Institutions

The Inquisition.  The mere mention of  this infamous institution, brings cold terror into my heart.  Even now, so many years after my liberation from another mind-bending institution, the Israel Ministry of Education and Culture, I can still feel the fear of a converted Jew in fifteenth-century Spain, hiding his faith from his neighbors.  It was only natural that during my travels in Spain, I would seek traces of its Jews, and of their archenemy, the Inquisition.

On my first day in Madrid, I strolled through Plaza Mayor.  The heavy bronze benches, interspersed within the Plaza, caught my attention, and I stopped for a closer look.  Plaza Mayor was the center of Madrid civic life during the seventeenth century.  Important ceremonies, bullfights, and executions by the Inquisition, took place here.  Today, the large, traffic- free square is home to outdoor restaurants and street performers.  Its benches are occupied by gentlemen quietly reading the paper, and matrons in animated discussions.  I waited till one man vacated his space and examined the carved bronze panel on the back-rest.  The scene on the panel was shocking, yet familiar.  It depicted a stack of logs on fire, a man tied to a stake inside the fire, and a crowd of onlookers around it.  I waited impatiently for a few more minutes before another man folded his paper and the next panel became viewable.  In this one, a man sat tied to a tall chair, the rope around his neck extended behind the chair where someone was pulling it tight.  Standing beside the man, a priest was reading from a thick book.    The third panel showed the victim in a large pot, a fire burning beneath it, and here again a priest and many onlookers present.  No inscriptions explained these scenes, but the situations were unmistakable.  I was looking at the various methods used by the Inquisition to execute converts to Christianity, accused of practicing their old religion.

Now, I can only regret, that I did not take the time to examine and photograph every bench in the square.  How could I realize this would be my first, and perhaps only, encounter with the Inquisition?  After several weeks in Spain I can conclude that while the omnipresent Spanish Tourism Office deserves many compliments on its excellent presentation of Spain's heritage, it is also just as efficient in suppressing controversial topics.  Another example, is the glaring absence of any monument or museum devoted to the civil war.

Plaza Mayor, the statute of the Rambam in Toledo, and other photos from Spain can be found online at:  https://picasaweb.google.com/isaac.ohel/Spain#

Wandering Mind

Two weeks of kitchen duty in the California Vipassana Center, gave me new perspectives on meditation.  We were about ten "old students" who cooked and served more than 120 participants in the course.  My principal duty was tending to the high pressure dish washer.  A job which, right after meals, became an intense, carefully choreographed, operation for me and the small ensemble that helped feed and clear the machine.  At other times, I helped peel, cut, and dice the enormous amounts of vegetables required by the center's vegetarian diet.  Three times a day, we participated in the group meditation sessions. 

"Noble Silence", while a requirement for the students, was not imposed on the servers.  We were instructed not to discuss our practice, yet the conversations inevitably turned to that subject.  As a result,  I learned that I was overly concerned about the amount of time my mind wanders away from the focus on bodily sensations.  I am not that different from others sitters.  On the other hand, I reconfirmed that during these periods of wandering, many meditators experience deep emotional episodes.  Some re-live old wounds, other explore difficult personal relationships.  I, on the other hand, usually find myself reviewing my "Todo" list.  An experienced sitter described to me one instance when he felt that his daughter was dead.  Even though he knew that she was perfectly healthy, the sadness he felt was so real, that he cried.  I could not resist but tell him that when my mind wanders, it is usually planning how to make the dish-washing operation run faster.  I could see his upper lip stiffen and his nostrils flare as he struggled not to laugh.  After a moment, and a few deep breaths, the teacher-in-training, came up with the proper response.
"There is nothing wrong with that," he said, "maybe you will eventually come up with a better method of washing dishes and you would have helped the Dharma.  You see?"
I nodded, and let the poor guy of the hook.

This period also prompted me to the question 'Why do I sit?'.  In a book I found at the center, Paul Fleischman provided a thoughtful, poetic, answer to this question.
http://www.fudomouth.net/thinktank/now_pfwhysit.htm
I liked his response, even though it is as distant from my own experience as the distance between loosing a child, and operating a dishwasher.

Instant hero

'What will I do if my pockets were picked?'

I pondered this question reading Rick Steves' guide to Madrid, where almost every page contains a warning about pickpockets.  The locals too, made sure to warn us about thieves and muggers.  I take precautions by placing my thin wallet in a semi-hidden zippered pocket, and then feel safe by dismissing the warnings with 'I am not an easy target!'

Boarding a bus in front of the Prado, one foot already on the step, I felt a rustle around the map pocket of my cargo pants.  I turned around to surprise the young man beside me.  Neither one of us expected what came next.  I landed a punch on his nose.  My sub-second hesitation while verifying that he is not too big, may have saved his nose from being broken, yet it was a solid hit.

"I did not steal!" he pleaded.

However, this factually true statement was rejected by the others in line.  I boarded the bus, which moved on, leaving a stunned man alone in the station.  The passengers who witnessed the event, congratulated me on my aim, "You hit his face.  Good!".  Adi was pleased and I, despite years of meditation practice, was rather proud of myself.

I can't even remember the last time I hit anyone.  It took the rest of the bus ride for my adrenalin level to come down.  I became very hungry.  An all-you-can-eat salad bar hit the spot.  I was ready for the next thief.

Madrid encounter

Converted Jews, caught by the Spanish Inquisition secretly practicing their Jewish religion, were burned alive in the Plaza Mayor.  Scenes of the executions are shown in bass relief on the bronze benches around the Plaza.  Only a few steps from the Plaza, a colorful notice, pasted on a door, caught my eyes.  "Meduzas (Jelly Fish)" will be screening tonight.  Starting time was to be in five minutes, and the location was this very place.  The door belongs to the Sepharadic-Israel house, and Etgar Keret, one of my favorite Israeli authors, and a co-director of the movie, was going to attend the screening.  Of course we went in.  At the end of the movie, I had a chance to ask Etgar a question or two in Spanish, which was translated for him into English.

After the movie, we concluded our first day in Spain by dancing Paso-Doble in a crowded meson, a cave like pub built under the foundations of the Plaza Mayor.  Laughs, who laughs last.