Earlier I thought of an appropriate response as some esoteric act that only cats, lamas and other enlightened beings were capable of. This notion has been evolving with time and I see it now as showing up for a situation, seeing what it asks for and acting from that place. There is no separation between the self and the situation. Then I simply know what to do, how to react and leave the rational mind out of it. Most of the time the appropriate response is not what I think it should be (surprise!) and I can end up doing what seems like the right thing but still something doesn’t feel right. Possibly because trying to figure out appropriate response outside the context of the situation is as meaningful as trying to bottle the air. In many Zen stories a teacher gives different advice to different students in the same situation.

Can someone but me know what my appropriate response is? Above all, how do I know?

I stopped eating meat a few years ago and when I did it seemed the most natural thing to do, at least to me. I sort of promised myself to not make a religion out of it and so far it never has been an issue. Even when on one particular occasion I actually did eat meat.

In autumn of 2005 my friend and I were working on a project in Nigeria. Our time at school where we were teaching was running out and to thank us for our work there its proprietress Mrs. Lawson organised a trip to the nature preserve with waterfalls.  She generously let us invite our friends most of whom were university students and  who we had stayed with during the first few weeks in the country. Mrs Lawson chartered an equipped with AC bus and loaded it with food and soft drinks enough to feed a street.

Our friends were not spoiled by this kind of outings and at first felt stiff in Mrs Lawson’s presence. After a while they loosened up, started cracking jokes and before we knew it everyone on the bus was doing what people do when feeling overwhelmed with joy -  singing. The Iron Lady of the Ogun state herself relaxed, looking more like a caring mother with a bunch of noisy kids than someone   used to socialising with the kings and the President.  I was convinced that her strong and clear voice was reaching all the way to the tops of the covered with the trees mountains we were passing by. The two of us were unfamiliar with the Christian praise songs and songs in Yoruba so we could only smile back at our friends and laugh with them to this unexpected luxurious opportunity to get together in this way, bouncing on our sits as the bus made its way deeper between the mountains.

After a whole day at school we were getting hungry and Mrs Lawson opened up the bags with snacks. When it was clear that all mini pies contained meat I took one without much thinking and only by the surprised reaction of my friend realised how unusual it actually was. True, I don’t normally do this kind of thing and yet I did without feeling guilty. I did not go on a guilt trip then but later on wondered if the episode meant I could not live by my principles and was short of integrity.

I remembered the bumpy and joyful ride to the waterfalls as I was reading one particular chapter in Byron Katie’s “Loving what is” where she tells a story of another ride. After quitting smoking (cold turkey, as a result of her awakening), eleven years later she took a cab in Turkey,  with the loudly playing music and the constantly honking driver. When the driver offered her a cigarette, she took it without thinking twice: “The music was going full blast, the horns were going full blast, and I sat in the backseat, smoking and loving each moment. It’s okay if I do smoke, I noticed, and it’s okay if I don’t, and I notice that I haven’t smoked since that one wonderful taxi ride.”

(To be continued…)

I am not a football/soccer person but every time I come to Asha in summer my dad and I go see the local football team in action. I like the feeling of belonging with the other supporters perched on the wooden benches, a bottle of cold beer in hand, on this cosy stadium surrounded by covered in green mountains.

Not to forget these sharp comments from the enthusiastic supporters who apparently know exactly how things should be done and are ready to share it with the players and the referee. They know each player by name and God forbid one of the guys decides to shirk. The insulted fans do not keep their breath responding with the comments that will make unaccustomed ears burn. Let us say it can get very personal. At first this kind of language and attitude threw me off but soon I realised it was a somewhat bizarre expression of love.

In one particular game in summer of 2004 our team was clearly superior and after scoring a goal made the mistake of thinking they could get away with just one goal. The bored public myself including literally made the guys come out of their coma and score another goal.

This time too I went to the game. In the paus we could all witness a few parachutists jump out of the plane over the field and making a few rounds around the stadium land in the very center – a special treat to the citizens in celebration of the town’s and plant’s anniversary.

On this particular occasion the whole town showed up on the stadium to watch the show.

One thing though. I discovered that the employers of the Metallurgical Plant – the teams official sponsor – are actually required to go see football games, on their free time, interested or not. The head of each unit gets lists with the names of the people who should be present at the game and a person (not a volunteer either) is assigned to witness their presence there. A no-show can be punished by a deduction from salary income. The joy on people’s faces seemed quite genuine though.

A few pictures from the same vintage point, different directions.

At the foot of this particular mountain (someone would probably call it a hill) one could find a spring with fresh cold mountain water ( a little shed in the right hand corner).

This is the old and still quite usual in the country side way to carry water. Lots of strength and balance required. Possible alterative to Pilates.

A new (Orthodox) church built by the efforts of the whole town.

]]> http://appropriateresponse.wordpress.com/2008/08/13/out-of-russia-more-visuals/feed/ 0 understandingcat http://appropriateresponse.wordpress.com/2008/08/12/out-of-russia-asha-from-above/ http://appropriateresponse.wordpress.com/2008/08/12/out-of-russia-asha-from-above/#comments Tue, 12 Aug 2008 11:04:17 +0000 understandingcat http://appropriateresponse.wordpress.com/?p=471 ]]>

It hadn’t rained in Asha for two months by the time I got there so I climbed up one of the mountains and offer a desperate-for-rain dance to the local gods.

The smoking chimneys on the other side of the river that at that point almost completely dried out belong to the local Metallurgical Plant. It was a relief to finally see the town I had been born in thriving thanks to the revival of the factory. Way to go, Asha!

The rain started when I was leaving my old hometown to go back to my present home. The gods did like the dance, it seems.

All the major work is done, time to lie back and look around. I like this new home of mine but hardly had any time to settle into it. The question that I am tuning into is: “What does this place ask of me?”. One of my favourite places to be these days is… the bathtub. Every other night I find myself diving into the white foamy mass, thinking that I might as well decide to never get out and simply stay in, listening to the soft sounds of explosions somewhere in the midst of the floating constrictions, myself drifting almost thought-less, almost weight-less, almost book-less. Nothing or no one is missing here right now. The feeling of content is temporary, I know that but for the moment it will do.