I wandered into the Manor department store at Lugano for a sandwich at the downstairs café and as I sat there nibbling absentmindedly, I noticed Buddhist monks huddled in a circle.  So quiet and intent, they almost seemed non-existent in this world where speakers blared rock music punctuated with announcements about the latest hot item at fifty percent off.  The monks were set off in a corner, behind the souvenirs of Swiss memorabilia – red t-shirts with white crosses, Alpine pictures, stuffed Swiss milk-cows, and they seemed kind of on a shelf too, elevated about a meter off of the ground, as if one might be able to purchase one and take him home for a taste of tranquility or a whiff of peace.

            Dressed in their wine colored robes with saffron sashes and bare shoulders, they blended in with the other colorful items of stationary and paints vying for my attention.  My eye almost passed them over, but a man with a leather jacket (who I had to share a table with), stared at them intently.  When a young monk’s timeless eyes met mine, I felt elated and yet I also wanted to laugh at the contrast between him and this nirvana for shoppers.  In the heart of this temple of consumerism, the management had created a mini-temple where seven monks intensely focused on doling out miniscule quantities of various colored sands through conical metal tubes to create an intricate and delicate sand mandala.

            A few people with crossed arms peered at the monks and studied the site with the patience of Internet users who expect the image to appear immediately.  The lack of speed moved them on to the next item on their mental shopping lists.  Creating the sand mandala required an entire week from nine until six and then on Saturday the unthinkable happened – the dissolution.  The completed mandala about three and a half meters square was consecrated with mantras and rituals and their beautiful work of art, a whole week’s worth of work by seven devoted people was whisked away with the flick of a brush – a Buddhist reminder of impermanence. 

            What lessons for writing did I take from them? 

Enjoy the process.  Their ritual seemed filled with joy.  This is important to remember when pulling words and ideas out of my brain sometimes seems akin to extracting teeth.

Be patient.  A work of art requires time and experience.  The monks drew out the basic structure for the mandala form, handed down to them for generations.  Writing a book may take months, years or generations.    

It’s not just about money.  The monks hoped for donations for their monastery, but their intent focused on creating a healing work of art that would benefit the people around them through up lifting thoughts of health and wholeness – a good aspiration for writing as well.    

Be in the present.  Their focus and care, despite the blaring speakers and the fairly indifferent shoppers, inspired me to continue to write with care and remain fully present in the moment, not rushing ahead to worry about the editors or looking back at time I might have wasted yesterday.

Stick to the schedule.  The monks committed to completing the exquisite work of art by the end of the week.   Despite the interruption of a child who disturbed a piece of it (and made local news), the monks finished on time.  It’s a good reminder to stick to schedules. 

Copyright: Debra Moffitt, 2008   www.debramoffitt.com

For several nights, Ric Nausea (not his real name), an ex-colleague and boss has showed up in my dreams.  My psyche has an uncanny way of weaving together the innermost feelings of my subconscious with the waking world through dreams.  I think most everyone has the ability to do this, but most of us ignore it.  So did I until about 12 years ago.   So Ric showed up in my dream office a few nights ago and made me cringe.  This guy, the son of the owner of a company I once worked for, thought everyone hated him.  He felt insecure and incompetent about his position because instead of earning it on merit and professional qualifications, he imagined he’d obtained it only through his father’s goodwill.  The guy was a wreck and his insecurity undermined the professional progress of the whole international department and kept everyone off balance.  I was not happy to see him in my dream.

This morning, he showed up again.  I waited at a hotel surrounded by his dad and the Director General.  “Ric stole my books,” I said.  “And I want them returned immediately.”

What did these dreams say about me?

I used to look at people in dreams and scratch my head.  I’d moan at how inept or critical they might be.  Now, more often than not, they represent a certain aspect of my own personality that comes into play.  Like standing in front of a mirror, they reveal unconscious things about myself – and in this case about my relationship to my work.  I’m preparing to send off a seventy page book proposal along with a completed book of fiction to an interested agent.  But part of me feels a great deal of insecurity and doubt about the process.  Feedback from several readers tells me the writing and the ideas are valid.  But Ric Nausea came in to try to undermine me and prevent me from getting my work out the door.  The false safety mechanism says that if I don’t send them off I won’t be rejected.  The flip side is that I won’t be accepted for publication either.   

So today I sat down, wrote out my dream, and decided I would overcome this insecure, doubtful and undermining, Ric Nausea part of me.  As a writer, it is key to become conscious of this inner play of emotions and undercurrents.  The result:  I’ve practically finalized the proposal and should get it out the door in a week or two.  There’s a subtle, yet important balance in the writing life to keep the creative fires burning.  For a writer (and anyone really), listening to dreams with their rich variety of images and symbols, is like striking a vein of gold for a miner.  The symbols, including ex-bosses, cut through mental gibberish and hold a resounding emotional impact that can move us to change and grow.    

Copyright: Debra Moffitt, 2008    www.debramoffitt.com

Over lunch of roast beef, grilled spare ribs, potato salad and garden fresh greens with our Swiss friends, the conversation flashed back and forth between English, Italian, French, German and the local dialect - Ticinese.  When I first started learning Italian, my third language, I was stunned by these common table conversations that reminded me of the last days of the Tower of Babel.  The Swiss rapidity and ease at shifting from one language to another astounded me.  But this is common in a country where even my mechanic at the garage speaks four languages. 

When I first came to Ticino and began to learn Italian, speaking French came as easily as English.  But during the switch into language number three, a fence in my brain walled off access to the French for about a year.  If someone during my learning phase addressed me in French, I stuttered and struggled, practically incapable of digging up a single word in response.  Perhaps new channels were being excavated.  I was unable to speak French fluently again until after the Italian took root.  Now, a new agility has arrived which enables me to flip between all three languages as easily as my Swiss friends. 

There’s a tantalizing pleasure for language lovers to banter, play with words, tell or laugh at jokes in various tongues.  I wonder if learning different concepts from culture to culture makes one more open minded to new ideas and inspirations.  Each culture’s ideas must be formed by the sounds and shapes of its words.  The sensual French language reflects the native tendency to fall prey to sensual pleasures.  The French love of food is a good example.  They have many words related to food and eating which may not find exact translation.  Others like bouffer, which means to eat like a pig must lay at the root of our English word buffet.  In Italian the most astonishing feature that reflects the country’s thinking is the ability of the verb to express both subject and action.  Vado means “I go.”  Mangia is “you eat.”  It’s an economical way of expression – that perhaps gives the Italians more space to be loquacious.

And then there’s the complex and complicated way of addressing people with either the formal or familiar forms of the language.  Rules vary from region to country.  In Milan a cashier will casually address one as tu while in Ticino most encounters, even with colleagues and friend’s parents are usually in the formal Le.  For a foreigner this is perhaps the most complex code to break, but most people are tolerant when they hear an American accent.  

Copyright: Debra Moffitt, 2008   www.debramoffitt.com