, Cowboys-worthy bonus; like another, unwritten verse, pumping context into words that might otherwise read more grimly than intended. Note all the visual metaphors for growing up and growing old, and also the classic backstreet scenes from some Québécois town. (All Québécois towns have an uncanny knack for being distinct and the same at the same time, and this one – whoever it is – makes me homesick for my own.) And finally, of course, that heart-pulling winter: much more than a simple season, it's a kind of family member in Québec – a relationship hard to grasp beyond the Ottawa. None of which is hurt by an additional call-out to my enduring love of taking long walks through it, both in town and nearer home. « Ici-bas » literally means the here-below, an expression that exists in English but is much more current in French. It implies the fishbowl nature of the human lot -- its claustrophobic smallness, the impossibility of escaping it with our lives. And also the unity of our experience, whether we choose to accept it or not. All of which made translating even the title tough. At last I went with _Down Here_ , with its implied awareness of the great not-Earth, and the modesty of our little neighbourhood and our existence in it. Follows the usual heartbreak of reclothing sublime images in clunky foreign syntax. Does « trafic » refer to backroom intrigue, or is it just traffic? Because it's both in French, and the writer almost certainly meant both. And what of « faucher » (to scythe), mostly used in these industrial times to describe what Death does. Strike down, we might say, but that would leave a richer metaphor by the roadside. Nothing English gets us there as completely and concisely; you just have to take your best shot and move on. Any road, I suggest you first listen to the song while reading the lyrics and ignoring the video, to savour the full impact of the message. Then run through the video again, watching it this time. Either way, it's a touching meditation on The Great Matter. Best of luck in the coming year, and may we remember and honour each other, here-below. _(Note: an English translation follows the French lyrics.)_ _Ici-bas_ paroles et musique: Jean-François Pauzé Malgré nos vies qui s’emballent dans une époque folle Où un rien nous détourne du simple instant présent Alors que tout s’envole Avec le temps Malgré la mort, celle qui frappe et qui nous fait pleurer Ou bien celle qui un jour, tôt ou tard, nous fauchera Je m’accroche les pieds Ici-bas Malgré l’amour celui qui nous fait vivre d’espoir Qui parfois fait si mal quand on reste sur le seuil D’une trop courte histoire Sans qu’on le veuille Malgré la haine qui souvent nous retombe sur le nez Et les caves qui s’abreuvent de ce triste crachat Je m’accroche les pieds Ici-bas Ici-bas Tant que mes yeux s’ouvriront Je cherch’rai dans l’horizon La brèche qui s’ouvre sur mes décombres La lueur dans les jours plus sombres Tant que mes pieds marcheront J’avancerai comme un con Avec l’espoir dans chaque pas Et ce jusqu’à mon dernier souffle Ici-bas Malgré les merdes, les revers, les choses qui nous échappent Les p’tits, les grands tourments, les erreurs de parcours Et tout c’qui nous rattrape Dans le détour Malgré l’ennui, le trafic, les rêves inachevés La routine, le cynisme, l’hiver qui finit pas Je m’accroche les pieds Ici-bas Ici-bas Tant que mes yeux s’ouvriront Je cherch’rai dans l’horizon La brèche qui s’ouvre sur mes décombres La lueur dans les jours plus sombres Tant que mes pieds marcheront J’avancerai comme un con Avec l’espoir dans chaque pas Et ce jusqu’à mon dernier souffle Ici-bas _Down Here_ words and music by Jean-François Pauzé In spite of the way our lives spin out of control in this daft epoch Where an anything can pull us out of the moment we're in While it all flies away Over time In spite of the deaths that strike and leave us crying Or the one that one day, sooner or later, will cut us down I will plant my feet Down here In spite of the love that allows us to live in hope But sometimes hurts so bad we remain stuck on the edge Of a story cut too short Like it or not In spite of the hate so often blown back in our face And the caverns storing up all that wretched spit I will plant my feet Down here Down here So long as my eyes still open I will search the horizon For the chink that will shine on my ruins A light in my darkest days So long as my feet will still walk I'll forge ahead like an idiot Hope in every step Right to my last breath Down here In spite of the hassles, the setbacks, the ones that got away The small wounds and the great, the wrong turns And all that trips us up In the detour In spite of the boredom, the traffic, the unfulfilled dreams The routine, the cynicism, the endless winters I will plant my feet Down here Down here So long as my eyes still open I will search the horizon For the chink that will shine on my ruins A light in my darkest days So long as my feet will still walk I'll forge ahead like an idiot Hope in every step Right to my last breath Down here

(_Stryx varia_.)

"Here’s my new year’s wish to all those of genuine good will and decency: "May you have the strength and the courage to oppose what should be opposed." Heidi Li Feldman (To my sister's succinct and sufficient statement I would append that this be a precept to our enlightenment practice, a reaffirmation of the call to right action, for the impending year and those that follow.) _(Photo courtesy ofSneha Cecil and Unsplash.com.)_

Fictional bodhisattva Avalokiteshvara (Kuan Yin, Guanyin, Kanzeon, Kannon, Gwan-eum, Quan Âm) incarnates a specific insight about the nature of reality, chopped down to a simplistic platitude for the marketplace. The platitude is "Bodhisattva of Compassion", a role most evident in one of his many avatars: the Virgin Mary. (This primordial figure has both genders, befitting the quality she represents. Unfortunately this is more insight than the average monkey can chamber, so in India he's usually called a man; Western Buddhism, with its Christian influence and largely female direction, almost always cleaves to the East Asian tradition that she's a woman.) But the original Sanskrit – "Lord Who Looks Down" – is a better description of what this bodhisattva actually does. Avalokiteshvara doesn't intervene on anybody's behalf; she's not a patron saint (actual existence being a prerequisite for that job) or goddess. He just, like, looks down. Why? Because she's a compassionate dude. The more active face of this universe is something sailors readily perceive, because they have an ongoing relationship with another infinite, unfathomable entity that will happily kill you without a second thought. No, not happily. _Indifferently_. To have contempt for you, it would have to realise you exist. And it's 'way too busy for that. But the universe has another nature that's just as important: opportunity. In this infinitely generous life, we can grow, learn, change. _Practice_. An endless stream of bricks bounces off your skull, but every one of them has a note wrapped around it. Kuan Yin looks down from heaven, sees your suffering, and says, "Come on, crow meat! You're hurting both of us, here. Practice, dammit!" Because the universe wants you to succeed. It may not be snuggly and cute and sweet-smelling, but every problem here is its own cure. And if it weren't for the pain, we'd never be motivated to reach it. As one of Fudo's crew, I don't meditate much on Avalokiteshvara. But the new year puts me in mind of her. In this moment, more than others, folks think about the paths they arrived on, and those that lie ahead. Along the way we acquire great weights of resentment, and an equally crushing load of denial. We ignore life's windfalls, and our own role in pumping pain into it. But mostly, we deny the simple opportunity it gives us. This ain't hell. We can get out of this. Some time ago the following meditations invented themselves while I was sitting. I return to them from time to time, when the burden grows great. Therefore, in steely Fudoesque anticipation of the coming year, I offer them to all seekers, in the hope they may be of help to other enlightenment practices. I. _I forgive myself for not being perfect._ _I forgive others for not being perfect as well._ _I forgive my judges for not knowing the whole truth._ _I forgive humanity for containing evil people._ II. _I honour the progress I've made._ _I honour the roads of others as well._ _I honour those who evolve with courage._ _I honour this life for the opportunity to practice._ (Photo of Guanyin Bodhisattva statue courtesy of Wikimedia Commons, the Doris Duke Charitable Foundation's Southeast Asian Art Collection, and the Walters Art Museum.)

'Way back at university I decided I had to do something about New Year's Day. Here in Anglophonia, it's only a holiday in the most technical sense. Aside from disposing of the Christmas tree – and in my house, steaming the next year's Christmas pudding – nothing fun, special, or out of the ordinary is scheduled for this day. So when the local newspaper ran a bit on a classic New Year's meal from the American South, I was all over that. The dish itself – which could be summed up as "rice and beans cranked up to 11" – is deceptively simple, but hearty and sustaining. And, if attentively developed, incredibly delicious. Like most traditional foods, hoppin' john varies from region to region and even family to family, to the extent that recognising versions separated in space and time may be challenging. Over the years, with the benefit of experience and helpful Southerners, I've made mine memorable and worthwhile. So I'm sharing it here. (Note that vegan hacks are also included in the recipe below.) Whatever your own recipe becomes, hoppin' john is earthy and flavourful and I look forward to it all year, full as much as the Christmas turkey. (The dark leftovers of which could be fortified with a few drops of liquid smoke and used here in lieu of bacon, now I think of it.) I like to serve it in the pot it was made in, for an extra nod to self-sufficient cheer. As for the name, nobody seems to know for sure where that came from. But I rate this meal a fine note upon which to hop into the coming year. _Hoppin' John_ To serve 4: For the blackeyed peas: 4 cups soaked blackeyed peas (1 1/3 cup dry; other beans – red, black, white, pinto – can be substituted if necessary) 2 cups chicken stock (or substitute lentil stock) 2 cups tomato or vegetable juice 2 tablespoons chopped Italian parsley stems (reserve the leaves for the main recipe) 1 teaspoon powdered thyme 1 teaspoon powdered sage 1 teaspoon rosemary 1/2 teaspoon cumin 1/4 teaspoon celery seed 1 bay leaf For the rest: 3 slices jowl bacon (if necessary, substitute Spam, another bacon, ham, or sausage; for vegan, leave out the meat and sprinkle smoked almonds on the finished dish instead) 1/2 medium red onion, chopped 1/2 medium yellow onion, chopped 1 clove garlic, minced one each green, red, and yellow bell pepper, seeded and chopped minced jalapeño to taste 4 cups cooked brown rice 1 teaspoon powdered thyme leaves of 6 or 7 large stems Italian parsley (substitute celery leaves if necessary) salt to taste Simmer all blackeye ingredients in a covered pot till the beans are soft, about 40 minutes. If they end up soaking in the liquor for a while afterward, so much the better. In a large skillet or pot, fry the bacon soft. Drain both bacon and pot well. (Too much jowl grease is too much.) Chop the bacon and lay aside for later. In the residual grease in the bottom of the pan (or olive oil), sauté onions, garlic, and peppers. Add bacon and salt. (I seldom add salt to any dish, but this one tends to want some. Proceed mindfully.) When the vegetables are bright and glistening, stir in the rice and thyme and toss assertively. You want a certain amount of crushing and bruising here, to integrate flavours and textures. Add the beans and their liquor. Toss well again to mix completely. Cover and steam over low heat for 15 minutes, until the rice is hot and liquid absorbed. Add water if necessary. Remove from heat. Scatter parsley leaves on top, recover, and let rest for a minute or two before serving. Best of 2023s to everyone, and may we meet again here 12 months hence.

As the holiday season softens into memory, we North Americans might pause to consider whether we've quite finished the job. We're pretty good at initiating our great annual solstice commemoration: it starts cleanly on the first of December (American Thanksgiving weekend in the US). Then we slowly build through the darkest month, drumming on themes of fellowship and good will, revering the season's natural beauty and that of our decorations, celebrating family and childhood, and invoking Christmas past. That's all excellent practice, as I've opined before. Christmas Eve and Day – one of the few moments in our cultures when quiet intimacy with family is upheld – crown these worthy preparations. Some engage in the equally hushed and moving ritual of Midnight Mass. Then we wisely stand down for a week to digest, literally and figuratively. It also helps us rebuild strength for the final assault: our salute to the dying year and our survival of it, in a gay but determined vigil to the bitter end. Whereupon Guy Lombardo sounds keisu, and Solstice Ango is over. And that's always found me aching for closure next morning. For New Year's Eve is a lament for people, places, and conditions we can never see again. It's a very healthy reflection – especially for Americans, who oblige a kind of adolescent nihilism the rest of the year – but it's only half the truth. The other half is the new people, places, and conditions that are evolving at the speed of life, and our lot and luck to carpe the crap out of that diem. Before it too passes and is mourned on another New Year's Eve. Therefore, I advocate Kerstboomverbranding. That's the early January rite of Dutch and Belgian communities, who create an epic bonfire from the mass of their dessicated Christmas trees on which to cremate the bones of the past. Children jump up and down in the searing light while neighbours mill about, sharing New Year's wishes, leftover Christmas cookies, and warming libations. It's a brief-enough party; dry conifers burn violently, and fast. The whole ritual takes about an hour of early seasonal darkness, leaving folks plenty of time to put the children to bed and sweep any residual needles out of the front room. Similar things are already going on in a few places here; at Ballard's Golden Garden Park, for example, where participants are supposed, in theory, to burn their trees individually in picnic ground fire rings. But where's the fun in that? To the best of my knowledge, the City of Seattle has yet to shut down the spontaneous combustion that tends to result instead. But wouldn't it be great if this sort of thing happened in neighbourhoods across the hemisphere: small local initiatives, informal and fleeting, to provide runway lights for the in-bound future. It's the button we're missing. Cheers to all as we reach for another calendar. _(Photo ofKerstboomverbranding in Berchem, Belgium, by a local photographer.)_

My very best wishes to all Rusty Ring readers, regular and irregular, on this Christmas Day. May it be filled with warmth and light. Both that you find, and that you make. The first is luck. The second, skill. _(Photo of Kinkaku at Kinkaku-ji [Rokuon-ji] courtesy of Wikimedia Commons and a generous photographer.)_

A peaceful Christmas Eve to all, and from all of us here at Rusty Ring, a Merry Christmas.

Last Christmas I shared my Perfect Chai, for the greater enlightenment of all sentient beings. But I left them hungry. So this year, I offer my Sourdough Devil's Food Cake. It's sourdough. It's cake. And it's devilishly unique. (Which is à propos, since as Spinal Tap have pointed out, Christmas is all about the Devil. What was it Christopher Guest said? "Merry Christmas – poke, poke!" Full video embedded after recipe.) Anyway, without further, here 'tis: Sourdough Devil's Food Cake 1 cup sourdough starter 1/2 cup flour 2 individual packages instant cocoa mix (preferably "dark"; quantity equals 1/3 cup. Or substitute 1/4 cup cocoa powder, 1 tablespoon dehydrated milk, and 1 tablespoon sugar) 1/4 cup sugar 1 egg 1/4 cup prepared mayonnaise (or separate one egg yolk into a 1/4 cup measure and fill the rest with oil.) 1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon 1/2 teaspoon ground cloves 1/4 teaspoon grated orange zest flour to stiffen ~~1 teaspoon~~ CORRECTION: 1/2 teaspoon soda mixed into 1/4 cup flour Liberally grease an 8-inch pan. (Cast iron serves sourdough best.) Stir together all ingredients except soda mixture, and beat till smooth. Add flour (ending with the soda mixture) as necessary to make a stiff cake batter. Beat hard to release gluten. (Batter will take a dull sheen and become ropey.) Scrape batter into the greased pan, cover, and allow to work at room temperature for 30 to 45 minutes. Bake at 400 degrees for 15-20 minutes, or until a pick comes out clean. Serve hot. Sourdough devil's food cake can be served as is, or with whipped cream, ice cream, or hard sauce. Cold pieces taste better if microwaved for 30 seconds; reheated in the oven in a damp paper sack; or on a rack in a covered skillet, over a tablespoon of water, at medium heat. And it goes great with chai. _(The video here-below was taken from the 1992 reunion disc_Return of Spinal Tap _. Prepare to bang your head on some metal, or whatever people do to this music.)_

--- Christmas 1976 Here's a quick source of good cheer for Christmas Day: Google "Christmas" and a year, i.e.: "Christmas 1972" (without quotes). At the top of the search results page, click on "Images". Your computer screen will fill with photographs of people from the past, surrounded by love and light. People you used to know. People you used to be. Then try 1964. Or 1991. Or 1930. Or 2004. I could surf this stuff all day. And I may. From all of us here at Rusty Ring, Happy Holidays to all. _(Photo courtesy of Wikimedia Commons and a generous photographer)_

I'm dreaming of a wet Christmas Just like the kind I used to know With raincoats dripping And blue tarps whipping As thirty-knot gusts blast and blow I'm dreaming of a wet Christmas With every Christmas card I get May your home be warm and well-met And may all your Christmases be wet _(Photo courtesy ofAndras Vas and Unsplash.com.)_

I've been a huge Dickens fanboy since a Christmas in high school when I decided to read his most famous story. You know, from an actual book. The kind with no battery. That was the initial infection. By the end of my undergraduate years I'd read every novel, travelogue, and short story Dickens ever wrote. Followed, in the throes of detox, by several biographies and critical essays, including Orwell's succinct and brilliant analysis of Dickens' place in British culture. But since those student days I've wanted to write a sequel – more properly, a conclusion – to his most famous work. Because the man left _A Christmas Carol_ unfinished. In it, as you will recall, bitter old miser Ebenezer Scrooge is visited by four ghosts – or one ghost and three bodhisattvas – who convince him to lay off being a bitter old miser. (Note that in so doing, Dickens invents psychoanalysis fifty years before the fact. Further proof of his visionary genius.) The story closes on that catharsis, as Scrooge becomes slightly foolish and a lot nicer to those in his circle, and, we're assured, faithfully keeps Christmas to the end of his days. And there Charles Dickens abandons his greatest novel, leaving us with nothing more than this uplifting but ultimately anæmic introduction. And they call _Edwin Drood_ a tragedy! Because what Dickens takes to his own grave is the story of how Scrooge's overdue rejection of the scarcity model went on to raise a swelling wave of economic and social development, the force of which was still carrying, not just Tim Cratchit, but indeed Tim's great-grandchildren, generations thence. The belief that greed and stinginess are good business was coin of the realm in Dickens' day, as it remains in ours. But there's no evidence that this pat excuse for egotism is exact. Fact is, having this reality abruptly kicked up his backside by his business partner and three unrelenting enforcers, my man Ben (who was, lest we forget, uncommon sharp) re-entered the world on the day after New Year's and started ploughing wealth into the neighbourhood: creating infrastructure, developing resources, improving standards, and generating something vastly more valuable than simple jobs: opportunity. And that's not all. He also straight-up turned Queen's Evidence, plying his legendary flint and synoptic command of commercial law to defend the exploited from the predators he used to ride with. Soon those former homies just stood down when they learned Scrooge and Marley Ltd had the account; you don't win against those odds. Because S&M (you thought that name was a coincidence?) will bulldog you on every point until you never even recoup your losses, let alone profit. And the ironic part is that Scrooge actually got richer for all of this. Probably a lot richer. Because a lot of competent people who'd only served to keep him in gruel prior to that haunted Christmas Eve were paying their rent and thinking bigger. If the Ghosts of Christmas had thought it through, they would have added some economics to that field trip through his life. Asked him how his amiable and generous old employer Feziwig got so prosperous; shown him what a waste of earning potential were all those ruined present lives; and especially, how rich he totally wasn't by the hour of his death. Scrooge dies in the same crappy flat, surrounded by the same paltry rubbish. If he'd made more money, it hadn't accomplished anything. Not even for him. In the end, it's just a total waste to have a guy like Scrooge simply stand down. Because if it's true that the first thing you do when you find yourself in a hole is to stop digging, it is as well that in that moment you find yourself standing beside (or beneath) a pile of soil, holding a shovel. My thoughts this holiday season; may they be worth the penny. Wishing us every one the happiest of Yules, and a fruitful new year. _(1915 Arthur Rankham illustration of Jacob Marley auditing Scrooge_ ["Business? Mankind was my business. The common welfare was my business; charity, mercy, forbearance, benevolence, were all my business. The dealings of my trade were but a drop of water in the comprehensive ocean of my business!"] _courtesy of William Pearl and Wikimedia Commons.)_

I'm dreaming of a wet Christmas Just like the kind I used to know With raincoats dripping And blue tarps whipping As thirty-knot gusts blast and blow I'm dreaming of a wet Christmas With every Christmas card I get May your home be warm and well-met And may all your Christmases be wet _(Photo courtesy ofAndras Vas and Unsplash.com.)_

Just in time for holiday entertaining, here's a killer recipe for an easy, addictive appetiser or side dish. Both the "Quick" and "Better" versions can be filled with either hamburger or lentils, suitable for omnivore and vegetarian alike, and the ingredients are readily available from most any North American supermarket. The "Quick" recipe is indeed quick: about half an hour from groceries to piping hot, fragrant samosas. The "Better" one takes a little longer, but is well worth the extra time if you've got it. (Note: both are also fairly spicy; for milder results, dial back or omit the jalapeños.) _Pastry for both versions_ : 2 tubes ready-bake crescent roll dough, for 16 rolls in all. Keep tubes chilled until the moment of use. _"Quick" filling_ : 1 tablespoon ghee or cooking oil 1/2 teaspoon minced garlic 1 tablespoon minced onion 1 1/2 teaspoons jarred jalapeños, minced a few good grinds of fresh black pepper 2 teaspoons prepared curry powder pinch each ground cinnamon and cloves (just a pinch; you shouldn't taste either in the finished product) 1/2 teaspoon powdered ginger 1/2 teaspoon chili powder 1/2 cup diced tomatoes 1/4 teaspoon thyme 1 tablespoon minced celery 1 pound very lean ground beef, or cooked lentils (about 1/2 cup raw) _"Better" filling_ : 1 tablespoon ghee or cooking oil 1 inch grated gingerroot --- "Better" spice mix; beef or lentils will be stirred into this 1 garlic clove (about 1/2 teaspoon), minced 1 tablespoon minced onion 1 1/2 teaspoons jarred jalapeños, minced a few good grinds of fresh ground black pepper 1 teaspoon ground cumin 1/4 teaspoon turmeric good pinch garam masala, if available 1/2 teaspoon coriander powder pinch each ground cinnamon and cloves (just a pinch; you shouldn't taste either in the finished samosas) 1/2 teaspoon chili powder 1/2 cup diced tomatoes 1/4 teaspoon thyme 1 tablespoon minced celery 1 pound very lean ground beef, or cooked lentils (about 1/2 cup raw) _Instructions for both (all four?) filling recipes_ : Preheat oven to 375F. Warm ghee or oil in a heavy skillet over medium-low heat. Add all ingredients up to tomatoes, in order, and simmer gently until onion is translucent and spices are fragrant. Add tomatoes, thyme, and celery, raise heat slightly, and cook until celery is soft and mixture is pasty, scraping it frequently about with a spatula. Add beef or lentils, mix thoroughly with spice mixture, and simmer until beef is browned or lentils have thickened, about 10 minutes. Scrape frequently with the edge of a spatula; if the mixture gets too dry, add a little water . _To make samosas_ : Unroll crescent roll dough and separate into triangles. Put a heaping tablespoon of filling in the centre of the wide end of each triangle. Pull up the short corners and seal them together on top of the filling; pull the long last corner over the top of the sealed short ones and around the back to form a round, filled pastry; pinch and seal all seams closed so that no filling shows. Place on an ungreased cookie sheet. Bake at 375°F for 10 minutes or until golden brown. (Take care they don't burn; these bake very quickly.) Serve warm, wrapped in a tea towel, as finger food.

_(My Christmas present tomy mom, ca. 1974.)_

Like a lot of old people, I've come to find myself adrift at Christmas. Family mostly gone. Friends busy with their own. I never found a home in humanity. So here I sit. There's a certain irony. I was always the Yuletide warrior: the guy who spent the year sourcing gifts, and immediately on first December, sent cards, decked halls, logged kitchen hours, all while listening to holiday music, alternating between seasonal radio and my ever-expanding battery of Christmas albums. Who knew the holidays were yet another thing you eventually don't qualify for if you're not married. I'm told there's an entire nation of us, we solitaries. Though we mostly don't know each other. Isolation is best performed alone. But fear not. This isn't another treatise on the maudlin holiday of the outlier. Because I've come to spread the good news of Zen. I've said it before: Zen practice doesn't end suffering. It just helps you suffer better. A fact of which I'm well-reminded in December. Sure, I'd love to have a warm home full of love and children. Somebody to give to. Somebody to share with. But I can always cherish the desire itself. In spite of our Western thoughtways – our conviction that life has a scoreboard, marking each passing second "earned" or "unearned" – just the belief in Christmas is joy enough. There's also something to be said for standing outside of a thing to fully see into it. Clear-seeing is harder to pull off from too close. As my world has shrunk to a room, I've gained a great deal of pleasure in this season. All that's going on around me. The responses that weather and light and sights and smells elicit. The memories, and yes, even the unrealised dreams. They were good dreams. And I'm grateful that my society maintains this calendar month of sesshin to remind us of such things. It's important to affirm that our insistence on separating people into winners and losers is delusion. So this Christmas, as in the past, I'm once again listening to my Christmas radio playlist – over thirty holiday stations worldwide. And if it's hard to get too excited about baking for just myself, I've still got chai and sourdough coffee cake, and pumpkin soup for Christmas Eve, and hoppin' john on New Year's. And I'll get to have Christmas dinner with my sister and her family. If my circle has dwindled to little more at this stage, it's also true that I look forward to that all year. And the knowledge that even that isn't guaranteed, in this world of dew, keeps me treasuring it. So once again I'll sit through midnight on New Year's Eve, holding mudra, minding my posture, and smiling inwardly as the fireworks drive this year out, never to be seen again. And into that vacuum will immediately tumble… something else. Creation is infinite. And I am small. A heartfelt Merry Christmas to all my brothers and sisters. And if that's foreign to your practice, then at minimum, a deep December full of cheer and contemplation. PS: If you've yet to discover Internet radio, and would like a taste, Christmas Radio Malta is one of my favourites. Their website player is dead, but you can click here on their stream URL to open it in your browser, or paste it into your media player. I'm listening to it now. _(Photo of the Jellyfish Galaxy [ESO 137-001] and surrounding space courtesy of NASA and Wikipedia Commons.)_

--- Pictured: not the Buddha. Ask a random Westerner to describe the Buddha, and you're likely to hear something about a "big fat laughing guy." I once heard a radio preacher sneer down my entire religion as "people who think you kin git ta heaven bah prayin' to a big, fat Byoo-dah." (By the way, if he happens to read this, may I suggest you refrain from commenting on others' beliefs until you know, at minimum, whether they pray, and if so, to whom.) We Zenners find this nonsense especially grating since we barely even acknowledge the figure they're referring to. For the record, the dude in the above photo is Hotei (Budai, Pu-Tai, 布袋, Bố Đại...). Not the Buddha. Not _a_ buddha. Not even a significant legendary figure, like Fudo or Kanzeon. Just a rankless Chán monk of the Liang Dynasty. Not that my brother Hotei didn't have his noteworthy points. First off, unlike most Buddhist monks, he was fat. (Note that the actual Buddha once starved himself nearly to death, and then adjusted his practice to embrace, shall we say, non-stupid asceticism. That's why he's usually depicted as sensibly slim, and occasionally as terrifyingly emaciated, in admiration of his earlier, if misguided, conviction.) Hotei's girth was all the more miraculous because he was a begging hermit. (High five to the Homeless Brothers!) How you maintain such a waistline on handouts is one of the mysteries of his practice. Especially since he gave away everything he got. Hotei carried this dimly-sourced loot in a bag over his shoulder, which, upon deposition, turned out to be mostly filled with sugary treats that he handed out to children like… (Sorry. Even I can't go there.) You see this coming, right? Not yet? OK, dig this: the central practice of Hotei's monastic rule was laughter. He was always cutting loose with a big, jolly laugh that announced joy and peace to the world, as he humped a bottomless bag through town on his fat back, doling out presents to every child... Anybody? Oh, come on! Now you're just trying to piss me off. The reason you see more statues of Hotei than Gautama in Asia is the same reason you see more Santas than Jesuses at Christmastime: he's more fun, less threatening, and doesn't remind people of suffering. And it's that last bit I like to meditate on. Hotei is unpopular among modern Zenners because he's embarrassingly emotional, dangerously untamed – wandering around teacherless, eschewing all acts of devotion save his self-authored laughter practice – and worst of all, he does that annoying Bodhidharma thing of preaching no-key enlightenment. Don't waste time bowing and chanting and folding things just so and being obedient to this and that, says Hotei. Especially, don't confuse misery with discipline. Bodhidharma said "just sit." Hotei says "just laugh." And that's what offends us. Because if Bodhidharma crapped on social ambition and Confucianism and gracious deference to hierarchies, at least he wasn't ho-ho-ho-ing it up in the town square, rubbing our pious faces in it. "You're in pain?" says the fat old hobo. "I hate it when that happens. But don't sweat it, because sooner or later, one way or another, your problems are doomed. Hey, they can't survive without you, can they?" And then he laughs. Because that's freakin' hysterical. Therefore, in honour of Christmas, and to bow in ironic deference to my unpretentious brother, I offer fellow seekers the Koan of Hotei. To my certain knowledge, it's the only nod to the Buddhist Santa Claus in our entire canon. It's also my favourite koan. (A distinction it shares with all of them.) So: > A monk asked Hotei, "What is the meaning of Chán?" > > Hotei put down his bag. > > "How does one realise Chán?" the monk asked. > > Hotei threw his bag on his back and walked on. Happy holidays, brothers and sisters. See you on the road. --- Jolly old Gautama. _(Photos courtesy of Helanhuaren [Hotei figurine], Akuppa John Wigham [emaciated Siddhartha statue], and Wikimedia Commons.)_

I simply remember my favourite things…..and then I dont feel so bad.

During the holidays we frequently entertain, including in the morning. The season is also particularly associated with the scent and flavour of cinnamon and cloves, and here in the Northern Hemisphere, with hot beverages. That's why I'm sharing this favourite treat, which I developed several years ago, though like chai and sourdough devil's food cake I enjoy it year-round. In the interest of full disclosure I also dislike coffee, but as tea cake is a whole 'nother thing, Sourdough Coffee Cake it is. For best results, follow the instructions in order. **_Sourdough Coffee Cake_** ** **Ingredients: Cake: 1 cup sourdough starter 1/2 cup flour 1/4 cup white sugar 1 egg 1/4 cup cooking oil ~~1 teaspoon~~ CORRECTION: 1/2 teaspoon soda mixed into 1/4 cup flour Topping: 1 tablespoon melted butter 1/4 cup rolled oats 1/2 teaspoon minced orange peel 1/4 cup brown sugar 1 teaspoon white sugar 1 tablespoon flour 1 teaspoon cinnamon 1/4 teaspoon ground cloves 1.) In a medium mixing bowl, beat together all the cake ingredients __except the soda and flour mixture_._ Set the batter aside to work while completing the next steps. 2.) Grease an 8-inch cake pan. 3.) In a small mixing bowl, stir together the topping ingredients. 4.) Stir the soda and flour mixture thoroughly into the batter. 5.) Heat the oven to 400°. 6.) When the oven is ready, turn the batter into the greased cake pan and sprinkle the topping mixture evenly across the top. 7.) Bake for 20 minutes, or until brown and a pick inserted into the middle comes out clean. 8.) Serve hot with your favourite hot beverage. Notes: o Since I don't care for things that are over-sweet I tend to short or omit spurious white sugar, but in the topping mixture it matters. I haven't tried to bake the cake itself with brown instead of white, but it might work. o Thick-cut rolled oats work best if you can get them. In any case, the "instant" type are least desirable. (For anything. Pardon my Scottish expertise.) o This is one of those recipes in which finely-minced orange peel works better than orange zest. Especially if you've got those thin-peeled clementines (Christmas oranges). o Like other soda-raised sourdough goods, Sourdough Coffee Cake is best eaten hot. It's still enjoyable after it cools, but the difference is telling. However, a cold day-old piece plus 30 seconds in the microwave equals a warm fresh piece. Best of holidays regardless of where you live, which one you celebrate, or how.

During the holidays we frequently entertain, including in the morning. The season is also particularly associated with the scent and flavour of cinnamon and cloves, and here in the Northern Hemisphere, with hot beverages. That's why I'm sharing this favourite treat, which I developed several years ago, though like chai and sourdough devil's food cake I enjoy it year-round. In the interest of full disclosure I also dislike coffee, but as tea cake is a whole 'nother thing, Sourdough Coffee Cake it is. For best results, follow the instructions in order. **_Sourdough Coffee Cake_** ** **Ingredients: Cake: 1 cup sourdough starter 1/2 cup flour 1/4 cup white sugar 1 egg 1/4 cup cooking oil ~~1 teaspoon~~ CORRECTION: 1/2 teaspoon soda mixed into 1/4 cup flour Topping: 1 tablespoon melted butter 1/4 cup rolled oats 1/2 teaspoon minced orange peel 1/4 cup brown sugar 1 teaspoon white sugar 1 tablespoon flour 1 teaspoon cinnamon 1/4 teaspoon ground cloves 1.) In a medium mixing bowl, beat together all the cake ingredients __except the soda and flour mixture_._ Set the batter aside to work while completing the next steps. 2.) Grease an 8-inch cake pan. 3.) In a small mixing bowl, stir together the topping ingredients. 4.) Stir the soda and flour mixture thoroughly into the batter. 5.) Heat the oven to 400°. 6.) When the oven is ready, turn the batter into the greased cake pan and sprinkle the topping mixture evenly across the top. 7.) Bake for 20 minutes, or until brown and a pick inserted into the middle comes out clean. 8.) Serve hot with your favourite hot beverage. Notes: o Since I don't care for things that are over-sweet I tend to short or omit spurious white sugar, but in the topping mixture it matters. I haven't tried to bake the cake itself with brown instead of white, but it might work. o Thick-cut rolled oats work best if you can get them. In any case, the "instant" type are least desirable. (For anything. Pardon my Scottish expertise.) o This is one of those recipes in which finely-minced orange peel works better than orange zest. Especially if you've got those thin-peeled clementines (Christmas oranges). o Like other soda-raised sourdough goods, Sourdough Coffee Cake is best eaten hot. It's still enjoyable after it cools, but the difference is telling. However, a cold day-old piece plus 30 seconds in the microwave equals a warm fresh piece. Best of holidays regardless of where you live, which one you celebrate, or how.