Peter Clothier's Blog, page 16
February 21, 2020
A MACKEREL SKY
I went out early with Jake for his morning pee and poop walk and was delighted with the spectacle of a rare and beautiful mackerel sky over Los Angeles.
With the nation and the world falling into chaos, it behooves us to remember how beautiful our home is, here on Earth, and how greatly we, as merely its current and provisional stewards, are obligated to protect it for the benefit of our descendants.
With the nation and the world falling into chaos, it behooves us to remember how beautiful our home is, here on Earth, and how greatly we, as merely its current and provisional stewards, are obligated to protect it for the benefit of our descendants.
February 20, 2020
FEELING BLUE
To disconnect, or stay connected? That is the question. It's a familiar, perennial one. As usual, my Buddhist wisdom tells me, I am too attached to outcomes for my own peace of mind...
Last night I made the mistake of watching the debate between Democratic candidates in Las Vegas and was appalled by the disharmony, the rabid hostility, the focus on issues that really matter little, in my view, in the context of blatant, rampant, unbridled and now surely undeniable corruption at the highest levels of our government.
This morning I saw a felon strutting unrepentantly from the courthouse, where he had just been sentenced for political offenses. He wore a big grin on his face, as though secure in the knowledge that he would shortly be reprieved by his patron, the president of the United States--who now appears confident, for good reason, in the knowledge that he can indulge in any corrupt or vile behavior with impunity.
Beyond this seemingly endless national tragedy, I look out at a world in disarray, with whole populations on the move, desperate to find refuge from war, oppression, from hunger and insecurity, all caused by an over-populated and inexorably heating planet. I see populist and nationalist autocrats seizing power, enabled by supporters driven by fear.
When I look about me it becomes harder by the day to place my trust in the resilience, even the self-interest of my fellow human beings. We seem bent on self-destruction. We have become so fixated on the protection of our own personal well-being that we neglect that of others, forgetting that the health of a whole body is dependent on the health of even the remotest of its parts.
"All is for the best," asserts Candide's fatuous itinerant teacher Pangloss repeatedly, in Voltaire's biting parody of Leibnitzian philosophy, "in this best of all possible worlds." All very well, responds his no longer quite so gullible student in the book's closing line, "but we must cultivate our garden."
Wise words today for those who, like myself, are otherwise confronted by despair. But conscious disconnection from reality exacts its own cost, too--a sense of abdication of responsibility for a situation that affects my life, the life of those around me, and, more seriously, the lives of those younger than myself who will live with the consequences of my inaction, if I fail to make my voice heard when it is required of me.
Last night I made the mistake of watching the debate between Democratic candidates in Las Vegas and was appalled by the disharmony, the rabid hostility, the focus on issues that really matter little, in my view, in the context of blatant, rampant, unbridled and now surely undeniable corruption at the highest levels of our government.
This morning I saw a felon strutting unrepentantly from the courthouse, where he had just been sentenced for political offenses. He wore a big grin on his face, as though secure in the knowledge that he would shortly be reprieved by his patron, the president of the United States--who now appears confident, for good reason, in the knowledge that he can indulge in any corrupt or vile behavior with impunity.
Beyond this seemingly endless national tragedy, I look out at a world in disarray, with whole populations on the move, desperate to find refuge from war, oppression, from hunger and insecurity, all caused by an over-populated and inexorably heating planet. I see populist and nationalist autocrats seizing power, enabled by supporters driven by fear.
When I look about me it becomes harder by the day to place my trust in the resilience, even the self-interest of my fellow human beings. We seem bent on self-destruction. We have become so fixated on the protection of our own personal well-being that we neglect that of others, forgetting that the health of a whole body is dependent on the health of even the remotest of its parts.
"All is for the best," asserts Candide's fatuous itinerant teacher Pangloss repeatedly, in Voltaire's biting parody of Leibnitzian philosophy, "in this best of all possible worlds." All very well, responds his no longer quite so gullible student in the book's closing line, "but we must cultivate our garden."
Wise words today for those who, like myself, are otherwise confronted by despair. But conscious disconnection from reality exacts its own cost, too--a sense of abdication of responsibility for a situation that affects my life, the life of those around me, and, more seriously, the lives of those younger than myself who will live with the consequences of my inaction, if I fail to make my voice heard when it is required of me.
February 19, 2020
PETER PAN
The experience of long years working with both myself and other men has taught me that in every man there is an impish little Peter Pan who refuses to grow up. The lively side of our Peter Pan is the cheerful adventurer who lives with a band of other boys in NeverNeverLand and whose friend, inspiration and guide is Tinkerbell, the peripatetic fairy disguised as a dancing ball of light. This Peter's destiny in life is to do sword-and-dagger battle with the wicked Captain Hook, in a perpetual battle with his Bad Dad. In every man he's the spirit of adventure and rebellion against everything in life that seeks to control us. More than anything, our Peter Pan asserts our freedom.
But there's a dark side to the refusal to grow up. Without some serious adult supervision, that rebellious little Peter Pan can easily become a tyrant. Instead of bringing joy and independence into our lives, he brings intransigence and the stubborn fear of change. He becomes an intemperate narcissist, and at his worst he makes his presence known in sullen brooding, temper tantrums and violence toward those within his reach, even those he loves and those who love him in return.
I found myself reflecting on both aspects of this Peter Pan today in my morning meditation. We need on the one hand to nurture and protect his impish spirit and his sense of freedom. Without adventure our lives descend into rote and dull routine. But we also need to guard against allowing his childish narcissism to rule our lives--and ruin other people's. Love him and hold him close when he needs comfort and understanding, but don't trust him to make good decisions or serve interests other than his own.
My own Peter (strange, is it not, that I share his name!) is the timid little boy from boarding school who learned how best to armor himself against bullying and abuse. His escape was going off by himself to chase butterflies and catch them with a net. My job as a man is to encourage little Peter to have fun chasing butterflies, and at the same time to remind him that he no longer needs the armor he once so successfully created. His grownup self is at his best when he feels safe in the knowledge that to open the heart is to invite love, and that vulnerability is a human asset rather than a liability.
Over the years I have had the privilege of encouraging other men to meet, sometimes to confront, and to come to terms with their Peter Pan. From time to time I find that I have slipped back into the spell of my own and need to remind myself that it is important to be vigilant and attentive to his wiles. Otherwise, even in my older years, I catch myself behaving like that little boy again, all tight and closed. And it's not to my advantage.
But there's a dark side to the refusal to grow up. Without some serious adult supervision, that rebellious little Peter Pan can easily become a tyrant. Instead of bringing joy and independence into our lives, he brings intransigence and the stubborn fear of change. He becomes an intemperate narcissist, and at his worst he makes his presence known in sullen brooding, temper tantrums and violence toward those within his reach, even those he loves and those who love him in return.
I found myself reflecting on both aspects of this Peter Pan today in my morning meditation. We need on the one hand to nurture and protect his impish spirit and his sense of freedom. Without adventure our lives descend into rote and dull routine. But we also need to guard against allowing his childish narcissism to rule our lives--and ruin other people's. Love him and hold him close when he needs comfort and understanding, but don't trust him to make good decisions or serve interests other than his own.
My own Peter (strange, is it not, that I share his name!) is the timid little boy from boarding school who learned how best to armor himself against bullying and abuse. His escape was going off by himself to chase butterflies and catch them with a net. My job as a man is to encourage little Peter to have fun chasing butterflies, and at the same time to remind him that he no longer needs the armor he once so successfully created. His grownup self is at his best when he feels safe in the knowledge that to open the heart is to invite love, and that vulnerability is a human asset rather than a liability.
Over the years I have had the privilege of encouraging other men to meet, sometimes to confront, and to come to terms with their Peter Pan. From time to time I find that I have slipped back into the spell of my own and need to remind myself that it is important to be vigilant and attentive to his wiles. Otherwise, even in my older years, I catch myself behaving like that little boy again, all tight and closed. And it's not to my advantage.
February 17, 2020
February 12, 2020
THE APPOINTMENT (a dream)
I have made an appointment with a psychiatrist. Or rather, it seems he has made the appointment with me. Apparently I did not listen too closely to the location, instead assuming it to be in a building on Sunset Boulevard with which I was familiar. Nor did I pay close attention to the doctor's name, but Ellie recognized him as being married to a well-known movie actress.
I leave for the appointment in the car before realizing that I'm not exactly sure which building on Sunset I'm going to. There are a number of high-rises in the area. Even if I find the right building, I realize now, it will have many floors and many doctors' offices. Without knowing his name, how will I ever find him?
I have an idea. If I call Ellie, perhaps she will remember his famous wife's name and can look her up on the Internet. Her biography might mention the husband's name. Then I could find it by searching though the building directory. If I have the right building, which is by no means certain.
But this does not look like the Sunset Boulevard I know. There is now a light rain coming down. A woman is play ball, or perhaps frisbee, right there on the street, and doesn't even bother to step out of the way of my car. I have to drive around her.
And I now realize that I have no way to honor the appointment, and I feel bad about this. I am usually more attentive to details,
I leave for the appointment in the car before realizing that I'm not exactly sure which building on Sunset I'm going to. There are a number of high-rises in the area. Even if I find the right building, I realize now, it will have many floors and many doctors' offices. Without knowing his name, how will I ever find him?
I have an idea. If I call Ellie, perhaps she will remember his famous wife's name and can look her up on the Internet. Her biography might mention the husband's name. Then I could find it by searching though the building directory. If I have the right building, which is by no means certain.
But this does not look like the Sunset Boulevard I know. There is now a light rain coming down. A woman is play ball, or perhaps frisbee, right there on the street, and doesn't even bother to step out of the way of my car. I have to drive around her.
And I now realize that I have no way to honor the appointment, and I feel bad about this. I am usually more attentive to details,
February 7, 2020
FASCISM: A SCREED
Fascism is not a word I bandy about lightly. Indeed, I have fretted at the casual way in which it has been cropping up in recent times in conversations, news reports and online discussions. I have avoided using it myself. Even now I resort to it more as a warning than as an accusation. But...
When I see the first response to our current president's acquittal to be a montage of images touting his reelection not only in 2020 but in 2024, then 2028 and, scrolling down, every four years for decades, even centuries to come, I can't help it, I hear sickening echoes of Hitler's promised 1,000-year Reich.
When I see a man glorying publicly in the enumeration of every one of the political enemies he plans to destroy, I shudder with the memory of the slow, deliberate elimination of all traces of opposition in the early days of Nazi Germany. Worse even, when those enemies include all critics, even in the press.
When I see a room full of adoring sycophants who cheer in ecstatic unison at every vile, indecent threat and distortion of the truth held up before them, I wonder how little further it would take to induce them raise to their hands above their heads in the salute that Adolf Hitler demanded of his followers; or, if not that, then some similar gesture of solidarity.
When I see this man unleash lavish praise on his henchmen in that audience, men--yes, mostly men--of power who are eager and willing to bend the knee and do the bidding of their master, I fear for those of us who are threatened by their actions. I see an Attorney General who just yesterday seized control of all political prosecution; a leader of the United States Senate who, seeing initial advantage for himself and for the Party, will stop at nothing to achieve the Party's ends; generals, cowed into doing the bidding of a deranged commander out of a misplaced military sense of duty; politicians so afraid of his wrath and so eager for his approval that they rise up before the world to flatter his overweening ego, and fall over themselves to in their haste to enact into law the least of his whims; a propaganda chief who issues exclusively laudatory proclamations and refuses to be questioned by the media.
When I see hordes of citizens assemble to worship their leader as he stokes their victimhood and whips their sense of deprivation into waves of hatred for those they irrationally perceive as their oppressors, I cannot help but think of the screaming, often delusional rants of that dictator who rose to power in Germany in the 1930s and ruled in the name of fascist National Socialism.
They--not only the man himself, but these people who obey him--must be stopped. We know that there is still a majority of Americans who oppose this loud, loathsome and fanatical minority, but their wiles are infinite and their conscience ruthless. They have been all-too-successful in marshaling their control over an unsuspecting and uncritical electorate not for years, but decades. As a result, with one narcissistic sociopath rising to the top of the steaming heap they have created, our country has reached a point of imminent danger.
Will we have the strength of purpose to resist this fascist--yes, I use the word advisedly--this fascist power grab? We have no choice. We must.
When I see the first response to our current president's acquittal to be a montage of images touting his reelection not only in 2020 but in 2024, then 2028 and, scrolling down, every four years for decades, even centuries to come, I can't help it, I hear sickening echoes of Hitler's promised 1,000-year Reich.
When I see a man glorying publicly in the enumeration of every one of the political enemies he plans to destroy, I shudder with the memory of the slow, deliberate elimination of all traces of opposition in the early days of Nazi Germany. Worse even, when those enemies include all critics, even in the press.
When I see a room full of adoring sycophants who cheer in ecstatic unison at every vile, indecent threat and distortion of the truth held up before them, I wonder how little further it would take to induce them raise to their hands above their heads in the salute that Adolf Hitler demanded of his followers; or, if not that, then some similar gesture of solidarity.
When I see this man unleash lavish praise on his henchmen in that audience, men--yes, mostly men--of power who are eager and willing to bend the knee and do the bidding of their master, I fear for those of us who are threatened by their actions. I see an Attorney General who just yesterday seized control of all political prosecution; a leader of the United States Senate who, seeing initial advantage for himself and for the Party, will stop at nothing to achieve the Party's ends; generals, cowed into doing the bidding of a deranged commander out of a misplaced military sense of duty; politicians so afraid of his wrath and so eager for his approval that they rise up before the world to flatter his overweening ego, and fall over themselves to in their haste to enact into law the least of his whims; a propaganda chief who issues exclusively laudatory proclamations and refuses to be questioned by the media.
When I see hordes of citizens assemble to worship their leader as he stokes their victimhood and whips their sense of deprivation into waves of hatred for those they irrationally perceive as their oppressors, I cannot help but think of the screaming, often delusional rants of that dictator who rose to power in Germany in the 1930s and ruled in the name of fascist National Socialism.
They--not only the man himself, but these people who obey him--must be stopped. We know that there is still a majority of Americans who oppose this loud, loathsome and fanatical minority, but their wiles are infinite and their conscience ruthless. They have been all-too-successful in marshaling their control over an unsuspecting and uncritical electorate not for years, but decades. As a result, with one narcissistic sociopath rising to the top of the steaming heap they have created, our country has reached a point of imminent danger.
Will we have the strength of purpose to resist this fascist--yes, I use the word advisedly--this fascist power grab? We have no choice. We must.
February 3, 2020
MR. ROGERS
I was more of a Sesame Street dad than a Mr. Rogers dad when my kids were growing up. In other words, I was a head guy rather than a heart guy. I responded to the energy of Sesame Street, its emphasis on teaching the ABCs and math, its jumpy, colorful aesthetics. I was, I'll admit it, somewhat scornful of slow old Mr. Rogers with his cardigan and his puppets--and not least what I judged to be his sentimental preachiness about "feelings."
These memories were prompted as I watched "A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood" last night, with the amiable Tom Hanks...
... doing an excellent job of impersonating the former minister whose children's television show I was happy, in those days, to mock. I have been through a good number of life changes since that time. Perhaps the most important--and the most difficult!--was the one that taught me that to live cut off from those feelings that I mocked was to cut off not only from myself, but from the true relationships that make life meaningful.
Attentive readers of these Buddha Diaries will have noted the blog's epigraph: "... getting to the heart of the matter..." I could have learned a lot from watching Mr. Rogers, had he been around--had television been around!--when I was little. Instead I learned that feelings were dangerous things: at boarding school you didn't cry. To show fear or sadness was to invite bullying or mockery. It was safer to hide the feelings that came up, to build a strong suit of armor to protect my vulnerable inner heart from the world out there. By the time I was a young man, it would embarrass me to even hear the word "heart." That was silly stuff, for people less enlightened than my well-educated, supercilious self.
Watching the film last night was in some ways a painful experience, in part because it put me in touch with that younger self, and with the ABCs of emotional education of which I had been deprived by a bygone ethos as a child. There was no kindly Mr. Rogers to reassure that little boy that he was okay exactly as he was; no one to listen to the fear and rage I felt so frequently and so intensely, but kept inside because it was unsafe to express them.
More disturbing even, though, was the film's major theme, which came as a surprise. Before seeing it (Ellie's insistence) I had expected something softer, gentler, more, well... Mr. Rogers. And that part was there, for sure, as the counterpoint. But the major theme was something closer to my own heart. (See, I can say the word now!) It was the unacknowledged rage of a young man carrying the childhood wound of having been abandoned by his father at an early age, and their long and difficult path toward reconciliation and the rediscovery of love between them--through the agency, of course, of Fred Rogers.
It took me a long time to grow into full manhood. Along the way, in my emotional immaturity and much like that young man's father, I caused great pain to those who loved and ought to have been able to trust me. Watching the film, I could not help but see myself in the object of that young man's rage, a man who could find no way to make amends for the actions of his own young days; and I was truly, unexpectedly moved as I witnessed the learning process of both father and son as Mr. Rogers helped them find and heal their damaged hearts.
These memories were prompted as I watched "A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood" last night, with the amiable Tom Hanks...
... doing an excellent job of impersonating the former minister whose children's television show I was happy, in those days, to mock. I have been through a good number of life changes since that time. Perhaps the most important--and the most difficult!--was the one that taught me that to live cut off from those feelings that I mocked was to cut off not only from myself, but from the true relationships that make life meaningful.
Attentive readers of these Buddha Diaries will have noted the blog's epigraph: "... getting to the heart of the matter..." I could have learned a lot from watching Mr. Rogers, had he been around--had television been around!--when I was little. Instead I learned that feelings were dangerous things: at boarding school you didn't cry. To show fear or sadness was to invite bullying or mockery. It was safer to hide the feelings that came up, to build a strong suit of armor to protect my vulnerable inner heart from the world out there. By the time I was a young man, it would embarrass me to even hear the word "heart." That was silly stuff, for people less enlightened than my well-educated, supercilious self.
Watching the film last night was in some ways a painful experience, in part because it put me in touch with that younger self, and with the ABCs of emotional education of which I had been deprived by a bygone ethos as a child. There was no kindly Mr. Rogers to reassure that little boy that he was okay exactly as he was; no one to listen to the fear and rage I felt so frequently and so intensely, but kept inside because it was unsafe to express them.
More disturbing even, though, was the film's major theme, which came as a surprise. Before seeing it (Ellie's insistence) I had expected something softer, gentler, more, well... Mr. Rogers. And that part was there, for sure, as the counterpoint. But the major theme was something closer to my own heart. (See, I can say the word now!) It was the unacknowledged rage of a young man carrying the childhood wound of having been abandoned by his father at an early age, and their long and difficult path toward reconciliation and the rediscovery of love between them--through the agency, of course, of Fred Rogers.
It took me a long time to grow into full manhood. Along the way, in my emotional immaturity and much like that young man's father, I caused great pain to those who loved and ought to have been able to trust me. Watching the film, I could not help but see myself in the object of that young man's rage, a man who could find no way to make amends for the actions of his own young days; and I was truly, unexpectedly moved as I witnessed the learning process of both father and son as Mr. Rogers helped them find and heal their damaged hearts.
January 31, 2020
LAKESIDE
We decide to walk back from wherever we have been.
Twilight. It is lake country, quite beautiful, almost serene. Switzerland? The Italian lakes? The darkening light is reflected without a ripple on the surface of the lake.
We have just treated our friends Donald and Sharon to dinner at a fancy restaurant. I became nervous toward the end of the meal about the expense, having spotted earlier a notice saying they accepted cash only. It seemed, however, when the bill came, that they would be willing to accept a credit card. I worked out what the tip would be. If I added 20% I calculated that it would be $80! I deemed this to be an absurd amount for a tip and fretted about the tip inflation of the past few years. I decided on the old standard of 15% and added $60 to the bill. The wait staff seemed politely, if not enthusiastically grateful.
I retrieved Sharon's big carry bag from where she had left it, by the table, with a colorful scarf on top. I was careful to be sure the sunglasses she had left hooked to the strap did not fall off, and carried the bag ahead of the others, down a narrow passageway between other diners' tables.
It was then we decided to walk back along the lake shore in the twilight. Our grandson Luka and our daughter Sarah, who had been with us for dinner, went ahead. I followed with Jake, our King Charles spaniel. We heard the splash of a fish breaking the surface of the water and Jake became attentive. I let him dive into the crystal clear water and watched in amazement as he came nose-to-nose with a beautiful rainbow trout, his long ears trailing behind him in the streaming water.
Heading on down the shore, I left the others behind and tried to catch up with Sarah and Luka, who were now far ahead. I was worried that Luka had become separated from his mother, and searched in the crowds of families on holiday, out even this late to enjoy the pleasures of the beach. I could not see either of them and was still worried when I reached the end of the lake, marked by a huge, rather ugly industrial building--perhaps a mill or an iron works.
I turned back, taking out my cell phone in the shadow of the building with the thought that I could call Sarah to find out where she was. I scrolled through multiple prior screens, and tried swiping to access the telephone, function but for some reason was too clumsy with the phone to be able to make it work...
Twilight. It is lake country, quite beautiful, almost serene. Switzerland? The Italian lakes? The darkening light is reflected without a ripple on the surface of the lake.
We have just treated our friends Donald and Sharon to dinner at a fancy restaurant. I became nervous toward the end of the meal about the expense, having spotted earlier a notice saying they accepted cash only. It seemed, however, when the bill came, that they would be willing to accept a credit card. I worked out what the tip would be. If I added 20% I calculated that it would be $80! I deemed this to be an absurd amount for a tip and fretted about the tip inflation of the past few years. I decided on the old standard of 15% and added $60 to the bill. The wait staff seemed politely, if not enthusiastically grateful.
I retrieved Sharon's big carry bag from where she had left it, by the table, with a colorful scarf on top. I was careful to be sure the sunglasses she had left hooked to the strap did not fall off, and carried the bag ahead of the others, down a narrow passageway between other diners' tables.
It was then we decided to walk back along the lake shore in the twilight. Our grandson Luka and our daughter Sarah, who had been with us for dinner, went ahead. I followed with Jake, our King Charles spaniel. We heard the splash of a fish breaking the surface of the water and Jake became attentive. I let him dive into the crystal clear water and watched in amazement as he came nose-to-nose with a beautiful rainbow trout, his long ears trailing behind him in the streaming water.
Heading on down the shore, I left the others behind and tried to catch up with Sarah and Luka, who were now far ahead. I was worried that Luka had become separated from his mother, and searched in the crowds of families on holiday, out even this late to enjoy the pleasures of the beach. I could not see either of them and was still worried when I reached the end of the lake, marked by a huge, rather ugly industrial building--perhaps a mill or an iron works.
I turned back, taking out my cell phone in the shadow of the building with the thought that I could call Sarah to find out where she was. I scrolled through multiple prior screens, and tried swiping to access the telephone, function but for some reason was too clumsy with the phone to be able to make it work...
January 30, 2020
NO POINT
I have watched myself suffering, recently, from what could be called, for want of a more precise description, a lack of motivation. When I say recently, I mean months. I identify the start of this pervasive mood from the time we left for New York in October of last year. That put an end to a long stretch of daily writing, in which things seemed to be moving along nicely--and with an end in sight. (It was around this time I received a "no thanks" letter from an agent who had long been flirting with my project, so I don't discount the rejection as a part of what I have been experiencing). Ever since then, it has been one distraction after another--mostly the usual seasonal things, Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year's, but also other external events (like the dreadful impeachment trial!)--that have kept me from what I have always seen to be my central purpose in life: to get the writing done.
But it's more than just writing. It's trivial things, like simply getting out of bed in the morning, as well as the more important ones, like meditation, engaging in some form of exercise, getting out of the house for the familiar social events. There's a lethargy, an inertia, an inner resistance, that seem to make all these things a challenge that requires a great effort to meet.
Meditation has been especially hard. I have to summon unprecedented strength of mind just to set my behind down in my chosen corner and close my eyes. As soon as I do, all kinds of resistance comes rushing in to remind me that this is all a terrible waste of time; and, this morning particularly, the ultimate question arose: what's the point?
The answer, I know, is that there is no point. Not in the negative sense that it's a "pointless" waste of time, in the loose sense of that word, but rather that "no point" is precisely the point. The "point", after all, is the outcome, and it's the attachment to outcome, the belief that there must be this or that outcome, this or that "point", is exactly the cause of suffering. To learn to accept "no point" in a positive light, as precisely the point, is to find release from the suffering that comes with that absence of motivation I have been experiencing.
As is always the case with such Buddhist-inspired wisdom, it's easy, but it's hard.
But it's more than just writing. It's trivial things, like simply getting out of bed in the morning, as well as the more important ones, like meditation, engaging in some form of exercise, getting out of the house for the familiar social events. There's a lethargy, an inertia, an inner resistance, that seem to make all these things a challenge that requires a great effort to meet.
Meditation has been especially hard. I have to summon unprecedented strength of mind just to set my behind down in my chosen corner and close my eyes. As soon as I do, all kinds of resistance comes rushing in to remind me that this is all a terrible waste of time; and, this morning particularly, the ultimate question arose: what's the point?
The answer, I know, is that there is no point. Not in the negative sense that it's a "pointless" waste of time, in the loose sense of that word, but rather that "no point" is precisely the point. The "point", after all, is the outcome, and it's the attachment to outcome, the belief that there must be this or that outcome, this or that "point", is exactly the cause of suffering. To learn to accept "no point" in a positive light, as precisely the point, is to find release from the suffering that comes with that absence of motivation I have been experiencing.
As is always the case with such Buddhist-inspired wisdom, it's easy, but it's hard.
January 29, 2020
WAVES
I was listening just now to the waves breaking on the shore of the Pacific Ocean, not too far distant from our house. And I was thinking that those waves will still be breaking long after I am gone, long even after our species is gone, when new species will have appeared on the face of the Earth, unimaginable to us. And the waves will go on breaking, one after the next, as species come and go, for millennia to come.
