Late

So, I was late for the opera. This was mostly poor planning on my part. Doesn't matter. I was late. And there was a Justin Bieber concert (of all things) in the same area of town at the same time. And so I was going to be late, I was pretty sure.

This led to an interesting reflection. I was anxious. I felt a sense of urgency. I was annoyed with every car in front of me. I was annoyed with myself. I was already disappointed. And it was all entirely useless. Not just a little bit misguided or misdirected, but entirely, completely, indefatigably pointless. So, I took the opportunity to use this time in the car, driving to the opera, to simply rest in the anxiety and see it for what it was—an odd and destructive remnant of my primordial being, a lizard-brain response to threat, a kicking in of my endocrine system to enable me to respond to a perceived matter of life and death. I mean, really? I was late for the freaking opera.

This reminded me of a line of inquiry I have pursued many times. When I see someone rushing through a hallway at work, or when I find myself doing that, I try to remember what a misguided response this is to being late or in a hurry. Here is the basic math: let's be generous and say you are trying to go 100 yards from your starting to ending points. Let's give you credit for being able to walk 5 miles per hour, which is pretty fast unless you are a professional speed walker. Let's compare that to the normal walking pace of 3 miles per hour. At 5 mph, you can walk 100 yards in 0.68 minutes. At 3 mph, in 1.13 minutes. So, by rushing down the hall at 5 mph, you gain less than 30 seconds. And you arrive at your destination flustered, winded, and harried, hardly in the best shape to begin whatever work it was you were rushing to. Even more amusing to me is people who rush from their door to the car, a savings of (if they are lucky) five seconds, which of course is entirely negated (and more) if rushing causes them to forget or drop something.

And yet we live much of our lives this way, as if we are always late, as if our destination mattered to the fate of the world, or even ourselves. Which it does not. I have observed before that we seem to feel the need to be busy because important people are busy. I think it's the same with hurrying. There is no evidence that hurrying makes you faster and quite a bit of evidence that it slows you down. I recall working in the ICU and rushing about whenever a code was called, letting adrenaline run the show. What I finally noticed, though, was that those who were the most effective in a code were those who strolled in, spoke calmly and in a normal voice. They were always thinking clearly and usually had a very good idea what the next, best step would be. Ever since then, I have tried to emulate this behavior in an emergency. It's not nearly as exciting as getting all worked up, but the patient usually does much better, and so do I.

The same in truly in my daily life. When I become agitated and worked up, whether because I am late or stressed or challenged or disrespected, the outcome is never a good one. I usually create more chaos and always create more internal agitation. And it's worthless. A waste of time and energy. I will get to the opera or I will not. No one will die. All will be well.

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.

Being dissed

It is sometimes difficult for me not to think apocalyptically. The environment, government ineptitude, SARS, MERS, Ebola, intractable internecine and international wars, the rise of radical factions of Islam, Christianity, Judaism, and even Buddhism; all of these threaten my equanimity and sense of peace. Not to mention the normal day-to-day ravages of aging, illness, and impending death; family struggles, traffic woes, dueling egos, and overwrought colleagues.

I have become disenchanted.

Hmm...quite a lovely word, disenchanted. What we take it to mean is that once upon a time (in a country far, far away, perhaps), things were wonderful, or meant to be wonderful, and now they are no longer so, and this is sad, sad, sad. But it seems to me that this word is much more informative than we give it credit for. What it truly means is that I was once living in a fantasy world, I was enchanted, as if by a sorcerer or a fairy queen, and now I am disenchanted, no longer blinded by fairy dust.

I have become disillusioned.

The Buddha was very clear that the cause of our suffering is our illusions, the resistance we exhibit in response to the normal vicissitudes of our lives. It is not bad or wrong that there are wars or disease, old age or death, struggles and hatreds, shame and remorse. This is the way of things—perhaps not as we would wish them to be (and there are tools we can and ought to use to change what it is possible to change)—but as they are, nonetheless. I have stepped out of my illusions into the light of reality. I have ceased (to the best of my ability) feeling resentment, hatred, and fear in response to things being other than as I want them to be.

I am disappointed.

I am no longer the self-appointed judge of what you do and who you are. I have experienced a profound realization (ah, if only I could always remember this) of the nature of things as they are, of people as they are. We are all the result of conditions which have accumulated over centuries, millenia even, to result in this one unique being. Our DNA is packed with instincts and understandings arising from the experiences of our forbears (and which are the mirror image of those who did not survive to pass their inheritance on). Our psyches are stuffed with the emotional and physical experiences not only of our lives, but of the lives of thousands upon thousands who came before us. What you bring to the table across from me is the sum total of all this, and our paths have been different, so how is it possible that I should believe you are just like me, will react and think as I do, will see the world as I do?

I no longer have this disability, this disadvantage, am no longer disaffected or disagreeable. These have disappeared, been disarmed (well, I wish). Things may be in disarray, but this no longer disobliges me. I can discontinue the behaviors that lead to distress. I need not be the source of discord, in me or in the world around me; I need not be disgruntled. There is less and less a discrepancy between my beliefs and my actions. I can discriminate between the true and the false.

I am disencumbered.

Uh oh

I don't have much time or energy for a long post today. I am feeling a little under the weather (an interesting phrase, that). I don't know if I am actually ill or just exhausted.

The honeymoon is clearly over between me and my job and now I enter into the long slog of doing the right thing, or trying to. Which is not to say I am sad doing what I am. I still think I can be of service to my patients, my workers, my coworkers, and the whole institution. But it sure does seem like no one is setting out to make it easy to do so.

I am acutely aware of who might read this blog (I post the link on Facebook, after all), so I don't want to dig myself a hole I might fall into down the road. Let me just say that the predominant characteristic of most people I encounter in a day's work is self-centered self-interest. This shouldn't come as any surprise; watching out for Number One has been the rallying cry of several generations now. Never mind that this is not a recipe for happiness or even contentment. It seems to be irresistible to think, "If I don't take care of me, there sure as hell isn't anyone else who will. So, watch out, world! If I get my needs met, you might get some of me, my loyalty, my effort, my understanding, my compassion, my heart. But if Mama ain't happy, ain't nobody happy." Something like that.

This is the road to misery. I am convinced of this. But unless I remind myself constantly of this, the temptation is to be reactive and think, "Well, then, to hell with you, too!" I can't, I must not.

A Bodhisattva is (loosely speaking) a person who has dedicated his or her life to becoming enlightened for the purpose of being helpful to others. Even in the study of the Dharma it is far too easy to fall into the trap of selfish motivations, the goal-oriented, personal quest for Betterment or Freedom. The Buddha was very clear, though, that we are only as free individually as the least free among us. Because we are wholly interdependent, it is impossible for your personal freedom to be genuine if it is purchased with shackles being placed on me.

I have dedicated my life to the path of the Bodhisattva. Which is not to say I am anywhere near the point of enlightenment, believe me. But what it does mean is that I have vowed to open my heart and open my heart and open my heart. No matter what. There is no efficacious response to brutality other than kindness. There is no better response to selfishness than selflessness. There is nothing to pit against hate that is not love. I can only walk the path and hope for the best.

And, hey, sometimes I get to go away with friends on a long weekend and take photos like this one. Life can't be all bad when there are places like this.

Addicted

I was a little depressed yesterday and could not for the life of me figure out why. Last week was extremely stressful and it should have been a relief to have it over, and it was. But I was not at all pleased nonetheless. I really had to dig deep and use all the wiles I have been taught by the Dharma to figure out what was wrong.

Nothing was wrong.

But over the past month I have been "the man" at work. No matter what the problem, they were turning to Reid, and more often than not I had the answer. I got praise from every corner for what a great job I was doing. The clinic held together in difficult times and I had something to do with that. I felt like I glowed in the dark.

The problem, then? I had become addicted to that feeling, to being praised, admired, acknowledged. The situation was coming to an end and my role would change and all of that would go away. I was suffering from the vicissitude of praise.

In English the word vicissitude means (at least according to one dictionary) "a change of circumstances or fortune, typically one that is unwelcome or unpleasant". Since I don't read Pali, I am uncertain if this is a good translation of the original or not, but I have always felt that something more familiar like "mishaps" or "difficulties" or "misfortunes" might be a better choice. But reading this dictionary definition, I realize how accurate the word may well be, because a vicissitude is not necessarily a bad thing; it's just something different, a change of circumstance.

In the Buddhist cosmology there are eight vicissitudes: gain and loss, fame and disrepute, praise and blame, pleasure and pain. No distinction is made between the ones we deem positive and those we think of as negative. What the Buddha taught is that each of these can cause as much suffering as the others. In the words of one translation of his teachings on the vicissitudes, he says the unskillful action is that we "weclome the gain and rebel against the loss, welcome the fame and rebel against the disrepute, welcome the praise and rebel against the blame, welcome the pleasure and rebel against the pain." In our welcoming of these pleasant states, we grasp at them, seek to make them stay and grow. And our rebellion against those we find unpleasant is a grasping of its own, a seeking of the opposite or some other pleasant state, rather than an openhearted acceptance of the situation as it is.

I recognized that what was causing me to suffer was the fact that I wanted to cling to praise, to gain, to fame, to feeling good about myself, to being the Man of the Hour. And it became clear to me once again that the Buddha's teachings are not about what I should or should not do or be. He was not really a prescriber, but a describer. He told it like it is. He was telling me, over those 2000 years distance, that I was suffering because I was grasping, and that the solution was to let go of my grasping and relax into the present moment. And it worked.

I am not completely recovered from my bout of praise-sickness, but I'm getting there. The wonderful thing about the Dharma is that just the realization has the seed of freedom in it. There is nothing I need to do; I need to do nothing. Above all, I need to return to work without any grasping for a replication of the positive things I experienced last week. For one thing, stress at that level would probably kill me if sustained over weeks or months.

I am so grateful that I have the teachings to guide me and help me realize what is causing me to suffer. It is not always obvious, but I know that above all I want to be free. I am willing to give up any amount of pleasant sensation if freedom is the end result.

Making a list and checking it twice

I got back last Saturday from Ann Arbor, Michigan. I went there to visit my son and his wife over Christmas (she is in graduate school at the U of M). Yes, it was cold, though not nearly as cold as it is there today. And it snowed a bit, but not nearly as much as the Midwest got the past few days. Glad to be back in gray, wet, and (relatively) warm Seattle.

It was fun there, though, and not just for family reasons. I lived in Chicago for seven years and, though the

cold and slush and ice and snow could get old, I didn't stay long enough to become entirely jaded about the whole thing. Growing up in California, weather just wasn't much of a challenge (although I could do without temperatures over 100). Living in a climate that can kill you if underdressed is fascinating to a California boy, at least for a while.

And Ann Arbor is a nice, little college town. I have never really lived in one of those—Evanston (near Chicago) and Seattle, the towns where I went to school, have a great deal going on that is not about their universities. My perception of Ann Arbor is that it more or less revolves around the University of Michigan. It makes for a different feel, but very pleasant. An abundance of book stores, coffee shops, and restaurants. Quite lovely, actually. Of course, we were there when most of the students weren't, so we hardly got a feel for what it is like when all those 42,000 people are around. A truly nice place, though.

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I have been reflecting quite a bit recently on what makes me real. I know that sounds odd, but we all struggle with this fundamental idea, that we are a solid reality living within this body, controlled by this mind, stumbling around doing stuff until we collapse into sleep and then wake to do it over again. The question that arises is, when in all of that Doing are we Being?

I am a list maker. My wife likes to say, "Check! Check! Check!" when she sees me marking things off, I suspect because I take such great pleasure in doing so. Of course, there are many reasons I do this. It is practical, for one thing, for me to know what it is I need to get done. And being organized about it is not a bad thing. But there is an inkling in the process that a part of me doesn't quite believe I exist if I am not Doing Things in the world.

Heather Martin, whom I consider to be my primary teacher (I have no idea what she thinks), likes to quote in her dharma talks from a book of tombstone inscriptions. One of her favorites is, "Got Everything Done. Died Anyway". This could easily be my epitaph if I died today. There is in my obsession with lists and getting things done a sneaking idea that if I keep busy death cannot catch up to me, that as long as I am acting in and on the world that my absence would be inimical to survival of the world.

Now, of course, on a conscious level I am not nearly this egotistical. Nor this obsessed. But when I stop to think about how important all this is to me, I realize that there is an element of the fantastical in my thinking. Even when it does not have to do with death, there is the foolish idea that I could actually someday get enough done that I will have some free time to do what I really want to do. And of course this never happens.

If we live our lives as if at some point in the near future we will finally be able to truly live, that we will at last be able to just sit and study French or write our novel or master our camera or read "War and Peace", we will reach the end having done none of these. It is an act of will to get out from under the internal and external pressure to be a Human Doing instead of a Human Being, to be a walking list of things to do. One reliable indicator for me is the frequency with which I meditate. Now, I'm not necessarily advocating meditation, and for God's sake don't go putting it on your to-do list ("Must learn to meditate!") But for me it is a fairly certain barometer of a loss of perspective. It is somewhat akin to cooking but never eating—I am carrying out the deed but missing the point of the exercise, living a life but not being in it. When I think I am too busy to meditate it's a pretty sure sign that I have climbed back onto the exercise wheel in my cage, the one that goes round and round and winds up nowhere.

I have been given more responsibility at work, so I have a whole new source of anxiety about getting things done. If I am not careful, this could take over my life. I will be working more hours, taking on more projects, supervising people, serving on committees (argh!). I hope that having this forum to write out what is going on will keep my honest about my obsessiveness and the degree to which I am able to keep living a life that is not consumed with getting the next thing done. You will be the first to know.

Hello, it's me

It came as something of a shock to have it pointed out to me that much of what runs my life is a matter of choices I have made (and am making) rather than these being circumstances dictated by others. I can't blame them if they are not the ones making those choices. Damn. It reminds me of the old Buddhist story of the monk who set his bag down in dog shit and then wandered the world looking for a place that didn't smell so bad. If it is me that is causing my life to stink, it is also only me that can clean it up.

It also came as a shock that this realization came as a shock. I know this stuff, intellectually I understand all of it. Of course I am responsible for my own choices. I am a grown-up. I am a mature man. I am a healthcare professional. I am well into middle age. I have successfully raised a son and sent him out into the world.

Yeah, good luck with all that.

Here is another shock: it came as an enormous relief when I finally understood at a profound level that I am the only one I can "blame" for most of my suffering, because if it's my stuff then there is something I can do about it. If it's my boss's stuff, if it's my mother's, if it's yours, I can't do a damn thing about it except bitch. I can blame you and resent you and wish you were dead, but none of that is real action.

I still somehow believe that the more I do, the better person I am. I have no evidence for this assumption, but there it is. I live my life inside a to-do list and the more I check off, the more worthwhile my existence. Once again, I don't believe this in my head, but in my heart it's quite clear that I do. It is a belief inculcated in me in childhood. Because it is impossible to complete everything, I will never be perfect. And only perfection will make me a good boy, worthy of love. Pathetic, eh? As much as I would love to make fun of those feelings, the fact is that I have been running around for 57 years (or so; I have to assume it didn't start until I was 5 or something) acting on them.

Owl in the tree

So, what in the world does one do about all this? Well, I think what the counselor is counseling is that I stop. I mean, just cut it out. Live within choices, not compulsions. I do, you know, I really do. My life often feels like I am going from one obligation to another to another. Even the right amount of sleep and the books I read are dictated to some degree by that feeling. How screwed up is that?

Well, you know, fuck it. I'm not going to do that anymore. I know, I know, it's not that easy; I would feel unmoored without any kind of list to guide me, but I need to get out and have some fun, for God sakes. When did the round of my life become so grimly centered on duty?

So, I'm working on it. I still don't know what to do about my job; it has just changed so much that it's ceased being fun. But I can't blame anyone else if I stay there, either. I have options and it is merely fear that holds me back. The fear is that this is actually also about me, which means that, since I will still be there, my new job might just suck, too. But there might be only one way to figure that out.

Ah, well. There is no need for drastic changes. For one thing, there have been enough drastic changes in my life for the moment: my son and his wife left this morning to move across the country and my friend Debbi (who has been dying for some time) is on the downhill slope. But I will take responsibility for my happiness. I thought I had been, but I was wrong. The future begins today.

Pain

"When sorrows come, they come not single spies, but in battalions."

--Hamlet, William Shakespeare

Life has been difficult lately and this morning I hit my head. Hard. On a kitchen counter. Wham! Ouch.

The past week I have had back pain, the like of which I have never experienced. I know how bad back pain can be and that many people suffer from it chronically. My pain is not as bad as that (though pain is very subjective, so who's to say?) and it's only been a week, so it feels a bit silly, selfish even, to complain. But it hurts, man. I don't like it.

There's troubles at work, too. Much of that is of my own making. The job is changing and I don't like the way it's changing. The management has changed and I don't like the way it changed. Personnel have changed, the whole atmosphere in health care is changing and uncertain, the economy is causing administrators to squeeze and to justify every dollar spent, which increases the pressure on us to justify our existence. Then there is my acting out in response to stress, which has had consequences, which adds to my stress.

And I'm too damn busy. And there is too much suffering in those I love. And the world is a mess.

Nice, huh?

Then there's the kitchen counter. My physical therapist wants me to do chair push-ups to strengthen my shoulder (which, as long as I'm doing the pain recital, has been bothering me for over a year)  and I did the push-ups with a wooden chair. Bad idea. Chair (which was pushed against counter) collapsed and I broke the fall with my head. No loss of consciousness, but significant loss of dignity. And a big old knot on my forehead for a long-term reminder. Kathy decided to stay home from work to monitor me to make sure I act no stranger than usual so if I do she can rush me into an emergency CT or something.

I'm the luckiest man in the world. Think I'm kidding? I'm not. I have a loving wife who cares if I have a head injury and insists on being here for me. I have something to do about my pain. I can laugh and pick up the pieces of the chair ("cheap piece of shit") and lug them downstairs. I can afford to buy a new one. I have access to a CT scanner if I need one. I have a physical therapist who is helping my shoulder heal. I am 57 years old and up until now I have not  paid much of a price for my age and the fact that I did many foolish things as a kid that should have had more serious consequences than this. I have a job and it's not in jeopardy, and if I dislike it enough, I can probably find another one. All the things I am "too damn busy" with are wonderful things I have chosen.

And then there's this: one of the things the dharma has taught me is that, as the saying goes, pain is inevitable but suffering is optional. When I am able to focus on the pain and not on my resistance to the pain, when I can meditatively consider it, really look at it, not with fear but with curiosity and interest, it is transformed. Not that it no longer hurts, but the nature of the pain is changed from one of a problem to just another opportunity to practice awareness. And in awareness is freedom. And in this freedom, taken to its logical extreme, is nirvana. It's all grist for the mill. It is only in my small, controlling, whining mind that this is not so. All is well.