Back to the Buddhists I go

Buddhist temple Mongkoltepmunee in Bensalem, PA

Enter, please

Glittering door in this classical Thai temple

Mr. S, who designed this classical Thai Buddhist temple, and Tang, a Thai-born Buddhist


Interior with Red carpet
White world of purity

Picnic grove. Buddhists like to eat

The iron gates of the monestery

After my experience w/the Buddhists, I went food shopping. Made a fresh flounder sandwich with sauteed onions on a kaiser roll. It was delicious except I was talking on the phone while eating since I had to catch up on my phone calls after I escaped to see the Buddhists.

I had a hankering to revisit old places today so slipped on my shoes and went. Everything is timing. First I drove out to Simon's old house. Unrecognizable. Under construction, major construction. Am wondering if the plumbing biz next door bought it. Tried to see if his trees were still in the backyard -- and the yellow iris he planted in memory of his mother -- but couldn't see a thing and didn't feel like trespassing.

Then I drove to The Atrium where I used to work as a therapist. Here's a photo. The bldg hasn't changed but our old offices are a financial company.



My old office was just beyond the bushes on the right. I had a huge room, the conference room. Used to run groups there. We had an intern by the name of Greg Perri. One time Greg came over and Henry Jacqueline was canvassing for office as a twp commissioner. I invited Henry in cuz I didn't like what he stood for but wanted to hear his spiel. I introduced boyish-looking Greg, correctly, as Dr Perri.

Couldn't remember what street the monestery was on. Was driving slowly & saw the iron gates. My heart soared. Would I be taken in?

Parked in the empty parking lot. They hold services for civilians on the weekends. Greg and I had gone once together. He said he never felt so out of place. The room was filled with chanting Asians and a handful of whites like us. I felt quite comfortable.

Lo and behold the Buddhists had built a bright new white temple. Aghast, I walked up to it in my shorts and red shirt, watch shining in the sun. Started snapping photos right away. Then I saw a man. Then two men.

He waved and I knew I was safe.

We stood and talked for half an hour. I was now under the influence, again, of the Buddhists. All life is suffering, he told me. The Buddha designed a way out of suffering. By meditating, you lose your ego which is all about attachment. Ah, I'd forgotten that word. Attachment. Things. Materialism. Nice things.

When I walked back to my car, I wondered if Tang thought I had a nice car. I am a materialist. I told him I was a poet. He said sometime in a past life I was also a poet. He had been some animals as well as persons. It was no accident we met, he said. There are no accidents.

The fact that you and I, Dear Reader, are together right now, when you could be watching a dumbass TV show or raiding the refrigerator like I'm gonna do, is no accident. According to Tang.

When I got home I took a nap. It was 4 o'clock. Slept well. When I woke and looked at my watch it was 4 o'clock. My watch had stopped.

Perhaps I was dead. But, no, I was dead the other day. Sometimes we die but we come back to life again. So far, so good.

Love, Ruthie

My darling Janie aka Beth Lindsey, Lamden

My former psychiatrist and psychoanalyst, the late Beth Lindsey, MD, reincarnated into Lamden, a Buddhist nun, at the Manjushri Centre in England.

During the nearly 20 years of my bipolar disorder, I saw many psychiatrists, switching when I felt the need to move on.

I found this piece in one of my hundreds of disorganized writing documents, polished it off, and hope you'll enjoy it.

It's also in sync with my spiritual daughter Sarah's account of the 10-day visit of the Dalai Lama to Washington, DC. Read her report on the Huff Post.

JANIE, MY NEW PSYCHIATRIST

When my illness first came upon me, like a big black blanket with see-thru holes, I talked about it for seven straight years to anyone who would listen.

Even if they wouldn’t listen, I still talked.

I remember one time I talked to Sarah’s school counselor over the telephone. She was a fine woman with black hair, Jewish like me, name of Dody Magaziner. And I spoke to her from the dark kitchen where our beige phone hung on the wall.

I went on and on talking about manic depression and how they tied me up in the hospital and how they gave me an injection and I couldn’t think and I couldn’t pee and I could barely remember my name or who I was in love with and while we were talking I was looking out the window at the parking lot below as the cars came in and out and watching for the big yellow schoolbus that would bring my chiidren home.

Dody Magaziner interrupted and said, Someone’s knocking at my door, I’ve gotta go.

There were the fine psychiatrists I talked to who nodded their heads in time with my voice and said There there and each one served as a steppingstone while I crossed the wide river of manic depression.

I loved them all and wrote poems about some of them but the one I never talked about much was Maude Turner. For the record, that’s not her right name since I’m gonna tell you something shocking about her, but the rest of them – Glijanski and Edelstein and Larry – I made their names known to the public. But, Maude, well, let’s change her name once again, this time to something more youthful: I like Janie.

She was not a well-dressed woman. That was the first thing I noticed about her. She wore frumpy clothes and had a bit of fat around her jowls but that woman sure knew how to listen. I imagined when I sat there she had a red ribbon attached to her forehead and she swung it out to me and I attached it to mine and we would talk and listen talk and listen until the clock said it was time to go.

I knew nothing at all about this woman and didn’t even care. She was unconventional. Not only her frumpy clothes but at her office in the ritzy Benson East which towered like a chess piece over the other suburban buildings, she kept copies of the New England Journal of Medicine on the topmost shelf and had barley sugar candy in bowls sculpted by one of her patients.

She had me bring in poetry I wrote when I was 8 years old that held the secret to my diagnosis and she congratulated me on sending my daughter to Brown – you did that singlehandedly, she said, wagging her finger as she sat on the winged chair across from me.

It was only right, I said to her, me, a Temple grad, believing I had nothing to do with it.

After we dissected the secret in my poem, The Mull-a-ger-ing, there was no reason to keep on seeing her. I placed the last check for one hundred and ten dollars on her desk and left, wishing I could take a New England Journal of Medicine as a souvenir, or look out one last time at the view from the sixth floor.

Why she went to jail for not paying child support remains a mystery. But a bigger mystery lies beyond that. My friends Bev and Sheila called me. They were now seeing Janie as their therapist. Where had she gone? Why doesn’t she answer her phone calls? Why is her door locked?

My darling Jane had abandoned her patients. She had made me well. The red ribbon between us was curled up now invisible in my topmost drawer. But she abandoned everyone else. Beverly has finally returned to work as a county specialist in finding help for the homeless. Sheila moved to California where she tends lemon trees in her front yard and waits to kill herself after her mother dies.

And I go on too. More interested than ever in not talking about myself.

But there is an epitaph about Janie, which I discovered on the Internet a year ago.

Her real name is Beth Lindsey. While in jail, she read Buddhist literature. After her release, she began practicing again at the Benson East, now named The Colonnade, its offices infested with mice, I’m told on good authority.

All the while she was studying to become a Buddhist nun.

Sure enough, a Buddhist center in England drew her like a magnet, and our Beth sailed away, joined the Manjushri Centre and became the Buddhist nun “Lamden.”

Curiously, a few months after ordination, she was diagnosed with a virulent form of breast cancer. Despite treatment, this woman who helped so many people, yet broke others’ hearts into a million pieces, died on December 9, 2005, at age 53.

You know what? I think if she and I saw each other again, we would enfold each other in a cosmic hug, and I would feel the silk of her gown pressing against my skin.

Namaste.

Goofin' off

This is my darling friend, Helene Ryesky. Oh, did we have fun together. We went on a walk in the little woods beyond her house where Upper Dublin has made a park of it. We stood on a little bridge over a babbling creek and she said, Look at this, Ruthie, look how beautiful!

I went over to her and looked down into the little creek with the autumn leaves spread out down below and said, You missed your chance to marry me long ago.

Neither of us knew what I was talking about, but we really did.

She wanted some help moving her flowers on the deck. We lifted, we tugged, we pulled, but it still wasn't right so I said, Let your next visitor figure it out. All the while I was munching on two pieces of licorice from Trader Joe's she keeps in the dining room.

Driving home I was exhausted and thought, It's probly my darn kidney disease that makes me so tired. And then I remembered....new kidney on the horizon.

Somewhere at this very moment, a stranger is headed toward death. Most likely he and I will eventually meet up. The poor fellow tho shall be quite stone dead and I shall have a new lease on life.

I am not mentally prepared to have a transplant. I kept calling up Nurse Paige today with questions like How long will I be in the hospital after surgery? (5 to 7 days). What if I get psychotic from the prednisone? (they'll give you something) Will I have any dietary restrictions w/my new kidney? (no grapefruit)

Guest what I had for breakfast this morning? Ripe red grapefruit. Mmmmm.

I give myself ultimatums. Was driving rapidly thru a 25 mph zone. What if the punishment for going above the speed limit was 'death by hanging?' Would I still drive over the limit?

What if my kidney donor was a serial killer?

These fun questions are part of my fun mind.

So. We had our Giant meeting this morning. Good turnout. Mandy and Helen do a better job than I do, which is really what you want in leaders. When it came my turn to speak I told em about the kidney transplant.

There's a possibility, I said, it's very small, but there's a possibility I might die and we've all got to be aware of it. Mandy paid sharp attention. "What dyou want us to do? Tell us what you want us to do?"

Just continue what you're doing, I said. Everything's going great! I looked over at Mike and told him his hiking group is a real plus.

Then one woman starts whining. Three times she mentions she doesn't want me to die.

What dyou say?

Then we started getting existential. By now Helen had joined us. She's a good one for the existential element. We started talking about:

- it's meant to be
- there are no coincidences
- Dr Phil says there's no accidents

Well Janie busts out saying that's a lot of hogwash. Her grown son died for no reason at all.

We had a nice give n take about God. Mandy said she's searching and doesn't have a clue. That's good, I said, search around, you may never find the answer, but go ahead and search.

I mentioned the Buddhist temple in Bensalem on Knights Road.



Now, it's no accident that I think I'm hot shit. "Hot stuff, eh?" my friend Bill Cardinale used to say when he was alive and pumping. But as alive and alert and eyes wide open that I am, I was still in shock after I got word this a.m. that I'm on The List for a transplant.

This really calls for a good song to celebrate. Join me in.....

Getting Off Meds - Shari - Poem on Inspector Morse played by the late Jack Thaw

Got off to a late start this morning. Had a late night watching Edward G Robinson movies on TCM at Scott's house, then came home and watched Inspector Morse on YouTube, hence....

FACEBOOK POEM

Inspector Morse is played by
Jack Thaw. I remember you, I
say to the laptop screen
How once we were young
did our best work, you
bibliophile you, and
now rest under the stars.

I'm not planning on
croaking any time soon,
look how my arms and
legs take these hills
and valleys of the
neighborhood, a wild
pony who still struts
her stuff.

 ***

As usual I watered the extensive gardens, sent a friend a postcard, with wetted hair, walked around the hilly block. Hey, I can do it, I can do it, thinks I.

"Shari" is a woman I've known about 10 years. She's a performance artist, a poet, a painter, you name it, she can do it.

Not only does she have bipolar but also allied conditions including PTSD and extreme thoughts of suicide.

And this woman wants to go off meds? She's in her mid to late fifties.

I've written a lot about the topic. Click here for about 7 minutes of fascinating reading.

Shari has a lot going for her that may help her get off meds.

"Jack" is her faithful and loving companion, always there for her.

1 - Work with a psychiatrist to titrate you off (wean). I'm adamant about this.

2 - Prepare.... for the worst. What might happen to me? Suicidal depression. The slower the titrate the better. A 60-yo friend of mine on meds since a teenager got off all her medicine in a year and a half. After each med was thoroughly out of her body, she got flu-like symtpoms and also felt a "ping" in her body.

She's been off for good for five years.

3 - Since I know Shari somewhat, here's what I suggest she do....

Pray. She can pray before getting out of bed or go to synagogue during the day.

Walk. Go for energy-enhancing walks or to the gym, if you belong. The gym is good b/c you'll be around people, which is an energy-enhancer in itself.

Do not stay in bed one more minute than necessary.

Do active activites.

Paint.

 This is my art room, the former middle bedroom upstairs. Be careful, Ruthie, not to drink the paint water, thinking it's Hot and Cinnamon Spice Tea.

My fave jammies now line an egg carton. Very hard to paste inside. The objects on the left were found in the parking lot of Keystone Screw when I walk Scott to the train.

  Okay to do PASSIVE activities at Naptime or Bedtime but not during the day.

Be with people, Shari. Go visit friends and family who make you feel good about yourself.

Watch out for things that "trigger" you. Once you attended many Suicide Addicition Groups. Stay away from them. No need to call to advise them. Just let it be.

During your titration, visit museums and shrines. How about an inspiring Buddhist temple?


In summation, Shari:

Very slow titration with a psychiatrist.

Use all of your creative skills.

Stay away from "triggers"  - people places things - including certain support groups.

Stay in your spiritual zone.

Cook! Make healthy foods.

The Willow Grove Bible Church - morning services from Revelations

The snow was falling lightly when I left home at 10:35 to attend Sunday services at the Willow Grove Bible Church on Division and Everett Roads, seven minutes away from home.

Went back inside to grab my broom, hoping I would not need it after services.

On Sunday, March 1, the snow blankets the ground.

Had no prob coming home. Kept switching gears.... from one to three....

Unlike Tom Selleck in Magnum PI, who has a Ferrari

This is one of the Netflix films I chose to watch last nite, while Scott snored next to me.

Am listening to WRTI-FM. Christopher O'Riley is playing the Rite of Spring with someone named Sean, I believe. I went on FB and told him I'm really digging it!!!

Lori Meed made me feel very comfortable when I walked into the church.

She told me a story about how The Lord has personally helped her. Her daughter, Rebecca, is getting married on June 6 in Bethlehem, PA. Lori prayed to find a dress for herself. For $25 she found a navy short-sleeve, below-the-knee dress from Impact Thrift on Route 309.

In addition she found pots n pans reduced from $1,000 for $250 online.

We live in so many worlds.... the material and the spiritual and the emotional.

I told Pastor Ken Barkley that worshipping with them was intensely emotional. I loved it!!!

I sang along. My throat actually hurt a bit cuz I'm not used to singing.

It was quite cold in the huge room - it's actually a basement - just like the "lower level" of my house - which is ffffreezing. I drank a couple cups of coffee to warm up.

I asked Pastor Ken to pray for a friend of mine who is out of control with bipolar disorder, whereabouts unknown.

Stranger things have happened than having this prayer answered.

The music team is SUPERB - Lori's husband, Mark, plays guitar and also had a solo. Pastor Ken's wife has a beautiful singing voice.

Young man Ruby plays guitar. His folks - Kim and Bob - were playing keyboards off to the side. We prayed that his older bro, Eric, would pass his Helicopter Test on March 3 in San Diego, where he's stationed in the Navy.

We prayed about a lot of conditions, including drug addiction.

I said, truthfully, that the only way a married couple would remain addiction-free is if they receive Christ as their personal savior.

You have to know where people are "coming from" in order to help them.

Burt Plaster
Pastor Ken Barkley

 Joni Plaster

Wrote about them in a previous blog post. 

Am ecstatic about having their photos.

  Dr Laszlo Guylai, psychiatrist at Penn, once asked me if I were a Buddhist.

Read my post about visiting Buddhists in Bensalem, PA, near where I worked as a psychotherapist.

I answered the Jewish-born Laszlo by saying, "I'm probably a combination of many different religions, including, of course, Judaism."

His parents survived concentration camps in their native Hungary.

His wife Peggy is an artist.

Pastor Ken, on the right, is a powerful speaker, charismatic, I'd say.

"We pray to you, Oh Lord, to help us become who you want us to be."

I really liked that line. He preached about what it would be like to see Jesus in the flesh.

A marvel for those who love him, but a terror for sinners.

In the Baghavad Gita, there is also a portion where Arjuna meets Shiva. I read the Gita after my first manic-psychotic episode in 1984.

I walked into the Upper Moreland Library and walked straight back to the right book shelf.



In an interview, I heard the late William F Buckley, Jr. say, he was most concerned about whether or not he was going to heaven.

Pastor Ken, facing the 40 or so people in the large room, which included a couple of children, spoke about meeting Christ the Savior:

John’s Vision of Christ

 

⁹ I, John, your brother and companion in the suffering and kingdom and patient endurance that are ours in Jesus, was on the island of Patmos because of the word of God and the testimony of Jesus. ¹⁰ On the Lord’s Day I was in the Spirit, and I heard behind me a loud voice like a trumpet, ¹¹ which said: “Write on a scroll what you see and send it to the seven churches: to Ephesus, Smyrna, Pergamum, Thyatira, Sardis, Philadelphia and Laodicea.”

¹² I turned around to see the voice that was speaking to me. And when I turned I saw seven golden lampstands, ¹³ and among the lampstands was someone like a son of man,^[d] dressed in a robe reaching down to his feet and with a golden sash around his chest. ¹⁴ The hair on his head was white like wool, as white as snow, and his eyes were like blazing fire. ¹⁵ His feet were like bronze glowing in a furnace, and his voice was like the sound of rushing waters.

  ¹⁶ In his right hand he held seven stars, and coming out of his mouth was a sharp, double-edged sword. His face was like the sun shining in all its brilliance.

¹⁷ When I saw him, I fell at his feet as though dead. Then he placed his right hand on me and said: “Do not be afraid. I am the First and the Last. ¹⁸ I am the Living One; I was dead, and now look, I am alive for ever and ever! And I hold the keys of death and Hades.

¹⁹ “Write, therefore, what you have seen, what is now and what will take place later. ²⁰ The mystery of the seven stars that you saw in my right hand and of the seven golden lampstands is this: The seven stars are the angels^[e] of the seven churches, and the seven lampstands are the seven churches.

LORI Meed, originally from Ontario, asked me if I had a Jewish bible. What this means is The Old Testament.  

Yes, I said. I got it when I was confirmed from Temple on the Heights or B'nai Jeshurun in Mayfield Heights, Ohio.

When I got my BA in psychology from Temple University, took a wonderful lit class in which we studied several books of the Bible, including my favorite, Job. When I was suffering from bipolar d/o, I would read passages from Job, esp. these. Click here.

The snow is still tinkling away outside, the sound of little ice crystals.

Am gonna visit Scott next door. He leaves for work at 7:30 pm and will walk to the train. 

Hopefully the train is running.