.
When it comes to watching TV, I guess the reason I like watching sports now and then is that someone is actually doing something they alleged they would do. I can mute the commentators and the cheering and just watch athletes do what they promised to do -- play (U.S.) football or hockey or baseball to the best of their ability.
How I wish that news organizations could do the same. But news costs money and those with the money have decided to go a different route ... chattering, entertaining, and not spending the money it takes to gather and report the news that might inform an audience. Tits and ass and adjectives and ambulance chasing and medical press releases and the latest blood stain on a nearby sidewalk ... well, it's less expensive and makes room for opinions that issue from people whose opinions pander and placate. Joseph Goebbels would probably be delighted.
But on the field, there is no tom-foolery. Yes, there are outlandish paychecks and star-struck status in the background, but on the field ... well, there's no screwing around when a guy who weighs 300 pounds is trying to kick your ass.
I can only take so much sports, but I do like to see people making an honest effort. George Orwell once observed that without a full stomach, there is no philosophy. And I guess I admire those who have decided that a full stomach is not the be-all and end-all and instead put their money where their mouths are.
Oh well, I guess everyone decides how tired they are of their own commentary and analyses, adjectives and judgments -- how much they do or do not want to turn off their own TV's and confront the 300-pound ass-kicker in their own lives. Powder puffs and pleasantries can only reach so far. How far, however, varies by user.
.
Monday, December 13, 2010
Sunday, December 12, 2010
light one candle
.
When I entered the zendo this morning, it was pretty dim and gloomy in accordance with the freezing rain and grey skies outdoors.
I lit a single candle, fired up a couple of pieces of incense and sat for 30-40 minutes.
By the time I got up, the candle seemed to have gathered all sorts of brightness and what had been in shadow was now obvious.
And cozy.
.
When I entered the zendo this morning, it was pretty dim and gloomy in accordance with the freezing rain and grey skies outdoors.
I lit a single candle, fired up a couple of pieces of incense and sat for 30-40 minutes.
By the time I got up, the candle seemed to have gathered all sorts of brightness and what had been in shadow was now obvious.
And cozy.
.
my teapot and yours
.
As a humongous storm in the Midwest inches itself eastward and as a bombing in Sweden makes me wonder if the world isn't heading for some barbaric mediocrity, my mind and its notions of what to write today were swept away by an account of a rally outside Sho Bo Ji, a Zen temple I used to attend in New York. (The account is given towards the end of the comments.)
For those uninterested in Zen or Buddhism, it is probably all a tempest in a quite ordinary teapot. Zen is such a sliver of a sliver of spiritual adventure when assessed from a popular point of view. And even Buddhism is pretty small potatoes outside its religious and superstitious leanings.
But the comments this morning were a tempest in my teapot. This was something I cared about. (And, as a tempest in others' teapot, it is endlessly detailed in another thread on this blog.) Several people had taken the step and moved from talking the talk to walking the walk. Literally. Bless their hearts!
I don't want to resurrect the whole to-and-fro about Eido Tai Shimano and his missteps, but I do find myself thinking with renewed force about the difficulty in stepping from commentary and philosophy and religion ... into action. Into the actual-factual world of action.
I don't like telling others to put up or shut up. But I do think looking in the mirror is a good idea -- whatever the much-beloved topic may be. How many of us have been bored deaf, dumb and blind by the pot-bellied beer drinker who can wax critical for hours about baseball and yet, if the ball were headed in his direction, probably could not or would not bend down to scoop it up? It's the same for spiritual life, I think: Look in the mirror and wonder if there is anything you can actually DO to make what you profess and proclaim come true.
It's not a matter of criticism or praise that I'm interested in. I'm interested in the difficulty that arises when anyone might say to themselves, "Prove it!" I am interested in the foundation stones of honest happiness.
Oh well -- a warm morning though an icy rain is falling.
.
As a humongous storm in the Midwest inches itself eastward and as a bombing in Sweden makes me wonder if the world isn't heading for some barbaric mediocrity, my mind and its notions of what to write today were swept away by an account of a rally outside Sho Bo Ji, a Zen temple I used to attend in New York. (The account is given towards the end of the comments.)
For those uninterested in Zen or Buddhism, it is probably all a tempest in a quite ordinary teapot. Zen is such a sliver of a sliver of spiritual adventure when assessed from a popular point of view. And even Buddhism is pretty small potatoes outside its religious and superstitious leanings.
But the comments this morning were a tempest in my teapot. This was something I cared about. (And, as a tempest in others' teapot, it is endlessly detailed in another thread on this blog.) Several people had taken the step and moved from talking the talk to walking the walk. Literally. Bless their hearts!
I don't want to resurrect the whole to-and-fro about Eido Tai Shimano and his missteps, but I do find myself thinking with renewed force about the difficulty in stepping from commentary and philosophy and religion ... into action. Into the actual-factual world of action.
I don't like telling others to put up or shut up. But I do think looking in the mirror is a good idea -- whatever the much-beloved topic may be. How many of us have been bored deaf, dumb and blind by the pot-bellied beer drinker who can wax critical for hours about baseball and yet, if the ball were headed in his direction, probably could not or would not bend down to scoop it up? It's the same for spiritual life, I think: Look in the mirror and wonder if there is anything you can actually DO to make what you profess and proclaim come true.
It's not a matter of criticism or praise that I'm interested in. I'm interested in the difficulty that arises when anyone might say to themselves, "Prove it!" I am interested in the foundation stones of honest happiness.
Oh well -- a warm morning though an icy rain is falling.
.
Saturday, December 11, 2010
playing "telephone"
.
As a kid among kids, now and then there would be a game of "telephone." It provoked a lot of laughter, yet its lessons seem to get lost on adults.
It was a simple game: Five or six or eight or ten kids sitting around a table would play. The first kid would whisper some simple sentence into the next kid's ear. It was whispered only once ... no do-overs. The second kid would repeat the process with the third, whispering what s/he had heard. And around the table it would go -- each whispering earnestly to the next. The last kid in line would be responsible for announcing the message for everyone to hear ... at which point the first kid would say the original message actually was.
Invariably what had been, for example, "The dog peed on the fire hydrant," would turn out to be "My mother bakes muffins" or something equally far from the mark. And it wasn't as if anyone had tried to screw things up. Everyone was as clear as they could be ... and still it came out flummoxed. No matter how clearly anyone spoke, still the result did not match the first, best effort. It was good for a good laugh.
Words ... aren't they interesting? We use them is serious and silly and sad occasions. We open our mouths and know precisely what we are talking about. We are being authentic and clear as a bell. And yet, in the next person's ear, "My mother bakes muffins."
I would call this process par for the course. Not only are words inherently unclear because they only describe what is experience for the person speaking them, but they are invariably filtered by the person who hears or reads them. If this is the rule rather than the exception -- and I think it is -- then the solemnity or seriousness with which we take any words really deserves to be dialed down. Experience cannot be transmitted in words: This is not a good thing or a bad thing. It's just something to notice and acknowledge. No big deal -- just notice and be aware of. No need not to use words by way of information or encouragement ... just be aware.
I was munching on all this when I thought of a bit of Zen Buddhist writing called "On Zen" by Dai O Kokushi. It aims to say something true -- simply true -- and yet, however wondrously expressed, however elevated it might sound, still, invariably, "My mother bakes muffins." The only way to plumb the facts is to plumb the facts. 'Authentic' texts are not the same as authenticity.
How many gazillions of spiritual efforts like this, in whatever tradition, exist around the globe? Lots and lots and lots and lots -- all of them making a good-faith effort to say, "The dog peed on the fire hydrant." And how many gazillions of listeners -- in all sincerity -- may be sure that they have heard and absorbed? Lots and lots and lots and lots. Spiritual life, a life of war, a life of love, a life of hypocrisy, a life of joy, a life of philosophy, a life of plumbing ... each absorbing and being nourished and encouraged by the words, "My mother bakes muffins."
Maybe the rule of thumb should be something like this:
Listen attentively ...
Work hard...
And if you aren't laughing, be assured there is more work to do.
.
As a kid among kids, now and then there would be a game of "telephone." It provoked a lot of laughter, yet its lessons seem to get lost on adults.
It was a simple game: Five or six or eight or ten kids sitting around a table would play. The first kid would whisper some simple sentence into the next kid's ear. It was whispered only once ... no do-overs. The second kid would repeat the process with the third, whispering what s/he had heard. And around the table it would go -- each whispering earnestly to the next. The last kid in line would be responsible for announcing the message for everyone to hear ... at which point the first kid would say the original message actually was.
Invariably what had been, for example, "The dog peed on the fire hydrant," would turn out to be "My mother bakes muffins" or something equally far from the mark. And it wasn't as if anyone had tried to screw things up. Everyone was as clear as they could be ... and still it came out flummoxed. No matter how clearly anyone spoke, still the result did not match the first, best effort. It was good for a good laugh.
Words ... aren't they interesting? We use them is serious and silly and sad occasions. We open our mouths and know precisely what we are talking about. We are being authentic and clear as a bell. And yet, in the next person's ear, "My mother bakes muffins."
I would call this process par for the course. Not only are words inherently unclear because they only describe what is experience for the person speaking them, but they are invariably filtered by the person who hears or reads them. If this is the rule rather than the exception -- and I think it is -- then the solemnity or seriousness with which we take any words really deserves to be dialed down. Experience cannot be transmitted in words: This is not a good thing or a bad thing. It's just something to notice and acknowledge. No big deal -- just notice and be aware of. No need not to use words by way of information or encouragement ... just be aware.
I was munching on all this when I thought of a bit of Zen Buddhist writing called "On Zen" by Dai O Kokushi. It aims to say something true -- simply true -- and yet, however wondrously expressed, however elevated it might sound, still, invariably, "My mother bakes muffins." The only way to plumb the facts is to plumb the facts. 'Authentic' texts are not the same as authenticity.
ON ZEN
There is a reality even prior to heaven and earth;
It has no form, much less a name;
Eyes fail to see it; it has no voice for ears to detect;
To call it Mind or Buddha violates its nature,
For it then becomes like a visionary flower in the air;
It is not Mind, nor Buddha;
Absolutely quite, and yet illuminating ina a mysterious way,
It allows itself to be perceived only by the clear-eyed.
It is Dharma truly beyond form and sound;
It is Tao having nothing to do with words.
Wishing to entice the blind,
The Buddha has playfully let words escape his golden mouth;
Heaven and earth are ever since filled with entangling briars.
O my good worthy friends gathered here,
If you desire to listen to the thunderous voice of the Dharma,
Exhaust your words, empty your thoughts,
For then you may come to recognize this One Essence.
How many gazillions of spiritual efforts like this, in whatever tradition, exist around the globe? Lots and lots and lots and lots -- all of them making a good-faith effort to say, "The dog peed on the fire hydrant." And how many gazillions of listeners -- in all sincerity -- may be sure that they have heard and absorbed? Lots and lots and lots and lots. Spiritual life, a life of war, a life of love, a life of hypocrisy, a life of joy, a life of philosophy, a life of plumbing ... each absorbing and being nourished and encouraged by the words, "My mother bakes muffins."
Maybe the rule of thumb should be something like this:
Listen attentively ...
Work hard...
And if you aren't laughing, be assured there is more work to do.
.
Friday, December 10, 2010
teaching forgiveness
.
In a world of elegant, but insignificant, distinctions, which would you rather have -- someone to forgive you or someone to teach you?
.
In a world of elegant, but insignificant, distinctions, which would you rather have -- someone to forgive you or someone to teach you?
.
me, me, me, me, me
.
Yesterday, a friend sent me the latest atheist news letter. I didn't bother to open it, not because I disagree with atheists, but because I find the arguments repetitive and self-serving and stale. That's just my taste and I mean no disrespect.
But simply receiving the attachment to my friend's email made me think of the accusations sometimes brought to bear against those concerned with religion -- or, more specifically, meditation. "Navel-gazers," "self-involved wimps," and occasionally just plain "assholes."
Those involved in religion or meditation are quick to defend their practices. They seek "peace" or "compassion" or a "kindness" that is as wide as the universe and twice as deep. They may fail in their attempts, but at least they are trying in a world that is too often filled with nastiness and greed. Relatively speaking, they are on a gentler, more compassionate track... or so goes the defense, sometimes more ornately presented.
But I think it might be useful to take the "navel-gazer," "self-involved," "asshole" observations and, instead of debating the point, simply concede it. Who would be better to assess the fact that I am an asshole than I would? And who would know better about my navel -- my life -- than I would? And when it comes to self-involved ... well, how would it be possible to move forward with religion or meditation without acknowledging my own self-ish-ness? Paying attention to someone else's selfishness doesn't accomplish much by way of assuring peace ... though I imagine it may make for a good news letter.
Just noodling here and thinking that rather than setting up a debate about who is more or less self-ish, it would be better to concede the point and then really dig in to the one thing I can do anything about --- me, me, me, me, me, me, me.
.
Yesterday, a friend sent me the latest atheist news letter. I didn't bother to open it, not because I disagree with atheists, but because I find the arguments repetitive and self-serving and stale. That's just my taste and I mean no disrespect.
But simply receiving the attachment to my friend's email made me think of the accusations sometimes brought to bear against those concerned with religion -- or, more specifically, meditation. "Navel-gazers," "self-involved wimps," and occasionally just plain "assholes."
Those involved in religion or meditation are quick to defend their practices. They seek "peace" or "compassion" or a "kindness" that is as wide as the universe and twice as deep. They may fail in their attempts, but at least they are trying in a world that is too often filled with nastiness and greed. Relatively speaking, they are on a gentler, more compassionate track... or so goes the defense, sometimes more ornately presented.
But I think it might be useful to take the "navel-gazer," "self-involved," "asshole" observations and, instead of debating the point, simply concede it. Who would be better to assess the fact that I am an asshole than I would? And who would know better about my navel -- my life -- than I would? And when it comes to self-involved ... well, how would it be possible to move forward with religion or meditation without acknowledging my own self-ish-ness? Paying attention to someone else's selfishness doesn't accomplish much by way of assuring peace ... though I imagine it may make for a good news letter.
Just noodling here and thinking that rather than setting up a debate about who is more or less self-ish, it would be better to concede the point and then really dig in to the one thing I can do anything about --- me, me, me, me, me, me, me.
.
pole dancing
.
After gaining relative consciousness this morning, I started hunting around for something interesting in my mind -- some spark that did not rely so much on past sparks but was freshly minted and bright. Before starting this entry, I searched the internet in vain for a story I heard on NPR radio some years ago about a couple who farmed pigs in (I think) Louisiana or Alabama. It was one of the most beautiful things I had ever heard, combining without ever mentioning them, an honest "Buddhism" and an honest "love." But that was in the past, even if I couldn't find it.
So I skimmed down the news, wondering vaguely how long anyone might give a damn about homosexuality in the military; wondering vaguely how long China, with its interest in an improving economy, could hold out against the 'dissidents' who were part and parcel of an internet that provided the information necessary to a swelling economy; wondering vaguely if the passage of a tax package that provides more money for the extremely wealthy and unemployment benefits for the extremely-stressed were ever really in doubt ... wondering vaguely, but not really finding the kind of bright spark that makes you smile with outrage or delight.
As close as I came was the Pole Dancing Championships in Tokyo -- something I had never heard of and, more interestingly, something that challenged my easy-peasy assumption that pole dancing was a slithering, raunchy turn-on for happily-plastered guys with and without tattoos ... not to mention a good way to pay college tuition.
I like it when my biases are reshaped -- forced to get wider; forced to be rethought; forced to admit their narrow contentments; forced to ... be bright and new and more interesting than the edges I had put on them.
Of course there's nothing wrong with being horny (where would any of us be without that?) or conceding we have some pretty interesting fantasies or getting drunk and then paying the price exacted by the Hangover God ... but the story offered a small reminder -- this was also about human beings who were exercising. Pole dancing certainly would spice up the Olympics if it ever gets that far.
And, as usual (yawn!), it made me think of spiritual life -- its easy pole-dancing assumptions, its visceral longings, its bright-light virtues, its rich fantasies, its delicious and serious arousals, its ornate venues and rituals that beckon and beckon from some well-lighted stage, its unrequited longings and finally, its ability to inspire something assured and bright ... enlightenment, love, peace, heaven ... or getting laid.
Start anywhere and don't stop -- that seems to be the best advisory life has to offer. But of course we do stop, we do snuggle down in our biases and faiths, we do figure we have a good bead on things ... and in all that self-defining effort, we still wonder why the brightness we yearn for seems to be just out of reach.
Stop anywhere and don't stop ... it sounds pretty bright to me.
.
After gaining relative consciousness this morning, I started hunting around for something interesting in my mind -- some spark that did not rely so much on past sparks but was freshly minted and bright. Before starting this entry, I searched the internet in vain for a story I heard on NPR radio some years ago about a couple who farmed pigs in (I think) Louisiana or Alabama. It was one of the most beautiful things I had ever heard, combining without ever mentioning them, an honest "Buddhism" and an honest "love." But that was in the past, even if I couldn't find it.
So I skimmed down the news, wondering vaguely how long anyone might give a damn about homosexuality in the military; wondering vaguely how long China, with its interest in an improving economy, could hold out against the 'dissidents' who were part and parcel of an internet that provided the information necessary to a swelling economy; wondering vaguely if the passage of a tax package that provides more money for the extremely wealthy and unemployment benefits for the extremely-stressed were ever really in doubt ... wondering vaguely, but not really finding the kind of bright spark that makes you smile with outrage or delight.
As close as I came was the Pole Dancing Championships in Tokyo -- something I had never heard of and, more interestingly, something that challenged my easy-peasy assumption that pole dancing was a slithering, raunchy turn-on for happily-plastered guys with and without tattoos ... not to mention a good way to pay college tuition.
I like it when my biases are reshaped -- forced to get wider; forced to be rethought; forced to admit their narrow contentments; forced to ... be bright and new and more interesting than the edges I had put on them.
Of course there's nothing wrong with being horny (where would any of us be without that?) or conceding we have some pretty interesting fantasies or getting drunk and then paying the price exacted by the Hangover God ... but the story offered a small reminder -- this was also about human beings who were exercising. Pole dancing certainly would spice up the Olympics if it ever gets that far.
And, as usual (yawn!), it made me think of spiritual life -- its easy pole-dancing assumptions, its visceral longings, its bright-light virtues, its rich fantasies, its delicious and serious arousals, its ornate venues and rituals that beckon and beckon from some well-lighted stage, its unrequited longings and finally, its ability to inspire something assured and bright ... enlightenment, love, peace, heaven ... or getting laid.
Start anywhere and don't stop -- that seems to be the best advisory life has to offer. But of course we do stop, we do snuggle down in our biases and faiths, we do figure we have a good bead on things ... and in all that self-defining effort, we still wonder why the brightness we yearn for seems to be just out of reach.
Stop anywhere and don't stop ... it sounds pretty bright to me.
.
Thursday, December 9, 2010
quips
.
Will Rogers' quips are like eating potato chips ... and, since I am fresh out of fresh thoughts, here are a few of his:
Will Rogers' quips are like eating potato chips ... and, since I am fresh out of fresh thoughts, here are a few of his:
tabula pretty-much rasa
.
Winter's chill has set its grip on this neck of the woods -- sharp, insistent, unremitting.
This morning I have little to offer outside an idle game of solitaire.
But the colder it gets, the cozier the wood stove becomes. It's sort of like having a big, fat cat that lies on your bare feet.
.
Winter's chill has set its grip on this neck of the woods -- sharp, insistent, unremitting.
This morning I have little to offer outside an idle game of solitaire.
But the colder it gets, the cozier the wood stove becomes. It's sort of like having a big, fat cat that lies on your bare feet.
.
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
unremitting goodness
.
When it came to inspiration, I'm not sure but what the fuck-ups in spiritual endeavor encouraged me more than the goodness of it all. True, I wanted to be good better or more peaceful or whatever, but the unremitting goodness of a Jesus never really made me feel that I was part of an honorable family. Goodness of that sort pointed out the disparities between me and the lauded one (another sort of inspiration), but it never made me feel at home in a warm, messy kitchen ... the kind of thing that really opened me up, offered me kinship and goaded me forward.
I used to love reading the tales of other Zen students who went about their lives, sometimes succeeding, sometimes failing, and yet expressing a constancy and determination in their practice. There was money and lust and anger and righteousness and kindness and passion and ... well, blood -- the same blood that flowed in my uncertain veins. Jesus never picked his nose and it was not enough for me that he might forgive me for picking mine. I wanted to be among those who knew the delights and disgust of their own nostril-invading adventure.
Milarepa really inspired me. The Tibetan sage was not always a sage. When he was a kid, his father died and his uncle snatched up the farm lands that more reasonably might have passed to Milarepa and his mother. They were left destitute ... and Milarepa was pissed. Mother and son eked out a living and as they did so, Milarepa saved a nickel here and a nickel there until he had enough money to go off an learn black magic. After his studies, he was returning home when he stopped at a farmhouse where a woman offered him warm milk and a bite to eat. Her kindness touched him -- touched him but not deter him. On his return home, he used his newly-acquired skills to create a horrific hail storm that blanketed all of the fields his uncle depended on for his wealth. The crops were killed. But in the midst of that hail storm, the small farm where Milarepa had been treated kindly remained unscathed. It was a delicious ego trip in my mind, something I could see in myself and relate to the joy of doing something, uhhh, naughty.
When circumstances sent Milarepa to study with Marpa, the elder Marpa recognized the ego-tripping Milarepa was capable of and put him through some very difficult hoops -- hoops designed to mitigate what had once been so delicious. I could get on board with the discipline not just because it might lead to a wider, more compassionate view but precisely because there was an acknowledgment of Milarepa's (and my) nose-picking capacities... and it wasn't just some beyond-it-all, down-the-nose smarmy forgiveness.
And perhaps, in Zen Buddhism, this is part of why a man like the monk Ikkyu was and remains attractive. Not much attention is paid to the severe training Ikkyu went through. What is remembered with delight is what appears to be his outside-the-law activities ... hanging out in whore houses and so forth. This, to onlookers, was a man capable of being more than just good. He was a mensch and a fellow worth traveling with.
Unremitting goodness has a kind of juvenile, plasticized appeal. But as Ta Hui once observed more or less, "too much virtue makes people crazy." Nobody wants to go insane when engaging in spiritual endeavor. What they hope for is to go sane. And an honest sanity requires an investigation of the boogers any of us might need to dig out. Yes, we can all be guilty of too much goodness -- and then hit the brick walls of reality, assuming we're lucky -- but unremitting goodness is just another booger, something worth picking out as a means of breathing freely.
.
When it came to inspiration, I'm not sure but what the fuck-ups in spiritual endeavor encouraged me more than the goodness of it all. True, I wanted to be good better or more peaceful or whatever, but the unremitting goodness of a Jesus never really made me feel that I was part of an honorable family. Goodness of that sort pointed out the disparities between me and the lauded one (another sort of inspiration), but it never made me feel at home in a warm, messy kitchen ... the kind of thing that really opened me up, offered me kinship and goaded me forward.
I used to love reading the tales of other Zen students who went about their lives, sometimes succeeding, sometimes failing, and yet expressing a constancy and determination in their practice. There was money and lust and anger and righteousness and kindness and passion and ... well, blood -- the same blood that flowed in my uncertain veins. Jesus never picked his nose and it was not enough for me that he might forgive me for picking mine. I wanted to be among those who knew the delights and disgust of their own nostril-invading adventure.
Milarepa really inspired me. The Tibetan sage was not always a sage. When he was a kid, his father died and his uncle snatched up the farm lands that more reasonably might have passed to Milarepa and his mother. They were left destitute ... and Milarepa was pissed. Mother and son eked out a living and as they did so, Milarepa saved a nickel here and a nickel there until he had enough money to go off an learn black magic. After his studies, he was returning home when he stopped at a farmhouse where a woman offered him warm milk and a bite to eat. Her kindness touched him -- touched him but not deter him. On his return home, he used his newly-acquired skills to create a horrific hail storm that blanketed all of the fields his uncle depended on for his wealth. The crops were killed. But in the midst of that hail storm, the small farm where Milarepa had been treated kindly remained unscathed. It was a delicious ego trip in my mind, something I could see in myself and relate to the joy of doing something, uhhh, naughty.
When circumstances sent Milarepa to study with Marpa, the elder Marpa recognized the ego-tripping Milarepa was capable of and put him through some very difficult hoops -- hoops designed to mitigate what had once been so delicious. I could get on board with the discipline not just because it might lead to a wider, more compassionate view but precisely because there was an acknowledgment of Milarepa's (and my) nose-picking capacities... and it wasn't just some beyond-it-all, down-the-nose smarmy forgiveness.
And perhaps, in Zen Buddhism, this is part of why a man like the monk Ikkyu was and remains attractive. Not much attention is paid to the severe training Ikkyu went through. What is remembered with delight is what appears to be his outside-the-law activities ... hanging out in whore houses and so forth. This, to onlookers, was a man capable of being more than just good. He was a mensch and a fellow worth traveling with.
Unremitting goodness has a kind of juvenile, plasticized appeal. But as Ta Hui once observed more or less, "too much virtue makes people crazy." Nobody wants to go insane when engaging in spiritual endeavor. What they hope for is to go sane. And an honest sanity requires an investigation of the boogers any of us might need to dig out. Yes, we can all be guilty of too much goodness -- and then hit the brick walls of reality, assuming we're lucky -- but unremitting goodness is just another booger, something worth picking out as a means of breathing freely.
.
unrepentant
.
At 5:30 a.m., out beyond the street lamp and its bluish haze and between the wires that hung from the lamp pole, the morning star was literally blazing this morning. Like some immodest prop in a high school play, the star seemed somehow too fat, too bright, too loud, too much. And yet there it was, clear as a bell.
Nearby, but lower in the sky, a smattering of clouds picked up the pink and white of nearby city illumination. I imagine if I had stood in the cold of the porch, the clouds might have blocked out or blurred the star, but for a few moments of looking, they were still and the star was unapologetic. "Lookit me!" it offered without caring if anyone looked or not. It was like walking on some sidewalk to meet a friend for coffee and seeing that friend from a distance ... the two of you looking and recognizing and filling up with friendship and ... smiling.
Some Buddhist schools celebrate the anniversary of Gautama's realization today. The school I grew up in does that. The tale has it that Gautama, after much effort that proved unavailing, sat down under a tree one night and vowed not to rise until he actualized the enlightenment he sought. And with the rising of the morning star, he did just that and neither star nor man had cause for regret.
Today is the last day of Rohatsu sesshin, an intense eight-day Zen retreat that comes once a year. Participants rise from their seats after so much effort and return home, having expressed their determination and yet strangely unable to say what, precisely, has just happened. It is worth a smile, perhaps.
In New York City, this morning, a small rally was scheduled outside of the Zen temple Sho Bo Ji. The rally was organized as a means of pointing out the sexual and financial depredations of Eido Tai Shimano, a man who has acted as a Zen teacher for 50 years. He wounded many and made no open apology. He too has been unrepentant and yet, if I had to guess, he failed to greet his true friends with a smile. All that effort beneath the tree and no smile to show for it. It's a profound pity that none of us needs to duplicate.
A bright, saucy and unrepentant star.
A good friend.
A warm smile.
.
At 5:30 a.m., out beyond the street lamp and its bluish haze and between the wires that hung from the lamp pole, the morning star was literally blazing this morning. Like some immodest prop in a high school play, the star seemed somehow too fat, too bright, too loud, too much. And yet there it was, clear as a bell.
Nearby, but lower in the sky, a smattering of clouds picked up the pink and white of nearby city illumination. I imagine if I had stood in the cold of the porch, the clouds might have blocked out or blurred the star, but for a few moments of looking, they were still and the star was unapologetic. "Lookit me!" it offered without caring if anyone looked or not. It was like walking on some sidewalk to meet a friend for coffee and seeing that friend from a distance ... the two of you looking and recognizing and filling up with friendship and ... smiling.
Some Buddhist schools celebrate the anniversary of Gautama's realization today. The school I grew up in does that. The tale has it that Gautama, after much effort that proved unavailing, sat down under a tree one night and vowed not to rise until he actualized the enlightenment he sought. And with the rising of the morning star, he did just that and neither star nor man had cause for regret.
Today is the last day of Rohatsu sesshin, an intense eight-day Zen retreat that comes once a year. Participants rise from their seats after so much effort and return home, having expressed their determination and yet strangely unable to say what, precisely, has just happened. It is worth a smile, perhaps.
In New York City, this morning, a small rally was scheduled outside of the Zen temple Sho Bo Ji. The rally was organized as a means of pointing out the sexual and financial depredations of Eido Tai Shimano, a man who has acted as a Zen teacher for 50 years. He wounded many and made no open apology. He too has been unrepentant and yet, if I had to guess, he failed to greet his true friends with a smile. All that effort beneath the tree and no smile to show for it. It's a profound pity that none of us needs to duplicate.
A bright, saucy and unrepentant star.
A good friend.
A warm smile.
.
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
advice worth heeding
.
Received in email:
Received in email:
Not A Joke!! Even If you dislike attorneys..You will love them for
these tips.
Read this and make a copy for your files in case you need to refer to
it someday. Maybe we should all take some of his advice! A corporate
attorney sent the following out to the employees in his company:
1. Do not sign the back of your credit cards. Instead, put ' Second
form of ID required. '
2. When you are writing checks to pay on your credit card accounts,
DO NOT put the complete account number on the ' For ' line. Instead,
just put the last four numbers. The credit card company knows the rest
of the number, and anyone who might be handling your check as it passes
through all the check processing channels won ' t have access to it.
3. Put your work phone # on your checks instead of your home phone. If
you have a PO Box use that instead of your home address. If you do no
t have a PO Box, use your work address. Never have your SS# printed on
your checks. (DUH!) You can add it if it is necessary. But if you have
It printed, anyone can get it.
4. Place the contents of your wallet on a photocopy machine. Do both
sides of each license, credit card, etc.. You will know what you had in
your wallet and all of the account numbers and phone numbers to call
and cancel.. Keep the photocopy in a safe place.
I also carry a photocopy of my passport when I travel either here or
abroad. We ' ve all heard horror stories about fraud that ' s committed on
us in stealing a Name, address, Social Security number, credit cards..
Unfortunately, I, an attorney, have first hand knowledge because my
wallet was stolen last month. Within a week, the thieves ordered an
expensive monthly cell phone package, applied for a VISA credit card,
had a credit line approved to buy a Gateway computer, received a PIN
number from DMV to change my driving record information online, and
more.
But here ' s some critical information to limit the damage in case this
happens to you or someone you know:
5. We have been told we should cancel our credit cardsimmediately.
But the key is having the toll free numbers and your card numbers handy
so you know whom to call. Keep those where you can find them.
6.. File a police report immediately in the jurisdiction where your
credit cards, etc., were stolen. This proves to credit providers you
were diligent, and this is a first step toward an investigation (if
there ever is one).
But here ' s what is perhaps most important of all: (I never even
thought to do this.)
7. Call the 3 national credit reporting organizations immediately to
place a fraud alert on your name and also call the Social Security
fraud line number.. I had never heard of doing that until advised by a
bank that called to tell me an application for credit was made over the
Internet in my name.
The alert means any company that checks your credit knows your
information was stolen, and they have to contact you by phone to
authorize new credit..
By the time I was advised to do this, almost two weeks after the theft,
all the damage had been done. There are records of all the credit
checks initiated by the thieves ' purchases, none of which I knew about
before placing the alert. Since then, no additional damage has be en
done, and the thieves threw my wallet away this weekend (someone turned
it in).. It seems to have stopped them dead in their tracks..
Now, here are the numbers you always need to contact about your wallet,
if it has been stolen:
1.) Equifax: 1-800-525-6285
2.) Experian (formerly TRW): 1-888-397-3742
3.) Trans Union : 1-800-680 7289
4.) Social Security Administration (fraud line):
1-800-269-0271
We pass along jokes on the Internet; we pass along just about
everything.
If you are willing to pass this information along, it could really help
someone that you care about..
the important stuff
.
I called my mother on the phone today. At 94, her hearing is going and she sleeps a lot and when we are on the phone together, I can feel her knowing that once she had a crisp tongue to wrap around crisp thoughts. Nowadays she is befuddled that she is befuddled. "Shit!" she said once or twice. And I can feel her dwindlings creeping up in my life as well. Yes, it is possible to think and enunciate and make nice, but the energy required seems just out of reach.
Once I went to a Vedanta temple to hear a very old teacher deliver a talk. He had walked and talked with people I revered only on the page of one book or another. But he was old now and his energies were banked. He got stuck as he read the pages he had written out for his talk. Again and again he read the same lines. Then he would look up at the audience and then back down at the page ... and read the same thing again. He did not say, "shit!"
And yet somehow it was OK. It was just the passing of time. The connection and affection were no less just because the sinews and muscle of mind had grown weak. The words might have been nice, but they were not the important part. Words were just the part that had once been imbued with importance. Now the important part was front and center. He, like my mother, might have said "banana, banana, banana, banana, banana, banana, banana, banana, banana ..." and still the important part would not have been missing.
Finally, because I did not want my mother to feel uncomfortable in her inabilities, I said, "I love you," and she echoed the sentiment and we both pretended that the words summed up what was important. They didn't, but sometimes bananas is all you've got.
.
I called my mother on the phone today. At 94, her hearing is going and she sleeps a lot and when we are on the phone together, I can feel her knowing that once she had a crisp tongue to wrap around crisp thoughts. Nowadays she is befuddled that she is befuddled. "Shit!" she said once or twice. And I can feel her dwindlings creeping up in my life as well. Yes, it is possible to think and enunciate and make nice, but the energy required seems just out of reach.
Once I went to a Vedanta temple to hear a very old teacher deliver a talk. He had walked and talked with people I revered only on the page of one book or another. But he was old now and his energies were banked. He got stuck as he read the pages he had written out for his talk. Again and again he read the same lines. Then he would look up at the audience and then back down at the page ... and read the same thing again. He did not say, "shit!"
And yet somehow it was OK. It was just the passing of time. The connection and affection were no less just because the sinews and muscle of mind had grown weak. The words might have been nice, but they were not the important part. Words were just the part that had once been imbued with importance. Now the important part was front and center. He, like my mother, might have said "banana, banana, banana, banana, banana, banana, banana, banana, banana ..." and still the important part would not have been missing.
Finally, because I did not want my mother to feel uncomfortable in her inabilities, I said, "I love you," and she echoed the sentiment and we both pretended that the words summed up what was important. They didn't, but sometimes bananas is all you've got.
.
this moment
.
Siddhartha Gautama left the palace.
Jesus walked into the desert.
How in heaven's name could you be any different?
Seriously!
.
Siddhartha Gautama left the palace.
Jesus walked into the desert.
How in heaven's name could you be any different?
Seriously!
.
party time
.
As if by stealth, snowflakes fall from the sky. There are so few, you might almost imagine they were shy or tiptoeing or uncertain of their way when there are no others to support their course.
I blink my eyes. Perhaps what I am seeing in ones and twos is nothing more than small pieces of litter blowing down the street. Or perhaps there is something in my eye creating what is not snow at all. I have to focus and pay attention before I am content to say, "It's snow."
Somehow I want to console these lonely arbiters of winter. "Don't worry. Your friends will be along shortly."
Party time!
.
As if by stealth, snowflakes fall from the sky. There are so few, you might almost imagine they were shy or tiptoeing or uncertain of their way when there are no others to support their course.
I blink my eyes. Perhaps what I am seeing in ones and twos is nothing more than small pieces of litter blowing down the street. Or perhaps there is something in my eye creating what is not snow at all. I have to focus and pay attention before I am content to say, "It's snow."
Somehow I want to console these lonely arbiters of winter. "Don't worry. Your friends will be along shortly."
Party time!
.
another confused entry
.
Reading a continuing discussion of inka -- defined by Wikipedia as literally meaning "the legitimate seal of clearly furnished proof." -- I wonder again about teachers near and far. Inka is a Buddhist approval from teacher to student. I have no doubt that there are infinite and mysterious meanings that can be heaped on inka, but I am too old and tired to care much. When I look around, and, I imagine, when anyone else looks around, well ... what is the scenery really like?
My own teacher, Kyudo Nakagawa Roshi, had no Dharma offspring, no students on whom he bestowed official approval. I don't actually know enough to know whether this was a good thing or not, but to tell the truth, I imagine he was right on target and I am strangely delighted. Kyudo once said to me, "Except for me, everything is the teacher." I am afraid that he was telling the truth -- the kind of truth most would prefer not to hear, let alone act on.
Of course there are thousands who can take up Kyudo's words and make glowing Dharma talks based on those words. But where the rubber hits the road ... where the rubber hits the road, such talks stray from the point, stray from the truth, stray from anything that might feel like or actualize peace.
Tentatively, there is a need for inka. There is a need for validation. There is a need for teachers and schools and rituals and texts and formidable leadership. No shit -- there really is a need. So it isn't really enough to hear words like, "except for me everything is the teacher;" it's not enough to bloviate, as with this blog entry; it's not enough to know ... it is only enough to embrace the need and see it through to its conclusion.
I am grateful that my teacher had no Dharma heirs ... more grateful than I can say. But just because he had none doesn't mean there's something wrong with Dharma heirs. They may be pretty good teachers in a world where teachers lend a hand. Pretty good teachers and pretty good teachers in the sense that they are full of shit.
Suffering and uncertainty are not some philosophical Tinker Toy. People are often wracked and wrung out by their difficulties and delights. If inka is what it takes to point out a more sane and peaceful direction, well, bring on the inka, bring on the texts, bring on the temples, bring on the mysteries, bring on the 'deeeeep meanings.' Gautama once held out a clenched fist to a weeping child. He pretended there was gold within his fist and the child was so taken with the gold that s/he stopped weeping. After s/he stopped weeping, Gautama opened his fist and revealed ... nothing ... a nothing that was clearly not exactly nothing.
I chose and choose my teachers much as you choose and chose yours. Of course there was a period of wild applause, of adamant adherence, of solemnity in search of seriousness. I look back with some gratitude that I did not do more harm than I did and with some regret that I did as much harm as I did.
The best I can figure it is this: Pick the teachers you need. Do your best not to imagine anyone else needs your teachers. Work hard. Do not try to escape from anything. And then, with time and hard work, sleep well and wake up in the morning rested.
As Suzuki Roshi once put it, "It is enough to be alive."
PS. Since, by some reckonings, tomorrow marks the day on which Gautama actualized his enlightenment, here is a not-bad description of his adventures.
.
Reading a continuing discussion of inka -- defined by Wikipedia as literally meaning "the legitimate seal of clearly furnished proof." -- I wonder again about teachers near and far. Inka is a Buddhist approval from teacher to student. I have no doubt that there are infinite and mysterious meanings that can be heaped on inka, but I am too old and tired to care much. When I look around, and, I imagine, when anyone else looks around, well ... what is the scenery really like?
My own teacher, Kyudo Nakagawa Roshi, had no Dharma offspring, no students on whom he bestowed official approval. I don't actually know enough to know whether this was a good thing or not, but to tell the truth, I imagine he was right on target and I am strangely delighted. Kyudo once said to me, "Except for me, everything is the teacher." I am afraid that he was telling the truth -- the kind of truth most would prefer not to hear, let alone act on.
Of course there are thousands who can take up Kyudo's words and make glowing Dharma talks based on those words. But where the rubber hits the road ... where the rubber hits the road, such talks stray from the point, stray from the truth, stray from anything that might feel like or actualize peace.
Tentatively, there is a need for inka. There is a need for validation. There is a need for teachers and schools and rituals and texts and formidable leadership. No shit -- there really is a need. So it isn't really enough to hear words like, "except for me everything is the teacher;" it's not enough to bloviate, as with this blog entry; it's not enough to know ... it is only enough to embrace the need and see it through to its conclusion.
I am grateful that my teacher had no Dharma heirs ... more grateful than I can say. But just because he had none doesn't mean there's something wrong with Dharma heirs. They may be pretty good teachers in a world where teachers lend a hand. Pretty good teachers and pretty good teachers in the sense that they are full of shit.
Suffering and uncertainty are not some philosophical Tinker Toy. People are often wracked and wrung out by their difficulties and delights. If inka is what it takes to point out a more sane and peaceful direction, well, bring on the inka, bring on the texts, bring on the temples, bring on the mysteries, bring on the 'deeeeep meanings.' Gautama once held out a clenched fist to a weeping child. He pretended there was gold within his fist and the child was so taken with the gold that s/he stopped weeping. After s/he stopped weeping, Gautama opened his fist and revealed ... nothing ... a nothing that was clearly not exactly nothing.
I chose and choose my teachers much as you choose and chose yours. Of course there was a period of wild applause, of adamant adherence, of solemnity in search of seriousness. I look back with some gratitude that I did not do more harm than I did and with some regret that I did as much harm as I did.
The best I can figure it is this: Pick the teachers you need. Do your best not to imagine anyone else needs your teachers. Work hard. Do not try to escape from anything. And then, with time and hard work, sleep well and wake up in the morning rested.
As Suzuki Roshi once put it, "It is enough to be alive."
PS. Since, by some reckonings, tomorrow marks the day on which Gautama actualized his enlightenment, here is a not-bad description of his adventures.
.
Monday, December 6, 2010
what about this?
.
Sometimes I marvel at the ability of the human mind to edit its surroundings, squeezing wide panoramas of events or people into convenient bite-sized bits.
Yesterday, Dennis came by for a visit and a small investigation of Buddhism and its uses. In the course of our conversation, he told me a variety of things about himself, things that were all of a piece for him, but which, for me, were as fragmented as they were compelling. There was adoption, there was a Catholic upbringing, there was child molestation, there was the Marines, there was martial arts, there was a gathering fear of death, there was an interest in martial arts and a similar interest in tea, there were his wife and children, and ... well, there were a lot of other personal and compelling facts he detailed without a lot of hand-wringing. He wanted a little more peace and tranquility in his life and Buddhism seemed to him to be worth investigating on behalf of that peace.
What a wide and rich panorama -- a panorama so wide, in fact, that my mental reactions and collations could hardly do more than limit them. Isn't it funny how we may complain about a sound-bite approach to life (tweeting and face-booking, blogging, etc.) and yet our minds, no matter how expansive and caring we may try to make them, does precisely the same thing. We limit because, we whine, "I can't know everything about everything." And then, having created our sound bites, we proceed to hold them fast as if they were true. "Sally is the pretty one over there" or "Harry works for a bank" or "Steve is a Republican" or "Harriet is a Buddhist." If we stopped to examine what we claimed to examine, our opinions and judgments would be thrown into disarray or lose their savor ... and without my opinions and judgments, how could I know who I am?
But a little at a time, with examination, my opinions and judgments seem to pale. Life is just plain more interesting than the cookie cutter I apply to it ... it's wider and less open to an understanding based on my cookie cutter, my sound bites, my tweets. Life declines my arm-lock invitations to "good" and "bad," "happy" and "sad," "loving" or "angry," "tall" or "short," "holy" or "heinous."
With my definitions withering, what then is left? If everything intersects with everything else, if everything infuses everything else, who the hell am I?
And the only answer I can come up with that makes much sense is, "Well, there is this!"
.
Sometimes I marvel at the ability of the human mind to edit its surroundings, squeezing wide panoramas of events or people into convenient bite-sized bits.
Yesterday, Dennis came by for a visit and a small investigation of Buddhism and its uses. In the course of our conversation, he told me a variety of things about himself, things that were all of a piece for him, but which, for me, were as fragmented as they were compelling. There was adoption, there was a Catholic upbringing, there was child molestation, there was the Marines, there was martial arts, there was a gathering fear of death, there was an interest in martial arts and a similar interest in tea, there were his wife and children, and ... well, there were a lot of other personal and compelling facts he detailed without a lot of hand-wringing. He wanted a little more peace and tranquility in his life and Buddhism seemed to him to be worth investigating on behalf of that peace.
What a wide and rich panorama -- a panorama so wide, in fact, that my mental reactions and collations could hardly do more than limit them. Isn't it funny how we may complain about a sound-bite approach to life (tweeting and face-booking, blogging, etc.) and yet our minds, no matter how expansive and caring we may try to make them, does precisely the same thing. We limit because, we whine, "I can't know everything about everything." And then, having created our sound bites, we proceed to hold them fast as if they were true. "Sally is the pretty one over there" or "Harry works for a bank" or "Steve is a Republican" or "Harriet is a Buddhist." If we stopped to examine what we claimed to examine, our opinions and judgments would be thrown into disarray or lose their savor ... and without my opinions and judgments, how could I know who I am?
But a little at a time, with examination, my opinions and judgments seem to pale. Life is just plain more interesting than the cookie cutter I apply to it ... it's wider and less open to an understanding based on my cookie cutter, my sound bites, my tweets. Life declines my arm-lock invitations to "good" and "bad," "happy" and "sad," "loving" or "angry," "tall" or "short," "holy" or "heinous."
With my definitions withering, what then is left? If everything intersects with everything else, if everything infuses everything else, who the hell am I?
And the only answer I can come up with that makes much sense is, "Well, there is this!"
.
Sunday, December 5, 2010
rally at Zen Studies Society
.
As noted elsewhere on this blog, "Wednesday morning is the 8th of December, and the sun will rise in Manhattan (theoretically) at 7:07 A.M. Those who wish to be on the sidewalk at the Zen Studies Society at 223 East 67th Street will be welcome." The rally hopes to draw attention to the sexual and financial depredations of Eido Tai Shimano.
Dec.8, by some reckonings, marks the day on which Gautama Buddha attained enlightenment. It will also mark the day on which Mr. Shimano will allegedly retire after 50 years of teaching in the U.S.A.
During that time, Mr. Shimano received much membership help in constructing and maintaining Sho Bo Ji, a New York City Zen temple, and Dai Bosatsu Zendo in upstate New York. During those same 50 years, he was also responsible for sowing confusion and sadness and pain within the same sanghas that created the zendos Mr. Shimano led as abbot.
His sexual manipulations of students were brazen enough so that even The New York Times took a somewhat timid interest. They also led, largely through the efforts of Robert Aitken Roshi and the Rev. Kobutsu Malone, to the creation of the Shimano Archive, an extensive collection of documents detailing painful circumstances to which Mr. Shimano has never seen fit to respond directly and honestly.
Wednesday's rally aims to underscore the desire to redress the unethical wrongs of 50 years and to remove (as suggested by the Faith Trust Institute***) any connection between Mr. Shimano and the two Zen centers he has led. The suffering Mr. Shimano sowed may never be repaired, but those rallying hope to emphasize the fact that there is no need to prolong or repeat them.
PS. This entry is an announcement with what I hope is relatively fair background. It is not an invitation to open yet another Eido Tai Shimano laundry list ... a thread which already exists here.
*** Recommendations were made by the Faith Trust Institute to Zen Studies Society in a Sept. 2, 2010, confidential memo that was later read at a sangha meeting. FTI is "a national, multifaith, multicultural training and education organization with global reach working to end sexual and domestic violence." FTI is an independent organization that is not connected to Zen Studies Society. The recommendations were:
.
As noted elsewhere on this blog, "Wednesday morning is the 8th of December, and the sun will rise in Manhattan (theoretically) at 7:07 A.M. Those who wish to be on the sidewalk at the Zen Studies Society at 223 East 67th Street will be welcome." The rally hopes to draw attention to the sexual and financial depredations of Eido Tai Shimano.
Dec.8, by some reckonings, marks the day on which Gautama Buddha attained enlightenment. It will also mark the day on which Mr. Shimano will allegedly retire after 50 years of teaching in the U.S.A.
During that time, Mr. Shimano received much membership help in constructing and maintaining Sho Bo Ji, a New York City Zen temple, and Dai Bosatsu Zendo in upstate New York. During those same 50 years, he was also responsible for sowing confusion and sadness and pain within the same sanghas that created the zendos Mr. Shimano led as abbot.
His sexual manipulations of students were brazen enough so that even The New York Times took a somewhat timid interest. They also led, largely through the efforts of Robert Aitken Roshi and the Rev. Kobutsu Malone, to the creation of the Shimano Archive, an extensive collection of documents detailing painful circumstances to which Mr. Shimano has never seen fit to respond directly and honestly.
Wednesday's rally aims to underscore the desire to redress the unethical wrongs of 50 years and to remove (as suggested by the Faith Trust Institute***) any connection between Mr. Shimano and the two Zen centers he has led. The suffering Mr. Shimano sowed may never be repaired, but those rallying hope to emphasize the fact that there is no need to prolong or repeat them.
PS. This entry is an announcement with what I hope is relatively fair background. It is not an invitation to open yet another Eido Tai Shimano laundry list ... a thread which already exists here.
*** Recommendations were made by the Faith Trust Institute to Zen Studies Society in a Sept. 2, 2010, confidential memo that was later read at a sangha meeting. FTI is "a national, multifaith, multicultural training and education organization with global reach working to end sexual and domestic violence." FTI is an independent organization that is not connected to Zen Studies Society. The recommendations were:
Eido Shimano must end his tenure as Abbot as soon as possible. As long as he remains in this role or in any other official capacity, the integrity of ZSS is compromised.· If there are students who wish to continue to study with Eido, they may do so on their own but not under the auspices of ZSS.· Eido Shimano should make a full public apology acknowledging his misconduct and his regret for harm done to ZSS.· Conduct a formal financial audit for the organization. Issue a summary audit report available to the Sangha members.· Consult with your Zen colleagues who have gone through major restructuring to address misconduct issues, e.g. ZCLA, to help with by-laws revisions and restructuring.· Read Marilyn R. Peterson’s At Personal Risk: Boundary Violations in Professional-Client Relationships.
.
meaningful and meaningless
.
"Meaningful" just means "me."
"Meaningless" just means "me."
If there is no willingness to examine this "me," things just go on being meaningful and meaningless and how meaningful could that actually be?
.
"Meaningful" just means "me."
"Meaningless" just means "me."
If there is no willingness to examine this "me," things just go on being meaningful and meaningless and how meaningful could that actually be?
.
chilly morning
.
It's 24 degrees Fahrenheit just now and I'm afraid that despite the electric radiator I turned on in the zendo last night, still there will be a nip in the air when doing zazen later. A woman who said she would let me know that she planned to come for sitting this morning has not let me know, so she won't have to shiver and wonder if Zen students have to freeze in the process.
Later in the day, a fellow has said he would come around to snoop the Buddhist terrain -- look at the zendo and perhaps we will grab a bite to eat. I'm not sure what sort of Buddhism he is after, but I guess I will find out. Or perhaps he too will not show up.
Funny how what was so earnest at the beginning -- as when making a date for example -- dwindles or shape-shifts in importance as time passes and what you said you would do is no longer something you are willing to do ... so, just forget about it despite what you said. I don't mind when people don't show up here as they suggested they would, but I wonder if they mind ... if they haven't let themselves down ... again.
Make a promise, keep a promise. And if you don't keep a promise, then be clear about it: I choose not to keep this promise. Don't be lazy and inattentive. Pay attention ... it works out better in the end.
.
It's 24 degrees Fahrenheit just now and I'm afraid that despite the electric radiator I turned on in the zendo last night, still there will be a nip in the air when doing zazen later. A woman who said she would let me know that she planned to come for sitting this morning has not let me know, so she won't have to shiver and wonder if Zen students have to freeze in the process.
Later in the day, a fellow has said he would come around to snoop the Buddhist terrain -- look at the zendo and perhaps we will grab a bite to eat. I'm not sure what sort of Buddhism he is after, but I guess I will find out. Or perhaps he too will not show up.
Funny how what was so earnest at the beginning -- as when making a date for example -- dwindles or shape-shifts in importance as time passes and what you said you would do is no longer something you are willing to do ... so, just forget about it despite what you said. I don't mind when people don't show up here as they suggested they would, but I wonder if they mind ... if they haven't let themselves down ... again.
Make a promise, keep a promise. And if you don't keep a promise, then be clear about it: I choose not to keep this promise. Don't be lazy and inattentive. Pay attention ... it works out better in the end.
.
Saturday, December 4, 2010
the empty space
.
What was a 150-year-old maple, a tired and rotting maple, between this property and the next is now no more. The copious leaves it dropped in fall, the shade it provided in winter, the bits and chunks and branches that fell off as it rotted from within, the tender greenery with which it greeted the springtime sun ... gone.
I had talked to my neighbor on whose property it stood, told him I was afraid of the expenses that might arise if one of those branches landed on a car here. And he heard me, but seemed not to be worried about it much ... sort of like a person who issues soothing words and then, because it's not really his problem, neglects to do anything. Tough-shit for you.
But then, today, several large trucks, one bearing a cherry-picker, and three young men in hard hats showed up and took it down. Now, where it once stood, there is what seems like an immense amount of light and space. I can't stop looking at it even though there is no 'it' to look at. I feel as if I had had a wisdom tooth removed and my tongue just couldn't stop feeling the emptiness that was once full.
I had wanted the tree to go and was glad the dangers I imagined it posed were no more ... BUT ... something was missing and as with all things missing, I missed it.
.
What was a 150-year-old maple, a tired and rotting maple, between this property and the next is now no more. The copious leaves it dropped in fall, the shade it provided in winter, the bits and chunks and branches that fell off as it rotted from within, the tender greenery with which it greeted the springtime sun ... gone.
I had talked to my neighbor on whose property it stood, told him I was afraid of the expenses that might arise if one of those branches landed on a car here. And he heard me, but seemed not to be worried about it much ... sort of like a person who issues soothing words and then, because it's not really his problem, neglects to do anything. Tough-shit for you.
But then, today, several large trucks, one bearing a cherry-picker, and three young men in hard hats showed up and took it down. Now, where it once stood, there is what seems like an immense amount of light and space. I can't stop looking at it even though there is no 'it' to look at. I feel as if I had had a wisdom tooth removed and my tongue just couldn't stop feeling the emptiness that was once full.
I had wanted the tree to go and was glad the dangers I imagined it posed were no more ... BUT ... something was missing and as with all things missing, I missed it.
.
Rohatsu
.
It's Dec. 4, more or less the halfway point in Rohatsu sesshin for some. Rohatsu is an intensive retreat that Zen Buddhists take part in ... or don't. The last day of Rohatsu is said to mark the day on which Gautama Buddha saw the morning star and was enlightened or opened up or got things straight ... or as the kids would say, "what-EVER!"
Some say Gautama's recognition or actualization came on Dec. 8. Some choose other days of the year.
I am grateful to those who make this intense effort. I don't have the energy for intense efforts any more, but I can be grateful.
Today, the morning star was bright against the dark skies.
It can't be helped.
It's Dec. 4, more or less the halfway point in Rohatsu sesshin for some. Rohatsu is an intensive retreat that Zen Buddhists take part in ... or don't. The last day of Rohatsu is said to mark the day on which Gautama Buddha saw the morning star and was enlightened or opened up or got things straight ... or as the kids would say, "what-EVER!"
Some say Gautama's recognition or actualization came on Dec. 8. Some choose other days of the year.
I am grateful to those who make this intense effort. I don't have the energy for intense efforts any more, but I can be grateful.
Today, the morning star was bright against the dark skies.
It can't be helped.
solutions
.
Spain has declared a "state of alarm" because air traffic controllers walked out and erased air traffic over the country. Hundreds of thousands were affected in a country whose economy is already teetering. South Korea is rattling its sabre and threatening military action against North Korea, a country whose recent provocations against the south lend weight to the view that the north is so impoverished and so fearful of losing cohesion that inciting military incidents -- and raising the patriotic fervor of its residents -- is the best it can think of when it comes to maintaining stability. Greece is seeing demonstrators in the streets after implementing austerity measures that Ireland, England, and even the U.S. will probably be forced to mimic in some way. During the Great Depression, U.S. President Franklin Delano Roosevelt once commented that he was somewhat surprised that those who were so affected and so desperate did not rise up. I once read an article that said the U.S. has contingency plans for any mass uprising.
And the disquiet is not just among nations. Here at this computer screen, I receive notes of anxiety, uncertainty and sorrow from living, breathing human beings. Since I am not beyond such things myself, how could I not feel the sadness? It is wracking. It is barbaric. It is defeating. It is enraging.
Everyone wants a solution. Everyone wants an escape.
But there comes a time, I think, to surrender all notions of solution or escape. Intellectually, such a surrender is offensive and somehow contrary to all upbringing. It is depressing. It is defeatist. No! No! And again, no! But without such a surrender, how could anyone find the firmer ground that beckons ... the actual-factual, never-mind-the-fairy-tales firmer ground? Elevating happiness or despair don't work ... now what?
I don't have an answer or solution or escape route.
But there is this ... this moment, this breath, this sunshine.
Does it solve the problems? Nope ... and still there is this.
.
Spain has declared a "state of alarm" because air traffic controllers walked out and erased air traffic over the country. Hundreds of thousands were affected in a country whose economy is already teetering. South Korea is rattling its sabre and threatening military action against North Korea, a country whose recent provocations against the south lend weight to the view that the north is so impoverished and so fearful of losing cohesion that inciting military incidents -- and raising the patriotic fervor of its residents -- is the best it can think of when it comes to maintaining stability. Greece is seeing demonstrators in the streets after implementing austerity measures that Ireland, England, and even the U.S. will probably be forced to mimic in some way. During the Great Depression, U.S. President Franklin Delano Roosevelt once commented that he was somewhat surprised that those who were so affected and so desperate did not rise up. I once read an article that said the U.S. has contingency plans for any mass uprising.
And the disquiet is not just among nations. Here at this computer screen, I receive notes of anxiety, uncertainty and sorrow from living, breathing human beings. Since I am not beyond such things myself, how could I not feel the sadness? It is wracking. It is barbaric. It is defeating. It is enraging.
Everyone wants a solution. Everyone wants an escape.
But there comes a time, I think, to surrender all notions of solution or escape. Intellectually, such a surrender is offensive and somehow contrary to all upbringing. It is depressing. It is defeatist. No! No! And again, no! But without such a surrender, how could anyone find the firmer ground that beckons ... the actual-factual, never-mind-the-fairy-tales firmer ground? Elevating happiness or despair don't work ... now what?
I don't have an answer or solution or escape route.
But there is this ... this moment, this breath, this sunshine.
Does it solve the problems? Nope ... and still there is this.
.
Friday, December 3, 2010
higher philosophies
.
A "higher philosophy" was a phrase used in a local letter-to-the-editor that appeared in the paper this morning in the course of arguing for "inclusion" in local schools. "Inclusion" means folding those with special needs into classes with those who are judged not to have special needs.
A higher philosophy. A kinder heart. A human decency. Who could argue with such a higher philosophy? And yet the argument put a fire under my behind and encouraged me to write my own letter to the editor questioning the argument for inclusion as made.
Higher philosophies are very nice things. They inspire effort and determination ... and sometimes a lot of sweet talk. But I think it is worth saying that higher philosophies, when unexamined, can create some awful idiocy and some widespread sorrow. The higher philosophy of Christianity brought with it the Crusades. The higher philosophy of national security brought with it an unsubstantiated war in Iraq and another in Afghanistan. The higher philosophy of abortion is often loath to concede the particulars of the operation or the psychological impact on the pregnant woman. And the higher philosophy of inclusion in the schools too often closets the impact on teachers (who might otherwise be teaching) and other students.
None of these observations is to suggest that a higher philosophy should necessarily be tossed out as unworthy. And we could all drink a lot of beer when discussing the social-impact particulars of a given higher philosophy.
But what interests me is how willing individuals might be to examine up-close-and-personal their own higher philosophies. Examining does not mean turning into some intellectual nitwit and tearing down everything that does not comply with logic. Examining just means that if you follow one course of action, that course of action is likely to have unintended consequences and the fine print of actuality may not shine so warmly as the presentation of a higher philosophy. It's better not to lie about such things. A higher philosophy may indeed be worth following, but denying responsibility for or awareness of the less-glowing effects is likely to mean the higher philosophy itself will be demeaned. This is not just cowardly. It's also stupid.
As I say, the social ramifications can be discussed from now until the cows come home.
But the personal ramifications are something individuals would be well-advised to examine closely.
End of rant.
.
A "higher philosophy" was a phrase used in a local letter-to-the-editor that appeared in the paper this morning in the course of arguing for "inclusion" in local schools. "Inclusion" means folding those with special needs into classes with those who are judged not to have special needs.
A higher philosophy. A kinder heart. A human decency. Who could argue with such a higher philosophy? And yet the argument put a fire under my behind and encouraged me to write my own letter to the editor questioning the argument for inclusion as made.
Higher philosophies are very nice things. They inspire effort and determination ... and sometimes a lot of sweet talk. But I think it is worth saying that higher philosophies, when unexamined, can create some awful idiocy and some widespread sorrow. The higher philosophy of Christianity brought with it the Crusades. The higher philosophy of national security brought with it an unsubstantiated war in Iraq and another in Afghanistan. The higher philosophy of abortion is often loath to concede the particulars of the operation or the psychological impact on the pregnant woman. And the higher philosophy of inclusion in the schools too often closets the impact on teachers (who might otherwise be teaching) and other students.
None of these observations is to suggest that a higher philosophy should necessarily be tossed out as unworthy. And we could all drink a lot of beer when discussing the social-impact particulars of a given higher philosophy.
But what interests me is how willing individuals might be to examine up-close-and-personal their own higher philosophies. Examining does not mean turning into some intellectual nitwit and tearing down everything that does not comply with logic. Examining just means that if you follow one course of action, that course of action is likely to have unintended consequences and the fine print of actuality may not shine so warmly as the presentation of a higher philosophy. It's better not to lie about such things. A higher philosophy may indeed be worth following, but denying responsibility for or awareness of the less-glowing effects is likely to mean the higher philosophy itself will be demeaned. This is not just cowardly. It's also stupid.
As I say, the social ramifications can be discussed from now until the cows come home.
But the personal ramifications are something individuals would be well-advised to examine closely.
End of rant.
.
vice versa
.
One man's weak tea is another man's ambrosia...and vice versa.
One man's meat is another man's poison...and vice versa.
One man's junk is another man's treasure...and vice versa.
One man's heaven is another man's hell...and vice versa.
It doesn't take a genius to notice such observations in action. It's just walking-around chump change in our lives, I think. Sally loves Hummel figurines and Peter thinks they're unbearably kitsch. Teenagers love video games that adults find time-wasters. Ballet dancers pour heart and soul into practice where others may wonder when they will evolve into human beings. Those who think national security is imperative may see peace advocates as idiots or traitors. And we don't even have to get into the barbed wire edges around much-loved religions.
Vice versa.
It is intellectually easy to write off differences and disparities with broad-minded simplicities like "variety is the spice of life" or "chacun à son goût" or "taste is taste." But I think there is a usefulness in such differences that goes beyond an easy and lauded tolerance ... or a slipshod relativism.
Actualizing a recognition that any starting point can bring someone home and that that home contains no debate or vice versa is more than just spiritual smarm. It doesn't imply that everyone has to love Hummel figurines or disdain peaceniks. It just means an acknowledgement and understanding that separations, while convenient, are not honestly true. Yes, blue sky is blue and grey skies are grey, but finding an actual-factual line between them is impossible just as it is impossible to find the actual-factual demarcation between night and day or love and anger.
It's just something to think about, I guess.
If there is no line, why do I keep drawing lines?
Probably because I think it will make my life happier or more interesting or correct or something. It doesn't seem to work, but the willingness to see that it doesn't work takes some doing.
.
One man's weak tea is another man's ambrosia...and vice versa.
One man's meat is another man's poison...and vice versa.
One man's junk is another man's treasure...and vice versa.
One man's heaven is another man's hell...and vice versa.
It doesn't take a genius to notice such observations in action. It's just walking-around chump change in our lives, I think. Sally loves Hummel figurines and Peter thinks they're unbearably kitsch. Teenagers love video games that adults find time-wasters. Ballet dancers pour heart and soul into practice where others may wonder when they will evolve into human beings. Those who think national security is imperative may see peace advocates as idiots or traitors. And we don't even have to get into the barbed wire edges around much-loved religions.
Vice versa.
It is intellectually easy to write off differences and disparities with broad-minded simplicities like "variety is the spice of life" or "chacun à son goût" or "taste is taste." But I think there is a usefulness in such differences that goes beyond an easy and lauded tolerance ... or a slipshod relativism.
Actualizing a recognition that any starting point can bring someone home and that that home contains no debate or vice versa is more than just spiritual smarm. It doesn't imply that everyone has to love Hummel figurines or disdain peaceniks. It just means an acknowledgement and understanding that separations, while convenient, are not honestly true. Yes, blue sky is blue and grey skies are grey, but finding an actual-factual line between them is impossible just as it is impossible to find the actual-factual demarcation between night and day or love and anger.
It's just something to think about, I guess.
If there is no line, why do I keep drawing lines?
Probably because I think it will make my life happier or more interesting or correct or something. It doesn't seem to work, but the willingness to see that it doesn't work takes some doing.
.
Thursday, December 2, 2010
do it anyway
.
How the mind resists and squirms and fidgets and swears and analyzes and just plain begs to escape when it hears the oh-so-simple words, "You've got to find out for yourself."
How many of us have put on our sincere and perhaps tear-stained faces when hearing those words and replied solemnly, "I understand." Whether in Buddhism or just plain life, if you prefer ... "I understand."
I understand and yet every subsequent action reflects a willingness to hand over the reins to someone or something else. Finding out for yourself is scary stuff. Finding out for yourself requires effort. Finding out for yourself requires discipline. Finding out for yourself? "Fuck that!" the mind whispers in a hundred-hundred ways. "I'd rather relax and revere something or someone else."
Checking in with books and teachers and those with more experience is one thing. But handing over the reins and failing to find out for yourself ... hell, look around; look at the results; look at yourself in the mirror if you've got the nerve.
I'm sorry it's not pretty or lyrical or more profound. But it is the truth.
Find out for yourself!
Find out for yourself!
Find out for yourself!
Find out for yourself!
Find out for yourself!
Find out for yourself!
Find out for yourself!
Find out for yourself!
Find out for yourself!
Find out for yourself!
Find out for yourself!
Find out for yourself!
Find out for yourself!
Find out for yourself!
Find out for yourself!
Find out for yourself!
Do it anyway!
.
How the mind resists and squirms and fidgets and swears and analyzes and just plain begs to escape when it hears the oh-so-simple words, "You've got to find out for yourself."
How many of us have put on our sincere and perhaps tear-stained faces when hearing those words and replied solemnly, "I understand." Whether in Buddhism or just plain life, if you prefer ... "I understand."
I understand and yet every subsequent action reflects a willingness to hand over the reins to someone or something else. Finding out for yourself is scary stuff. Finding out for yourself requires effort. Finding out for yourself requires discipline. Finding out for yourself? "Fuck that!" the mind whispers in a hundred-hundred ways. "I'd rather relax and revere something or someone else."
Checking in with books and teachers and those with more experience is one thing. But handing over the reins and failing to find out for yourself ... hell, look around; look at the results; look at yourself in the mirror if you've got the nerve.
I'm sorry it's not pretty or lyrical or more profound. But it is the truth.
Find out for yourself!
Find out for yourself!
Find out for yourself!
Find out for yourself!
Find out for yourself!
Find out for yourself!
Find out for yourself!
Find out for yourself!
Find out for yourself!
Find out for yourself!
Find out for yourself!
Find out for yourself!
Find out for yourself!
Find out for yourself!
Find out for yourself!
Find out for yourself!
Do it anyway!
.
simple stuff
.
Last night I received an email from someone I don't know, a self-described 45-year-old man writing under the subject line "the final journey." The note was brief but said among other things, "I consider myself mindfull (sic) and would like for you to teach me a path that Buddha found."
Ummmmm.....
I wrote back asking if he would be a little more specific -- that his request wasn't entirely clear to me.
Such requests sound simple and straightforward enough, but they always come with a back story and agenda. Some people would like to know the books they should read; some people feel uneasy in their lives and want a silver bullet of some sort; some people are drunk or crazy and wonder what sort of response they might get to a passing-fancy query in the anonymous ether of the internet; some people are speaking out of an honest quandary which they somehow expect you to understand because you are a magical-mystery-tour Buddhist; some people want to set you up for a Christian or other-religion ass-whuppin'.
I was perfectly willing to play the game or lend a hand to the extent that I could, but I was not in the mood for some guessing-game commentary. People who know me know that I can talk the hind leg off a dog, but blow-hard Buddhism doesn't appeal to me today as much as it once did.
That email also made me think of something I have a tendency to forget: Everything is new to someone and it is best to talk as if everything were fresh and new and simple ... which, of course, it always is. The tendency to spiral off into the vast realms of experience or knowledge does little to inform the one for whom the topic is brand new. Simple is better, unless, of course, self-aggrandizement is the object.
Complicated is just too complicated, but complicated has one virtue -- it informs one and all that the one entering the complication probably doesn't know the subject very well. It's a good warning sign.
.
Last night I received an email from someone I don't know, a self-described 45-year-old man writing under the subject line "the final journey." The note was brief but said among other things, "I consider myself mindfull (sic) and would like for you to teach me a path that Buddha found."
Ummmmm.....
I wrote back asking if he would be a little more specific -- that his request wasn't entirely clear to me.
Such requests sound simple and straightforward enough, but they always come with a back story and agenda. Some people would like to know the books they should read; some people feel uneasy in their lives and want a silver bullet of some sort; some people are drunk or crazy and wonder what sort of response they might get to a passing-fancy query in the anonymous ether of the internet; some people are speaking out of an honest quandary which they somehow expect you to understand because you are a magical-mystery-tour Buddhist; some people want to set you up for a Christian or other-religion ass-whuppin'.
I was perfectly willing to play the game or lend a hand to the extent that I could, but I was not in the mood for some guessing-game commentary. People who know me know that I can talk the hind leg off a dog, but blow-hard Buddhism doesn't appeal to me today as much as it once did.
That email also made me think of something I have a tendency to forget: Everything is new to someone and it is best to talk as if everything were fresh and new and simple ... which, of course, it always is. The tendency to spiral off into the vast realms of experience or knowledge does little to inform the one for whom the topic is brand new. Simple is better, unless, of course, self-aggrandizement is the object.
Complicated is just too complicated, but complicated has one virtue -- it informs one and all that the one entering the complication probably doesn't know the subject very well. It's a good warning sign.
.
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
hard times, embarrassing times
.
Two news stories caught my eye today.
-- In economic hard times, with unemployment at 9.6%, the unemployment benefits for many are due to run out. It's Christmas time, but that fact is unlikely to deter Congress from seriously considering not extending the benefits to those who paid to make those benefits available.
The Republicans argue that we simply cannot afford to be spending irresponsibly ... we must rein in giveaway programs. How it is irresponsible to help those in need is never quite explained.
The argument seems to be that by saving money and putting it in the hands of bankers and other businessmen, those captains of industry are in the best position to create jobs that will make unemployment benefits unnecessary. But the track record of this argument is abysmal: Rich people did not get rich by being nice and the thought that they have created or will create jobs because there is more money in the kitty has no concrete evidence to back it up. In fact, business reports suggest that businessmen are hoarding cash right now because times are so uncertain. Will providing more cash meet with a different fate ... it's ludicrous. The very people who created the wealth of the rich are somehow unworthy of a support system. The rich know best. It is shameful.
-- And, as government struggles to reduce a deficit that is slightly higher than 10% of gross domestic product (as compared with close to 30% during World War II), there is talk of reducing Social Security benefits to the elderly. News organizations have routinely fallen down and spread their legs for the argument that Social Security will somehow go broke, that it is a drag on government spending, that it needs to be trimmed before disaster strikes.
Social Security, as I understand it, is, like Medicare, one of the few government programs that was set up to work ... and does work. Far from being in or threatening to be in the red, Social Security is in the black ... big time ... or would be if the government would pay back the money it took from Social Security's kitty.
As I understand it, the treasury bonds in which SS invested under its charter were revised to something called special treasury bonds during the George W. Bush administration. This allowed the government to tap into a cash cow, if only by using accounting gimmicks. It is the tapping-in of government, not Social Security itself, that threatens to upend a program that actually works.
Why it is that 'news' organizations do not see fit to call out those who claim the elderly and would-be elderly deserve to make a deficit sacrifice I'm not sure. I suppose it would require some work and news organizations, in pursuit of their own bottom line, are less and less capable of actually doing the work.
The result is that deficit reduction falls on the shoulders of those least able to assume it. Slash unemployment benefits! Burn Social Security!
Is no one embarrassed by all of this?
.
Two news stories caught my eye today.
-- In economic hard times, with unemployment at 9.6%, the unemployment benefits for many are due to run out. It's Christmas time, but that fact is unlikely to deter Congress from seriously considering not extending the benefits to those who paid to make those benefits available.
The Republicans argue that we simply cannot afford to be spending irresponsibly ... we must rein in giveaway programs. How it is irresponsible to help those in need is never quite explained.
The argument seems to be that by saving money and putting it in the hands of bankers and other businessmen, those captains of industry are in the best position to create jobs that will make unemployment benefits unnecessary. But the track record of this argument is abysmal: Rich people did not get rich by being nice and the thought that they have created or will create jobs because there is more money in the kitty has no concrete evidence to back it up. In fact, business reports suggest that businessmen are hoarding cash right now because times are so uncertain. Will providing more cash meet with a different fate ... it's ludicrous. The very people who created the wealth of the rich are somehow unworthy of a support system. The rich know best. It is shameful.
-- And, as government struggles to reduce a deficit that is slightly higher than 10% of gross domestic product (as compared with close to 30% during World War II), there is talk of reducing Social Security benefits to the elderly. News organizations have routinely fallen down and spread their legs for the argument that Social Security will somehow go broke, that it is a drag on government spending, that it needs to be trimmed before disaster strikes.
Social Security, as I understand it, is, like Medicare, one of the few government programs that was set up to work ... and does work. Far from being in or threatening to be in the red, Social Security is in the black ... big time ... or would be if the government would pay back the money it took from Social Security's kitty.
As I understand it, the treasury bonds in which SS invested under its charter were revised to something called special treasury bonds during the George W. Bush administration. This allowed the government to tap into a cash cow, if only by using accounting gimmicks. It is the tapping-in of government, not Social Security itself, that threatens to upend a program that actually works.
Why it is that 'news' organizations do not see fit to call out those who claim the elderly and would-be elderly deserve to make a deficit sacrifice I'm not sure. I suppose it would require some work and news organizations, in pursuit of their own bottom line, are less and less capable of actually doing the work.
The result is that deficit reduction falls on the shoulders of those least able to assume it. Slash unemployment benefits! Burn Social Security!
Is no one embarrassed by all of this?
.
success and failure
.
Success and failure are interesting commodities. They also create a koan of sorts.
Success and failure are personal and touching on the one hand. They bind the social fabric. The kid who gets A's is "smart" and the one who gets F's is "dumb." Smart is better than dumb both in a social setting and in the mirror. The blue-ribbon achiever is acknowledged and held up as an example of what can be accomplished. S/he can run the fastest, climb the highest mountain, make the most money, exemplify heroism, out-think the others and generally receive an applause that can both warm the achiever's heart and set the social standard. Those who fail are left measuring their failure against the yardstick of those who succeeded. It can be a cold and arid land.
Success and failure inspire effort.
But there is another component that invites examination: Success and failure as commonly defined both require a reliance on others. And while the social warmth that others provide is inviting, it is a fickle support system. Relying on others means that individuals are constantly living their lives according to someone else's vision and the question can arise, "What are things like when I and I alone say it's a success? What are things like when I and I alone say it's a failure?"
Those wedded to success and failure in ordinary terms find a hundred ways to "adapt" to the fickleness of relying on others for definition and peace. "You gotta go with the flow," "You gotta go along to get along." This leads to a constant fidgeting and fussing, a constant buttressing of the walls that create an acceptable definition of self.
And yet the questions can nag. If the best I can do is to define my success and failure according to others, what happens when there are no others? What happens when the separations I have relied on fall away?
It's a scary prospect, perhaps, and yet the invitation to examination persists: What is it like to stand on your own two feet? What is it like to be alive without judgment of any sort? It may be lonely as a leaf in a puddle, but is it true? Without any relying whatsoever, what are things like?
Is this the place of reliable success?
Is it necessary to call it success?
Isn't this just the place of enjoyment?
.
Success and failure are interesting commodities. They also create a koan of sorts.
Success and failure are personal and touching on the one hand. They bind the social fabric. The kid who gets A's is "smart" and the one who gets F's is "dumb." Smart is better than dumb both in a social setting and in the mirror. The blue-ribbon achiever is acknowledged and held up as an example of what can be accomplished. S/he can run the fastest, climb the highest mountain, make the most money, exemplify heroism, out-think the others and generally receive an applause that can both warm the achiever's heart and set the social standard. Those who fail are left measuring their failure against the yardstick of those who succeeded. It can be a cold and arid land.
Success and failure inspire effort.
But there is another component that invites examination: Success and failure as commonly defined both require a reliance on others. And while the social warmth that others provide is inviting, it is a fickle support system. Relying on others means that individuals are constantly living their lives according to someone else's vision and the question can arise, "What are things like when I and I alone say it's a success? What are things like when I and I alone say it's a failure?"
Those wedded to success and failure in ordinary terms find a hundred ways to "adapt" to the fickleness of relying on others for definition and peace. "You gotta go with the flow," "You gotta go along to get along." This leads to a constant fidgeting and fussing, a constant buttressing of the walls that create an acceptable definition of self.
And yet the questions can nag. If the best I can do is to define my success and failure according to others, what happens when there are no others? What happens when the separations I have relied on fall away?
It's a scary prospect, perhaps, and yet the invitation to examination persists: What is it like to stand on your own two feet? What is it like to be alive without judgment of any sort? It may be lonely as a leaf in a puddle, but is it true? Without any relying whatsoever, what are things like?
Is this the place of reliable success?
Is it necessary to call it success?
Isn't this just the place of enjoyment?
.
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