And I mean that in the most mathematical of terms. We... are random. You know how sometimes when you flip a coin a bunch of times it starts off all heads, heads, heads, heads... and you think it's fixed or weighted or something? But then, if you keep flipping it, tails show up every once in a while- or there'll be a long run of tails after that? And you keep flipping and you see that, over time, when you count up all the heads and all the tails it still comes out 50/50?
I think we're like that too. Actually, I'm pretty sure we are; mostly because we are natural beings and, as such, are part of this natural universe and, as such, are just as much a part of the random nature of nature as everyone else is (everyone else being the laws of probability and physics and weather and animals and life and death etc.).
But I think, that because we're actually living this coin toss experiment, I think that because we're in it, we kind of only see the short- term part of the experiment: the all heads in a row, or occasional tails. And I think, we start to use this experience of seeing one pattern or another to believe that there might be a pattern to us, a predicatability to us, an order to us. And, depending on the flip, this idea of a stable or predictable aspect of our future, can either bring us great comfort, or great despair.
But in reality, in the big picture of this all, our behaviors, our personalities, our experiences, our existence I think is pretty much just as random as the coin toss: maybe it will end up 50/ 50 but in the mean time, there's gonna be a bunch of heads and maybe a little tail here and there but all those heads in a row don't actually mean that there's gonna be a bunch of tails in a row after that or the scarcity of tails doesn't mean there isn't going to be a whole mess of tails in the future. Our existence is actually random. As little as I'd like to accept it, I think my experiences are pretty much random.
I'm not saying that I have no agency in this, I'm not saying I have no control over how I live. To me, that's a completely separate issue. What I'm talking about is our expectation (or at least my expectation) that we make sense, that there is an order to us, that who we are or how we act or even how others interact with us follows some logic or pattern or order. I think I want it to, but I think I have to accept that it may not always. I think that when things come up that surprise me, that aren't according to plan, that don't fit with what I thought that person would do, I just need to say "Oh yeah, there it is, there's that random tail in the run of heads. It's not bad, it's not cause for alarm, it's not time for intervention or mid-life crisis, it just is. It's the universe, I'm a part of it, we're all pretty random. But also, in the big big picture of all of this, it's all gonna come out 50/ 50 anyway, I just may not see it because I'm in it.
Wednesday, October 30, 2013
Monday, October 21, 2013
Love yourself, and then watch yourself become lovable
I've been noticing something. I've been noticing what happens when I just love myself. And by 'love myself' I mean: meet myself with acceptance, with acknowledgement, with: "Oh, so that's what you're doing right now."
I've been noticing this most when I am acting in what I would consider a less-than-lovable way. My normal response to this behavior is to get disappointed in myself or try to figure out how to change myself- I basically deny this part of my existence as a part of me and work really hard to get rid of it.
But occasionally, when I am being especially present, I will see a part of me like this and look upon it with kindness, with love, with "Oh, look at you." And the weirdest thing happens. It's like I look up from this place in which I am cowered and hiding and hoping that no one will find me and I see someone smiling at me, encouraging me, and I think, "That's it? I'm okay? You mean you don't hate me?"
And in the past, I would have thought that if I were met with this- with acceptance and love- that it would encourage the "bad" behavior in me, that I would go right back to what I was doing that was so unlovable. But instead that face- of acceptance and kindness- draws me out of that cowering place, out of hiding, toward whoever that person is who is smiling.
And then two things seem to happen: first, that behavior, that I was convinced totally defined me as a person, that would only go away if I worked really hard on it, is gone. It's like it was just an event, instead of who I am, forever.
And then the second thing is that I actually want to act in a way that harmonizes with that person who is encouraging me. I don't actually want to be that person who I was being before. But instead of trying to will that "bad" person out of me, I have this feeling that I can walk away from it, leave it there, just drop it, instead of trying so hard to make it go away.
I'm a teacher- so this relationship of noticing behaviors and trying to change them, is a really big part of what I do... all day long. I have little ones who shout out things like "You don't know that?!" when someone says the wrong answer, who take granola bars that belong to others and then lie about it, and who run to the front of line even though they totally know that 'you can't cut!"
I want them to stop these behaviors because I want them to be accepted by their friends. I want others to see that this is not all that they are. I want their sweet selves to be what everyone else in class sees, not this somewhat self- centered mode of thinking that pisses everyone off.
So I work really hard to come up with ways to discourage these behaviors, to keep them from happening again. And, to be honest, the most common way that I do this is to punish the behavior- provide consequences for the behavior that are unpleasant so that when the child thinks about doing it again, they will avoid doing it to avoid these consequences.
But now I don't think that's really all that effective. Because when I think about myself, how I respond to getting mad at myself, to being disappointed in my behavior, to focusing only on changing myself to avoid that in the future- I see myself as this person, in this corner, focused only on how bad I am. I am stuck in that place of being a bad person and all I can seem to do is focus on how bad I am. I don't see anything good in myself and don't really have any place to go other than just "Bad you! Bad you!" So I just stay there, and hope it doesn't happen again. I might try to imagine future scenarios or come up with strategies to control myself next time but until that situation happens again, I can't really do anything about it.
And then I compare myself to when I was met with kindness- and it's a totally different ball game. The ickiness that I feel about myself for doing what I've done is still there, but when I look up, instead of being met with further rejection and confirmation that, in fact, I am a bad person, I am met with this look of "You're okay. We still love you. We get it- it was a bummer... and,,, we still love you."
And that changes everything. It's like it's over. It's like there's hope for other things. It's like I might be able to be someone else. And that encourages me to let go of who I was, helps me to see that I am that and I am other things too- that there is a world of possibilities of who I am and that when I try them, I will still be okay. And that makes me want to go forward, to come out of that place of "badness," to move on to being whoever it is that I am next.
I've been noticing this most when I am acting in what I would consider a less-than-lovable way. My normal response to this behavior is to get disappointed in myself or try to figure out how to change myself- I basically deny this part of my existence as a part of me and work really hard to get rid of it.
But occasionally, when I am being especially present, I will see a part of me like this and look upon it with kindness, with love, with "Oh, look at you." And the weirdest thing happens. It's like I look up from this place in which I am cowered and hiding and hoping that no one will find me and I see someone smiling at me, encouraging me, and I think, "That's it? I'm okay? You mean you don't hate me?"
And in the past, I would have thought that if I were met with this- with acceptance and love- that it would encourage the "bad" behavior in me, that I would go right back to what I was doing that was so unlovable. But instead that face- of acceptance and kindness- draws me out of that cowering place, out of hiding, toward whoever that person is who is smiling.
And then two things seem to happen: first, that behavior, that I was convinced totally defined me as a person, that would only go away if I worked really hard on it, is gone. It's like it was just an event, instead of who I am, forever.
And then the second thing is that I actually want to act in a way that harmonizes with that person who is encouraging me. I don't actually want to be that person who I was being before. But instead of trying to will that "bad" person out of me, I have this feeling that I can walk away from it, leave it there, just drop it, instead of trying so hard to make it go away.
I'm a teacher- so this relationship of noticing behaviors and trying to change them, is a really big part of what I do... all day long. I have little ones who shout out things like "You don't know that?!" when someone says the wrong answer, who take granola bars that belong to others and then lie about it, and who run to the front of line even though they totally know that 'you can't cut!"
I want them to stop these behaviors because I want them to be accepted by their friends. I want others to see that this is not all that they are. I want their sweet selves to be what everyone else in class sees, not this somewhat self- centered mode of thinking that pisses everyone off.
So I work really hard to come up with ways to discourage these behaviors, to keep them from happening again. And, to be honest, the most common way that I do this is to punish the behavior- provide consequences for the behavior that are unpleasant so that when the child thinks about doing it again, they will avoid doing it to avoid these consequences.
But now I don't think that's really all that effective. Because when I think about myself, how I respond to getting mad at myself, to being disappointed in my behavior, to focusing only on changing myself to avoid that in the future- I see myself as this person, in this corner, focused only on how bad I am. I am stuck in that place of being a bad person and all I can seem to do is focus on how bad I am. I don't see anything good in myself and don't really have any place to go other than just "Bad you! Bad you!" So I just stay there, and hope it doesn't happen again. I might try to imagine future scenarios or come up with strategies to control myself next time but until that situation happens again, I can't really do anything about it.
And then I compare myself to when I was met with kindness- and it's a totally different ball game. The ickiness that I feel about myself for doing what I've done is still there, but when I look up, instead of being met with further rejection and confirmation that, in fact, I am a bad person, I am met with this look of "You're okay. We still love you. We get it- it was a bummer... and,,, we still love you."
And that changes everything. It's like it's over. It's like there's hope for other things. It's like I might be able to be someone else. And that encourages me to let go of who I was, helps me to see that I am that and I am other things too- that there is a world of possibilities of who I am and that when I try them, I will still be okay. And that makes me want to go forward, to come out of that place of "badness," to move on to being whoever it is that I am next.
Monday, October 14, 2013
You can't feel your thoughts
I was baking, thinking about someone I knew and had just hung out with. As I thought about them, I tried to feel how I was feeling, to see if I could kind of figure out how I really felt about them, what might be going on between us.
And it was the weirdest thing- I couldn't feel my feelings for them. I tried to notice where in my body I was feeling what I was thinking. I tried to tap into the gut response I was having to this person, but there was nothing. The thoughts I was having about this person were nowhere in my body.
And I pictured them (my thoughts), kind of floating around inside my head, but just at the top, right below my scalp, but nowhere else could I actually feel them.
"No way!" I thought to myself. "These aren't feelings! I'm not actually having feelings for this person, I'm having thoughts! And the way that I know that is because I can't feel them. You can't feel your thoughts in your body, that's how you know that they're just thoughts, not reality...this is so cool!"
And so then I focused on my body, on just feeling the body in front of me, and I watched as my hand opened the pantry door and grabbed some sugar. And then I watched as I washed my hands in the sink. And then I watched as I dried my hands on the towel and I saw the wrinkles on my hands and the workings of my fingers and thumb together and I saw how physical and human I really am and then I thought, "Ooooh, creepy, I don't like this. Discomfort, discomfort, discomfort. Aversion, aversion- quick....aversion!"
And I can't remember what I thought about next but I promptly moved away from being in my body 'cause it was just too weird, too truthful to accept that I'm just a body: just hands and fingers manipulating objects.
And then I went on with my baking.
But still, it's pretty cool. If you're not sure whether or not you're making things up, whether it's you who's creating your reality or whether you're experiencing reality, try feeling it. Chances are, if you can't feel it anywhere, it's just a thought. Although, who knows? Maybe the things we feel in our body are brought on by thoughts so maybe they're made up too but still, it sure seems like if you can't actually feel it, if you can't actually physically experience it, it's not really happening, or, at least, it's only happening inside your head.
And it was the weirdest thing- I couldn't feel my feelings for them. I tried to notice where in my body I was feeling what I was thinking. I tried to tap into the gut response I was having to this person, but there was nothing. The thoughts I was having about this person were nowhere in my body.
And I pictured them (my thoughts), kind of floating around inside my head, but just at the top, right below my scalp, but nowhere else could I actually feel them.
"No way!" I thought to myself. "These aren't feelings! I'm not actually having feelings for this person, I'm having thoughts! And the way that I know that is because I can't feel them. You can't feel your thoughts in your body, that's how you know that they're just thoughts, not reality...this is so cool!"
And so then I focused on my body, on just feeling the body in front of me, and I watched as my hand opened the pantry door and grabbed some sugar. And then I watched as I washed my hands in the sink. And then I watched as I dried my hands on the towel and I saw the wrinkles on my hands and the workings of my fingers and thumb together and I saw how physical and human I really am and then I thought, "Ooooh, creepy, I don't like this. Discomfort, discomfort, discomfort. Aversion, aversion- quick....aversion!"
And I can't remember what I thought about next but I promptly moved away from being in my body 'cause it was just too weird, too truthful to accept that I'm just a body: just hands and fingers manipulating objects.
And then I went on with my baking.
But still, it's pretty cool. If you're not sure whether or not you're making things up, whether it's you who's creating your reality or whether you're experiencing reality, try feeling it. Chances are, if you can't feel it anywhere, it's just a thought. Although, who knows? Maybe the things we feel in our body are brought on by thoughts so maybe they're made up too but still, it sure seems like if you can't actually feel it, if you can't actually physically experience it, it's not really happening, or, at least, it's only happening inside your head.
Saturday, October 12, 2013
The comfort of blame
My room mate was frying chicken and after he finished, I offered him the glass jar that I had used earlier that morning to collect bacon fat.
"That's okay," he said.
"But what do you do with the fat?" I asked him.
"It's okay," he explained. "It's just olive oil, not fat, so it's fine to send down the sink."
This thoroughly confused me. In my head, it didn't matter what kind of oil it was, all oil went down the sink as a liquid and then turned to solid and clogged your pipes. Bacon fat and olive oil were the same in terms of the whole liquid to solid changeability. Liquid bacon fat seemed to me to be the same as liquid olive oil. But I trusted my room mate on this one, decided that fat was different from oil, somehow, and let it go, until...the next day.
The next day, I was doing dishes and the drain filled with water instead of running down nicely.
"See!" I exclaimed. "Olive oil does clog the pipes. I'm not totally crazy (and my room mate doesn't know what he's talking about)."
And I noticed that I had great delight in watching the sink clog.
"That's weird," I said to myself. "You're happy that the sink is clogged. That's really weird."
And at first I thought I was happy because my room mate was wrong. But then I felt what I was feeling and it wasn't self righteousness, it was settled, it was safe, it was that things made sense.
And then I realized two things.
Having the sink clog was comforting to me because it confirmed my experience with hot liquids turning to cold solids, no matter what kind of fat or oil they were.
But the other thing was that I had a reason for the sink to be clogged- and that was comforting to me.
See, I think we like to believe that things happen for a reason. I think we like to believe that there is a cause and effect to things because if there is, then we have some agency in this life, some control, some way of determining or at least having an idea of the future or how things work in this place we call living.
But the truth of it is that we are random beings living in a random universe and, though we want to believe that there are patterns or direct consequences to our actions, that's not always true. The only actual truth is that we are subject to the same physical laws of the universe that everyone else is (including the sun, moon, ocean, plants, animals, etc.).
But when things happen that we don't like, or that aren't what we expected, it's kind of nice to be able to blame it on someone or some thing. When we do, it gives us this feeling that things happen for a reason, that there is a relationship between what we do and how things happen, that we actually have some control over our lives and that if we could just change that one thing (that we blamed it on) we can keep it from happening again.
I don't know, maybe this isn't true, but it feels like that's the reason we blame events on people or things- it reassures that that there is an order to things, that we can keep things from happening in one way or another, that there is a factor that is in our control.
"That's okay," he said.
"But what do you do with the fat?" I asked him.
"It's okay," he explained. "It's just olive oil, not fat, so it's fine to send down the sink."
This thoroughly confused me. In my head, it didn't matter what kind of oil it was, all oil went down the sink as a liquid and then turned to solid and clogged your pipes. Bacon fat and olive oil were the same in terms of the whole liquid to solid changeability. Liquid bacon fat seemed to me to be the same as liquid olive oil. But I trusted my room mate on this one, decided that fat was different from oil, somehow, and let it go, until...the next day.
The next day, I was doing dishes and the drain filled with water instead of running down nicely.
"See!" I exclaimed. "Olive oil does clog the pipes. I'm not totally crazy (and my room mate doesn't know what he's talking about)."
And I noticed that I had great delight in watching the sink clog.
"That's weird," I said to myself. "You're happy that the sink is clogged. That's really weird."
And at first I thought I was happy because my room mate was wrong. But then I felt what I was feeling and it wasn't self righteousness, it was settled, it was safe, it was that things made sense.
And then I realized two things.
Having the sink clog was comforting to me because it confirmed my experience with hot liquids turning to cold solids, no matter what kind of fat or oil they were.
But the other thing was that I had a reason for the sink to be clogged- and that was comforting to me.
See, I think we like to believe that things happen for a reason. I think we like to believe that there is a cause and effect to things because if there is, then we have some agency in this life, some control, some way of determining or at least having an idea of the future or how things work in this place we call living.
But the truth of it is that we are random beings living in a random universe and, though we want to believe that there are patterns or direct consequences to our actions, that's not always true. The only actual truth is that we are subject to the same physical laws of the universe that everyone else is (including the sun, moon, ocean, plants, animals, etc.).
But when things happen that we don't like, or that aren't what we expected, it's kind of nice to be able to blame it on someone or some thing. When we do, it gives us this feeling that things happen for a reason, that there is a relationship between what we do and how things happen, that we actually have some control over our lives and that if we could just change that one thing (that we blamed it on) we can keep it from happening again.
I don't know, maybe this isn't true, but it feels like that's the reason we blame events on people or things- it reassures that that there is an order to things, that we can keep things from happening in one way or another, that there is a factor that is in our control.
Bacon
I had the most interesting experience with bacon tonight. Actually, it was prosciutto, but it's the same idea.
Tonight I was making a recipe that involved, basically, sautéing onions and mushrooms and then simmering them in wine and then tossing them with bacon (or prosciutto) and pasta. When I read the recipe, I considered omitting the bacon because often I find that the meat in recipes isn't where the flavor is, it's the sauce or fixings that I like, so cutting out the meat doesn't really affect the flavor. But then I looked at the recipe and realized that it was only 3 ounces of prosciutto, and I love prosciutto, so I decided to keep it in there instead.
I started sautéing the onions and mushrooms, added the wine, and set it on its long simmering (40 minutes). Then I went about the business of boiling the water for the pasta and frying up the prosciutto. But a funny thing happened when I peeled back the corner of the plastic container: it didn't smell right. I smelled it again, checked the label to make sure it was prosciutto, and then smelled it one more time.
"Yep, that's familiar," I said to myself. "That actually is what prosciutto smells like, but it doesn't smell the same anymore."
And I thought to myself, "Well, what does it smell like, if it doesn't smell like it used to?"
And what I answered was: "Flesh and meat."
And then I read the ingredients and it said: pork and salt and spices. And I thought, "Yep, that's pretty much what I smell."
And that bummed me out.
See, this is what prosciutto normally smells like to me:
thin slivers of salty meat- just enough flavor to make a sandwich- on really good bread with some tasty mild cheese.
Or, in other words, my three weeks spent in Northern Italy where I could actually order a sandwich that was just bread, meat, and cheese; not all that other stuff that I've always hated about sandwiches: mustard and mayonnaise and icky lunch meat piled too high on blechy bread.
It also smelled like:
Salty wrappers that you bite through to get to mango or watermelon or some other juicy fruit.
Or, in other words, the first time that I made a recipe for friends (prosciutto wrapped mango) that was actually good, and kinda fancy.
And I have to say that as I fried up the prosciutto, it definitely did NOT smell like bacon, the way I had hoped it would. It didn't smell like my grandma's house on a Sunday morning, before church, when we would be treated to homemade krullers with powdered sugar or thin crepes filled with grape jelly.
What it smelled like was meat, and fat, cooking. And honestly, what it felt like, was a pig, being cooked, for me to eat.
Now, don't get me wrong. I have no problem with the smell of blood as it is released from a burger frying in a pan. I also have no problem with the smell of bacon fat, as it sizzles away from those delicious shrinky-dinks of goodness we refer to as cooked bacon. Honestly, I have no problem with those smells. In fact, I love those smells. Those smells remind me of outdoor barbeques, leisurely mornings with friends in the kitchen, and, honestly, get- togethers with cousins, aunts, and uncles (we rarely had bacon or burgers at my house, for no reason other than the fact that we had sausages and steak instead).
But tonight, I didn't have those associations. All I had was the actual smell of raw prosciutto. And then all I had was the smell of cooking prosciutto.
I'm assuming this was because all I was focused on was the thing in front of me; that I was aware not of my thoughts and associations with the food that I was preparing but instead of the actual food in front of me: pork and salt and spices.
Bummer.
Prosciutto is nowhere near as delicious when it is pork and salt and spices as it is when it is all the memories and events that I associate with it.
Also, I can see now why people would want to be vegetarian. I can see why people wouldn't want to eat dead animals. They just don't taste all that good when that's what you're eating.
Tonight I was making a recipe that involved, basically, sautéing onions and mushrooms and then simmering them in wine and then tossing them with bacon (or prosciutto) and pasta. When I read the recipe, I considered omitting the bacon because often I find that the meat in recipes isn't where the flavor is, it's the sauce or fixings that I like, so cutting out the meat doesn't really affect the flavor. But then I looked at the recipe and realized that it was only 3 ounces of prosciutto, and I love prosciutto, so I decided to keep it in there instead.
I started sautéing the onions and mushrooms, added the wine, and set it on its long simmering (40 minutes). Then I went about the business of boiling the water for the pasta and frying up the prosciutto. But a funny thing happened when I peeled back the corner of the plastic container: it didn't smell right. I smelled it again, checked the label to make sure it was prosciutto, and then smelled it one more time.
"Yep, that's familiar," I said to myself. "That actually is what prosciutto smells like, but it doesn't smell the same anymore."
And I thought to myself, "Well, what does it smell like, if it doesn't smell like it used to?"
And what I answered was: "Flesh and meat."
And then I read the ingredients and it said: pork and salt and spices. And I thought, "Yep, that's pretty much what I smell."
And that bummed me out.
See, this is what prosciutto normally smells like to me:
thin slivers of salty meat- just enough flavor to make a sandwich- on really good bread with some tasty mild cheese.
Or, in other words, my three weeks spent in Northern Italy where I could actually order a sandwich that was just bread, meat, and cheese; not all that other stuff that I've always hated about sandwiches: mustard and mayonnaise and icky lunch meat piled too high on blechy bread.
It also smelled like:
Salty wrappers that you bite through to get to mango or watermelon or some other juicy fruit.
Or, in other words, the first time that I made a recipe for friends (prosciutto wrapped mango) that was actually good, and kinda fancy.
And I have to say that as I fried up the prosciutto, it definitely did NOT smell like bacon, the way I had hoped it would. It didn't smell like my grandma's house on a Sunday morning, before church, when we would be treated to homemade krullers with powdered sugar or thin crepes filled with grape jelly.
What it smelled like was meat, and fat, cooking. And honestly, what it felt like, was a pig, being cooked, for me to eat.
Now, don't get me wrong. I have no problem with the smell of blood as it is released from a burger frying in a pan. I also have no problem with the smell of bacon fat, as it sizzles away from those delicious shrinky-dinks of goodness we refer to as cooked bacon. Honestly, I have no problem with those smells. In fact, I love those smells. Those smells remind me of outdoor barbeques, leisurely mornings with friends in the kitchen, and, honestly, get- togethers with cousins, aunts, and uncles (we rarely had bacon or burgers at my house, for no reason other than the fact that we had sausages and steak instead).
But tonight, I didn't have those associations. All I had was the actual smell of raw prosciutto. And then all I had was the smell of cooking prosciutto.
I'm assuming this was because all I was focused on was the thing in front of me; that I was aware not of my thoughts and associations with the food that I was preparing but instead of the actual food in front of me: pork and salt and spices.
Bummer.
Prosciutto is nowhere near as delicious when it is pork and salt and spices as it is when it is all the memories and events that I associate with it.
Also, I can see now why people would want to be vegetarian. I can see why people wouldn't want to eat dead animals. They just don't taste all that good when that's what you're eating.
Zen love
As I was walking to work this morning, I was thinking that what I really wanted to do was make my friend feel better. It wasn't that I didn't want to go to work, it was just that if I could have done anything, it would have been to do things that would somehow make things less painful for her or that would make her smile.
Then I thought about the fact that I make brownies and baked goods for people, a lot. And then I thought about the fact that my dad baked us a cake on our birthday and that my brother and I made chocolate pudding when we were growing up and I thought that maybe that was why I baked so much for my friends- that baking was how I showed my love for them.
And then I thought that was kind of sad- that baking was how I showed love- and that maybe I should stop that. But then I thought that this was the way that I did show love, feeble as it may be- and that this was the way that I do things.
And then I thought about loving others, and how sometimes that's hard for me, and I pictured myself just trying to love others, and all the fear and rejection I feel around it.
And as I saw this image- of myself attempting to love and pulling back- I saw that all I really wanted to do, was love.
And then I thought that was lame- that my fulfillment of self was to love others- and I watched as my reaching-out-to-love-others self shrunk back into itself.
And that's when I noticed that it wasn't others' rejection of me that was stifling me, it wasn't fear of abandonment, or being left, or being alone. It was me not letting myself love others that was causing me suffering. All I really want to do is love others, actually be free to love them.
And it was funny, because nothing in all of this involved being loved back. In my image of myself wanting to love others, I didn't picture being loved or embraced or being in a relationship. I simply pictured myself being able to love someone, to actually express my fondness and affection for them.
And then I pictured myself doing this, loving them freely, loving them at will, loving them as an expression of my feelings, not with any other intention in mind. And I also pictured their reaction to me- which was a bit awkward- but I just laughed, and did it anyway, and noticed how good that felt.
And that's when I saw how this was unconditional love- the expression of love, not the receipt or engagement or relationship of love- but one actually expressing their love to someone- without any expectation of anything in return because it isn't about them and their reaction, it's about you and your expression.
I thought about how in the past, I had had so much suffering around love- because it wasn't romantic, because it wasn't reciprocated, because it wasn't the kind of love that I wanted or didn't illicit the response that I was hoping for. My focus on love had been what I would get in return and so I had calculated my love, evaluated it, modified it or stifled it to make sure that it was pleasant and well received. But in doing this, I was keeping myself from freely expressing my love, and that was what was causing me the suffering: the monitoring, labeling, and controlling of my love. What had brought me joy was the times when I had stopped trying so hard to love someone and just let myself love them how I loved them, regardless of their reaction. When I gave in, and accepted that I loved them, regardless of how they felt about me, that's when I was fine and free and myself and happy.
So I think this is zen love. Zen love is the expression of love, in whatever form it takes. Zen love is broad and changing and little and big. It is free, without boundaries or definitions or labels. It is what it is in that moment and it is true because it is simply an expression of ourselves- a manifestation of our hearts, of our deep desire to love others, however it is that we do that.
Then I thought about the fact that I make brownies and baked goods for people, a lot. And then I thought about the fact that my dad baked us a cake on our birthday and that my brother and I made chocolate pudding when we were growing up and I thought that maybe that was why I baked so much for my friends- that baking was how I showed my love for them.
And then I thought that was kind of sad- that baking was how I showed love- and that maybe I should stop that. But then I thought that this was the way that I did show love, feeble as it may be- and that this was the way that I do things.
And then I thought about loving others, and how sometimes that's hard for me, and I pictured myself just trying to love others, and all the fear and rejection I feel around it.
And as I saw this image- of myself attempting to love and pulling back- I saw that all I really wanted to do, was love.
And then I thought that was lame- that my fulfillment of self was to love others- and I watched as my reaching-out-to-love-others self shrunk back into itself.
And that's when I noticed that it wasn't others' rejection of me that was stifling me, it wasn't fear of abandonment, or being left, or being alone. It was me not letting myself love others that was causing me suffering. All I really want to do is love others, actually be free to love them.
And it was funny, because nothing in all of this involved being loved back. In my image of myself wanting to love others, I didn't picture being loved or embraced or being in a relationship. I simply pictured myself being able to love someone, to actually express my fondness and affection for them.
And then I pictured myself doing this, loving them freely, loving them at will, loving them as an expression of my feelings, not with any other intention in mind. And I also pictured their reaction to me- which was a bit awkward- but I just laughed, and did it anyway, and noticed how good that felt.
And that's when I saw how this was unconditional love- the expression of love, not the receipt or engagement or relationship of love- but one actually expressing their love to someone- without any expectation of anything in return because it isn't about them and their reaction, it's about you and your expression.
I thought about how in the past, I had had so much suffering around love- because it wasn't romantic, because it wasn't reciprocated, because it wasn't the kind of love that I wanted or didn't illicit the response that I was hoping for. My focus on love had been what I would get in return and so I had calculated my love, evaluated it, modified it or stifled it to make sure that it was pleasant and well received. But in doing this, I was keeping myself from freely expressing my love, and that was what was causing me the suffering: the monitoring, labeling, and controlling of my love. What had brought me joy was the times when I had stopped trying so hard to love someone and just let myself love them how I loved them, regardless of their reaction. When I gave in, and accepted that I loved them, regardless of how they felt about me, that's when I was fine and free and myself and happy.
So I think this is zen love. Zen love is the expression of love, in whatever form it takes. Zen love is broad and changing and little and big. It is free, without boundaries or definitions or labels. It is what it is in that moment and it is true because it is simply an expression of ourselves- a manifestation of our hearts, of our deep desire to love others, however it is that we do that.
This stuff is weird
This morning, I was doing Nenju; which meant that I was walking around in a circle, bent at a ninety degree ankle, in my socks, on tatami mats, in front of a statue of Budhha- ha!
About two thirds of my way around the circle, I pictured one of my friends walking up the steps of the zen center, peering in the door of the Budhha hall, and seeing me do this. I also pictured myself, as I was doing this, and I thought to myself: "This is weird."
And I kept walking around the circle, and could feel the stiffness in my back as I maintained a "bowed" position and I thought to myself: "You're right. This is weird. This is completely foreign to you. This is not something you grew up doing. This is not something you have done for most of your life. This is not something you see others doing. It is, honestly, weird to you, as in: foreign, as in: different, as in: unfamiliar. "
And that's when I realized that "weird" was just a description. "Weird" was just a term for foreign or unfamiliar or different and that I was being accurate when I called it weird. And this accuracy was the truth of the matter- this practice actually is weird to me, but "weird" isn't bad or good.
See, in the past when I noticed how "weird" this practice was to me, I had judgment attached to weird. I had fears of rejection, of association with something foreign, of evaluation of less than because it was different from the mainstream. And so "weird" was scary for me, off putting for me, unsettling for me. Every time I would look at myself doing the "weird" parts of this practice, I would freak out and start to think there was something wrong or scary about what I was doing. Fortunately, it wasn't enough to make me stop but it definitely sent me in a tailspin many a time and lead me to hide certain parts of my practice or omit them when I talked about what I do at the zen center.
But this morning, I just saw it for what it was: foreign, unfamiliar, different. That's all.
And for some reason, that helped. It made me see it for what it was: me, bowing, as I walked around in a circle. Me, bowing, as I came to a statue of Buddha. Me, bowing to the feet and socks of others, in gratitude, for their existence.
This is not familiar, this is not "normal," but this is what I'm doing.
About two thirds of my way around the circle, I pictured one of my friends walking up the steps of the zen center, peering in the door of the Budhha hall, and seeing me do this. I also pictured myself, as I was doing this, and I thought to myself: "This is weird."
And I kept walking around the circle, and could feel the stiffness in my back as I maintained a "bowed" position and I thought to myself: "You're right. This is weird. This is completely foreign to you. This is not something you grew up doing. This is not something you have done for most of your life. This is not something you see others doing. It is, honestly, weird to you, as in: foreign, as in: different, as in: unfamiliar. "
And that's when I realized that "weird" was just a description. "Weird" was just a term for foreign or unfamiliar or different and that I was being accurate when I called it weird. And this accuracy was the truth of the matter- this practice actually is weird to me, but "weird" isn't bad or good.
See, in the past when I noticed how "weird" this practice was to me, I had judgment attached to weird. I had fears of rejection, of association with something foreign, of evaluation of less than because it was different from the mainstream. And so "weird" was scary for me, off putting for me, unsettling for me. Every time I would look at myself doing the "weird" parts of this practice, I would freak out and start to think there was something wrong or scary about what I was doing. Fortunately, it wasn't enough to make me stop but it definitely sent me in a tailspin many a time and lead me to hide certain parts of my practice or omit them when I talked about what I do at the zen center.
But this morning, I just saw it for what it was: foreign, unfamiliar, different. That's all.
And for some reason, that helped. It made me see it for what it was: me, bowing, as I walked around in a circle. Me, bowing, as I came to a statue of Buddha. Me, bowing to the feet and socks of others, in gratitude, for their existence.
This is not familiar, this is not "normal," but this is what I'm doing.
Sunday, October 6, 2013
It's the thoughts that make you lonely
It turns out that thoughts, can make you lonely. I was surprised by this. See, in my experience, my thoughts keep me company. For a long time now, it's been my thoughts, the voices inside my head, the rationalizations that have made me feel better. If I were upset or confused or feeling bad, I could soothe myself with my thoughts- tell myself I had learned something from the situation, think about how I could make it better, tell myself it wasn't as bad as it seemed. But recently, as I was sitting in zazen during a one-day sit, I realized that my thoughts were separating me from the people right there in the room. You know when you find yourself feeling lonely in a room full of people? That's what was happening to me.
It was the last part of the sit, the marathon zazen in the afternoon: zazen, kinhin, zazen, knhin, zazen, kinhin.... it's the worst! And it's right after tea so you're all sleepy and there's nothing to distract you from all this sitting... Anyway, I found myself imagining what treat I would have when I got home from my one day sit and I knew that meant that I was getting lonely. I thought it was pretty weird that I was getting lonely when I had spent the day in a one day sit, surrounded by people. So then I thought it was because I was thinking about going home and so that was making me lonely. But that didn't feel right either, it felt like I was lonely, right there and then.
So then I did what was suggested in the dharma talk that morning: focus on right now, right here, and all of a sudden, I could feel the person sitting next to me. And then I started to feel all the people in the room, and I realized I was in a room with all these people, and that we all were sitting together, and I actually felt connected, not so alone anymore. I didn't exactly feel better, I still had to sit there with all the stuff that I was afraid of coming up, but I definitely didn't feel alone anymore.
And then, during service, when we were bowing, I noticed how I was labeling people- how I was noticing who was and wasn't doing full prostrations, who was bowing from their spot, who needed a chant card, who didn't, and then I paused myself, stopped the thoughts and suddenly all of us were chanting together, all of us were bowing together, I was suddenly part of a group of people, doing this together.
It's not some panacea or cure all, this notion that thoughts separate us, but it's enough of a noticing to make me not necessarily turn to my thoughts when I'm bummed out or wanting to avoid the situation. It's enough of an awareness that I might want to turn to the moment in front of me, instead of somewhere else.
It was the last part of the sit, the marathon zazen in the afternoon: zazen, kinhin, zazen, knhin, zazen, kinhin.... it's the worst! And it's right after tea so you're all sleepy and there's nothing to distract you from all this sitting... Anyway, I found myself imagining what treat I would have when I got home from my one day sit and I knew that meant that I was getting lonely. I thought it was pretty weird that I was getting lonely when I had spent the day in a one day sit, surrounded by people. So then I thought it was because I was thinking about going home and so that was making me lonely. But that didn't feel right either, it felt like I was lonely, right there and then.
So then I did what was suggested in the dharma talk that morning: focus on right now, right here, and all of a sudden, I could feel the person sitting next to me. And then I started to feel all the people in the room, and I realized I was in a room with all these people, and that we all were sitting together, and I actually felt connected, not so alone anymore. I didn't exactly feel better, I still had to sit there with all the stuff that I was afraid of coming up, but I definitely didn't feel alone anymore.
And then, during service, when we were bowing, I noticed how I was labeling people- how I was noticing who was and wasn't doing full prostrations, who was bowing from their spot, who needed a chant card, who didn't, and then I paused myself, stopped the thoughts and suddenly all of us were chanting together, all of us were bowing together, I was suddenly part of a group of people, doing this together.
It's not some panacea or cure all, this notion that thoughts separate us, but it's enough of a noticing to make me not necessarily turn to my thoughts when I'm bummed out or wanting to avoid the situation. It's enough of an awareness that I might want to turn to the moment in front of me, instead of somewhere else.
The trampoline of delusion, the comfy couch of reality
I was noticing how unsettled I was when, shortly after talking to someone, I started having ideas and thoughts about them. I noticed how it kind of put me in a tizzy to think these things about this person, even though they were pleasant ideas: fantasies and idolizations and images of perfect harmony. It kind of amped me up and got me excited but in a precarious way, like being bounced on a trampoline, never being able to settle in one place.
And then, moments later, I reflected on the actual interaction I had had with the person, only 15 minutes prior, and how settled that felt- how calm, safe, and almost nurtured or tender our interaction had been. It had been a minor interaction, a simple asking of how are you and a response of how I was. But in my response, I had been real. I simply answered how I was- not how I could be that might be entertaining to this person, not how I thought they wanted me to be, not how I was that would keep our conversation going or to start a relationship between us; just an honest answer of this is how I am right now. And that, that "mundane" response to a basic question, turned out to be quite sweet, safe, and tender- like a comfy couch or armchair.
And I thought about this- about why the pleasant delusion was unsettling while the actual apparent "boring" reality was calm and settled and it occurred to me that delusions... are never finished and delusions... aren't real. Delusions are made up- they're in your head, they're floating around in this uneven bouncy landscape of whatever you decide to make up or change to suit your fancy. They're kind of all over the place, which is nice when you want to avoid unpleasant things, but at the same time, they are, literally, unsettling. Delusions aren't actually grounded in any reality or firm place- they change on your whim and desire and so they're really unsettled.
An actual interaction, however, has a beginning, a middle, an end (not a beginning, middle, end per se, but they're actual moments in time). They involve another person and kind of have to follow the rules of their reality, of your dynamic together, of who you each are. They're grounded in something, they have to follow the rules of the world we live in because they aren't made up, they're real.
And I find this really interesting. I never thought I would find comfort and security in reality and I never thought I would feel unsettled by delusions. But it's what happened, and I'm grateful for it. Because in the end, I'm finding pleasure in my actual interaction with another- and that's really nice. Because what I've wanted all along was to have an actual interaction, to have a relationship that is grounded, safe, that I could rely on to always be there. And I know that I can never have a relationship that will always be there, that will never change. But I do see now that it's the truth of the interaction- not the content or nature of our interaction- just the experiencing of it, the groundedness of actually being together, truly and honestly, that makes it calm and close and sweet.
And then, moments later, I reflected on the actual interaction I had had with the person, only 15 minutes prior, and how settled that felt- how calm, safe, and almost nurtured or tender our interaction had been. It had been a minor interaction, a simple asking of how are you and a response of how I was. But in my response, I had been real. I simply answered how I was- not how I could be that might be entertaining to this person, not how I thought they wanted me to be, not how I was that would keep our conversation going or to start a relationship between us; just an honest answer of this is how I am right now. And that, that "mundane" response to a basic question, turned out to be quite sweet, safe, and tender- like a comfy couch or armchair.
And I thought about this- about why the pleasant delusion was unsettling while the actual apparent "boring" reality was calm and settled and it occurred to me that delusions... are never finished and delusions... aren't real. Delusions are made up- they're in your head, they're floating around in this uneven bouncy landscape of whatever you decide to make up or change to suit your fancy. They're kind of all over the place, which is nice when you want to avoid unpleasant things, but at the same time, they are, literally, unsettling. Delusions aren't actually grounded in any reality or firm place- they change on your whim and desire and so they're really unsettled.
An actual interaction, however, has a beginning, a middle, an end (not a beginning, middle, end per se, but they're actual moments in time). They involve another person and kind of have to follow the rules of their reality, of your dynamic together, of who you each are. They're grounded in something, they have to follow the rules of the world we live in because they aren't made up, they're real.
And I find this really interesting. I never thought I would find comfort and security in reality and I never thought I would feel unsettled by delusions. But it's what happened, and I'm grateful for it. Because in the end, I'm finding pleasure in my actual interaction with another- and that's really nice. Because what I've wanted all along was to have an actual interaction, to have a relationship that is grounded, safe, that I could rely on to always be there. And I know that I can never have a relationship that will always be there, that will never change. But I do see now that it's the truth of the interaction- not the content or nature of our interaction- just the experiencing of it, the groundedness of actually being together, truly and honestly, that makes it calm and close and sweet.
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