  Dear Friends, On Tuesday, April 1, 2008 ABC will move into a new home at St. Garabed Armenian Church at 44th and Wyoming. The following meetings will be held at the new location: M&Ms Meditation hour Sunday 9am-10am, Beyond Beliefs class Tuesday 7:30pm-9pm, A Path With Heart Wednesday 7:30pm-9pm, Day Long Meditation first Saturday of each month 9am-4pm, and Spiritual Cinema once a month to be announced. The new space will provide an opportunity to explore the idea of sangha – a community of seekers. All are welcome – those who are eager to dive head first into the fire, and those who would like to simply warm their toes for now. Join us on April 6 at 9:00am for Sunday Morning M&Ms, followed by an open house at 10:00, with refreshments and music. Volunteers have been busy painting the fellowship hall, refinishing the classroom floor and generally spiffing the place up. Welcome to the new ABC – a compassionate place to have your buttons pushed. ABC Message
the April, 2008  the April article The Three Musketeers escort me to dinner. Athos the Anxious, Aramis the Restless and Porthos the Pissed. Every day at 3:30 Athos shows up and I start worrying about supper. At 4:30, when Aramis arrives, I get impatient, because Somehow, some food ought to be appearing from somewhere by now. If it doesn’t by 5:17, Porthos explodes. Can’t the world see that it’s time to eat? Why am I stuck in this traffic, or standing at the cleaners, or still on the telephone? Get out of my way. It’s time to eat. Anger is my normal reaction to hunger. But one day, on retreat, normal collapsed like a house of cards. I stood in the dinner line fidgeting and counting the biscuits, when I noticed that nobody else appeared to be mad. Nobody was pacing. Nobody was cutting in line. An aha crept into my awareness like a sunrise. None of my friends, colleagues or co-workers worried about food, like I did. A picture came into focus—a childhood grey with neglect. My mother debilitated by depression. My dad absent by the necessity of work. Both of them constrained by poverty. In our house, the next meal was not a forgone conclusion. I grew up hungry. Forty years later, the adult body panics at the memory of the childhood trauma. The Three Musketeers protect me from my nemesis—starvation. I discovered hunger’s nuances at another retreat. The schedule listed evening tea and fruit, instead of dinner. But the staff offered an option. They would prepare a light meal for any retreatant who requested it. I took that option, planning to eat less and less every night. By day ten I reasoned that I would have only the tea and fruit. And I would be freed from the fear of starvation. The food, prepared by volunteers from every continent, was exotic and plentiful. At breakfast and lunch, the buffet overflowed with steaming bowls of colorful and aromatic food, which made it look all the more stark at 5:00 tea time. One bowl of fruit, one pot of hot water and one basket of teas sat on the otherwise empty table. At one end there were half a dozen covered dishes for those of us who were not fasting. They’d written each of our names on a piece of blue masking tape, and stuck the tape on the cover of the dish. When I saw my name scrawled in black letters on that gaudy tape, shame snatched the air out of me, like a punch in the stomach. Who am I to eat when others can not? I picked up the dish and with every step toward an empty chair, I shrunk until I was a mouse gnawing its food in the shadows. During the next twenty-four hours of meditation and silence, the shame roiled and churned until it finally burned itself out. And I went to tea ready to confront my food issues again, confident that I knew something. I held my head high and reached proudly for my dish, and blam! It wasn’t there. They’d forgotten to fix my meal. The wry laughter of the universe echoed through my empty stomach. The Three Musketeers showed up right on cue. Athos the Anxious quickened my gaze as I scanned the buffet table, trying to convince myself that the kitchen staff was probably just late setting out my dish. I grabbed an apple and sat down. Aramis the Restless kept my fingers tapping while I watched the kitchen door. But no one rescued me, and I would not ask for help. I breathed. Logic whispered that I’d be fine if I ate a banana and another apple. Blam. The bananas were all gone. Porthos blew up. How could they not put out enough fruit? How could they be so stupid? And I can’t stand being around these greedy people who eat more than their share. I ate another apple and scurried back to the dorm, trembling. My stomach was full but I was starving. The only thing between me and certain death were the prunes I’d packed in my suitcase. Eating three of them tried to have gratitude for the difficulties. After the 6-900pm marathon sit, I found myself still alive and not hungry. I was still alive when I woke up at four a.m. with a dull throbbing in my skull. The headache remained until after breakfast, when it unceremoniously disappeared, as though it had never existed. I didn’t die! I went to tea that evening hoping that my meal would be there and knowing I would be fine without it. When I saw my name, my heart danced a little jig. I was free. But hunger had more to teach me. … We began the weekly writers group with market news. Each of us in turn reported on successes we’d achieved since the last meeting. After three people spoke, I got nervous. They all had more exciting news than mine. When the fourth person spoke, I got impatient. He was taking so much time I just knew the meeting would run late. When the seventh person stood up to deliver her news, I got mad. Nobody else ever stood up. Obviously she thought she was more important than the rest of us. I looked at my watch. It was nowhere near mealtime, but the Three Musketeers were brandishing their swords. The aha was a thunderbolt. I was jealous. I hunger for attention, affection, success. There’s not enough to go around, and they were getting my share. The Musketeers followed me again, on my morning walk through the park. Twenty-three paces from the car, Athos fell in behind me, anxiously keeping an eye on the other walkers who passed by. Halfway around the outdoor track, Aramis caught up with us, pushing Athos out of the way. This is so boring, aren’t we done yet? Step step step step. Porthos brought up the rear with an angry flourish. I hate walking. If you weren’t so identified with this body, we could just stay in bed. I wanted more than step step step step. I hungered for experience. More, next, bigger, better. More, next, bigger, better. Bored with my feet, I look up. An oak leaf leaps from the end of its branch. It flies above my head. The wind picks it up and races it across the sky from tree to fence to telephone pole. The breeze dies down, floating the leaf to the ground, where it settles on top of a dandelion patch. Another leaf dives from its perch. It’s caught by a thermal and rides it up in expanding spirals. Hunger disappears—along with the words leaf and wind and dandelion, as I watch the effortless dance of what is. … In a living room nearby, a fox trot wafts from an old turntable. A man and woman stand intwined. His breath brushes her cheek as their bodies sway in place, tasting the beat. His torso against hers, encourages her to step backwards. Back back side together. Back back side together. Back back side together. And then his hand whispers into the small of her back—back forward. Side together. He has changed their direction to avoid dancing into the bookcase, and then again—back forward side together—to avoid the couch. “This is so much fun,” she says, and immediately misses her cue and steps on his foot. With a flash of nervousness, impatience and anger, she struggles to regain the rhythm. She hungers for the experience that she lost in the moment that she named it. Three figures doff their caps, bow and slip away. Blowing them a kiss, she closes her eyes and in the darkness, feels the cadence of the music. She listens to the hand on her back, and the cheek against hers, and the floor beneath her feet. All of it dances. She surrenders, and is carried, like the leaf, on the wind. She surrenders, and the hunger, disappears. She surrenders, and is breathed, by the pulse, of what is.
◊◊◊ Read more articles by Dawn Downey at her website. ◊◊◊
. A New Earth—Watch Eckhardt Tolle’s explanation of “A Flowering of Human Consciousness: Everyones Life’s Purpose” that is the basis for his Oprah book “A New Earth” and show. This Saturday night, March 29, at 6:30 pm at St. Garabed’s Armenian Church, 44th & Wyoming. A New Heaven—applying the teachings of Eckhardt Tolle’s book “A New Earth.” It’s not enough to understand the teachings, we must put them into practice. We will practice being in the stillness, presence and aliveness taught by Tolle. Using a combination of clips from his DVD, “A Flowering of Human Consciousness: Everyone’s Life’s Purpose” with guided instruction in awareness training, meditation and mindfulness practices to experience what Tolle is teaching. We will meet on Saturday, April 5, from 9:00 am to 4:00 pm, with a one hour break for lunch at St. Garabed’s Armenian Church, 44th and Wyoming. No reservations required, donation will be received. Contact ben Worth at 816-210-3378 or bmwabc1@yahoo.com for more information.  Our New Home—St. Garabed Armenian Church at 44th and Wyoming. Kansas City, Missouri. Information contact ben; 816-210-3378 or bmwabc1@yahoo.com  The Three Musketeers | ||||||||||||||
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