Embodied

I just got off the phone with my father. His body is wearing out. He is 86. He is sad and distracted. I honestly don't believe he fears dying. But his mind is consumed with the actions of his body.

The other day I drank some sour milk. Not on purpose; it was just a bit off and before I determined it was too far gone to drink, I already had. Not long after, I had a feeling of anxiety in my gut. I couldn't figure it out.

A few weeks ago I got an Americano with four shots of espresso, which I often do because I like the stronger flavor and, since I drink decaffeinated coffee, it doesn't really matter. Except this time they screwed up and used caffeinated espresso. For a moment, before I realized what had happened, I felt as if I was having some sort of emotional epiphany or psychological breakthrough.

We were talking the other day at work about the fact that when we are tired or hungry (god help us if we're both), we quite predictably feel irritation and anger. The state of having low blood sugar or inadequate rest imitates these emotional states to such an extent that we don't even think about the fact that there need be no cause for the emotions to arise except the body's need, that the mind has taken no part in the change. (If it happens because of not eating, there is even a portmanteau word for it: hangry. I really like that).

My point here is that we are embodied beings. Contrary to how we often think of them, our bodies are not merely vehicles for carrying our heads around, and recalcitrant vehicles at that. That's not the way it works. The Buddha spoke very clearly about the fact that the mind exists everywhere within us. Though it feels odd to consider it, there is as much of consciousness in my big toe as in my head. There is nothing to say that I could not reach an enlightened state from the bottom up rather than the other way around.

A few years ago, Stephen Levine was giving a talk (I listened to it on tape) titled, "The Heart of the Womb" about living our lives from this place inside us, even those of us who are not equipped with one. (It's a beautiful talk, if you get a chance to hear it). At the end, he said that he was considering making his next talk about "The Heart of the Bowel". Everyone listening live laughed, but Levine was absolutely serious. "Why not?" he asked. Why not, indeed?

Joseph Goldstein tells two wonderful stories about embodiment. (I feel the need to say that these are my versions of these stories and are not verbatim).

A young man came to him complaining of neck pain, then proceeded to tell Joseph how very uptight he was and the ways in which his life was a wreck. To which Joseph replied:

You mean you have a pain in your neck.

Yes, said the man, I do, and I have always carried my tension there, ever since I was young, and I think it has to do with the way my mother treated me. To which Joseph replied:

You mean you have a pain in your neck.

Well, yes, and I have such a difficult job and I wonder if I should change professions or perhaps become a Buddhist monk; wouldn't that perhaps be the wisest thing? To which Joseph replied:

You mean you have a pain in your neck.

You see the point he was making. We are embodied. Just like my sour milk anxiety and my caffeine epiphany, we forget that the chemical soup in which we swim influences us in ways big and small. The error is to see our "selves" as being the controlling entities and all the rest of this as within our control, when by and large it is not.

The second Joseph story: once, fairly early in his practice, he was at a retreat and doing walking meditation, when a feeling came over him that could only be called existential despair. He wasn't sure he belonged on retreat and perhaps even the path itself was the wrong one. He was uncertain about his own efficacy and whether or not he could accomplish anything in life...and then he burped, and everything was fine.

When we point to ourselves, we point to our hearts. "This is me, I live here". We could just as well point to our ears, our fingernails, our knees. We are embodied beings, and can free ourselves from the shackles of our suffering beginning with the small of our backs or our tight shoulders. Far from being a mere vehicle for our minds, this is a vehicle for us to awaken. What a precious gift.

Selfish

I spent much of the week (selfishly) reflecting on how selfish people are, how self-centered and self-motivated. Why can't they just realize that if we all pulled together, everything would be easier for everyone? Why is everyone so predisposed to be so selfish?

To which my teacher, Heather (this is why I have a teacher) had a response that surprised me: they aren't. People are, by and large, helpful and kind. We watch out for each other and obey rules we don't need to obey simply because it is the right thing to do and makes the world a better place. Driving anywhere, at any time, would be virtually impossible if people really were entirely selfish. Working, buying groceries, taking a walk, going to the theater—all of it would be entirely impossible. (Hmm...I sense an allegorical novel coming on).

Now, I can give you a hundred examples of how selfish people are, how that selfishness makes my life more difficult, how I know the right way to go about things, dammit, and if they could only....

Oh.

I think what I have mistaken for selfishness (most of the time, anyway) is a failure to comply with my idea of what is right and workable. As a boss, I also sometimes confuse acquiescence with being kind. I mean, I really do have the authority to simply say, "No. No, you may not take that day off. Sorry, that doesn't work for us". And I have, sometimes. But when I find myself becoming angry because people are doing things that serve them well but might not serve the whole, if these instances are things I could control if I chose to, well, then, I either have to cowboy up and risk their displeasure or accept the consequences with a full and open heart. Which isn't nearly as much fun as fuming, which makes me feel righteous and superior.

I just went for a long walk today and encountered no fewer than three Little Libraries, and I wasn't

even looking for them. Do you have those where you live? They look like the ones in this picture (though all of them are a bit different from the others, which is one of the things that makes them charming). People buy them (or make them), mount them outdoors and fill them with books. Why in the world would they do that? There is no reason except that they wish to share something they love with others. It is anonymous. It is effortful. And they do it because of the love in their hearts.

My teacher is right. There is more evidence for the goodness of this race than there is evidence of its opposite. Oh, I know. Don't tell me about Boko Haram and bigoted police officers and ISIL and canned beets—I know there is evil in the world; I am not naive. But there is beauty and love and helpfulness and joy and generosity and more love in abundance. I just have to remember to look for it.