I refused to go to Tassajara but was fine traveling to Japan to sit at Ei Hei Ji. From the looks of this poem, this was what it took for me to finally accept my practice... who knew? (oh be quiet Daigan!)
I am falling in love with you
from 5000 miles away
and it worries me.
How can I fall in love with you
when you are not here
and why wasn't I loving you
when I was there
when I was with you
I was not falling
I was separate
guarded
cautious of you
But here I am
drawn
smiling
feeling affection for
and assured by
the very same things
I was wary of
and often annoyed by
But this image
of you
that keeps popping into my head
though you are 5000 miles away
is that same you
it isn't a made up version
it isn't what I want you to be
it's the real you
so why am I suddenly
charmed
and drawn to it
to you
What is this helplessness
that I am feeling
this resignation
yet peace
that this is how it is
that this is who I am
that this
for no reason that I can understand
is part of me
Monday, June 17, 2013
Wanting to be married
I was having imaginary dokusan with my teacher (in reality, I was in the shower). In it, we were talking about my fears around who I was, around wearing robes, around being someone at the zen center and he asked me, "What do you want to be?"
I didn't have an answer, and I was surprised by this. I thought I would have an answer that I didn't like or that I wanted to avoid but instead, in my head, it was totally blank. I kept searching for some answer when suddenly the word "married" came out of my mouth. It actually came out, like, I said it in the shower.
As soon as I said it, I was annoyed with myself.
"Great," I said to my teacher with a sarcastic tone. "I don't want to be a buddhist, I don't want to be a zen priest, (please see previous post) but I want to be married. Apparently, I want to be a house wife. I want to be someone's wife. Nice lofty goals for a woman in 2013!"
He just raised an eyebrow at me, but I felt like we both were noticing how down on this idea I was.
I don't remember if he asked me any questions after that but it didn't really matter- the point had been made: I wanted to be married and I felt like an idiot for wanting that.
I brought it up with my therapist the following week and we talked about my stories around marriage:
men don't actually want to be married, they're simply roped in to it by women who need to be married to feel good about themselves.
Women who marry do so to be taken care of, or to live out some childhood fantasy, or to fulfill some societal role.
Once men are married, they are trapped in to a role of going to work each day and coming home to a house full of kids and a wife who always wants more than he can possibly give her.
Women who are married are trapped in a house all day, doing laundry, cooking, cleaning, and taking care of the kids.
My therapist started with the wanting-to-be-married part of things:
"So men don't want to be married?" she asked.
"No," I answered. "They'd much rather hang out with their guy friends and play games or watch sports or something."
"Wow," she said. "That sounds kind of lonely."
"Well no," I said. "They have their friends to hang out with."
"But no relationship, no real connection," she suggested.
I thought about this. I pictured a bunch of men, after the bar had closed, walking back to their cars in the parking lot, and driving home to an empty house.
My therapist spoke up again, "I think that most people would prefer to be in relationship than to be alone," she suggested.
And then I thought about the men at YUZ, and how many of them talk about wanting to meet someone, about finding a life partner.
My therapist continued, "I think that these stories that people make up- about men wanting freedom, about feeling trapped by marriage- are defenses against the fact that people actually want connection. It's human nature to want to be with others, it's in our biology. Nobody actually wants to be alone."
And I thought about this. I thought about my friends who actually are married, and none of them are trapped, none of them feel like they're stuck in a marriage. They have struggles and they have joy- they have relationships, and they are together, with another.
And then I started noticing the people around me, on the streets and in restaurants and it turns out that people seem to like to be with another person. They like to hold hands or lean their head on another- to take care of each other, to remind each other of things, to share life.
So my wanting to be married, isn't so much wanting to be a house wife, it isn't so much that I'm weak and needing a man to take care of me, it's wanting connection. It's wanting to be with another person, it's just something that I want because I'm human. It might even be something that I need. But the fact that I judge this need, that I deny myself its existence, keeps me from acknowledging it and giving myself the opportunity to actually fulfill it, to allow myself to feel connected to someone, someone special, intimately.
I didn't have an answer, and I was surprised by this. I thought I would have an answer that I didn't like or that I wanted to avoid but instead, in my head, it was totally blank. I kept searching for some answer when suddenly the word "married" came out of my mouth. It actually came out, like, I said it in the shower.
As soon as I said it, I was annoyed with myself.
"Great," I said to my teacher with a sarcastic tone. "I don't want to be a buddhist, I don't want to be a zen priest, (please see previous post) but I want to be married. Apparently, I want to be a house wife. I want to be someone's wife. Nice lofty goals for a woman in 2013!"
He just raised an eyebrow at me, but I felt like we both were noticing how down on this idea I was.
I don't remember if he asked me any questions after that but it didn't really matter- the point had been made: I wanted to be married and I felt like an idiot for wanting that.
I brought it up with my therapist the following week and we talked about my stories around marriage:
men don't actually want to be married, they're simply roped in to it by women who need to be married to feel good about themselves.
Women who marry do so to be taken care of, or to live out some childhood fantasy, or to fulfill some societal role.
Once men are married, they are trapped in to a role of going to work each day and coming home to a house full of kids and a wife who always wants more than he can possibly give her.
Women who are married are trapped in a house all day, doing laundry, cooking, cleaning, and taking care of the kids.
My therapist started with the wanting-to-be-married part of things:
"So men don't want to be married?" she asked.
"No," I answered. "They'd much rather hang out with their guy friends and play games or watch sports or something."
"Wow," she said. "That sounds kind of lonely."
"Well no," I said. "They have their friends to hang out with."
"But no relationship, no real connection," she suggested.
I thought about this. I pictured a bunch of men, after the bar had closed, walking back to their cars in the parking lot, and driving home to an empty house.
My therapist spoke up again, "I think that most people would prefer to be in relationship than to be alone," she suggested.
And then I thought about the men at YUZ, and how many of them talk about wanting to meet someone, about finding a life partner.
My therapist continued, "I think that these stories that people make up- about men wanting freedom, about feeling trapped by marriage- are defenses against the fact that people actually want connection. It's human nature to want to be with others, it's in our biology. Nobody actually wants to be alone."
And I thought about this. I thought about my friends who actually are married, and none of them are trapped, none of them feel like they're stuck in a marriage. They have struggles and they have joy- they have relationships, and they are together, with another.
And then I started noticing the people around me, on the streets and in restaurants and it turns out that people seem to like to be with another person. They like to hold hands or lean their head on another- to take care of each other, to remind each other of things, to share life.
So my wanting to be married, isn't so much wanting to be a house wife, it isn't so much that I'm weak and needing a man to take care of me, it's wanting connection. It's wanting to be with another person, it's just something that I want because I'm human. It might even be something that I need. But the fact that I judge this need, that I deny myself its existence, keeps me from acknowledging it and giving myself the opportunity to actually fulfill it, to allow myself to feel connected to someone, someone special, intimately.
Wanting to be a zen priest
I was reading over a blogpost in which I had written "I don't want to be a Buddhist and I don't want to be a zen priest" and I thought, "Huh, I wonder what my friends who are Buddhists and zen priests are going to feel like when they read that."
And I thought about them reading it and I thought they would probably roll their eyes and laugh at me for still being so hung up on this idea of what a Buddhist is. But then I also thought that it might be kind of a bummer to have someone say that they don't want to be you, to have someone think of what you do as something undesirable.
And I thought, "Huh, are you saying you don't want to be them?"
And I thought about who they are and what they do and how much their practice helps others and I thought, "Wow, really? You don't want to be that?"
And I thought, "No I do. I have so much respect for the work that they do and the way in which they do it. It's an incredibly beautiful thing to watch someone encourage another to feel love, to become themselves, to finally find peace or ease from this same world that has brought them anxiety and fear."
"So then what's the problem?" I asked myself. "Why don't you want to become a zen priest?"
And I looked at those words- priest- and I pictured a really tall man, in church robes, barely talking, completely removed from the congregation in front of him.
And then I pictured my really good friends, one leaving the building to catch the BART to take classes in Berkeley, the other walking in to the front office, to see how things were going, if anything needed to be taken care of that morning.
"Those are zen priests," I told myself. "Those are people who have committed themselves to this practice. Those are people who have chosen to spend their lives doing what they can to make themselves available for others."
And then I thought back to that tall guy, in church robes, who was so removed from his congregation. And I thought that he probably had made the same commitment. He had probably joined the ministry for the same reason: to share his practice with others, to act as a guide, to help others to find the solace he had found in his religion.
These are people, who love others. This is a zen priest... or maybe it isn't. There isn't an it to be had in this situation. My friends are very different, there isn't one way to be a zen priest. A zen priest isn't a thing, it isn't a person, I don't really know what it means when I say zen priest. I think I just need to stop saying that I don't want to be one, because there isn't one to be. I won't be my friends if I follow this practice, I won't become a "Buddhist" if I continue what I'm doing at the zen center. I'm still going to be me, they're still who they are.
What does it mean to be a zen priest?
I still don't know but I know my friends, and I know how much they have loved me over the past three years. I've watched them care about me and encourage me, be patient with me, laugh at me and with me, but always be available to me, in whatever condition I come to them. Is that what it means to be a zen priest? I don't know. All I know is my friends, and I don't even know them, but I see what they do and it seems silly to say, in fact, it's a lie to say, that I don't want to do that.
And I thought about them reading it and I thought they would probably roll their eyes and laugh at me for still being so hung up on this idea of what a Buddhist is. But then I also thought that it might be kind of a bummer to have someone say that they don't want to be you, to have someone think of what you do as something undesirable.
And I thought, "Huh, are you saying you don't want to be them?"
And I thought about who they are and what they do and how much their practice helps others and I thought, "Wow, really? You don't want to be that?"
And I thought, "No I do. I have so much respect for the work that they do and the way in which they do it. It's an incredibly beautiful thing to watch someone encourage another to feel love, to become themselves, to finally find peace or ease from this same world that has brought them anxiety and fear."
"So then what's the problem?" I asked myself. "Why don't you want to become a zen priest?"
And I looked at those words- priest- and I pictured a really tall man, in church robes, barely talking, completely removed from the congregation in front of him.
And then I pictured my really good friends, one leaving the building to catch the BART to take classes in Berkeley, the other walking in to the front office, to see how things were going, if anything needed to be taken care of that morning.
"Those are zen priests," I told myself. "Those are people who have committed themselves to this practice. Those are people who have chosen to spend their lives doing what they can to make themselves available for others."
And then I thought back to that tall guy, in church robes, who was so removed from his congregation. And I thought that he probably had made the same commitment. He had probably joined the ministry for the same reason: to share his practice with others, to act as a guide, to help others to find the solace he had found in his religion.
These are people, who love others. This is a zen priest... or maybe it isn't. There isn't an it to be had in this situation. My friends are very different, there isn't one way to be a zen priest. A zen priest isn't a thing, it isn't a person, I don't really know what it means when I say zen priest. I think I just need to stop saying that I don't want to be one, because there isn't one to be. I won't be my friends if I follow this practice, I won't become a "Buddhist" if I continue what I'm doing at the zen center. I'm still going to be me, they're still who they are.
What does it mean to be a zen priest?
I still don't know but I know my friends, and I know how much they have loved me over the past three years. I've watched them care about me and encourage me, be patient with me, laugh at me and with me, but always be available to me, in whatever condition I come to them. Is that what it means to be a zen priest? I don't know. All I know is my friends, and I don't even know them, but I see what they do and it seems silly to say, in fact, it's a lie to say, that I don't want to do that.
Saturday, June 15, 2013
The Love Boat in the Buddha Hall
A few Saturday mornings ago, as I sat down for service in the Buddha hall, I looked to my right and freaked out. My good friend was sitting next to me wearing not his normal skinny jeans and t-shirt but, what I would refer to as, "zen work clothes." They weren't robes, per se, but they definitely weren't his regular "street clothes."
The reason this freaked me out is because I have all kinds of stories about robes and attire at the zen center. I think that if you wear robes you are "committed" to this practice, that you've agreed to "leave" the outside world and "enter the community." Even though I desperately want to be part of the community, I have all kinds of fears about what it would mean to wear robes or sew a rakasu. On the other hand, I also often think that, because I'm not wearing robes or sewing a rakasu, that I am not a legitimate member of the community.
All of this is inside my head. No one has ever suggested that I wear robes or sew a rakasu, and I'm the only one who thinks I'm not a legitimate member of the community or that in order to be a member of the community that I would need to do these things. Still, I think I take comfort in seeeing people who are dressed like me or have not started sewing a rakasu practicing at the zen center. I think it reassures me that neither of these things are necessary for practice- that I can continue to practice without doing those things that scare me so much: wearing robes or sewing a rakasu.
So when I saw him wearing "zen work clothes," my first response was: Darnit...another one down. Meaning, another person who really was committing to this practice, who didn't still have one foot in the "outside world" and one in the zen center (I know, I know, it's totally absurd and untrue but it's what came up for me when I saw him).
So then I took a breath and felt what was going on inside me. I thought about how I had felt when my other good friend started wearing robes and how I thought she was leaving me behind when she did that, that she was part of the community and I was not. But then I thought about how untrue that was- how her wearing robes did nothing to change our relationship. But I also noticed that this was about me feeling left out- that him wearing the "work clothes" made me feel like I had to wear "work clothes" if I wanted to be part of the community. It made me feel like I had to choose between wearing robes and being part of the community or wearing regular clothes and feeling left out. And that made me sad, because I still wasn't ready to wear robes but I really wanted to be part of the community.
And then they rang the bell and we did three prostrations. As soon as we were done, I turned to my left and immediately focused my attention on the person on front of me, who was wearing robes. I did this on purpose. See, I knew that in about two weeks, I was going to Ei Hei Ji and that at Ei Hei Ji, I was going to be wearing robes (or a least a kimono). I also knew that we were going to have to sit seiza, in robes, so I watched him like a hawk to see how you tuck in the robes, where they go, what you do with your feet, etc.
And that's when I started to cry. Not two seconds earlier, I had been freaked out because I felt like I had to wear robes and I didn't want to, yet here I was, the very same person, intentionally learning how to sit in robes. "How can I want the very same thing that I don't want? How can I actively and happily pursue the exact same thing that brings me such discomfort? It's not fair that these are both inside of me..."And then we started chanting and that still brings things up for me so I cried some more.
But as I was listening to my friend and her beautiful chanting as kokyo, I thought about how we all have our place at the zen center. I thought about how each of us plays a role here and how sweet that is. And I thought that I was like the cruise director on that show The Love Boat- that I was Julie McCoy, acting as a guide between the ship's crew and the passengers. But then I thought that I was more like the captain's daughter. And then I thought about the captain and how he was a widower and whether or not he ever wished he would find love on The Love Boat. And then I thought about the fact that The Love Boat was, basically, just one big hook- up cruise and I wondered if it was awkward if you hooked up with someone one night and then were still on the boat with them for the rest of the cruise and how people might sneak out of one room and into another and....
Then I started laughing, because we were still chanting. We were chanting some solemn Buddhist sutra, probably chanting the names of the ancestors, and I was thinking about the logistics of hooking up on The Love Boat.
And that's when I knew I was going to be okay. I knew that if the Buddha Hall was big enough for me to be thinking about The Love Boat during service, then the Buddha Hall was big enough to hold me not wearing robes. And wearing robes had nothing to do with who I was- wearing robes did nothing to change me. I was still going to be the person who thinks about how people hook up on The Love Boat, during service, in the Buddha Hall.
The reason this freaked me out is because I have all kinds of stories about robes and attire at the zen center. I think that if you wear robes you are "committed" to this practice, that you've agreed to "leave" the outside world and "enter the community." Even though I desperately want to be part of the community, I have all kinds of fears about what it would mean to wear robes or sew a rakasu. On the other hand, I also often think that, because I'm not wearing robes or sewing a rakasu, that I am not a legitimate member of the community.
All of this is inside my head. No one has ever suggested that I wear robes or sew a rakasu, and I'm the only one who thinks I'm not a legitimate member of the community or that in order to be a member of the community that I would need to do these things. Still, I think I take comfort in seeeing people who are dressed like me or have not started sewing a rakasu practicing at the zen center. I think it reassures me that neither of these things are necessary for practice- that I can continue to practice without doing those things that scare me so much: wearing robes or sewing a rakasu.
So when I saw him wearing "zen work clothes," my first response was: Darnit...another one down. Meaning, another person who really was committing to this practice, who didn't still have one foot in the "outside world" and one in the zen center (I know, I know, it's totally absurd and untrue but it's what came up for me when I saw him).
So then I took a breath and felt what was going on inside me. I thought about how I had felt when my other good friend started wearing robes and how I thought she was leaving me behind when she did that, that she was part of the community and I was not. But then I thought about how untrue that was- how her wearing robes did nothing to change our relationship. But I also noticed that this was about me feeling left out- that him wearing the "work clothes" made me feel like I had to wear "work clothes" if I wanted to be part of the community. It made me feel like I had to choose between wearing robes and being part of the community or wearing regular clothes and feeling left out. And that made me sad, because I still wasn't ready to wear robes but I really wanted to be part of the community.
And then they rang the bell and we did three prostrations. As soon as we were done, I turned to my left and immediately focused my attention on the person on front of me, who was wearing robes. I did this on purpose. See, I knew that in about two weeks, I was going to Ei Hei Ji and that at Ei Hei Ji, I was going to be wearing robes (or a least a kimono). I also knew that we were going to have to sit seiza, in robes, so I watched him like a hawk to see how you tuck in the robes, where they go, what you do with your feet, etc.
And that's when I started to cry. Not two seconds earlier, I had been freaked out because I felt like I had to wear robes and I didn't want to, yet here I was, the very same person, intentionally learning how to sit in robes. "How can I want the very same thing that I don't want? How can I actively and happily pursue the exact same thing that brings me such discomfort? It's not fair that these are both inside of me..."And then we started chanting and that still brings things up for me so I cried some more.
But as I was listening to my friend and her beautiful chanting as kokyo, I thought about how we all have our place at the zen center. I thought about how each of us plays a role here and how sweet that is. And I thought that I was like the cruise director on that show The Love Boat- that I was Julie McCoy, acting as a guide between the ship's crew and the passengers. But then I thought that I was more like the captain's daughter. And then I thought about the captain and how he was a widower and whether or not he ever wished he would find love on The Love Boat. And then I thought about the fact that The Love Boat was, basically, just one big hook- up cruise and I wondered if it was awkward if you hooked up with someone one night and then were still on the boat with them for the rest of the cruise and how people might sneak out of one room and into another and....
Then I started laughing, because we were still chanting. We were chanting some solemn Buddhist sutra, probably chanting the names of the ancestors, and I was thinking about the logistics of hooking up on The Love Boat.
And that's when I knew I was going to be okay. I knew that if the Buddha Hall was big enough for me to be thinking about The Love Boat during service, then the Buddha Hall was big enough to hold me not wearing robes. And wearing robes had nothing to do with who I was- wearing robes did nothing to change me. I was still going to be the person who thinks about how people hook up on The Love Boat, during service, in the Buddha Hall.
Friday, June 14, 2013
Following the rules in Japan
I have been noticing some things about Japan.
#1 Your needs are met.
#2 They are met by others.
I've been lost, once, and asked for help. It was around 9 at night, on a deserted street corner, and I simply approached a young man and said the name of the train station near my hostel. It was clear that he didn't speak any English and I'm not so sure he knew what I was asking, but he gestured down the street, said "Go" and then walked with me, for about 4 blocks to the street corner that I recognized, then continued to walk with me until I was actually at my hostel.
The next day, at around 8 at night, I got on a metro train and, just to confirm that I was on the right train, said "kodesai" (which I have now discovered is NOT the way to say 'sorry to bug you but...,) to the woman standing next to me, pointed to the station stop I was going to and said its name. She nodded in agreement, and I went back to peering out the window to the train in an attempt to monitor my progress toward my stop. This particular train trip involved a transfer but the woman at the ticket booth who originally told me how to get there had pointed to the transfer station and said "Same stop, same stop."
When we got to the transfer point, I got off the train, expecting to simply go up one flight of steps, cross over, and come down another to catch the next train. As I walked through the turnstile, the machine made a sound and directed me to the station operator. I approached him, he took my ticket, did something to it, handed it back to me, and waved me through. As I walked through, I noticed the woman whom I had approached on the train waiting for me. I smiled at her and we walked together up the steps.
When we got to the top of the steps, she directed me to the left, out of the train station. I simply followed her, actually, she followed me for about three full city blocks. At one point, I turned back to her and said "Far!" or dark or something like that. She simply covered her mouth, and giggled. We finally came to a completely random corner that was barely marked as the metro station where I was supposed to transfer for my next trip. When I saw it, I turned, in surprise and utter gratitude to the woman who had brought me there.
"AriGAHto," I said, and bowed deeply to her.
She bowed back, turned around, and walked the other way.
I have no idea if she was getting off at that actual station and walked out of her way to get me to the transfer spot or if she had gone completely out of her way to get me there, I just know that there is no way I would have found that station if she hadn't walked me there. I also know that I didn't ask her for help or even suggest to her that I was lost. All I did was point to the station I was going to- she did everything else of her own accord.
When I bought a memory card at the tourist shop in Kmaikochi (the Yosemite of Japan), the man who sold it to me put a pair of scissors on the counter after he gave me my change. I was confused by this at first, but then I realized that the memory card was in one of those hard plastic wrappers that are impossible to open. Instead of putting it in my bag like I had planned, and opening it later, on the trail, (which I then realized that I never could have done without a pair of scissors) I immediately thanked him and started to cut the packaging. He stopped me and pointed to the top of the container, where it was easier to cut. After I had cut it and removed the card, he quickly whisked away the plastic and threw it away for me.
The next day, at the post office, when I bought an envelope, the man at the post office pointed to my left and said, "Free desk and pen!" with a big smile on his face.
"Of course," I thought to myself. "If I'm buying an envelope, I obviously need a pen and a desk to write the address and send the letter. So of course they have a pen and a desk for me and of course it's free, because it's what I need."
Today, as I was riding a bike around Matsumoto, I often had to wait for the light to turn green. Because it's Saturday and the off season, there were often no cars around and I totally could have crossed against the light. But when I thought about doing that, I realized that if I did that. the car or bike or person who was crossing the other way, would have to stop for me. And I knew that they actually would stop for me, that they would have to go out of their way to deal with the fact that I was breaking the rules, and I really didn't want to do that.
I was totally aware of the effect of my actions on others and this came from repeated experiences of others looking out for me. Also, my focus wasn't on whether or not I was following the rules or whether or not I would get hurt, my only motivation in not crossing against the light was because I knew someone else would take care of me and by breaking the rules, I was making them go out of their way to do it.
This is so totally foreign to me and it makes me think aboutwhat would happen if we responded to people by meeting their needs.
I happen to be reading a book about a murder and rapist and I wonder what would happen if, when someone did something that hurt others, we responded to them by bringing them to a place where all their needs are met, by acutal people, taking care of them.
I really think that they would just stop doing those things that hurt others. I really do.
Anyway, I just think it's interesting that I am following the rules in Japan, not to follow the rules but of of respect for others (because in SF, I cross against the lights all the time when there's no one there because it makes logical sense; but here, it makes no sense at all).
#1 Your needs are met.
#2 They are met by others.
I've been lost, once, and asked for help. It was around 9 at night, on a deserted street corner, and I simply approached a young man and said the name of the train station near my hostel. It was clear that he didn't speak any English and I'm not so sure he knew what I was asking, but he gestured down the street, said "Go" and then walked with me, for about 4 blocks to the street corner that I recognized, then continued to walk with me until I was actually at my hostel.
The next day, at around 8 at night, I got on a metro train and, just to confirm that I was on the right train, said "kodesai" (which I have now discovered is NOT the way to say 'sorry to bug you but...,) to the woman standing next to me, pointed to the station stop I was going to and said its name. She nodded in agreement, and I went back to peering out the window to the train in an attempt to monitor my progress toward my stop. This particular train trip involved a transfer but the woman at the ticket booth who originally told me how to get there had pointed to the transfer station and said "Same stop, same stop."
When we got to the transfer point, I got off the train, expecting to simply go up one flight of steps, cross over, and come down another to catch the next train. As I walked through the turnstile, the machine made a sound and directed me to the station operator. I approached him, he took my ticket, did something to it, handed it back to me, and waved me through. As I walked through, I noticed the woman whom I had approached on the train waiting for me. I smiled at her and we walked together up the steps.
When we got to the top of the steps, she directed me to the left, out of the train station. I simply followed her, actually, she followed me for about three full city blocks. At one point, I turned back to her and said "Far!" or dark or something like that. She simply covered her mouth, and giggled. We finally came to a completely random corner that was barely marked as the metro station where I was supposed to transfer for my next trip. When I saw it, I turned, in surprise and utter gratitude to the woman who had brought me there.
"AriGAHto," I said, and bowed deeply to her.
She bowed back, turned around, and walked the other way.
I have no idea if she was getting off at that actual station and walked out of her way to get me to the transfer spot or if she had gone completely out of her way to get me there, I just know that there is no way I would have found that station if she hadn't walked me there. I also know that I didn't ask her for help or even suggest to her that I was lost. All I did was point to the station I was going to- she did everything else of her own accord.
When I bought a memory card at the tourist shop in Kmaikochi (the Yosemite of Japan), the man who sold it to me put a pair of scissors on the counter after he gave me my change. I was confused by this at first, but then I realized that the memory card was in one of those hard plastic wrappers that are impossible to open. Instead of putting it in my bag like I had planned, and opening it later, on the trail, (which I then realized that I never could have done without a pair of scissors) I immediately thanked him and started to cut the packaging. He stopped me and pointed to the top of the container, where it was easier to cut. After I had cut it and removed the card, he quickly whisked away the plastic and threw it away for me.
The next day, at the post office, when I bought an envelope, the man at the post office pointed to my left and said, "Free desk and pen!" with a big smile on his face.
"Of course," I thought to myself. "If I'm buying an envelope, I obviously need a pen and a desk to write the address and send the letter. So of course they have a pen and a desk for me and of course it's free, because it's what I need."
Today, as I was riding a bike around Matsumoto, I often had to wait for the light to turn green. Because it's Saturday and the off season, there were often no cars around and I totally could have crossed against the light. But when I thought about doing that, I realized that if I did that. the car or bike or person who was crossing the other way, would have to stop for me. And I knew that they actually would stop for me, that they would have to go out of their way to deal with the fact that I was breaking the rules, and I really didn't want to do that.
I was totally aware of the effect of my actions on others and this came from repeated experiences of others looking out for me. Also, my focus wasn't on whether or not I was following the rules or whether or not I would get hurt, my only motivation in not crossing against the light was because I knew someone else would take care of me and by breaking the rules, I was making them go out of their way to do it.
This is so totally foreign to me and it makes me think aboutwhat would happen if we responded to people by meeting their needs.
I happen to be reading a book about a murder and rapist and I wonder what would happen if, when someone did something that hurt others, we responded to them by bringing them to a place where all their needs are met, by acutal people, taking care of them.
I really think that they would just stop doing those things that hurt others. I really do.
Anyway, I just think it's interesting that I am following the rules in Japan, not to follow the rules but of of respect for others (because in SF, I cross against the lights all the time when there's no one there because it makes logical sense; but here, it makes no sense at all).
Thursday, June 13, 2013
The gift that is not given
I live with two guys.
I figure, in the ways of life, that I use toilet paper about twice as often as they do because I use it every time and they use it, well, when they need to.
So I've always felt like it was pretty fair for me to do the bulk of toilet paper shopping.
But that was back then, when I had a car, and I could go to Target or Safeway and buy those big ol' family packs of nice stuff for cheap. But now I don't have a car, I have a bike. And, I'm sorry, but just one of those regular four packs of toilet paper fills up your entire backpack and so you can't buy any other groceries.
So lately, I have not been buying toilet paper. And I've been kind of passive aggressive about it. I've been secretly hoping that my room mates will run out before I do and will have to buy toilet paper and I can just use theirs. I've been a little bitter too- pretty annoyed that they haven't bought any toilet paper yet and, actually, refusing to buy toilet paper because I think that if I do, they will use what I bought and so they won't run out and I'll just keep having to buy toilet paper.
But this week, I ran out and I didn't have time to go to the store and it felt wrong to sneak into my room mate's bathroom and just take a roll but I also didn't want to ask because I figured he'd say something like, "Why don't you just buy some?"
So I resorted to... paper towels. That's something my room mate actually buys, so we always have them on hand but still, paper towels, as toilet paper.... sad sad state.
On Tuesday night, I went to Young Urban Zen. Just before we went in to sit, I went to the bathroom and as I opened the door I saw, just above me, a partly opened six pack of Seventh Generation toilet paper.
"Oh," I thought. "That's exactly what I need. Just one roll to make it to the weekend when I can get over this silliness and just buy some toilet paper."
I considered just taking a roll. No one would notice and, honestly, I was pretty sure that everyone there would be happy to share their toilet paper with someone in need. But still, it felt wrong to just take it without asking, so I went in to sit instead.
At the end of the night, I thought about that roll again. I knew that I needed it, I knew that anyone I asked at the zen center would gladly give it to me, I knew that it was just a matter of me, going up to someone, and admitting my vulnerability in asking for something that I needed. I was scared to admit my vulnerability, scared to put myself in a place of need, but knew too that it was important to just do that- to admit that I needed something from others and to ask them for it.
I approached Shundo, the director of the zen center, "I have an embarrassing question to ask you..."
He noddded his head to suggest that I continue.
"Can I borrow a roll of toilet paper if I promise to buy the exact same kind and replace it by this weekend?"
He paused, for only a second, but I immediately thought, "Oh my gosh! Is he really going to say no? Maybe there's a policy or some inventory thing or some rule about loaning things to non- residents."
But my thoughts were quickly stopped by his response (this is how I remember what he said)
"You can have it. And you can return the favor with something completely different, some other time."
I looked up to the right to consider this, to consider how I would repay the favor in some other way and then looked back at him, smiled, and said "Thank you."
As I walked away I thought to myself, "Nope. I'm going to buy a roll of the exact same kind of toilet paper and I'm going to replace it immediately and it'll be like I never took a thing."
I walked into the bathroom, grabbed a roll, put it in my backpack and rode home.
As soon as I got home, I unzipped my backpack and the sight of that roll of toilet paper brought this wave of ease over my entire upper body.
"Wow!" I thought to myself. "You really needed that roll of toilet paper."
But then I thought to myself, "No, that's actually not what's going on. You didn't feel needy earlier this week when you were using paper towels, and seeing the roll didn't bring up the feeling of satiation or stability you often feel when your needs are met."
So then I thought back to my interaction with Shundo. I wondered about the fact that he hadn't said anything like, "Of course you can have something from the zen center. You give stuff here all the time. You've given so much we'd be happy to give to you in return."
And I have to admit that in noticing this, that he didn't say that, I felt a bit of disappointment. Part of me had wanted him to give me the toilet paper without question because of my generosity, because I had given so freely.
But the thing was, he hadn't said that. He didn't say "You can have this because you've given this," he just said "You can have it."
"This is what feels so good," I thought. "You're feeling what it's like to be given something not because you deserve it, not based on your value, you're being given something regardless of who you are, just because you need it."
And I thought that I wanted to do that for my students: to stop rewarding them, to stop making them earn things, to just give to them freely.
And so I thought that was it- that this good feeling came from being given something unconditionally, freely, simply because I needed it.
But when I thought back to what Shundo said, that didn't feel right either. I didn't feel like he had given me something because I needed it. If he had done that, he wouldn't have said that I could return the favor in a different way on another occasion; he would have just given it to me, and asked for nothing in return.
And then I thought about it, and I realized, that he hadn't actually given me anything. He didn't see a need in me and fulfill it. He didn't reward me with toilet paper because I had been generous in the past. He didn't even hand me a roll of toilet paper with no questions asked.
He simply said Here, have it, and be who you are.
And that's when I realized that that toilet paper roll was not a gift, it had not been given.
There are places for gifts in this world. There are places for fulfilling another preson's need. But there is also a beauty and equality, a respect and a love in not giving a gift, in not helping someone, in simply shifting something from one place to another- from one person to another, equally.
I figure, in the ways of life, that I use toilet paper about twice as often as they do because I use it every time and they use it, well, when they need to.
So I've always felt like it was pretty fair for me to do the bulk of toilet paper shopping.
But that was back then, when I had a car, and I could go to Target or Safeway and buy those big ol' family packs of nice stuff for cheap. But now I don't have a car, I have a bike. And, I'm sorry, but just one of those regular four packs of toilet paper fills up your entire backpack and so you can't buy any other groceries.
So lately, I have not been buying toilet paper. And I've been kind of passive aggressive about it. I've been secretly hoping that my room mates will run out before I do and will have to buy toilet paper and I can just use theirs. I've been a little bitter too- pretty annoyed that they haven't bought any toilet paper yet and, actually, refusing to buy toilet paper because I think that if I do, they will use what I bought and so they won't run out and I'll just keep having to buy toilet paper.
But this week, I ran out and I didn't have time to go to the store and it felt wrong to sneak into my room mate's bathroom and just take a roll but I also didn't want to ask because I figured he'd say something like, "Why don't you just buy some?"
So I resorted to... paper towels. That's something my room mate actually buys, so we always have them on hand but still, paper towels, as toilet paper.... sad sad state.
On Tuesday night, I went to Young Urban Zen. Just before we went in to sit, I went to the bathroom and as I opened the door I saw, just above me, a partly opened six pack of Seventh Generation toilet paper.
"Oh," I thought. "That's exactly what I need. Just one roll to make it to the weekend when I can get over this silliness and just buy some toilet paper."
I considered just taking a roll. No one would notice and, honestly, I was pretty sure that everyone there would be happy to share their toilet paper with someone in need. But still, it felt wrong to just take it without asking, so I went in to sit instead.
At the end of the night, I thought about that roll again. I knew that I needed it, I knew that anyone I asked at the zen center would gladly give it to me, I knew that it was just a matter of me, going up to someone, and admitting my vulnerability in asking for something that I needed. I was scared to admit my vulnerability, scared to put myself in a place of need, but knew too that it was important to just do that- to admit that I needed something from others and to ask them for it.
I approached Shundo, the director of the zen center, "I have an embarrassing question to ask you..."
He noddded his head to suggest that I continue.
"Can I borrow a roll of toilet paper if I promise to buy the exact same kind and replace it by this weekend?"
He paused, for only a second, but I immediately thought, "Oh my gosh! Is he really going to say no? Maybe there's a policy or some inventory thing or some rule about loaning things to non- residents."
But my thoughts were quickly stopped by his response (this is how I remember what he said)
"You can have it. And you can return the favor with something completely different, some other time."
I looked up to the right to consider this, to consider how I would repay the favor in some other way and then looked back at him, smiled, and said "Thank you."
As I walked away I thought to myself, "Nope. I'm going to buy a roll of the exact same kind of toilet paper and I'm going to replace it immediately and it'll be like I never took a thing."
I walked into the bathroom, grabbed a roll, put it in my backpack and rode home.
As soon as I got home, I unzipped my backpack and the sight of that roll of toilet paper brought this wave of ease over my entire upper body.
"Wow!" I thought to myself. "You really needed that roll of toilet paper."
But then I thought to myself, "No, that's actually not what's going on. You didn't feel needy earlier this week when you were using paper towels, and seeing the roll didn't bring up the feeling of satiation or stability you often feel when your needs are met."
So then I thought back to my interaction with Shundo. I wondered about the fact that he hadn't said anything like, "Of course you can have something from the zen center. You give stuff here all the time. You've given so much we'd be happy to give to you in return."
And I have to admit that in noticing this, that he didn't say that, I felt a bit of disappointment. Part of me had wanted him to give me the toilet paper without question because of my generosity, because I had given so freely.
But the thing was, he hadn't said that. He didn't say "You can have this because you've given this," he just said "You can have it."
"This is what feels so good," I thought. "You're feeling what it's like to be given something not because you deserve it, not based on your value, you're being given something regardless of who you are, just because you need it."
And I thought that I wanted to do that for my students: to stop rewarding them, to stop making them earn things, to just give to them freely.
And so I thought that was it- that this good feeling came from being given something unconditionally, freely, simply because I needed it.
But when I thought back to what Shundo said, that didn't feel right either. I didn't feel like he had given me something because I needed it. If he had done that, he wouldn't have said that I could return the favor in a different way on another occasion; he would have just given it to me, and asked for nothing in return.
And then I thought about it, and I realized, that he hadn't actually given me anything. He didn't see a need in me and fulfill it. He didn't reward me with toilet paper because I had been generous in the past. He didn't even hand me a roll of toilet paper with no questions asked.
He simply said Here, have it, and be who you are.
And that's when I realized that that toilet paper roll was not a gift, it had not been given.
There are places for gifts in this world. There are places for fulfilling another preson's need. But there is also a beauty and equality, a respect and a love in not giving a gift, in not helping someone, in simply shifting something from one place to another- from one person to another, equally.
All my ancient twisted (sKar)ma
I was thinking about a little person I know, an eight year old, who experienced a pretty serious trauma in her life this year. It was a surprise to everyone, had nothing to do with anything she or her family had done, and after it, she and her family had to kind of just pick up and keep on going.
What I was thinking was that she, like me, will always have this episode in her life. I don't know specifically how it affected her. I don't know what sense she will make of it, but I'm pretty sure that it affected her, kind of shocked her, maybe created some fears in her or some ideas about how the world works.
Part of me was really sad for her, that she had this happen. In some ways, I pictured her being set back, as if she had been injured or handicapped in this journey of life that she is traveling. But part of me saw that she was going to continue to travel; that it was true that this had hapened to her, but that she was still here, she was still living, she was still her. This thing that had happened was part of her now, but as she continued on in her life, this thing that seemed so big (and it was) would get smaller and smaller as she continued away from it.
That was what made me think of scars.
I have a scar on inner right calf, just below my knee. It's from when I was playing on the hill in our back yard and accidentally punctured my leg on a rusty nail that was sticking out of a piece of plywood. It actually wasn't a traumatic event for me. I simply remember pulling my leg off the nail and then walking down the hill to tell my babysitter about it.
The event itself was minor, but the scar it left on my leg was a big announcement. It was thick: a deep red flap of skin that had re- adhered to my body, but had done so in a way that wasn't exactly flush with the rest of my calf. I remember noticing it as I was growing up, the way it stuck up, the way it never seemed to gel with the rest of me, the way it was always there and never smoothed out. It almost had its own identity for most of my childhood.
But I noticed it too as I got older. It began to stretch as I developed calf muscles, and, eventually, it flattened out and became a lighter shade of purple, matching the veins and other workings below my skin. Yet even in its stretched state, even as it has become more like its surroundings, it is still there- it still anounces itself as different and, in turn, announces my right calf as different, as changed, as not-like-everyone-else's calf. But at the same time, it is my calf. It is that calf that had that rusty nail stuck in to it. It's a part of me. It's what happened to me. It will always be there, even though it happened over 30 years ago.
For me, this is karma. Karma is what happens to you. I don't think it's good or bad. I don't think it's the result of something you did or didn't do. There was absolutely no intent in leg meeting that rusty nail. I wasn't playing where I wasn't supposed to, I wasn't "not being safe," my leg just swung over and it met a rusty nail. And forever, I have a scar from it. That event is forever a part of me. It changed me, it changed the actual make up of my inner right calf.
When it first happened, the scar was the big event- it was this big red flap that stood out and drew attention. But as I grew, it started to change, to stretch and fade in color, and maybe began to to bceome a part of my leg, instead of being its own thing.
And it's still there. It's still a part of me. It's really small now, I even had trouble finding it when I was showing it to friends this weekend, but it's there, it's an event, it's part of my life and "how things happened."
I feel like karma is like this too. Things happen to us, they just do. We're living in this world and we interact with it so, things happen. And some of those things, many of those things, scar us- they change us in ways that may be painful, that may leave a mark, that may alter the way we function or the way we see things. But that changing, that altering, isn't a stopping, isn't a determinant, isn't even always necessarily a handicap, it's just an event. And we continue, with that event as part of us.
I understand that there are things that happened to me when I was little. I understand that they are still there, that they will always be there. I can look at them, I can study them, I can notice myself around them and see them more clearly for what they are: a meeting, an event, an episode but they will never go away.
When I first got in to this practice, and started trying to see my suffering, to experience life as it happened rather than trying to change it or avoid it, I think it brought me some relief. I noticed that sometimes, the closer I got to the things that were upsetting me, the smaller they seemed and the more ease that I felt. I think it made me want to come even closer, to study it more. And often, this really helped. Those things that seemed so big, that seemed to utterly control me or create this lens through which I saw everything, really seemed to fade, to shrink, to even go away the more that I studied them.
But then, just around the time that those things seemed to be all teeny and tiny and managed in that corner over there, they would suddenly jump back out again and pounce on me, in my relaxed repose of "self awareness."
I have to admit that I felt totally betrayed by this. "What?! I thought I dealt with this! I thought I saw this. I thought I cried about this, for a week, and in every room possible. How could this possibly be showing up again?" And so I responded by trying to study myself more. I concluded that I hadn't seen this part of the event, that there was still more of it to see, that I just needed to experience this part of my suffering now and that eventually, it would go away too.
But now, I just don't think that's ever going to happen. I think that those events, like the scar on my leg, will always be there. I don't necessarily think that they will jump out and pounce at me- maybe they will, maybe they won't- but I don't expect them to go away anymore. I don't know that I even want them to go away, I mean, I can't have them go away, they already happened. But also, they just are a part of me, they are what-happened-in-my-life, they are my karma: ancient (they already happened) and twisted (how else would you describe the path of events that drew together to create my life).
What I was thinking was that she, like me, will always have this episode in her life. I don't know specifically how it affected her. I don't know what sense she will make of it, but I'm pretty sure that it affected her, kind of shocked her, maybe created some fears in her or some ideas about how the world works.
Part of me was really sad for her, that she had this happen. In some ways, I pictured her being set back, as if she had been injured or handicapped in this journey of life that she is traveling. But part of me saw that she was going to continue to travel; that it was true that this had hapened to her, but that she was still here, she was still living, she was still her. This thing that had happened was part of her now, but as she continued on in her life, this thing that seemed so big (and it was) would get smaller and smaller as she continued away from it.
That was what made me think of scars.
I have a scar on inner right calf, just below my knee. It's from when I was playing on the hill in our back yard and accidentally punctured my leg on a rusty nail that was sticking out of a piece of plywood. It actually wasn't a traumatic event for me. I simply remember pulling my leg off the nail and then walking down the hill to tell my babysitter about it.
The event itself was minor, but the scar it left on my leg was a big announcement. It was thick: a deep red flap of skin that had re- adhered to my body, but had done so in a way that wasn't exactly flush with the rest of my calf. I remember noticing it as I was growing up, the way it stuck up, the way it never seemed to gel with the rest of me, the way it was always there and never smoothed out. It almost had its own identity for most of my childhood.
But I noticed it too as I got older. It began to stretch as I developed calf muscles, and, eventually, it flattened out and became a lighter shade of purple, matching the veins and other workings below my skin. Yet even in its stretched state, even as it has become more like its surroundings, it is still there- it still anounces itself as different and, in turn, announces my right calf as different, as changed, as not-like-everyone-else's calf. But at the same time, it is my calf. It is that calf that had that rusty nail stuck in to it. It's a part of me. It's what happened to me. It will always be there, even though it happened over 30 years ago.
For me, this is karma. Karma is what happens to you. I don't think it's good or bad. I don't think it's the result of something you did or didn't do. There was absolutely no intent in leg meeting that rusty nail. I wasn't playing where I wasn't supposed to, I wasn't "not being safe," my leg just swung over and it met a rusty nail. And forever, I have a scar from it. That event is forever a part of me. It changed me, it changed the actual make up of my inner right calf.
When it first happened, the scar was the big event- it was this big red flap that stood out and drew attention. But as I grew, it started to change, to stretch and fade in color, and maybe began to to bceome a part of my leg, instead of being its own thing.
And it's still there. It's still a part of me. It's really small now, I even had trouble finding it when I was showing it to friends this weekend, but it's there, it's an event, it's part of my life and "how things happened."
I feel like karma is like this too. Things happen to us, they just do. We're living in this world and we interact with it so, things happen. And some of those things, many of those things, scar us- they change us in ways that may be painful, that may leave a mark, that may alter the way we function or the way we see things. But that changing, that altering, isn't a stopping, isn't a determinant, isn't even always necessarily a handicap, it's just an event. And we continue, with that event as part of us.
I understand that there are things that happened to me when I was little. I understand that they are still there, that they will always be there. I can look at them, I can study them, I can notice myself around them and see them more clearly for what they are: a meeting, an event, an episode but they will never go away.
When I first got in to this practice, and started trying to see my suffering, to experience life as it happened rather than trying to change it or avoid it, I think it brought me some relief. I noticed that sometimes, the closer I got to the things that were upsetting me, the smaller they seemed and the more ease that I felt. I think it made me want to come even closer, to study it more. And often, this really helped. Those things that seemed so big, that seemed to utterly control me or create this lens through which I saw everything, really seemed to fade, to shrink, to even go away the more that I studied them.
But then, just around the time that those things seemed to be all teeny and tiny and managed in that corner over there, they would suddenly jump back out again and pounce on me, in my relaxed repose of "self awareness."
I have to admit that I felt totally betrayed by this. "What?! I thought I dealt with this! I thought I saw this. I thought I cried about this, for a week, and in every room possible. How could this possibly be showing up again?" And so I responded by trying to study myself more. I concluded that I hadn't seen this part of the event, that there was still more of it to see, that I just needed to experience this part of my suffering now and that eventually, it would go away too.
But now, I just don't think that's ever going to happen. I think that those events, like the scar on my leg, will always be there. I don't necessarily think that they will jump out and pounce at me- maybe they will, maybe they won't- but I don't expect them to go away anymore. I don't know that I even want them to go away, I mean, I can't have them go away, they already happened. But also, they just are a part of me, they are what-happened-in-my-life, they are my karma: ancient (they already happened) and twisted (how else would you describe the path of events that drew together to create my life).
Want to be more generous? Consider practicing gratitude
Okay, so, not so sure about the format of this post but I'm trying it anyway. Humor me...
Okay, I want you to think of your most favorite food. Maybe it's french fries or chocolate cake or banana cream pie or that special treat that your mom or grandma made for you only on special occasions.
Imagine that you have an abundant portion of this favorite food, all to yourself. Like, you have an entire plate of fries or a whole pie or cake or big ol' steak, just for you.
Now imagine that your worst enemy walks up to you and says, "Wow! Can I have some of that?"
What do you do?
Most likely, you say "sure." You don't think too much about whether or not you want to give it to them because, well, you have an entire pie- what's one little piece gonna do? You're still gonna have enough for yourself so, most likely, you don't mind sharing.
Now I want you to imagine that same treat, but you only have a single portion of it. You only have enough for yourself, and maybe, barely enough for yourself.
Now imagine that your best friend or your lover or someone you really care about walks up to you and says, "That's my absolute favorite treat. I would love a slice of that. Can I have some?"
Now what do you do?
You have to think about it, don't you? For me, I wonder about how much I want the treat; I wonder what it says about me that I have to think about it, I worry that I'm not a very generous person because really, I don't want to share the treat with them, I want the treat, for myself, and if I share it with them, I won't have any for me.
But mostly, I have to think about it.
In the first scenario, I didn't have to think about it, I just gave it away, 'cause I had enough for myself. But when I didn't have enough, when I thought there was a limited supply, I had to consider it, had to outweigh the costs and benefits of sharing, think about myself as a person, consider the consequences of my actions, etc...
And here's where I think gratitiude comes in to play.
I think that when we pay attention to all the things that we have, to all the things that are here for us, to all the little things that exist without us even noticing them, when we draw our attention to these things, we actually start to think that we have an abundance of things. I think that when we practice gratitude, when we shift our attention to what we have or are given instead of what we lack, we lead ourselves into believing that we have an entire pie. And when we believe that we have an entire pie, we just give things away, without thinking. We are just generous, naturally, without even trying. But I think that this generosity is supported by our belief that there is an abundance of things.
I also think that, in truth, we actually are existing in an abundance of things. I think that when we really look at what is around us, how much we actually do have, it isn't so much that we're tricking ourselves into believing that we have an entire pie, it's more like we're finally seeing the entire pie that's been in front of us the whole time.
Maybe it's a stretch but imagine that someone comes up to you, at work, and asks to speak with you, for just five minutes. I'd imagine that my first reponse would be, "No, I'm sorry, but I have a million things to do. I don't actually have five minutes to spend talking with you."
But if I think about how many hours there are in a day and how many things I have to do and how much of that entire day and list of things to do this five minutes of time would actually affect, I realize that five minutes, is nothing. I actually do have five minutes to spare. I just think that I don't because all I can see is the things I have to do and the lack of time I have to do them. But when I look at the abundance of time that there actually is in a day, I see that giving five minutes of my time is like giving a sliver of my pie. And I can do that.
I also think, that if I say yes to that person, if I actually give that person my time, they start to feel like they have a whole pie too. By giving our time or sharing our resources, we are creating the image of abundance for others as well.
Anyway, that's my thoughts, that's my exercise in gratitude and its affect on generosity.
Okay, I want you to think of your most favorite food. Maybe it's french fries or chocolate cake or banana cream pie or that special treat that your mom or grandma made for you only on special occasions.
Imagine that you have an abundant portion of this favorite food, all to yourself. Like, you have an entire plate of fries or a whole pie or cake or big ol' steak, just for you.
Now imagine that your worst enemy walks up to you and says, "Wow! Can I have some of that?"
What do you do?
Most likely, you say "sure." You don't think too much about whether or not you want to give it to them because, well, you have an entire pie- what's one little piece gonna do? You're still gonna have enough for yourself so, most likely, you don't mind sharing.
Now I want you to imagine that same treat, but you only have a single portion of it. You only have enough for yourself, and maybe, barely enough for yourself.
Now imagine that your best friend or your lover or someone you really care about walks up to you and says, "That's my absolute favorite treat. I would love a slice of that. Can I have some?"
Now what do you do?
You have to think about it, don't you? For me, I wonder about how much I want the treat; I wonder what it says about me that I have to think about it, I worry that I'm not a very generous person because really, I don't want to share the treat with them, I want the treat, for myself, and if I share it with them, I won't have any for me.
But mostly, I have to think about it.
In the first scenario, I didn't have to think about it, I just gave it away, 'cause I had enough for myself. But when I didn't have enough, when I thought there was a limited supply, I had to consider it, had to outweigh the costs and benefits of sharing, think about myself as a person, consider the consequences of my actions, etc...
And here's where I think gratitiude comes in to play.
I think that when we pay attention to all the things that we have, to all the things that are here for us, to all the little things that exist without us even noticing them, when we draw our attention to these things, we actually start to think that we have an abundance of things. I think that when we practice gratitude, when we shift our attention to what we have or are given instead of what we lack, we lead ourselves into believing that we have an entire pie. And when we believe that we have an entire pie, we just give things away, without thinking. We are just generous, naturally, without even trying. But I think that this generosity is supported by our belief that there is an abundance of things.
I also think that, in truth, we actually are existing in an abundance of things. I think that when we really look at what is around us, how much we actually do have, it isn't so much that we're tricking ourselves into believing that we have an entire pie, it's more like we're finally seeing the entire pie that's been in front of us the whole time.
Maybe it's a stretch but imagine that someone comes up to you, at work, and asks to speak with you, for just five minutes. I'd imagine that my first reponse would be, "No, I'm sorry, but I have a million things to do. I don't actually have five minutes to spend talking with you."
But if I think about how many hours there are in a day and how many things I have to do and how much of that entire day and list of things to do this five minutes of time would actually affect, I realize that five minutes, is nothing. I actually do have five minutes to spare. I just think that I don't because all I can see is the things I have to do and the lack of time I have to do them. But when I look at the abundance of time that there actually is in a day, I see that giving five minutes of my time is like giving a sliver of my pie. And I can do that.
I also think, that if I say yes to that person, if I actually give that person my time, they start to feel like they have a whole pie too. By giving our time or sharing our resources, we are creating the image of abundance for others as well.
Anyway, that's my thoughts, that's my exercise in gratitude and its affect on generosity.
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