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.

Quiet

I tend to explain myself at great length. I loathe being misunderstood and misunderstanding is perhaps more common than understanding, especially in writing. Even face-to-face, it is difficult to make ourselves clear. So, the more the merrier.

But words don't work that way, do they? Words are symbols for thoughts and feelings and concepts that cannot be understood through words. Try defining love. Good luck. Using more of the damn things doesn't seem to clarify anything at all. When they don't obfuscate, they bore. Often both.

Yet I go on and on and on. Some part of me believes that the more words I use, I closer I may be to that breakthrough moment when what is going on inside my head matches what you perceive. I know better, but I can't seem to help myself.

No wonder the Vulcan mind meld (while also horrifying to contemplate) has a certain appeal. OK, then, there you have it, the inside of my head. Now that we have that out of the way....

I have been in conflict with many people to one degree or another several times in the past few weeks. Many of these are people I love. I have tried to make myself understood. And failed. Not utterly, of course. I may have communicated a fair portion of what I was thinking. But when we get into the realm of feeling and pure, unadulterated thought—fuhgidabowdit. Yet I keep trying. Try to express ooph. or ouch or kerwilikers in real words. Good luck. We hurt each other. We don't say what we mean because we can't.

This is the nature of poetry, isn't it? The poet says: this is what I intend to convey, and these words are the way I choose to do so. I may have no idea what exactly they mean and you may not think they mean anything even remotely similar to what I was thinking or feeling. Yet if my poem is good, it sends a message across the void. And you just might get it.

To wit:

Beannacht

("Blessing")

On the day when
the weight deadens
on your shoulders
and you stumble,
may the clay dance
to balance you.

And when your eyes
freeze behind
the grey window
and the ghost of loss
gets into you,
may a flock of colours,
indigo, red, green,
and azure blue
come to awaken in you
a meadow of delight.

When the canvas frays
in the currach of thought
and a stain of ocean
blackens beneath you,
may there come across the waters
a path of yellow moonlight
to bring you safely home.

May the nourishment of the earth be yours,
may the clarity of light be yours,
may the fluency of the ocean be yours,
may the protection of the ancestors be yours.
And so may a slow
wind work these words
of love around you,
an invisible cloak
to mind your life.

~ John O'Donohue ~

And we know what that means. Even if we don't. Know what I mean? I think I will try quiet.

Happiness is...

I struggle sometimes with an ill-defined sadness. Mostly I am a fairly cheerful guy, not a jump up and down type, but generally optimistic and hopeful. Then there are these other times.

I have written about this here before, so feel free to skip this entry if you have heard this already. I am writing mostly for my own benefit anyway, though I suspect most or all of you know exactly what I'm talking about.

It can begin with a book, as it seems to have this time. It can begin with a slight, an offhand remark from someone, an unskillful remark of my own. It can begin anywhere. It can be exacerbated by an unintentional cruelty (I know they didn't mean to, but they hurt me when they did that), like this time. A movie can set me off. A poem. A death. A birth. Someone's success (which sometimes makes me feel like a failure).

And here's something strange: for years it has seemed clear to me that I must channel the sadness and anxiety of others, though I only feel it when it is particularly strong. And the holidays are terrible times for many people, even those who love it, times of anxiety and fear and trepidation. We don't talk about that much, but there is an undercurrent of real human suffering under all that holly and mistletoe. Ho, ho, fucking ho.

Not that I am a Grinch or a Scrooge. I love the tree and the presents, the wreath and the lights (mine are always up the day after Thanksgiving, rain or shine, and god, did it pour this year). I love the music and the visits and the cookies and cakes and pies and candy (until it gets to be just too much, then, ick). I love the true, deep, human feeling this time of year. Oh, shut up, you cynic. I know that this time of year is a commercial bloodletting. But it's more than that. There really is an inexplicable good will we practice (well, most of us) that is kinda hard to explain.

Yet the anxiety is there, too, if only the anticipation of Santa Claus or what might be under the tree. I remember that feeling of disappointment as a child, not that I didn't get what I wanted (I mostly did), but when it was all over, all of that counting on things, my belief in magic, in the end this only yielded stuff. Of course, I could never have expressed it in so many words back then, but the magic of Christmas always devolved to this pile of stuff that was not very magical at all. Welcome, treasured, wonderful. But no longer magic. And I wonder if that is not some of what the end of the season brings. And that I am feeling it on behalf of others.

And it's the first day of a new year. (As if the caterpillar or the crow knows the difference. And if it weren't for our ritualistic defining of time and practice of rituals, we wouldn't know it, either). It's the first day of a new year and it brings with it both new hope and a sense of futility. Because nothing really changes much.

I thought about writing down my anxieties and sadnesses today. I opened a file in my electronic notepad titled "Anxieties", just to see what was there. The list must have been made a year or so ago, but I didn't need to change much to update it for today. A tweak here and there. The same issues, the same problems, the same worries and concerns. Far from being depressing, though, it felt freeing. "Oh, yes", I thought, "having been happy most of the year and beginning from this place, my happiness must have mostly to do with how I deal with things, how I am in relationship to them. Much more so than the circumstances, which have, quite evidently, not changed much at all."

And so I set forth on another year.  I will turn 59 at some point in this one, will celebrate 35 years of marriage, and will have spent 25 years at my current employer. Someone I love very dearly (who shall remain nameless) will turn 60. I will carry on. I will thrive. I will open my heart. I will weep a bit (because it's sad around here, in case you hadn't noticed). I will crave and understand it as craving. I will hate and understand it as such. I will blame and rage and resent. I will do my level best not to create any more suffering in the world. And I will laugh. I will love. I will be. 

Observations III

For the third year in a row, I bring to you the observations I have made throughout the year of things that strike me as odd, off-kilter, and how they could be improved in a world of which I was the absolute master. If you are particularly masochistic and wish to see the previous two installments of this particular self-indulgent act of curmudgeonliness, please click here and here. Enjoy!

? Why are there no A or B batteries?

? One small advantage of growing old is those new, super-powerful hand dryers. With the loss of connective tissue in my hands, it's very entertaining to see the ridges and furrows those things can make.

? Isn't it interesting how in a single generation smokers went from looking kinda cool to looking like idiots?

? Isn't it strange how such a small amount of water can cover so much floor space when you spill it?

? Ever noticed how major construction projects quickly get about 99% done and then stall (usually while still blocking the sidewalk), sometimes for months?

? Are those who create apps really so incompetent that they have to update them so often? How often does Mega Solitaire really need to be improved?

? Another sign I'm getting old: I just think nursing students are cute; so earnest, so young, so sweet.

? I just gotta say that this ongoing trend of kilt wearing by (non-Scottish) men just doesn't work for me; it looks plain dorky. It doesn't help that most of those who try to pull this off were probably dorks to begin with.

? There is something seriously wrong with my schedule if the neighbor's five year old is still out playing on a school night when I'm already in bed.

? Why do grocery stores feel they must periodically rearrange all their aisles so I can no longer find what I'm looking for?

? There is something deeply wrong with a world in which a sticker saying "Caution. Sharp blade" must be placed on my paper cutter. Seems to me a bit like a sign saying, "Warning, gravity" on every slope and stairway.

? Even though I paid for the premium site to avoid ads, I'm still a little intimidated by Pandora. If I don't do either a thumbs up or down after a while, I get this vague, unsettling feeling  it disapproves of me.

? Why would anyone like Grape Nuts on Facebook? Almost 250,000 people have, though.

? Those of you who ignore my emails: cut it out! It's just plain rude. Sorry to sound like my mother, but every non-spam message should be answered. If you really don't want to respond to what I wrote, at least have the guts to tell me so. Jeez.

? Can't we please find an analogy for progressive unveiling that's not an onion?

? Let me tell you about Reido Air, my proposal for a new airline. No overhead bins. Two free checked bags, guaranteed to be at the carousel in 30 minutes. No beverage or food service. You want food? Bring it with you! We will even sell food cheaply at the gate before you board. Just imagine: no competition to board the plane because everything goes under the seat in front of you. You can always get to the bathroom if you need to because there's no freaking carts in the aisle. And we all get off the plane lickety-split because no one is heaving their carry-ons around. Heaven.

? It is an admittedly small but nonetheless genuine joy to have new, sharp fingernail clippers.

? Speaking of which, why in English are some singular things pluralized, like clippers, scissors, and pants? And, no, I'm not convinced it's because there are two blades or pant legs or whatever. A shirt has two arms, after all, and a pipe two ends, a coin two sides, .... And why do I get my hair cut and not my hairs?

? A license should be required to grow a beard and should be immediately revocable if one can't grow a decent one, doesn't know how to trim it properly, or doesn't wash it regularly.

? Why does the word-suggester in my phone know all manner of esoteric words yet I have to teach it swear words? I mean, it didn't even know "hell" or "crap". Are we really as puritanical as all that?

? Does it drive anyone else nuts that some people seem to have no awareness they are blocking an aisle or thoroughfare while they are standing there having that conversation? For that matter, if your gate at the airport is near a walkway, do you really think it's reasonable to stand smack dab in the middle of the latter to guarantee your quick access to the former?

? Sometimes it can be quite comforting just to retie one's shoes.

? I'm a little tired of everyone telling me to keep a copy of this or that document for my records. Maybe I will and maybe I won't. So there.

? When I bring a backup bottle of dish soap to work, why do people always start to use the new bottle rather than finishing off the old one first?

? Why in the world would anyone have timed sprinklers in Seattle? Here I am, walking in a torrential downpour, and there you are, watering away!

? Who in their right mind pays the exorbitant price for "gogo in-flight internet"? $500 a year? $3 for half an hour? What are they thinking?

? Didn't rubber bands used to last longer?

? Money is filthy. Wouldn't it make sense if any place that took cash had hand sanitizer at the register?

? Does anyone ever use the word "ulterior" except in conjunction with "motive"?

? Researchers want you to know this: what you eat, how you eat it, how much of it you eat, where you eat it, why you eat it, and whether or not you eat it, food is killing you.

? OK, I understand and appreciate the password to get into my bank or my Google account, but aren't we getting a bit carried away when I need a password to make an appointment for a haircut?

? If you live in Western Washington, we have no spiders that bite. Sorry to break it to you. It seems like every person who comes into the clinic with a pimple on their leg has diagnosed it as a spider bite. It ain't.

? If you have something important to announce, please don't only put it on Facebook and assume you have your bases covered. Some of us spend very little time there and it would be very sad if we missed out.

? What's up with the way men's shirts come packaged from the store? Each one is like it's own individual Rubik's cube and no two are the same. Is there some sort of protocol for how these must be intricately bundled? And, hey, two pieces of cardboard and a plastic thingy for each collar? Really? And good luck getting all the pins out before you stick yourself putting the damn thing on. I mean, folks, it's a shirt, for God's sake.

? How did that rock get in my shoe? Think about it. It's not as if I walk through gravel pits, and that little rock had to fly up into the air at just the right trajectory to land in the small space between my foot and the shoe. Pretty remarkable, and it happens all the time.

? I don't understand how it could be sensible to concentrate lemon juice and then reconstitute it before selling it to me.

? I think we ought to celebrate our birthdays for the number of days that we have years. A one year old doesn't need more than a day, but at my age, I deserve 58 days of presents and cake.

Thanks for reading! And for reading the blog throughout the year; I really enjoy writing it. Happy Holidays!

Consciousness conundrum

Row, row, row your boat
Gently down the stream
Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily
Life is but a dream.

Life is but a dream. This is one of the core teachings in Buddhist thought. Life is as a dream, an illusion that imitates reality. The truth of things is that each millisecond is different from the one that came before. No matter how minutely we subdivide time, we will still never find a segment that is identical to that which came before or that which comes after. And the only moment (or fraction thereof) in which we are truly living is this one.

Yet we live slathered in the illusion of solidity, in the dream of our moments being contiguous and change happening gradually, in the delusion that we are essentially the same persons until a crisis comes along to change us. Much of unhappiness can be laid at the door of this mistaken perception—we recall (or believe we do) a time when all was serene and perfect and if we can only recapture that time.... Or perhaps we have not experienced such an event, but have seen it in others, or in the reality-bending delusion machines of literature, television, and movies, wherein people live simple lives (bad or good) and resolution occurs on schedule. We crave such certainty and grieve that we cannot achieve it. When, in fact, it is not achievable. The illusion of certainty is an inherently uncertain world means that the more certain we are of anything, the more deluded.

The irony here is that only that which makes us uniquely human stands in the way of our enlightenment, yet only that which makes us uniquely human makes enlightenment possible at all. And this uniquely human trait is that of consciousness, of having the self-awareness to realize that such a thing as enlightenment exists, is desirable, and a path exists to achieve it. Yet all of this self-aware thought is precisely what causes us to seek for fulfillment in all the wrong places. Nearly all of us spend our lives in this puzzling state and die ungratified and confused.

But there is good news. First of all, for most of us enlightenment occurs gradually. Yes, there are all those delightful stories of someone hearing the teachings, the light dawns, and suddenly an Arhat stands where a mere mortal was a moment ago. But these are meant to inspire us, not show us how it's done. Every day, in every moment, we can reach for either surrender or resistance. The choice is ours. The first leads to peace. The second leads to suffering. It is not more complicated than that unless we choose to make it so.

Norman Fischer (in "Training In Compassion") has this to say:

If you and everyone else you know are unfathomable, then why do you persist in imagining that you know who you and everyone else are and, based on these fixed ideas, that you can predict your behavior and that of others? Freshness and openness and a capacity for surprise are hallmarks of mind training, which is one reason why it is so much fun....We view with bemused curiosity our various responses and habits, even when it is clear that they are not too wholesome or even sane. [We must] cultivate beginner's mind in relation to ourselves and our own experiences. To stop being such an expert on ourselves.

In other words, lighten up. Life is but a dream. But few things are more wonderful than floating gently down the stream of life. There is joy there, even in the midst of sorrow. Oh, yes, there is.

Poaching Quince

What you will need:

Two pounds quince

Four cups water

Three quarters of a cup honey

A cinnomon stick and some cloves;

Ginger or anise, if you like.

There is bitterness in my life, I won't deny it. I spend more time than I ought imagining how life would be if it were not as it is. Why must there be strife and anger and decay? Why is it so difficult for those who are in conflict to see how much better life would be in every way if they were kind? Love sounds like a cute cliche to those in the midst of hatred. But it's still the right answer.

Quince is a hard, bitter, astringent fruit that is inebidble in its natural state.

(Try a little nibble if you don't believe me).

Yet it is closely related to apples and pears.

You will need to prepare the quince with care.

The Buddha was quite clear that all things are subject to change, that all things are subject to dissolution and decay, that all things die. I tend to think of this as relating only to me and my loved ones, or at most to all sentient beings, but that's not what he said. He said, "all things". This world, too, and all the beings in it. Stones and mountains and seas. Planets and stars and galaxies. Cars and trains and ships. All things must change, break down, and die.

Peel the quince and cut them in half, but be careful if you are using a sharp knife;

It is a very hard fruit and your hand may slip.

With a paring knife, cut out the center seed core.

Slice the quince into eighths.

But I don't want it to be true, that the world must also end. Strangely enough, I feel as if I am prepared for those I love to die, and for myself. Not that I will be happy about it, but I feel deeply that it is inevitable and merely a part of the natural cycle. But the world? It seems we should have done better, and still could. (Though I admit it doesn't seem likely). This, too, is part of the teachings, that even this world must go. Just because our malfeasance may well have been a part of the process does not make this any less true.

Put the honey and spices into the water.

Place the quince slices lovingly in.

Bring the whole thing to a boil,

Then turn down to the lowest simmer you can.

Cover loosely.

What I can do is bring light into the darkest places. Where there is sadness and pain, I can bring hope and help. Where there is conflict, I can bring my own peace. I cannot cure what ails the world, but I can do what is possible to make it less worse. There is so much of goodness in the world, and I know this in my heart. Evidence to the contrary does not negate the reality of this, and in fact gives the light, by contrast, that much greater luminosity.

Simmer for thirty to fifty minutes.

After thirty minutes check the quince.

What you want is a soft fruit that is not mushy.

And, look! As it cooks, the pale, beige fruit turns a rosy pink.

It's not always easy. I must always be reminded. There seems to be such urgency to the demands life places on me and on us. Yet nothing could be more useful than a little bit of uselessness. I cannot justify to you the time I take to sit at my desk and breathe deeply. This will not appear on my timesheet; I am not sorry. When I open my heart, freedom leaps out and I will share it with you. The world may not be healed but we, at least, will not go down enveloped in the flames of anger.

After removing the quince to cool

Continue to simmer the liquid uncovered.

Let it cook down.

It will make your whole house fragrant

And, when strained, yield a delicious nectar

That is good in everything.

This is a very good idea.

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.