"She gave me another 'Best Granddad' mug. That was sweet." He flipped it out of the box.
"Do you like it?"
Morning light glowed through the kitchen window. It was their first day home after the holiday. He was glad to be back. The first thing he'd done on his arrival was stoke the furnace and turn up the heat. He'd brewed coffee, too, which she poured into their usual cups. While she sipped, she heated oatmeal, enough for them both. She stirred in brown sugar, raisins, nuts, and berries.
He slid the gift mug onto the table.
"It's got a nice color." She eyed the canary yellow glaze from her spot in front of the stove. "It's not too tall for the cabinet shelf. But you don't use the 'Best Granddad' mug from last year."
He shook his head. "Nah, it's a weird shape. I'll never do anything with it. We've got too many mugs already. We can barely close the cabinet door. Put it in storage."
"You're not going to use it even once?" She kept stirring.
"I've got too many of these." He tossed the gift box into the trash.
"Why don't you throw it out?" She tapped her wooden spoon on the side of the saucepan to knock off sticky flakes of oatmeal. "Give it to someone who wants it. We've got enough mementos."
"Who would want it as much as I do?" He threw up his arms the way he did when he felt she'd said something crazy. "It was a gift to me, personally. That's why I want to keep it."
"But you only want to keep it out of sight."
"Put it in the attic like you used to do with my old thank you cards, souvenir glasses, sweaters, ornaments, and stuff like that."
"Ha." She resumed her stirring. "You never wore a sweater in your life."
"No, but I got some as gifts. I think your paste jewelry is up there, too, right? A lot of the stuff we got that was junk because we were poor went up to the attic. It was all sentimental stuff. I saw you pack up a lot."
Her gaze drifted from the stove, across the kitchen, to the hall outside the foyer. There lay the door to the attic stairs. She grimaced. The oatmeal bubbled next to her hand. That caught her attention. She tapped the rising surface with the wooden spoon. Then she grabbed the measuring cup of water next to her and poured in a splash more. As she stirred, she nodded in the direction of the high cabinet.
He followed her gesture and rose. He reached up into the cabinet and pulled down two pottery bowls, one green, one blue. He set them down next to his wife. They stood, side by side. She turned off the stove.
"Honey," she said quietly, still stirring "why do you want to keep the mug if you know you'll never set eyes on it again?"
"You keep trying to talk me out of it."
"There's only so much room in the house." She raised her eyebrow. He pushed the bowls to the edge of the stove. She raised the saucepan by the handle and began to pour. "What makes this worth keeping?"
"That my grand-daughter gave it to me. Nothing else." He pulled away the first bowl when she was done with it.
"So the gift is useless except that you associate it with someone you love." She emptied the pot. She started to set it down, spotted a few nuts and berries stuck to the bottom, and scraped them out into the blue bowl.
"Yes." He picked up both bowls. Quickly, because they were warm, he transported them to the kitchen table. "Yes, it's exactly that."
"You keep saying that we need to prune out our useless possessions, that we shouldn't be attached to them."
He sighed. He knew more conversation was coming. "I know I do."
"I've seen you throw out any number of other things. Just not gifts."
"You don't have to put it like that." He strode to the flatware drawer. His hand found the spoons. "Or maybe you do. It's true enough. I let go of everything else. But I don't like to see gifts thrown out."
"You don't even look at them. Honestly, you hardly ever go into the attic. You certainly never open the boxes there."
He cocked his head to one side. A moment later, he laughed.
"No, I don't." He pushed a spoon toward his wife. The other, he kept as he took a seat. "Who wants to look at crappy knickknacks a second time? It's enough to think about the people who gave them to us. That's what's important."
"You like to contemplate the affection. Got it." She took her seat. She glanced at the 'Best Granddad' mug between them. He blew the steam off of his first spoonful. She felt the breeze. "So it's okay for me to put this where I put the others. You don't care if you see it again."
"Sure. I mean, if you've got the energy to go up there." He tested his first portion. It wasn't too hot. He took a bite and spoke with his mouth full. "If not, I'll find another space."
She took a minute to let her breakfast cool. When it was ready, she took a few bites in silence. He scooped up half of his share in that time, a dozen mouthfuls.
"Honey," she announced. She put down her spoon. "I cleaned out the attic twenty years ago."
It took him a moment to understand. He blinked.
"Even the cheap jewelry?"
"Everything. I love you, honey." She reached across the table and put her right hand over his left. "I like to think about how hard we both worked in those days so we could have a few trinkets. But it's done. I don't need them."
Slowly, he nodded. Then a thought came to him. "The broken ornaments from my grandmother?"
"Listen to yourself. They were broken." She tightened her grip. "When I cleaned them out, I did it with a hand broom so I wouldn't cut myself on the shards. And you still remember her the same way."
"Yeah. Okay." He gave her hand a squeeze and let go for a moment. He grabbed his coffee cup to take a drink. "I may pretend that this mug is in the attic, though. When I talk to the kids and such."
"Fine."
He put his glass down. He rubbed his chin.
"I'll still think about it," he announced, "when I see my grand-daughter."
"Perfect."
Stories on life, death, enlightenment, zen buddhism, religion, philosophy, stoicism, meditation, daoism, kindness but not meekness, and samsara.
Sunday, December 28, 2014
Sunday, December 21, 2014
Not Zen 141: Logos
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| wikimedia commons, komarov |
He'd always loved his sister, a gentle soul, but she'd chosen to live on a farm. He found that he didn't like the roughness of his sister's husband or her children. He didn't care for the lewd sense of humor she'd picked up. What had seemed to be a simple, ideal existence from afar looked noisy and complex from inside her home. And outside her house, there sat rural squalor. The area went unnamed, deservedly so in his opinion. It held eight or nine houses together if, by together, one meant quite far apart but within the sight of a careful observer.
The gravel road and dirt paths looked traversible for a man determined to hike. He excused himself from breakfast.
"I'll go for a walk in the morning air," he announced.
His sister and her husband exchanged glances. The corner of her lips turned up.
"There isn't much to see," she warned.
"Sounds fine to me."
He closed the door gently, wondering if he could have handled that better. But as soon as he was alone, he more at ease. The sounds of the home faded in the gentle wind. The sky lay overcast, the sun a greyish-white glow to the east. He thought it was fortunate that the breeze wasn't too harsh. The morning felt brisk enough already. Frost lay on the grass and on the thinnest branches of the trees. Wisps of vapor trailed from his mouth as he slogged up the trail.
His shoes twisted in ruts of frozen mud. The ground felt unforgiving. Undoubtedly, he would be sore if he hiked far.
In time, he spotted a grain silo in the distance. There was a house beside it, much less impressive than the silo. Even from afar, he could tell the sides of the home needed paint. Patches of it had peeled away.
As he grew close enough to see the frozen garden in front, the lumps of leaves not cleared, the ivy sprawled along the front yard in a patient battle with the grass, a boy burst out the front door. He ran, wailing, into the yard. He couldn't have been more than eight or nine. He continued to cry and swing his bare arms.
The child looked half dressed. He wore boots and heavy pants but his shirt had no sleeves. The material looked stained and ripped like a castoff undershirt. Blue and black bruises, small ones, decorated the young fellow's body, a dozen or so in total. There were more on his left arm than his right. A larger bruise swelled on his left cheek.
The professor raised his hand to speak. He was close enough to shout something. But what would he say? The boy continued to rage, cry, and shudder with every breath, although whether his body shivered from the cold or from emotion, it was hard to tell. Finally, the boy grabbed a stick.
The professor stopped. He put down his hand.
The boy stalked, cudgel in hand, to what had seemed to be a lump of leaves next to the garden. It was a dog. The animal showed no fear. It rose in greeting and walked to the end of its short chain. The stake for the chain had been pounded into the soil at the corner of the garden.
The boy screamed something. He hit the dog.
The beast wuffed and backed up. But the child pursued. There was no easy escape. The professor stood frozen in horror, then anger. Finally, when a yelp from the dog sounded like it had taken a mortal blow, he rushed forward. He almost fell along the way. There were ruts in the road and in the yard. But he closed the gap. He leaped between the child and his dog.
The boy screamed at him, furious. It was an anger without words. Fortunately, the lad didn't swing. The stick in his hand looked lethal when seen up close.
"Stop. Please stop," the professor said. He put up his hands.
The boy stopped yelling. He panted.
They stood, staring at each other for a moment. The professor heard the dog whine behind him. He studied the bruise on the boy's face. It was a bloody one. Carefully, he crouched and extended his arms. He startled himself with the gesture. He was hugging the boy before he thought about it.
"What? Hey!" The boy pushed away but he did so with a gentle touch. "Why are you being nice?"
"I don't know." He felt bewildered. "You were beating the dog. I was mad. But then you seemed sad. I couldn't stay angry."
"I've never seen you before."
"No, I'm just visiting." He rose to his feet. How could he explain his position to someone so young? "I'm a teacher at a university."
"Why aren't you angry, then? Like everyone?"
His mind spun for a moment with all of the logic he used every day. Obviously, he could point out that not everyone was angry. But maybe less confrontational approach would be better. He thought back on his recent lectures and the reactions of his students.
"There's a greek word, logos," he said. He pronounced the word carefully and watched the boy's face for a reaction. "It stands for logic and also for spirit. It's way that people are joined together."
"It's like a soul, then." The lad seemed unimpressed.
The professor always told his students, 'No, not like that,' but he didn't think an admonishment would go over well.
"It's more like the secret connection between souls."
"Oh." The lad sniffled. He wiped his nose on his bare forearm. "Is that how it works? Is all our stuff connected? Then that's why I get sad and angry when someone else is sad and angry."
"Yes, I think so. Like that." He turned his attention to the bruises. His fingers reached for one but he pulled back without touching. "Is your father here?"
"Not for years. Don't remember him."
"Oh." That shattered the notions that were started to take shape in his mind. "Well, why are you so bruised? Where's your coat?"
The boy glanced to his left, toward his house. He opened his mouth to speak but stopped. Then he gazed down at his feet and started to cry.
The professor turned. The house looked mundane and unimposing. There was no one at the front door. He spotted a face in the window, a woman. Her visage seemed marred by an enraged expression. Then she was gone. She'd noticed him looking and moved away. He watched the darkened pane of glass for half a minute in the hope that she might come back. He half-wished and half-feared she would come to the door.
In time, the dog crept up next to him. The beast rubbed its shaggy body against him, as if for the warmth. Next, it approached the boy, who had fallen quiet. It licked the boy's face.
The boy's hand fell to the mutt's neck. He didn't push it away.
"What a nice dog you have," he professor said. "He forgives you."
"Hey." The boy brought up his left hand to shield his face from the animal's tongue. He'd stopped crying, perhaps from annoyance.
"Dogs must have the logos stuff too," he boy announced. "Because he's connected. See?"
The professor raised a finger. He started to say no, that only humans had the connective spirit, but he closed his eyes and looked inward to his definitions. He saw himself in the classroom, giving his speech about the Greek logos. It always ended with students debating one another about its existence. The professor sided with the doubters. Most of the time, there seemed to be no real connection between any people at all. There didn't even seem to be any pervasive logic that people followed. But then he opened his eyes and looked at the dog. The ancients had believed in the connections between other creatures and that those tendrils of spirit extended throughout all of nature. In ten years of teaching the subject, he'd never taught that part.
"Why are you crying?" asked the boy.
"What? I'm not." He wiped his eye. A chuckle escaped him although it felt forced. He patted the dog. It kept trying to lick the boy. "This dog of yours is just amazing."
Sunday, December 14, 2014
Not Zen 140: Little Surprises
He let his horse amble along. Hot breath steamed from the beast's nostrils.
They took their time. He guessed that the gelding beneath his saddle enjoyed the foggy morning as much as he did. For him, it had been three years since he'd this kind of work. To get the job, he'd hitched a ride on a train from the coast. He'd hired on to the ranch as its lowest-paid hand. Naturally, since he'd had experience, his new bosses were happy to send him out at dawn to patrol the fence line.
Lots of things in the wild knocked down fence rails. His job was to find out where they'd done it. Then he stopped and fitted the rails back into place. It was a mindless chore. He liked that. All morning, he rode, worked the fences, and walked his horse. When he reached the northwest corner, he turned back toward the ranch alongside the western border.
He'd eaten his breakfast from a wax wrapper. He'd drunk water from his canteen. He'd repaired three rails.
As he neared the end of the border, he crested the hill that overlooked the ranch house. There, he and his horse paused. They took in the view of the cattle below. There was a herd fenced in to the east, a smaller herd gated to the south. The large, north barn lay low in his view, near his knees. Farther away lay the main house, then the stables. Between the house and the stables sat a horse corral. Behind it, the small, south barn was a mere bluish dot.
From his vantage, he saw a pair of men approach the corral. They should have been carrying loops of rope, he thought, but their hands looked empty. The darker fellow had to be the Shawnee medicine man who acted as a sort of low-paid veterinarian.
The ranch had struck a deal with the Shawnee reservation. The cowboy didn't understand it and no one had bothered to explain it.
The other man was, on second glance, a woman. Despite her lack of a dress, he knew from her long, light-brown hair. She was the rancher's eldest daughter. She opened the gate of the corral and, as if she did it all the time, motioned for the horses to come out.
The half-dozen mustangs sauntered into the north field of the ranch. They cantered around, called to one another, and played for a few minutes. She let them run free. Beneath him, his own horse whinnied and pulled at its bit. He tugged to hold it steady. The gelding itched to join the herd even though, presumably, it was more free to travel while it was with him.
"Right, boy." He couldn't deny what his horse saw. He patted the beast on its flank. His fingers loosened their grip on the reins. The gelding began to trot downhill.
Below, the ranch horses drank from a trough usually reserved for the longhorn bull. They nibbled the grass around the trough. Soon, the lead mare returned to gate of the corral, where it approached rancher's daughter. The young woman put her arms around the leader's neck. She spoke to it. The mare nuzzled her and pushed its thick mane into her delicate face. Then the horse pulled away. It turned and trotted into the corral. The others followed. The girl stepped in behind the last one. She swung the gate shut, dropped the latch, and took what she'd been eating out of her mouth. It looked like half of an apple. She held it out for the lead mare, who accepted it carefully between her front teeth.
The girl turned towards the barn to get oats or some other feed for the rest of the herd. The medicine man merely sat down on a bench next to the gate and watched the horses.
By the time the cowboy reached the corral, the girl had passed out of sight.
"Shawnee, right?" He waved to the medicine man. "I'm new here."
The middle-aged fellow turned to look at him as he dismounted. He wore stitched leather clothes and a blanket over his shoulders. His eyes seemed so dark and so reflective, they glinted of silver.
The cowboy tied his gelding to a fence post by its reins. Then he stuck out his hand to shake. The medicine man made no move to respond. But the cowboy wasn't sure if the Shawnee people understood the custom. He put his hands on his hips.
"So, does that happen often?" he said to renew the conversation.
"Every day, white man." The fellow spoke with an accent but a clear voice. He nodded. But he hesitated and tilted his head. "Maybe. I don't really know what you're talking about."
"I mean, you and the girl let out the horses." He smiled. "But the horses came back. It looked like they were talking to you folks. Can you understand what the horses are saying?"
"I see. Well, I've spent most of my life around horses. So has the ranch lady."
"I have, too. But I haven't seen that before. The horses in this corral have been looking to bolt. They run from most people. I've seen it. So is she a witch? How about you?"
"Only me. The woman would not like to be called a witch and she is not wise in the way you mean. She does ordinary miracles."
"How's your English? I don't reckon we mean the same thing. That girl, she talks to animals. And they talk back."
"Yes."
"I'm shocked. That's a big deal."
The Shawnee shrugged. "The medicine man before me could do it much better. I don't know that it was related to his wisdom. Maybe a little. The young lady seems wise for her age. But I hesitate to say so if you think it's shocking."
"Why?"
"Wisdom should not be associated with special powers."
That set the cowboy back a step. All of his life, religious men had talked about holy power as if that were the point of holiness: to be powerful.
"Then what good is it?" he asked.
"At best, a wise man learns to see things as they are. That is, we can see as much as flesh and blood creatures like us can perceive the true way of things. Much still remains hidden." The medicine man hunkered down with his blanket around his shoulders.
"That doesn't sound special."
"No. But it is surprising."
"That's your wisdom? Every tent-flap deacon around here promises more, I bet. You've studied your medicine for years. And you say that you're still surprised to see things as they are?"
"Better the countless little surprises," the fellow said as he shook his head, "than the one big shock."
They took their time. He guessed that the gelding beneath his saddle enjoyed the foggy morning as much as he did. For him, it had been three years since he'd this kind of work. To get the job, he'd hitched a ride on a train from the coast. He'd hired on to the ranch as its lowest-paid hand. Naturally, since he'd had experience, his new bosses were happy to send him out at dawn to patrol the fence line.
Lots of things in the wild knocked down fence rails. His job was to find out where they'd done it. Then he stopped and fitted the rails back into place. It was a mindless chore. He liked that. All morning, he rode, worked the fences, and walked his horse. When he reached the northwest corner, he turned back toward the ranch alongside the western border.
He'd eaten his breakfast from a wax wrapper. He'd drunk water from his canteen. He'd repaired three rails.
As he neared the end of the border, he crested the hill that overlooked the ranch house. There, he and his horse paused. They took in the view of the cattle below. There was a herd fenced in to the east, a smaller herd gated to the south. The large, north barn lay low in his view, near his knees. Farther away lay the main house, then the stables. Between the house and the stables sat a horse corral. Behind it, the small, south barn was a mere bluish dot.
From his vantage, he saw a pair of men approach the corral. They should have been carrying loops of rope, he thought, but their hands looked empty. The darker fellow had to be the Shawnee medicine man who acted as a sort of low-paid veterinarian.
The ranch had struck a deal with the Shawnee reservation. The cowboy didn't understand it and no one had bothered to explain it.
The other man was, on second glance, a woman. Despite her lack of a dress, he knew from her long, light-brown hair. She was the rancher's eldest daughter. She opened the gate of the corral and, as if she did it all the time, motioned for the horses to come out.
The half-dozen mustangs sauntered into the north field of the ranch. They cantered around, called to one another, and played for a few minutes. She let them run free. Beneath him, his own horse whinnied and pulled at its bit. He tugged to hold it steady. The gelding itched to join the herd even though, presumably, it was more free to travel while it was with him.
"Right, boy." He couldn't deny what his horse saw. He patted the beast on its flank. His fingers loosened their grip on the reins. The gelding began to trot downhill.
Below, the ranch horses drank from a trough usually reserved for the longhorn bull. They nibbled the grass around the trough. Soon, the lead mare returned to gate of the corral, where it approached rancher's daughter. The young woman put her arms around the leader's neck. She spoke to it. The mare nuzzled her and pushed its thick mane into her delicate face. Then the horse pulled away. It turned and trotted into the corral. The others followed. The girl stepped in behind the last one. She swung the gate shut, dropped the latch, and took what she'd been eating out of her mouth. It looked like half of an apple. She held it out for the lead mare, who accepted it carefully between her front teeth.
The girl turned towards the barn to get oats or some other feed for the rest of the herd. The medicine man merely sat down on a bench next to the gate and watched the horses.
By the time the cowboy reached the corral, the girl had passed out of sight.
"Shawnee, right?" He waved to the medicine man. "I'm new here."
The middle-aged fellow turned to look at him as he dismounted. He wore stitched leather clothes and a blanket over his shoulders. His eyes seemed so dark and so reflective, they glinted of silver.
The cowboy tied his gelding to a fence post by its reins. Then he stuck out his hand to shake. The medicine man made no move to respond. But the cowboy wasn't sure if the Shawnee people understood the custom. He put his hands on his hips.
"So, does that happen often?" he said to renew the conversation.
"Every day, white man." The fellow spoke with an accent but a clear voice. He nodded. But he hesitated and tilted his head. "Maybe. I don't really know what you're talking about."
"I mean, you and the girl let out the horses." He smiled. "But the horses came back. It looked like they were talking to you folks. Can you understand what the horses are saying?"
"I see. Well, I've spent most of my life around horses. So has the ranch lady."
"I have, too. But I haven't seen that before. The horses in this corral have been looking to bolt. They run from most people. I've seen it. So is she a witch? How about you?"
"Only me. The woman would not like to be called a witch and she is not wise in the way you mean. She does ordinary miracles."
"How's your English? I don't reckon we mean the same thing. That girl, she talks to animals. And they talk back."
"Yes."
"I'm shocked. That's a big deal."
The Shawnee shrugged. "The medicine man before me could do it much better. I don't know that it was related to his wisdom. Maybe a little. The young lady seems wise for her age. But I hesitate to say so if you think it's shocking."
"Why?"
"Wisdom should not be associated with special powers."
That set the cowboy back a step. All of his life, religious men had talked about holy power as if that were the point of holiness: to be powerful.
"Then what good is it?" he asked.
"At best, a wise man learns to see things as they are. That is, we can see as much as flesh and blood creatures like us can perceive the true way of things. Much still remains hidden." The medicine man hunkered down with his blanket around his shoulders.
"That doesn't sound special."
"No. But it is surprising."
"That's your wisdom? Every tent-flap deacon around here promises more, I bet. You've studied your medicine for years. And you say that you're still surprised to see things as they are?"
"Better the countless little surprises," the fellow said as he shook his head, "than the one big shock."
Sunday, December 7, 2014
Not Zen 139: Small Gestures
At the side door of a large city building, a man struggled with a cart. He was a short, muscular fellow. On his chest, he wore a uniform shirt. On his head, he had a cap with an emblem. He'd gotten the door open. But his handtruck was a tight fit.
The cart bed wasn't too wide but it had been laden with boxes, large and small. The lightest ones at the top jostled. Every time he tried to push his cart through the available space, its wheels bumped against the handle, the mortise joint, the frame, or the raised door sill. With every bump, one of the lightest boxes fell off. He had to stop. After each halt in progress, he shoved the door open with one arm, grabbed the cart handle, and tried again. But each time, he lost a box in the process and had to replace it. Dozens of people passed by on the street outside. A few passed through the door, outside to inside. They ignored him.
Eventually, a tall man in a suit rushed up. He'd seen the struggle from a distance and ventured over to hold the door.
"Thanks, buddy," said the shorter man. "My boss overloaded me. Kind of tough here."
He put both hands on the cart handle and eased it through. This time, the door handle didn't hit him. Nothing endangered his boxes until he paused to ease the wheels over the raised sill.
"I'm probably just like your boss," the newcomer said. "I give a lot of orders to a lot of work crews and most of the time I don't really know what I'm doing."
"Huh. At least you help."
"I try." The man in the suit waved off the complement. "But really, my job makes me act like an ass. I order people to do work they don't like. Then I have to fire the poor performers. That's the worst. But what kind of an ass wouldn't hold open a door for someone who needs it?"
The worker shrugged. The other fellow was someone's boss and, by his own admission, not the best.
After he eased the cart onto the sidewalk, he had to make his way through the pedestrians, the cyclists, and the car traffic. He crossed the street with the signal, but slowly. Cars honked. He dropped a package, picked it up, and held it down on the cart. The thumb of his left hand kept a tall stack steady as he eased up the ramp at the curb.
His destination was the corner building, as close and as convenient as it could be. The place had glass double doors. It should have been easy. But the entrance had been paved with cobblestones. Their uneven surface knocked his packages off of their stacks. The threshold rose above the stones so that, once again, he struggled to get his cart through. There were two security guards behind the front desk. He could see them watching him. Neither got up.
People strolled by. Employees from the building passed in and out of the doors. No one offered to hold a door open for him. No one came to lift the front wheels of the cart. A woman with a heavy purse and a fur collar passed behind. She scowled at the inconvenience of walking around him.
He paused for a moment, hands on hips. After half a minute, he wandered around to the front of the cart to try to lift the wheels. Then he noticed a man striding his way. It was the same tall fellow who had helped him at the previous building.
"I guess I caught up to you before anyone else could step in." He put his hand on the cart handle and pushed down as the smaller man lifted. Together, they levered the cart over the threshold. "This is a surprise."
"I wish it was, buddy." The workman tipped his cap. "I wish it was."
The cart bed wasn't too wide but it had been laden with boxes, large and small. The lightest ones at the top jostled. Every time he tried to push his cart through the available space, its wheels bumped against the handle, the mortise joint, the frame, or the raised door sill. With every bump, one of the lightest boxes fell off. He had to stop. After each halt in progress, he shoved the door open with one arm, grabbed the cart handle, and tried again. But each time, he lost a box in the process and had to replace it. Dozens of people passed by on the street outside. A few passed through the door, outside to inside. They ignored him.
Eventually, a tall man in a suit rushed up. He'd seen the struggle from a distance and ventured over to hold the door.
"Thanks, buddy," said the shorter man. "My boss overloaded me. Kind of tough here."
He put both hands on the cart handle and eased it through. This time, the door handle didn't hit him. Nothing endangered his boxes until he paused to ease the wheels over the raised sill.
"I'm probably just like your boss," the newcomer said. "I give a lot of orders to a lot of work crews and most of the time I don't really know what I'm doing."
"Huh. At least you help."
"I try." The man in the suit waved off the complement. "But really, my job makes me act like an ass. I order people to do work they don't like. Then I have to fire the poor performers. That's the worst. But what kind of an ass wouldn't hold open a door for someone who needs it?"
The worker shrugged. The other fellow was someone's boss and, by his own admission, not the best.
After he eased the cart onto the sidewalk, he had to make his way through the pedestrians, the cyclists, and the car traffic. He crossed the street with the signal, but slowly. Cars honked. He dropped a package, picked it up, and held it down on the cart. The thumb of his left hand kept a tall stack steady as he eased up the ramp at the curb.
His destination was the corner building, as close and as convenient as it could be. The place had glass double doors. It should have been easy. But the entrance had been paved with cobblestones. Their uneven surface knocked his packages off of their stacks. The threshold rose above the stones so that, once again, he struggled to get his cart through. There were two security guards behind the front desk. He could see them watching him. Neither got up.
People strolled by. Employees from the building passed in and out of the doors. No one offered to hold a door open for him. No one came to lift the front wheels of the cart. A woman with a heavy purse and a fur collar passed behind. She scowled at the inconvenience of walking around him.
He paused for a moment, hands on hips. After half a minute, he wandered around to the front of the cart to try to lift the wheels. Then he noticed a man striding his way. It was the same tall fellow who had helped him at the previous building.
"I guess I caught up to you before anyone else could step in." He put his hand on the cart handle and pushed down as the smaller man lifted. Together, they levered the cart over the threshold. "This is a surprise."
"I wish it was, buddy." The workman tipped his cap. "I wish it was."
Sunday, November 30, 2014
Not Zen 138: Silence
The hiker spotted the old man he was looking for at the top of a hill to his west. The fellow's head leaned back to gaze up toward the sky. His shirt sleeves were rolled, hands resting on his knees, despite a steady wind.
The hiker turned west. In front of him, the slope rose sharply from the road. He trudged into the grass. Soon, the stalks grew above his knees. He cursed as he slogged upwards to his target but he smiled, too, because the inconvenience was a good sign. In other places, he'd questioned monks. He'd engaged abbots in debate. But some of those old fellows had been senile. This one ahead was only a village wise man but if he had the alertness to rise early in the morning and the stamina to tromp through the underbrush, at least he wasn't feeble.
"Hello!" he waved.
The weathered fellow above him let his gaze drift down. His eyes twinkled slightly with curiosity but otherwise he didn't seem surprised to receive a visitor.
"I heard that you perform your morning meditations in this area," he explained as he marched closer. "It's a big area. I was lucky to find you. I'd like to speak for a moment and get your opinion on a few things."
The wise man's eyes dimmed. He took a deep breath and waited.
He remained quiet while the hiker introduced himself. In a few minutes, the newcomer got the sense that he ought to get on with what he had to say. That was no problem. He had questions in mind similar to those he'd asked at the monastery.
"If nirvana is only attained through the destruction of desire," he said. "doesn't that mean we must destroy our personalities? Aren't our characters partly defined by what we desire? I think a lot of you teachers I've met have seemed the same. It's because you don't have many desires."
The old man sighed. He shook his head, apparently lost in thought. Then he resumed looking at the sky.
"Is something wrong with my question? Aren't our personalities determined mostly in our minds? Your philosophy, I hear, deals a lot with the nature of our minds."
The old man bowed his head. After a moment, he shrugged and resumed his meditations.
"Although, come to think of it," the visitor continued, "our personalities are also determined by our bodies. And by how people respond to us. Those responses give us our expectations and desires."
The old man didn't stop looking at the sky but he nodded.
"You don't feel my questions are good? You don't feel a need to respond with your words?"
That question got a smile.
"Is silence your response to everything?"
The old man glanced at his visitor. Then his head snapped back to his view of the landscape. He pointed.
"That cloud, right there, is beautiful," he said. "Did you notice?"
"No, I didn't." The visitor turned.
It was a large cloud, threaded throughout its bulk with shades of grey and white. The flattened base changed in texture from moment to moment as it swept toward the hill. The higher layers re-arranged even more dramatically. For a long moment, both men studied the cloud as it slowly changed shape in the sky.
The hiker turned west. In front of him, the slope rose sharply from the road. He trudged into the grass. Soon, the stalks grew above his knees. He cursed as he slogged upwards to his target but he smiled, too, because the inconvenience was a good sign. In other places, he'd questioned monks. He'd engaged abbots in debate. But some of those old fellows had been senile. This one ahead was only a village wise man but if he had the alertness to rise early in the morning and the stamina to tromp through the underbrush, at least he wasn't feeble.
"Hello!" he waved.
The weathered fellow above him let his gaze drift down. His eyes twinkled slightly with curiosity but otherwise he didn't seem surprised to receive a visitor.
"I heard that you perform your morning meditations in this area," he explained as he marched closer. "It's a big area. I was lucky to find you. I'd like to speak for a moment and get your opinion on a few things."
The wise man's eyes dimmed. He took a deep breath and waited.
He remained quiet while the hiker introduced himself. In a few minutes, the newcomer got the sense that he ought to get on with what he had to say. That was no problem. He had questions in mind similar to those he'd asked at the monastery.
"If nirvana is only attained through the destruction of desire," he said. "doesn't that mean we must destroy our personalities? Aren't our characters partly defined by what we desire? I think a lot of you teachers I've met have seemed the same. It's because you don't have many desires."
The old man sighed. He shook his head, apparently lost in thought. Then he resumed looking at the sky.
"Is something wrong with my question? Aren't our personalities determined mostly in our minds? Your philosophy, I hear, deals a lot with the nature of our minds."
The old man bowed his head. After a moment, he shrugged and resumed his meditations.
"Although, come to think of it," the visitor continued, "our personalities are also determined by our bodies. And by how people respond to us. Those responses give us our expectations and desires."
The old man didn't stop looking at the sky but he nodded.
"You don't feel my questions are good? You don't feel a need to respond with your words?"
That question got a smile.
"Is silence your response to everything?"
The old man glanced at his visitor. Then his head snapped back to his view of the landscape. He pointed.
"That cloud, right there, is beautiful," he said. "Did you notice?"
"No, I didn't." The visitor turned.
It was a large cloud, threaded throughout its bulk with shades of grey and white. The flattened base changed in texture from moment to moment as it swept toward the hill. The higher layers re-arranged even more dramatically. For a long moment, both men studied the cloud as it slowly changed shape in the sky.
Sunday, November 23, 2014
Not Zen 137: Long View
The girls grew up as neighbors, both in pigtails, both in overalls. Their parents joked about how interchangeable they seemed.
"Emma and Alma," said Alma's mother. "Even your names sound similar."
They spent summers in the same park, in the same sandbox. On rainy days, they played games together. When it came time for school, they went to class with the same level of reading. They learned to write their names. They learned to count.
"They'll be best friends forever," said their parents.
The girls started out with average grades. Emma, the one with slightly lower scores, had to work more to keep up. Her performance improved. Encouraged by her success, she worked even harder. She got so good in the first school year that both girls forgot they were equal.
"You've always been the sharp one," said Alma later. They didn't remember a time when things had been different.
As teenagers, they played on the same volleyball team. Alma, as she grew to be tall, enjoyed easy success. Emma remained the shortest in their class. Even with extra training, she couldn't match her friend's level of performance. Working harder let her keep a place on the team. Later, they both remembered being athletic.
"You could spike," Emma recalled.
"But you could dig." Alma nodded. "And set."
After school, both moved out on their own, living in poverty and on charity from their parents. Alma spent more money. She bought her furniture on credit. Emma bought hers at yard sales. Alma got a new car. Emma saved up for a used one. Over time, Alma fell into such debt that she had to move back to her parents' home. Emma built up savings, even though they earned the same money. She decided to travel.
Alma married a local man, a handsome one, who she felt was a prince to save her from her debts. In her travels, Emma met an educated man, not as handsome. She agreed to settle down with him if he would live in her hometown for a while.
"I think you married a bit of a frog," Alma said to her friend when they met again.
Emma shrugged.
"He is, a bit," she admitted. "But he's willing to work to get more princely. And anyway, I'm not a princess."
They lived in the same town for a few years. Alma had her first child. She relied on Emma to help with childcare. Often, the two went out together. Sometimes, they left Alma's toddler with his grandparents and spent their time at parties, at museums, or on dates with their husbands. One night when they were out, they got into an accident.
The accident broke bones in both of Emma's legs. It punctured her left lung. As her lung filled with blood, the ambulance team and then the doctors tried to drain it. When her heart failed from the strain, the surgeon revived her. He repaired her lung and pinned her stray rib into place. The hospital scheduled three other surgeries to repair her legs and hips.
When Emma awoke, she practiced moving. At first, that meant exercising her arms. It was all her nurse would allow. Later, she learned to roll her body. After a week of limited movement, the nurse agree to let her sit up.
"Your friend hasn't even gotten this far yet," said the nurse.
"Alma is here, too?"
"We moved her off of this floor. But you won't be able to see her until one of you can walk."
Emma learned that Alma had suffered a broken hip and a broken leg. She'd endured a surgery similar to Emma's. In fact, the same surgeon who had saved Emma's life had pinned Alma's bones to allow them to knit.
As soon as she could travel down the stairs, Emma went to visit. She found her friend alone. Her prince of a husband was at work, unable to visit that day until he finished his evening shift.
"You're up!" shouted Alma. Her face lit with surprise. But she barely moved.
"You're not!" said Emma. She leaned on her walker. In a moment, she would need to rest. For now, the mixture of exhilaration at her friend's health and frustration with her friend not exercising kept her upright.
"Well, no. It hurts to sit up."
"Of course it does." It had hurt her, too. That's what broken bones did. "Alma, I saw your scans from yesterday. All of your bones are fine enough to move."
"But my joints aren't," her friend complained. "I don't think I can make the same comeback you did."
"You damn well can." She tried not to stomp her foot. It would have sent jolts of pain through her.
"Then why am I not out of bed and you're walking?"
"I put in a lot of work, right from the start. I knew I had to, to get this result."
"But I don't really do that, Emma." Her voice lowered. "I never have."
The shorter woman sighed. She moved her walker to the front of the guest chair. Carefully, with one hand on the armrest, she took a seat.
"I can't leave this room until I see you do work. Move something more than your toes and fingers. I know it hurts. Sit up anyway. Heck, just show me you can roll a little."
"Emma, I'm tired." She moved enough to pull her blanket to her collarbone. "I can roll later."
"Your husband is coming. Don't you think he wants to see you sit up? He needs you." She considered trying another line of reasoning. "What about your little boy?"
"We don't let him visit." At that, Alma blushed.
"You've never liked putting in hard work for a distant payoff. But you're going to have to do it now."
"Right," the taller one laughed. "Because you're willing to put in the work to get the result out of me."
"First, you do step one. Then you do step two. Then keep going." Emma pulled her walker closer to her chair. She tried to stand but had to put out her right hand to the armrest and ease back down. "Alma, I didn't bug you to work harder in school. You were fine by me. And I didn't bug you to work in sports even though I think you could have been a star. You just didn't like it that much. But I can't stand by and watch you not try, not this time. We have less than a year to get our physical strength back. That's what the doctor said."
"That's a long time."
"Now it's only eleven months. You've got to get up. Look, a job like this can seem too big in the beginning. I know. It can make you freeze up in panic. You have to do the little thing that's next. Keep doing the little things."
"And then what?"
"And then, in the long view, you get done. All you need to do to accomplish a big thing is to start. And keep going."
"Emma and Alma," said Alma's mother. "Even your names sound similar."
They spent summers in the same park, in the same sandbox. On rainy days, they played games together. When it came time for school, they went to class with the same level of reading. They learned to write their names. They learned to count.
"They'll be best friends forever," said their parents.
The girls started out with average grades. Emma, the one with slightly lower scores, had to work more to keep up. Her performance improved. Encouraged by her success, she worked even harder. She got so good in the first school year that both girls forgot they were equal.
"You've always been the sharp one," said Alma later. They didn't remember a time when things had been different.
As teenagers, they played on the same volleyball team. Alma, as she grew to be tall, enjoyed easy success. Emma remained the shortest in their class. Even with extra training, she couldn't match her friend's level of performance. Working harder let her keep a place on the team. Later, they both remembered being athletic.
"You could spike," Emma recalled.
"But you could dig." Alma nodded. "And set."
After school, both moved out on their own, living in poverty and on charity from their parents. Alma spent more money. She bought her furniture on credit. Emma bought hers at yard sales. Alma got a new car. Emma saved up for a used one. Over time, Alma fell into such debt that she had to move back to her parents' home. Emma built up savings, even though they earned the same money. She decided to travel.
Alma married a local man, a handsome one, who she felt was a prince to save her from her debts. In her travels, Emma met an educated man, not as handsome. She agreed to settle down with him if he would live in her hometown for a while.
"I think you married a bit of a frog," Alma said to her friend when they met again.
Emma shrugged.
"He is, a bit," she admitted. "But he's willing to work to get more princely. And anyway, I'm not a princess."
They lived in the same town for a few years. Alma had her first child. She relied on Emma to help with childcare. Often, the two went out together. Sometimes, they left Alma's toddler with his grandparents and spent their time at parties, at museums, or on dates with their husbands. One night when they were out, they got into an accident.
The accident broke bones in both of Emma's legs. It punctured her left lung. As her lung filled with blood, the ambulance team and then the doctors tried to drain it. When her heart failed from the strain, the surgeon revived her. He repaired her lung and pinned her stray rib into place. The hospital scheduled three other surgeries to repair her legs and hips.
When Emma awoke, she practiced moving. At first, that meant exercising her arms. It was all her nurse would allow. Later, she learned to roll her body. After a week of limited movement, the nurse agree to let her sit up.
"Your friend hasn't even gotten this far yet," said the nurse.
"Alma is here, too?"
"We moved her off of this floor. But you won't be able to see her until one of you can walk."
Emma learned that Alma had suffered a broken hip and a broken leg. She'd endured a surgery similar to Emma's. In fact, the same surgeon who had saved Emma's life had pinned Alma's bones to allow them to knit.
As soon as she could travel down the stairs, Emma went to visit. She found her friend alone. Her prince of a husband was at work, unable to visit that day until he finished his evening shift.
"You're up!" shouted Alma. Her face lit with surprise. But she barely moved.
"You're not!" said Emma. She leaned on her walker. In a moment, she would need to rest. For now, the mixture of exhilaration at her friend's health and frustration with her friend not exercising kept her upright.
"Well, no. It hurts to sit up."
"Of course it does." It had hurt her, too. That's what broken bones did. "Alma, I saw your scans from yesterday. All of your bones are fine enough to move."
"But my joints aren't," her friend complained. "I don't think I can make the same comeback you did."
"You damn well can." She tried not to stomp her foot. It would have sent jolts of pain through her.
"Then why am I not out of bed and you're walking?"
"I put in a lot of work, right from the start. I knew I had to, to get this result."
"But I don't really do that, Emma." Her voice lowered. "I never have."
The shorter woman sighed. She moved her walker to the front of the guest chair. Carefully, with one hand on the armrest, she took a seat.
"I can't leave this room until I see you do work. Move something more than your toes and fingers. I know it hurts. Sit up anyway. Heck, just show me you can roll a little."
"Emma, I'm tired." She moved enough to pull her blanket to her collarbone. "I can roll later."
"Your husband is coming. Don't you think he wants to see you sit up? He needs you." She considered trying another line of reasoning. "What about your little boy?"
"We don't let him visit." At that, Alma blushed.
"You've never liked putting in hard work for a distant payoff. But you're going to have to do it now."
"Right," the taller one laughed. "Because you're willing to put in the work to get the result out of me."
"First, you do step one. Then you do step two. Then keep going." Emma pulled her walker closer to her chair. She tried to stand but had to put out her right hand to the armrest and ease back down. "Alma, I didn't bug you to work harder in school. You were fine by me. And I didn't bug you to work in sports even though I think you could have been a star. You just didn't like it that much. But I can't stand by and watch you not try, not this time. We have less than a year to get our physical strength back. That's what the doctor said."
"That's a long time."
"Now it's only eleven months. You've got to get up. Look, a job like this can seem too big in the beginning. I know. It can make you freeze up in panic. You have to do the little thing that's next. Keep doing the little things."
"And then what?"
"And then, in the long view, you get done. All you need to do to accomplish a big thing is to start. And keep going."
Sunday, November 16, 2014
Not Zen 136: Mental Judo
"How did you win your first two games?" He shook his head at the poorly chosen shot. It hadn't come close. The cue ball rolled to the center of the green, felt table. The position set up a good turn for him.
The player who had just missed the shot shrugged.
They hadn't been close friends. That was why they hadn't seen each other in five years. They'd marched out of their first class reunion in a group of a dozen to find the nearest pool hall. Like most of the group, they'd bought drinks at the bar. One of their mutual friends got the bright idea of holding an eight-ball tournament within their reunion class. So they'd put their drinks on the stands next to the pool tables, paired off, and competed like the rest. After two rounds, they met in a game.
"I hear you own an aikido studio," his opponent said. He propped his pool cue between his legs and leaned against it.
"Yeah. I'm doing okay." He rolled up his sleeves. It made him conscious of how he was one of the few in their class who had remained athletic. "I earned my shodan when I was still in school. And I'd always wanted to start my own business."
The aikido master made his shot into the corner pocket. He'd left himself poor position, however, so he rimmed around the next one, an attempt at a side pocket. His opponent stepped up, aimed a different ball at the same side pocket, and sank it.
"You used to be the worst," said the master. "You were sick all the damn time or claimed you were. You had panic attacks when girls talked to you. Now you're an emergency technician? Those are the folks who ride around in ambulances."
His opponent nodded.
"How did that happen? The sight of blood made you vomit. Actually, I was just thinking about how you freaked out in friendly games like this one. When the pressure was on, you froze up. But you seem better now."
"Oh." The emergency technician set down his cue for a moment. He picked it back up in his weak hand and, without bothering to set his feet, he tapped the cue ball into the corner. It was a deliberate move to make the next shot hard. "I decided to be the guy who's great under pressure. You know what I mean. When times are tough, one guy gets calmer and more sure of himself. I decided it needed to me."
"Just like that?" He checked the lie of the ball. It made him curse. There was no easy shot.
"It took me a while. But I made it in less time that you might think, about two years. You might count it as three or four if you saw the extra practice that I put in."
"How can you practice something like that?" He wandered around to a different side of the table to see if he could find a better angle. The pool hall kept the lights bright over the tables but dark everywhere else. The shadows cast by the balls were sharp.
The emergency technician sighed. His voice lowered.
"I've never told anybody," he confessed. "It's funny that you're an aikido master. At the time, I thought of what I was doing as mental judo. After all, confidence comes from success, right?"
"That's how it worked for me." He gave up aiming. His eyes told him there was nothing he could do. "And for everyone, I guess."
He poked the cue. His shot scattered a cluster of balls. The two players watched the balls bounce off of the rails and listened to the clacks of them as they made contact with one another again.
"Yeah, but you were always pretty successful. Not me." He strode up to the white ball. With a smile, he gave it a gentle push at a corner shot. It rolled slightly off line, a miss. "Confidence comes from success but confidence is necessary for success. To get good at anything, you have to feel good."
"That seems pretty much right."
"But I was prone to panic." He rested the cue stick on his shoulder. "I spent a lot of time in self-loathing and depression. I couldn't break out of it without confidence. And I couldn't find the confidence without a success I didn't have. There had to be a trick. I had to take momentum from somewhere."
The aikido master put out his hand and waited for the emergency technician to continue.
"You have to have to decide to have confidence. You make it part of your inner nature. I know it sounds crazy but I started to put myself into all of those situations I hated. I talked to girls. I played basketball."
"Wow, I remember you in the gym. You shot like crap. Horrible." The image that came to his mind made him chuckle.
"I got better. Want to put some money on this game?"
The emergency technician was down by a ball. The cue ball lay near a rail but it wasn't trapped. It was the aikido master's turn and he had a clear advantage. The emergency technician hadn't been wealthy while in school and he hadn't dressed up for the event. He wore jeans and a plain shirt. The stakes he'd be able to put up would be low.
"Sure," he said. He pulled out his wallet. "How much?"
"How much do you have?"
"Shoot, I've got a whole week's take from the studio." The question surprised him. He had meant to take the money to the bank deposit slot but he'd thought it might come in handy at the reunion.
"That's a lot."
"Yeah."
His emergency technician friend took out his wallet in turn. He kept a lot of cash, enough to cover the sum of the studio receipts. He counted it out. A lot of folks around the pool tables looked at the stack of bills. But the emergency technician didn't seem worried. "I've got it that much. Let's play for it. Shake on the bet."
"Crap, man." He shook hands with his opponent. Immediately, he felt misgivings. The more he thought about taking that much money from an old school acquaintance over a bet, the less he liked it. "You're down by a point. And I'm pretty good at this. Do you want to start over?"
"Do you?"
"I don't know." The other man's calmness unnerved him a little. Could he lose that much and be fine? Maybe he was wealthier than he looked.
"Let's see what happens."
The aikido master steeled himself. He spent longer with his aim than usual, took his shot, and sank it. Now he was two points up. The cue ball rolled into a decent position for another corner point. He took his time but he knew, when he struck it, that he wasn't on line. His follow-up rattled out.
As the emergency technician played, his limbs steadied. He started to smile before his first shot, which he landed in a corner pocket. Then he was down by only one. He lined up his second shot. The physical effects of his mental judo were visible. His movements were smooth.
"At first, I would make trick basketball plays all alone in my backyard." He paused for his pool shot. He sunk the green ball in a side pocket. That tied the game. "I would pretend people were teasing me. Then I would pretend I was the cool-head guy. And I would shoot."
"So you did practice!" The aikido master smiled.
"Yeah." His friend smiled back at him. "I practiced against real people, too. I would talk trash. They would get pissed and try to throw me off my game. But I was the cool-head guy, right? To myself, I was. Even when I missed my shot, I knew it was because of me, not them."
"Were you sure? Really?"
The emergency technician leaned down for this third shot in a row. This one rolled straight and true. It tapped the brown ball and pushed it to the corner pocket. The touch was a trifle too gentle. The ball rolled to a halt at the lip of the pocket.
The aikido master felt the hairs on his arms prickle. That had been close. His palms sweated. He wiped off his right hand onto his pants. The week's worth of salary burned in his pocket. He didn't think he could allow himself to lose it. It was on his mind as he surveyed his position, which didn't look good.
He had an open shot at a side pocket. That was the one to take. But he was aware that he hadn't made a shot in a side pocket during the whole evening.
"Crap." Even as he let the cue stick slide, he knew he'd missed. His aim was worse than ever. His cue ball passed to the right of its target.
"Bad luck," said his opponent, somewhat generously. He eyed the lie of the white ball.
Behind them, a door swung wide. The smell stale beer and the fresh, outside air wafted over them.
The aikido master expected his opponent to aim at the brown ball that sat at the lip of a pocket. But his opponent tried for a more difficult shot. He knocked in the yellow ball at the far side. The cue ball rolled back to him in perfect position to aim at the brown.
"After a while," he said, "I was only showing myself that I'd become who I thought. I was good in the clutch. I was that guy."
He sank his shot. He had only one ball left, the black eight.
"This corner," he said. There was a tournament rule that they had to call the last shot. He gestured to his stick where he was going to put it. Then he leaned down, poked the cue ball, and bounced the eight into the corner. For a moment, the aikido master held his breath. He thought he might escape. But the shot fell in.
"Oh crap." The master slumped. He put his hands on his knees and took a deep breath. "A whole week's cash."
"Yeah. And then something important happened."
"What could be more important?" He was thinking of his rent money. He hadn't paid for his studio space this month.
"I came across a traffic accident. It was a bad scene with a guy bleeding out. No one was doing anything."
"Even little spots of blood made you throw up." He tried not to think about the rent. Someone dying should be more important. But it had happened years ago.
"I was the cool-head guy now, right? I pulled the glass out of his arm. I applied pressure to the wound and to the artery leading to it. He was losing consciousness when the ambulance arrived. I was a mess, blood all over my shirt and pants. But the emergency technicians took a look at what I'd done and said I'd saved the guy's life."
"Nice." With a sigh, he pulled out his wallet again. He knew it was best to get this over with. Then he could think about how to come up with the money for rent.
His emergency technician friend took out his wallet, too. The master started to hand over the money.
"Just give me one bill," said his friend. He pulled it from the middle. It crinkled as he folded it, without looking at the amount, into his wad of cash. "Put the rest away. Don't bet too large with me again, not unless you can really lose it, okay?"
"Okay." He took a deep breath. "Yeah."
The player who had just missed the shot shrugged.
They hadn't been close friends. That was why they hadn't seen each other in five years. They'd marched out of their first class reunion in a group of a dozen to find the nearest pool hall. Like most of the group, they'd bought drinks at the bar. One of their mutual friends got the bright idea of holding an eight-ball tournament within their reunion class. So they'd put their drinks on the stands next to the pool tables, paired off, and competed like the rest. After two rounds, they met in a game.
"I hear you own an aikido studio," his opponent said. He propped his pool cue between his legs and leaned against it.
"Yeah. I'm doing okay." He rolled up his sleeves. It made him conscious of how he was one of the few in their class who had remained athletic. "I earned my shodan when I was still in school. And I'd always wanted to start my own business."
The aikido master made his shot into the corner pocket. He'd left himself poor position, however, so he rimmed around the next one, an attempt at a side pocket. His opponent stepped up, aimed a different ball at the same side pocket, and sank it.
"You used to be the worst," said the master. "You were sick all the damn time or claimed you were. You had panic attacks when girls talked to you. Now you're an emergency technician? Those are the folks who ride around in ambulances."
His opponent nodded.
"How did that happen? The sight of blood made you vomit. Actually, I was just thinking about how you freaked out in friendly games like this one. When the pressure was on, you froze up. But you seem better now."
"Oh." The emergency technician set down his cue for a moment. He picked it back up in his weak hand and, without bothering to set his feet, he tapped the cue ball into the corner. It was a deliberate move to make the next shot hard. "I decided to be the guy who's great under pressure. You know what I mean. When times are tough, one guy gets calmer and more sure of himself. I decided it needed to me."
"Just like that?" He checked the lie of the ball. It made him curse. There was no easy shot.
"It took me a while. But I made it in less time that you might think, about two years. You might count it as three or four if you saw the extra practice that I put in."
"How can you practice something like that?" He wandered around to a different side of the table to see if he could find a better angle. The pool hall kept the lights bright over the tables but dark everywhere else. The shadows cast by the balls were sharp.
The emergency technician sighed. His voice lowered.
"I've never told anybody," he confessed. "It's funny that you're an aikido master. At the time, I thought of what I was doing as mental judo. After all, confidence comes from success, right?"
"That's how it worked for me." He gave up aiming. His eyes told him there was nothing he could do. "And for everyone, I guess."
He poked the cue. His shot scattered a cluster of balls. The two players watched the balls bounce off of the rails and listened to the clacks of them as they made contact with one another again.
"Yeah, but you were always pretty successful. Not me." He strode up to the white ball. With a smile, he gave it a gentle push at a corner shot. It rolled slightly off line, a miss. "Confidence comes from success but confidence is necessary for success. To get good at anything, you have to feel good."
"That seems pretty much right."
"But I was prone to panic." He rested the cue stick on his shoulder. "I spent a lot of time in self-loathing and depression. I couldn't break out of it without confidence. And I couldn't find the confidence without a success I didn't have. There had to be a trick. I had to take momentum from somewhere."
The aikido master put out his hand and waited for the emergency technician to continue.
"You have to have to decide to have confidence. You make it part of your inner nature. I know it sounds crazy but I started to put myself into all of those situations I hated. I talked to girls. I played basketball."
"Wow, I remember you in the gym. You shot like crap. Horrible." The image that came to his mind made him chuckle.
"I got better. Want to put some money on this game?"
The emergency technician was down by a ball. The cue ball lay near a rail but it wasn't trapped. It was the aikido master's turn and he had a clear advantage. The emergency technician hadn't been wealthy while in school and he hadn't dressed up for the event. He wore jeans and a plain shirt. The stakes he'd be able to put up would be low.
"Sure," he said. He pulled out his wallet. "How much?"
"How much do you have?"
"Shoot, I've got a whole week's take from the studio." The question surprised him. He had meant to take the money to the bank deposit slot but he'd thought it might come in handy at the reunion.
"That's a lot."
"Yeah."
His emergency technician friend took out his wallet in turn. He kept a lot of cash, enough to cover the sum of the studio receipts. He counted it out. A lot of folks around the pool tables looked at the stack of bills. But the emergency technician didn't seem worried. "I've got it that much. Let's play for it. Shake on the bet."
"Crap, man." He shook hands with his opponent. Immediately, he felt misgivings. The more he thought about taking that much money from an old school acquaintance over a bet, the less he liked it. "You're down by a point. And I'm pretty good at this. Do you want to start over?"
"Do you?"
"I don't know." The other man's calmness unnerved him a little. Could he lose that much and be fine? Maybe he was wealthier than he looked.
"Let's see what happens."
The aikido master steeled himself. He spent longer with his aim than usual, took his shot, and sank it. Now he was two points up. The cue ball rolled into a decent position for another corner point. He took his time but he knew, when he struck it, that he wasn't on line. His follow-up rattled out.
As the emergency technician played, his limbs steadied. He started to smile before his first shot, which he landed in a corner pocket. Then he was down by only one. He lined up his second shot. The physical effects of his mental judo were visible. His movements were smooth.
"At first, I would make trick basketball plays all alone in my backyard." He paused for his pool shot. He sunk the green ball in a side pocket. That tied the game. "I would pretend people were teasing me. Then I would pretend I was the cool-head guy. And I would shoot."
"So you did practice!" The aikido master smiled.
"Yeah." His friend smiled back at him. "I practiced against real people, too. I would talk trash. They would get pissed and try to throw me off my game. But I was the cool-head guy, right? To myself, I was. Even when I missed my shot, I knew it was because of me, not them."
"Were you sure? Really?"
The emergency technician leaned down for this third shot in a row. This one rolled straight and true. It tapped the brown ball and pushed it to the corner pocket. The touch was a trifle too gentle. The ball rolled to a halt at the lip of the pocket.
The aikido master felt the hairs on his arms prickle. That had been close. His palms sweated. He wiped off his right hand onto his pants. The week's worth of salary burned in his pocket. He didn't think he could allow himself to lose it. It was on his mind as he surveyed his position, which didn't look good.
He had an open shot at a side pocket. That was the one to take. But he was aware that he hadn't made a shot in a side pocket during the whole evening.
"Crap." Even as he let the cue stick slide, he knew he'd missed. His aim was worse than ever. His cue ball passed to the right of its target.
"Bad luck," said his opponent, somewhat generously. He eyed the lie of the white ball.
Behind them, a door swung wide. The smell stale beer and the fresh, outside air wafted over them.
The aikido master expected his opponent to aim at the brown ball that sat at the lip of a pocket. But his opponent tried for a more difficult shot. He knocked in the yellow ball at the far side. The cue ball rolled back to him in perfect position to aim at the brown.
"After a while," he said, "I was only showing myself that I'd become who I thought. I was good in the clutch. I was that guy."
He sank his shot. He had only one ball left, the black eight.
"This corner," he said. There was a tournament rule that they had to call the last shot. He gestured to his stick where he was going to put it. Then he leaned down, poked the cue ball, and bounced the eight into the corner. For a moment, the aikido master held his breath. He thought he might escape. But the shot fell in.
"Oh crap." The master slumped. He put his hands on his knees and took a deep breath. "A whole week's cash."
"Yeah. And then something important happened."
"What could be more important?" He was thinking of his rent money. He hadn't paid for his studio space this month.
"I came across a traffic accident. It was a bad scene with a guy bleeding out. No one was doing anything."
"Even little spots of blood made you throw up." He tried not to think about the rent. Someone dying should be more important. But it had happened years ago.
"I was the cool-head guy now, right? I pulled the glass out of his arm. I applied pressure to the wound and to the artery leading to it. He was losing consciousness when the ambulance arrived. I was a mess, blood all over my shirt and pants. But the emergency technicians took a look at what I'd done and said I'd saved the guy's life."
"Nice." With a sigh, he pulled out his wallet again. He knew it was best to get this over with. Then he could think about how to come up with the money for rent.
His emergency technician friend took out his wallet, too. The master started to hand over the money.
"Just give me one bill," said his friend. He pulled it from the middle. It crinkled as he folded it, without looking at the amount, into his wad of cash. "Put the rest away. Don't bet too large with me again, not unless you can really lose it, okay?"
"Okay." He took a deep breath. "Yeah."
Sunday, November 9, 2014
Not Zen 135: Grateful Mistakes
The smell of baked bread wafted into the room. His father had burned it. Bill's nose detected the roasted hen, too, from his older sister. She'd brought sweet potatoes, butter, green beans, and other dishes for the visit because she lived a block away. His older brother, who lived in the house with his father, had bought canned peaches. They gave off a syrupy perfume as they sat out in a bowl, an item to add to the salads.
His girlfriend had insisted that they make pies but, at the last minute, she'd bought them from a store. The pies sat on the table to her left, a little too far for him to reach but close enough for the cinnamon and nutmeg to combine with the other food scents.
"Good to meet your fiance, Bill," his brother whispered into his right ear.
He nodded. His brother accepted the loaf of dark-crust bread from their father and found a spot for it at the table.
"I'm sorry your mother can't be here," said his father as he sat down.
His father's wife, Bill's step-mother, had died two years ago due her refusal to wear her medical bracelet. When she'd gone to the hospital emergency room for ulcer pain, she accepted a treatment she shouldn't have, which made her pass out. Then the doctors administered medicine contraindicated by the warning on her bracelet. They wouldn't have prompted the reaction that killed her if they'd known.
"Me too," he said. He felt sorry for his step-mother and also for his birth mother, now remarried and not in a position to see her grandchildren.
"Yeah," said his brother and sister.
"But I'm grateful for another year," his father continued. "Let's go around the table and give thanks, please."
The oldest, his sister, clasped her hands and bowed her head.
"I'm thankful that my husband will finish his prison sentence this month," she said. "I'm grateful to be off drugs. I'm thankful for diabetes medicine. I'm thankful for my daddy. I'm thankful for my little girl."
Bill watched his fiance. Her eyes widened.
After a short pause, his brother took a turn.
"I'm thankful that my son can be here with us tonight," he said. "His mom didn't want him to come. I'm thankful for the doctor who reattached my pinky finger. I'm grateful for the car my little brother gave me. It's nice to drive to work again."
Bill's fiance already knew about his brother. She hadn't heard about him cutting off a finger at work. She nudged him with her foot under the table.
"I'm thankful for Uncle Billy!" shouted his brother's son.
"Me, too!" said his sister's daughter. "And for his girlfriend. She's pretty."
"How sweet," his girlfriend remarked. "I'm grateful for Bill, too, and I'm happy to meet you all."
Bill had finished reading a lot of legal papers earlier. When he raised his clasped hands, he found that he smelled like dry books. He took a moment to contemplate how fortunate his life had been. He was the only one of the three who made a good living. On top of that, he hadn't injured himself or caused himself medical problems.
"I'm glad that I knew everything that my older sister and brother did as we were growing up," he concluded with a sigh.
"Amen," said his girlfriend.
There was a pause and a grateful smile from his sister.
"Is that all?" his father prompted.
"And I'm happy we're alive. The bread smells great, dad."
Sunday, November 2, 2014
Not Zen 134: Attention to Words
The sun cast a warm light across the city market. Two women wandered through the shops and stalls. Patrons jostled one another. Shop owners called out. Bicycles weaved through the rows of pedestrians. Taxis crawled between the stalls and bikes. Through it all, the women wandered at their leisure.
They saw an elderly fellow step out of a shop down the street. He hesitated, a bag in each hand. Someone knocked his elbow from behind. His groceries tumbled to the ground.
"This is yours," said the quickest one. She stepped forward and scooped up a can of beans as it rolled. Her friend grabbed a plastic bottle as it spun in place. Other folks nearby saw what they were doing. They crouched, each to pick up an item and return it to the bag.
"That's what I like to see." A stranger approached. His clothes looked expensive and well tailored. He extended his hand in greeting. "I like helping people. And I like people who help others."
The older, shorter woman shook his hand. She felt a professional grip, strong and energetic. She looked him in the eye as he described how he was running for re-election as their state representative.
"I'm just here to remind you that I'm looking out for you," he concluded. A tall woman in a business suit walked up and touched him on the elbow. Another aide approached. They pointed up the street and headed off.
"That man is a criminal," said the woman who'd shaken his hand. She wiped her wet palm on her clothes and shook her head.
"Yeah, too bad," agreed the old man. He had stepped out of range for the handshake.
"How do you know?" asked the younger woman.
"Didn't you see the way he behaves?" Her friend pointed to the politician's back. "His friendliness is calculated. His gaze is hostile. His hands and posture betray his intent."
"He didn't pick up any groceries," the man added. "Help came from all around, thank you very much. But not from him."
"He represents us. He votes for us."
"And you're fooled by that?" The shorter woman pointed up the street. There, the representative and his aides had re-positioned themselves. They rushed to greet a family as the family exited an expensive shop. "Look, the baby starts crying as he approaches. The baby understands. But his parents don't."
"I'm sure his parents are listening to his words. They hear what he says and try to give him the benefit of the doubt."
"When a politician announces that he supports family values, look to his actions. Has he worked hard to keep his marriage good? Has he supported his children? Or does he ignore his family in favor of mistresses?"
"You can't pay much attention to anything that anyone says," the old man agreed.
"Including you two?"
"Be skeptical of everyone. Why not?"
"Well, what about friends?"
"As your friend," said the older woman, "I'd say that you should judge everyone. If someone makes a promise, watch that they keep the promise. Otherwise, words aren't much use."
The younger woman had been the first to leap to assistance. She had also been ready to trust her representative. She remembered voting for him.
"All sorts of words are important to me," she said. "They affect my feelings. What about complements? What about insults?"
"Insults are people being mean. That's the action to watch for."
"What about lying?"
"Lying is important not for the words but because it's cheating," said her friend. "When someone spins the truth out of self-interest, it hurts others. That's why I don't pay much attention to anyone's description of events or of themselves."
"Statements of intention are probably false," said the old man. "Or incomplete."
"They can be sincere," the woman allowed. "But they can be wrong despite the sincerity. If you want to know how someone really thinks, watch what they do. That's the way you can understand if their words have meaning."
The man they'd helped nodded and waved for a taxi. The first one passed him by. Then another slowed for him but it proved to be full. He set his groceries by his feet and hailed with both arms. The women joined in. After a minute of calling and waving, they managed to pull over a taxi for the fellow.
"Thank you," he said. He picked up his grocery bags.
As he stepped toward his ride, the state representative and his aides hopped into it. They slammed the door behind them before the old man could reach it. The representative shouted to the driver. One of his aides waved to the women who had hailed the cab. The other waved to the family with the baby.
The old man sighed. He set down a bag and raised his arm for the next taxi.
They saw an elderly fellow step out of a shop down the street. He hesitated, a bag in each hand. Someone knocked his elbow from behind. His groceries tumbled to the ground.
"This is yours," said the quickest one. She stepped forward and scooped up a can of beans as it rolled. Her friend grabbed a plastic bottle as it spun in place. Other folks nearby saw what they were doing. They crouched, each to pick up an item and return it to the bag.
"That's what I like to see." A stranger approached. His clothes looked expensive and well tailored. He extended his hand in greeting. "I like helping people. And I like people who help others."
The older, shorter woman shook his hand. She felt a professional grip, strong and energetic. She looked him in the eye as he described how he was running for re-election as their state representative.
"I'm just here to remind you that I'm looking out for you," he concluded. A tall woman in a business suit walked up and touched him on the elbow. Another aide approached. They pointed up the street and headed off.
"That man is a criminal," said the woman who'd shaken his hand. She wiped her wet palm on her clothes and shook her head.
"Yeah, too bad," agreed the old man. He had stepped out of range for the handshake.
"How do you know?" asked the younger woman.
"Didn't you see the way he behaves?" Her friend pointed to the politician's back. "His friendliness is calculated. His gaze is hostile. His hands and posture betray his intent."
"He didn't pick up any groceries," the man added. "Help came from all around, thank you very much. But not from him."
"He represents us. He votes for us."
"And you're fooled by that?" The shorter woman pointed up the street. There, the representative and his aides had re-positioned themselves. They rushed to greet a family as the family exited an expensive shop. "Look, the baby starts crying as he approaches. The baby understands. But his parents don't."
"I'm sure his parents are listening to his words. They hear what he says and try to give him the benefit of the doubt."
"When a politician announces that he supports family values, look to his actions. Has he worked hard to keep his marriage good? Has he supported his children? Or does he ignore his family in favor of mistresses?"
"You can't pay much attention to anything that anyone says," the old man agreed.
"Including you two?"
"Be skeptical of everyone. Why not?"
"Well, what about friends?"
"As your friend," said the older woman, "I'd say that you should judge everyone. If someone makes a promise, watch that they keep the promise. Otherwise, words aren't much use."
The younger woman had been the first to leap to assistance. She had also been ready to trust her representative. She remembered voting for him.
"All sorts of words are important to me," she said. "They affect my feelings. What about complements? What about insults?"
"Insults are people being mean. That's the action to watch for."
"What about lying?"
"Lying is important not for the words but because it's cheating," said her friend. "When someone spins the truth out of self-interest, it hurts others. That's why I don't pay much attention to anyone's description of events or of themselves."
"Statements of intention are probably false," said the old man. "Or incomplete."
"They can be sincere," the woman allowed. "But they can be wrong despite the sincerity. If you want to know how someone really thinks, watch what they do. That's the way you can understand if their words have meaning."
The man they'd helped nodded and waved for a taxi. The first one passed him by. Then another slowed for him but it proved to be full. He set his groceries by his feet and hailed with both arms. The women joined in. After a minute of calling and waving, they managed to pull over a taxi for the fellow.
"Thank you," he said. He picked up his grocery bags.
As he stepped toward his ride, the state representative and his aides hopped into it. They slammed the door behind them before the old man could reach it. The representative shouted to the driver. One of his aides waved to the women who had hailed the cab. The other waved to the family with the baby.
The old man sighed. He set down a bag and raised his arm for the next taxi.
Sunday, October 26, 2014
Not Zen 133: Regulation and Self-Regulation
"You want me to enforce your diet?" Their guest scratched his beard.
"We feel it's worth a try."
The three men and two women sat around their dining room table. It was where they held group meetings in their tenement, which lay on the border of the university. In the dining room, they planned their menus in advance, transcribed their meal plans onto the group calendar, and arranged for purchases of food.
The five of them bought nearly all of their groceries from the local farmer's cooperative. Their guest headed the purchasing program. He pooled money from a row of similar tenements and bought supplies at volume discounts to keep everyone's costs low. Since he controlled so much of their edible provisions, the housemates felt it made sense to ask him to help with their diet.
"I've been studying cognitive science," said one of the women. "There are all sort of methods to help us with self-regulation. But as individuals, we haven't been able to put them into effect. For instance, each of us has foods we like too much and need to avoid. But other members of the house like them too, so they buy them. Then those foods lie around the house as temptations."
"So you're buying snacks," said the purchaser. "And that's why you're gaining weight."
"Yes."
"Let's make a list of them, then. I agree not to allow those in your house."
The purchaser left with his determination to help and a list in his hand of the forbidden foods. The house meeting continued. The oldest housemate, a graduate student in sociology, tried to get his partners to support one another. He felt that they could help most by shaming cheaters.
"We need quick, negative feedback," he said.
"And positive feedback," said the psychologist.
"We need reward substitution," said the cognitive scientist.
The youngest woman, who was studying physical therapy and yoga, said nothing. The discussion ended with each house member resolved to try a different strategy.
Although the list of forbidden foods started small, within a week the housemates discovered the need to expand it. The house was devoid of their favorite vices but they found other high-calorie items to snack on.
A week after that, they added more to their list to avoid. But the more the purchaser limited their diet, the more they ate outside of their home. One of them started to wolf down fast food to satisfy his cravings. Others pretended to go for walks so they could stop at the local convenience store. The cognitive scientist visited her friends' houses in the neighborhood and ate their snacks. The sociologist hid packets of cookies in his room. The youngest woman increased her exercise and meditation but the others, generally, did not.
The food purchaser doubled his efforts to enforce the diet. The housemates grew resentful toward him and toward one another. Finally, the purchaser himself called the house and begged them to hold another meeting.
"This isn't working," he announced when they met. "You guys are eating less from the farmer's co-op. But you're clearly not losing weight."
"We're gaining a bit, as a household."
"This is like the drug war, man," he said. "And I'm the cops. It sucks. Now you guys see me on the street and avoid me."
"We should have known this wouldn't succeed," said the sociologist.
"Why? It should have worked," said the psychologist.
"We tried to ban sweets. But we've all seen how well that's worked with alcohol, marijuana, and other things in our culture."
"We're not part of that."
"I think we are. Being part of a culture doesn't mean agreeing with everything in it." He spread his arms wide as if to encompass the whole room. "Look, the fact that we tried a ban means we took the idea from our culture. But if a rule isn't backed up with a sense of morality that's universally held in the culture, then people feel no shame about circumventing the rule."
They fell into a long discussion, each with a view on their weight gains based on their backgrounds in sociology, psychology, cognitive science, physical therapy, and religious studies.
"All of the tactics we talked about are good ones," said the physical therapist. "But they need to come from our own self-restraint, not imposed from outside. Choosing an authoritarian approach is a barrier to self-regulation."
"But we used authority to reduce the temptations in our environment," the cognitive scientist pointed out.
"It's a right tactic," she agreed. "But the authoritarian approach is self-fulfilling. If people don't practice self-regulation, they don't have the emotional muscle for it when the time comes."
"That could be," the other woman allowed.
"It leads people to think that legislation or some sort of reference to authority is the way to go when, really, that doesn't work. Mostly, we need to spend more time watching our own thoughts and actions. We want a substitute for that. But there isn't one."
"We feel it's worth a try."
The three men and two women sat around their dining room table. It was where they held group meetings in their tenement, which lay on the border of the university. In the dining room, they planned their menus in advance, transcribed their meal plans onto the group calendar, and arranged for purchases of food.
The five of them bought nearly all of their groceries from the local farmer's cooperative. Their guest headed the purchasing program. He pooled money from a row of similar tenements and bought supplies at volume discounts to keep everyone's costs low. Since he controlled so much of their edible provisions, the housemates felt it made sense to ask him to help with their diet.
"I've been studying cognitive science," said one of the women. "There are all sort of methods to help us with self-regulation. But as individuals, we haven't been able to put them into effect. For instance, each of us has foods we like too much and need to avoid. But other members of the house like them too, so they buy them. Then those foods lie around the house as temptations."
"So you're buying snacks," said the purchaser. "And that's why you're gaining weight."
"Yes."
"Let's make a list of them, then. I agree not to allow those in your house."
The purchaser left with his determination to help and a list in his hand of the forbidden foods. The house meeting continued. The oldest housemate, a graduate student in sociology, tried to get his partners to support one another. He felt that they could help most by shaming cheaters.
"We need quick, negative feedback," he said.
"And positive feedback," said the psychologist.
"We need reward substitution," said the cognitive scientist.
The youngest woman, who was studying physical therapy and yoga, said nothing. The discussion ended with each house member resolved to try a different strategy.
Although the list of forbidden foods started small, within a week the housemates discovered the need to expand it. The house was devoid of their favorite vices but they found other high-calorie items to snack on.
A week after that, they added more to their list to avoid. But the more the purchaser limited their diet, the more they ate outside of their home. One of them started to wolf down fast food to satisfy his cravings. Others pretended to go for walks so they could stop at the local convenience store. The cognitive scientist visited her friends' houses in the neighborhood and ate their snacks. The sociologist hid packets of cookies in his room. The youngest woman increased her exercise and meditation but the others, generally, did not.
The food purchaser doubled his efforts to enforce the diet. The housemates grew resentful toward him and toward one another. Finally, the purchaser himself called the house and begged them to hold another meeting.
"This isn't working," he announced when they met. "You guys are eating less from the farmer's co-op. But you're clearly not losing weight."
"We're gaining a bit, as a household."
"This is like the drug war, man," he said. "And I'm the cops. It sucks. Now you guys see me on the street and avoid me."
"We should have known this wouldn't succeed," said the sociologist.
"Why? It should have worked," said the psychologist.
"We tried to ban sweets. But we've all seen how well that's worked with alcohol, marijuana, and other things in our culture."
"We're not part of that."
"I think we are. Being part of a culture doesn't mean agreeing with everything in it." He spread his arms wide as if to encompass the whole room. "Look, the fact that we tried a ban means we took the idea from our culture. But if a rule isn't backed up with a sense of morality that's universally held in the culture, then people feel no shame about circumventing the rule."
They fell into a long discussion, each with a view on their weight gains based on their backgrounds in sociology, psychology, cognitive science, physical therapy, and religious studies.
"All of the tactics we talked about are good ones," said the physical therapist. "But they need to come from our own self-restraint, not imposed from outside. Choosing an authoritarian approach is a barrier to self-regulation."
"But we used authority to reduce the temptations in our environment," the cognitive scientist pointed out.
"It's a right tactic," she agreed. "But the authoritarian approach is self-fulfilling. If people don't practice self-regulation, they don't have the emotional muscle for it when the time comes."
"That could be," the other woman allowed.
"It leads people to think that legislation or some sort of reference to authority is the way to go when, really, that doesn't work. Mostly, we need to spend more time watching our own thoughts and actions. We want a substitute for that. But there isn't one."
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