Who, me?

When I describe someone, I sometimes wonder how that person would in turn describe me. The hope is that it would not suffice to say, "You know, that asshole". I'm pretty sure that's not it. But is has occurred to me that "intimidating" might be an adjective one would choose. I remember once (not long ago) I said to a boss, "I don't think of myself as the least bit intimidating". "But," she bluntly replied, "you are". I have suspected for some time that, especially at work, I am more respected than liked. Not a bad thing (it could be neither!), but not the most desirable condition.

I don't know what to make of all that, but I do know that I have discovered, by being more aware of how people respond to me, that I am most certainly not the person I wish to be. I view myself as open, kind, loving, and generous. I'm not, though. This is not a morbid reflection, just an observation. I was in conflict with a family member not long ago (I wrote about it before) and what became most evident was how very unclear I was (and am) about the effect of what I say and how I am. In many important ways I am entirely blind. What a discovery to make this late in life.

I suppose that in some ways this is quite good—what it implies is that I both care and am noticing how what I do ripples out into the world. I have to assume that prior to this awareness I was blundering through and creating wreckage everywhere I went while thinking I was doing pretty damn well. I have a coworker who, it seems to me, believes she is a benign force in the world, a person who is both doing well and doing good. But my perception of her is of a steamroller, flattening those who don't agree with her perception of what is good and truly perplexed that anyone could disagree with her vision of how things should be. After I get over being annoyed with her, with a jolt I realize I do exactly the same thing! I am not accusing either of us of malfeasance; I think we're both just clueless about our impact in the world. I'm trying to get a clue here, that's all.

I have always distrusted the idea that we abhor in others qualities we dislike in ourselves, either consciously or unconsciously. It seems to me a concept too smug and simplistic. And yet, when I look around me, that idea seems to conform to what I see. Another example: there is a meditation teacher in my town who I really don't much care for because he is self-satisfied, cranky, aloof, and intellectually arrogant. Hmm...sound a bit familiar?

This could easily begin to seem like unstinting criticism, but that's not what I'm getting at, not at all. I am pretty fond of myself (odd how in the West this sentiment has come to be seen as vanity, whereas in most cultures it is simply assumed that people think well of themselves). On the other hand, as Suzuki Roshi said, "You are perfect just as you are...and you could all use some work".

There is also a place for full-hearted acceptance of myself as I am. But I admit to being a bit confused about where acceptance leaves off and complacency begins. I don't want to be a jerk and leave it at that. "Oh, well, I broke your toes stepping all over you, too bad, that's just how I am". On the other hand, I can't and won't be eternally subject to the opinions of others in how I shape my actions and attitudes. That way madness lies.

Anatomy of anger

I had the opportunity last week to observe closely the workings of anger in me. It is very like what I imagine would be the movement of poison in my body. I mean this not as an analogy, but quite literally. Prior to the anger I was feeling clear and peaceful, so the change was that much more evident. When the anger descended on me it changed (as it seemed) my whole world.

The what and who and why of this anger doesn't much matter, nor does its justification or lack thereof. Have you noticed this? Anger is an indiscriminate toxin and has the same effect no matter how holy or unholy the triggering event.

Someone did something, then, and I reacted. I felt the surge of my righteous indignation first, and this always feels so reassuring, so powerful. I spend much of my life feeling either neutral or powerless (might as well admit it), that this adrenalin rush feels like a revelation. But it doesn't last.

Then comes that sickening feeling of the aftermath of the rush, the anger hangover which, like an actual hangover, lasts far longer than the pleasure. It is a physical as well as a psychic phenomenon, a nausea, an exhaustion, a sensation something akin to the bodily response to grief. And I know, after all, what the grief is for: I wish to be a better person than this, and have wished so for as long as I can remember. I grieve that I'm not.

And I craved. I craved sugar and warm milk and comfort and reassurance. I craved certainty and power and love and appreciation. I craved escape and clarity and unchallenged correctness. I craved fat and salt and gooeyness. I craved a solution that would make it all right.

A powerful drug, this anger.

Then it passed as if it had never been. It left a bit of destruction in its wake, though thankfully nothing like the wreckage my anger used to create. What had seemed so real and important now appeared to be a mere mirage.

I am reminded that anger is fear. I suspect there are instances where this is not so, but I have yet to come up with any. And this anger was most certainly fear. And what is the antidote to fear? Not courage, I think, though that certainly helps. I think the antidote to fear must be compassion. When I am living in my fear, my heart is closed, in a defensive crouch. If I can open my heart to the source of my fear--if only a little--the feelings dissipate and I can begin to see what I feared as the chimera it is. It is enough.

Tigers

Nazradin the Holy Fool was once found outside his house throwing garlic around. His neighbor was incredulous and asked him what in the world he thought he was doing. "Why," said Nazradin, "I am spreading this garlic about to fend off  tigers." "You idiot," replied the neighbor, "there are no tigers in this part of the country." "Ah, ha, so you can see," said Nazradin, "how well it works!"

I do this. My tigers are different beasts—the opinions of others, illness, aging, work stress, concern for my parents, money. And my garlic is worry, habitual behaviors, compulsiveness, the urge to complete tasks I have assigned to myself. And when the outcomes are good, I credit what I have done. When the outcomes are less desirable, well, life is just not very fair.

I have noticed another tendency in myself recently. I began to think that life is full of booby traps. I have plenty of evidence: I pull down a book and another falls down. I walk down the street and the sidewalk reaches up to trip me. I go to work and the ideas that others come up with to help guide my work are intended not to help but to obfuscate. I take the fork from the drawer and a spoon comes with it. I am in a hurry and all the lights are red. But I have a solution: if I can only be meticulous enough in all my actions, I can avoid mishaps. When I can't, the world is out to get me. Or something like that.

One of the most important teachings I have absorbed from the teachings of the Buddha is that It's Not Personal. How odd that I, that any of us, should believe that, out of 7,000,000,000 people on the planet, the forces of the world should be aligned against (or for) any one of us. It is the ultimate egotism. Not to mention the fact that, you know, these things just happen. Gravity is in force. The string from one thing gets caught on the clasp of another and pulls it. It is the nature of strings and clasps. This may inconvenience me (if I choose to think of it that way), but it's not a Worldwide Vendetta Against Me. The Buddha said that this egocentrism, this assumption that we are the center of the universe, even our own personal universe, is a primary source of suffering.

There is no more certain sign of spring for me than when the robins begin to guide me. Surely you have experienced this: a robin will perch on the sidewalk or a nearby fence and allow you to get quite close, closer than at any other time of year. It will then hop away several feet and wait for you to follow. Eventually, you will have followed far enough and it will fly away. What it is doing is pretending to be vulnerable in order to lead you away from its nest. I feel like saying to the silly bird, "As if!" As if, first of all, I am any threat to you or your nest; as if I am stupid enough to be misled by you, as if I walked your direction in pursuit of you. But from the robin's perspective, of course, the subterfuge works perfectly; I do, after all, move on. Just like the dog that barks so you will be frightened away and then, sure enough, you go on past.

I do this, too. I bark to protect myself when there is no real threat. I must be right or I am wrong which, though it seems obvious,  isn't really so. Sometimes things just are and there is no value associated with them.  Like the robin, I manipulate a situation to my supposed advantage, then take credit for it when it would have come out that way in any case. I have a friend who believes the world is essentially an unsafe place. There is plenty of evidence, of course: rapes, murders, gunmen, fires, floods, earthquakes, tornados, stalkers, thieves, con artists and war. But there is more safety here than danger. There is more kindness than cruelty, more love than hate, more courage than cowardice, more openheartedness than greed. When I, when any of us, find ourselves assuming the worst and thinking that way of thinking can make us happy or even safe, we are looking in the wrong place for what we most desperately want. Why would we do this?

There is another story of Nazradin. He was under a streetlight in front of his house on his hands and knees. One of his friends came by and asked what he was doing. "I have lost my keys," he replied, "and cannot get into my house". "Oh, my," said the friend, let me help you." After searching fruitlessly for a while, the friend asked, "So, where exactly did you lose your keys, my friend?" "Oh," said Nazradin, "in that alley over there." "What? What's that you say? Well, then why in the world are we looking over here." "Well," said Nazradin, "the light is better here."

It is enough.