autumn tactics

What is it that prompts emotional growth?  For biological things, nutrients and environment are the biggest factors, along with any motivated conditioning.  But what about love, compassion, or social awareness?  If one is loved does one learn love?  If one is shown compassion is it learnable? 

Physical growth is possible largely due to physical factors.  So is emotional growth based on emotional factors?  From my experience it seems like dramatic change prompts growth, however this may only be as the change is memorable, so the events immediately afterwards tend to be catalogued with more scrutiny.  Am I able to love as I do now because of thirty years of slow, accumulated caring?  Could I have realized these things any sooner if I had diverted more resources to the cause?  If that is the case, then we do have direct control over how growth as human beings.  Our free will permits us the opportunity to optimize this equation.  So it is quite true that a man is best judged not by what he has, but how he spends his time.

This is another thing I mean to understand more fully in my heart.  If I did there would be much less guilt in my life, and much more satisfaction.  Thanks to the powers that gave me the conscience to realize this.

Today’s randomly chosen passage from the Buddhist scriptures:

“Of all the wordly passions, lust is the most intense.  All other worldly passions seem to follow in its train.”

There comes a point where the mind can no longer deal with so many tasks, pressures, and concerns, and extraneous thought is all culled subconsciously. It’s no longer about winning, losing, or fighting, normal operation is put on hold to keep sanity together until the siege passes.  This is the time where you experience the most memory loss during development.  ‘Where did those weeks go?  I don’t remember doing anything that season at all.’  You do not remember anything because there wasn’t anything worth remembering, you’re just a machine that replies to emails and ticks off tasks.  I don’t know if this is what they call burnout, it’s probably just north of burnout, somewhere in the moors of primordial coping.

It’s a little bit like being on a mild depressant, novel at first in the unique perspective you gain temporarily– walking straight up, your focus drifting vapidly between objects in the mid to far distance.  There is an odd sense of calm unbefitting of such a tragic erosion or one’s most precious resource, time.

Everything outside of work is sacred, and the slightest hint of compassion almost drives you to tears.  It makes me wonder what kind of man I am to live like this.

To the artist I hope to find something beautiful and more significant than all the hours in and out of the office I spend worrying about that kind of nonsense.

To loving the rocking of a train, the dew that collects in the backs of my elbows, to some kind of magic always around me that I am too foolish to see.  To finding some meaning and something truly worth investing in.

There are many solutions to any one problem. Ultimately it comes down to a matter of cost, which is a subset of a matter of will. If only will were infinite and nor organic, then life would be simple. But will is a muscle that must be trained. To be precise it is the only muscle that really requires training. When will is supple, everything else falls into place.

The mind feels safe when presented with simple, everyday concepts. There’s probably a lot of entry level psychology behind that but let’s let it be and accept it as fact. (There, it’s working already, don’t you feel good?)

So, complicated things are best explained in analogy until the pathways are paved to freeway levels of delineating this is why ancient religious texts speak in parable. Something as ethereal and co,plaited as divinity or the human soul and how to care and feed it needs some concrete metaphor that the ignorant human mind can digest. Sure, I may say that I understand the concept of Kharma but flicking off someone on the highway or fantasizing about my friend’s wife doesn’t usually carry the immediate causative feedback as touching a hot iron kettle. So we start with the esoteric “Dharma” and immediately liken it to an eight-spoke wheel. Why? Because there are eight basic elements on the road to Enlightenment and we needed an unmistakable positive symbol (the most primitive icon of technology, the wheel) to associate it with. With the wheel comes progress and balance in it’s eight spokes. All good things… see, you’re on the road to nirvana already.

Hatreds never cease by hatreds in this world. By love alone they cease. This is an ancient Law.
–Dhammapada

To change the subject, let’s talk about suffering. Suffering, Buddha teaches is inherent of mortal life and unavoidable. One may only break free from the suffering of mortality through entry into Buddhahood, breaking the cycle of rebirth.

Leaving aside the belief in Buddhahood or rebirth, there is practical wisdom (read: easily digestible metaphor) in the way one approaches suffering. To be among men is suffering, for one is constantly confronted with their imperfections in everything from their character to the devices they design and build. Take for instance this bus I’m riding in. It gets me a long distance cheaply and more quickly than most means. However, due to the limitations of infrastructure it is built to seat someone seventy percent of my size, has poor circulation, is hot, shakes violently, etc. So the physical discomfort of this bus is one of many kinds of suffering my mind and body must endure. If I were extremely wealthy, I may have a helicopter or private limousine which is relatively much more acceptable to the human body. However in that meager improvement to my physical comfort I’d be alienated from my fellow man, the empathetic disadvantages are incalculable. This brings me, finally, to my point: which is that everyday suffering is a blessing for providing a culture foundation for strength of character. Focusing on the suffering is an opportunity to grow; a start towards deeper connections with people.

Notice how missionaries always speak of how kind and compassionate natives of remote and inhospitable environments are? They have been through so much suffering every day of their lives, they are truly grateful for the simplest elements of human life: water, food, shelter, health, and fraternity. Pity the isolated prince who knows not the suffering that surrounds him. This has been many men as it has been you and I. As it was also Siddhārtha, the Buddha.

Some things seem over the years to lose meaning in a sense, things like Christmas. As a beloved childhood memory, Christmas was a glorious five weeks starting with Thanksgiving and ending with the trip to my grandmother’s house on Christmas Day. The songs, the lights, the decorations in town. The magic of everyone being kind and considerate to each other, the different crackle in the air. But as I grew older and focused on increasingly daunting pursuits, that magic seemed to fade, like a dream after waking. Christmas changed from a season to a couple of weeks to detox from the stress and bustle my 180bpm lifestyle, punctuated with a couple customs to share with a significant other. As much as I didn’t want to lose the magic of Christmas, I stopped seeing it and wondering what that meant of my soul.

Rooted in religion, commercialized by the 20th century America, adopted by the world’s shopping malls, Christmas means so many things that it’s become fettered in my mind with cynicism. But beyond language or divinity. But beyond language or divinity, the message still rings true with me, like a lone candle left burning after a storm. Peace on earth. Goodwill towards men.

So it’s come to my last day in Thailand. There has been so much packed into the first three days, routinely stating early in the morning, that I really can’t keep track of what’s happened I was thinking of going to Ko Kret today, but I’m so exhausted that I think I may just wander around Bangkok, taking the odd snapshot and looking for some groovy threads.

I wanted to have a mellow time and find some peace in visitn Ayutthaya, but the pressure I put upon myself to take pictures along with my health and the environment did just the opposite. By the end of the day I was so sick of photographing ruins that I couldn’t even finish the last four shots of Ektachrome on the roll. I was so aggravated that I was cursing everything under the sun for the bus ride home. The irony of this pitiful egotism was not lost on me, and I felt more than a little guilty for missing the point entirely. How pompous and superficial my thinking becomes at times. I need to reflect on this.

Buddhism isn’t about statues or temples, castles or amulets, it’s like most religions, a way of believing and acting, and one I haven’t been too good at. Just need to stop and think, without falling asleep for once.

Cosmos and stars aligned in curves my heart at peace. Would I feel so at peace in another world? Or would the lack of my suffering remvoe meaning from such a soothing balm? The Tao says without the lost there would be no way, so is the altruistic ideal only so gracious because of the voracious world? Is nature clean because the city is dirty? Do lovers love because haters hate? How alone must I feel for another to belong?

So much of beasts make us human.

Today I have to say goodbye to someone very important. Today I have to say goodbye to my mentor, Randy Pausch. Randy died today after a two year battle with pancreatic cancer. He was my inspiration and my teacher. He came into my life when I was lost and aimless, and he gave me something to live and dream for. He helped make me who I am.

He was intelligent, outgoing, and an excellent speaker. He talked about ideals and dreams, and what to live for, and I believed in him with my heart and soul. He was honest and straightforward; he demanded much from me because he knew what I was capable of.

From the moment I met him I admired him, and he drove me to excel beyond my wildest imagination. I sought his approval and recognition, and through my efforts and my passion, I achieved them.

When I was was joyous, he rejoiced with me, and when I was lost he showed me the way. He spoke to me plainly, and wisely. He made me feel good about who I was, and what I could achieve.

After I found out he had cancer, even though we were apart, he still continued to touch my life. As the world came to know Randy Pausch, I found an even deeper lesson to learn from him. In his suffering and trial, he endured with a strength that defines the beauty of the human spirit. He will always live in my heart.

I cannot repay a fraction of the compassion and wisdom he has taught me. I can only hope to spend every remaining day of my life to live as he did: with honor, and strength, and endless gratitude for all that I have been given.

I miss you Randy…

I promised myself I’d go to bed as soon as I came home tonight, because tomorrow is going to be another very long day. However, I do so little outside of work, I have to spend a few minutes doing something, just to break it into two pieces, you know? So this post is really nothing more than filler to you, sorry. It means a lot to me though, to be and and say. Hopefully I’ll have a day off this weekend and I can catch up on some production.

One might try to paint a picture with water colors on the blue sky, but it is impossible. And it is also impossible to dry up a great river by the heat of a torch made of hay, or to produce a crackling noise by rubbing together to pieces of well-tanned leather. Like these examples, people should train their minds so that they would not be disturbed by whatever kinds of words they might hear.

They should train their minds and keep them broad as the earth, unlimited as the sky, deep as a big river and soft as well-tanned leather. — from The Way of Purification

The express train is passing by again, numbers fall into letters and I’m three months older.

I really can’t manage any sort of original thought right now, so I think I’m going to try posting quotes from my reading for a while, occasionally with a photograph. Think of it as pocket enlightenment.

Today’s passage is from the Buddhist scriptures:

A person who is pleased when one receives good instruction will sleep peacefully, because one’s mind is thereby cleansed.

The world is like a bubble, it is like the gossamer web of a spider, it is like the defilement in a dirty jar, one should constantly protect the purity of one’s mind.

– “The Way of Practical Attainment”, from The Teaching of Buddha

This night may end in twenty minutes, after two hamburgers and a chicken sandwich, or it could be tomorrow at 8:30 with my haircut, but whatever, it becomes doesn’t matter. It’s mine, and a day I will remember. Like so many things it starts with alcohol, a glass of twenty-two dollar wine from my neighborhood liquor store. The only thing I had today was 650 yen worth of sushi before heading to Nakano in search of a wide angle lens for the A-1, so a generous glass of Bordeaux was enough to make beat-tired me happy and forego Resident Evil 4 for a little space. When is the last time I had a night to myself, really? So I’m in McDonald’s with a poorly mixed 20 oz. shouchu/tea cocktail and listening to ソルファ while reading the Book of Matthew and thinking about my life. I remember when I was a traveler, using places like this to write and put my feet up before walking twelve miles through some city not my home.

But I say unto you, That whosoever looketh on a woman to lust after her hath committed adultery with her already in his heart.

[In the end, Saturday night was not a mistake, or a series of misadventures, but a controlled and mellow buzz into the late night. I sat in front of Shinjuku station's north exit and while smoking the top of a Camel hard pack, watched some performing kids draw a large crowd. Then I wandered down towards Kabuki-cho, finished my chuhai and took an hour alone in Karaokekan working on some of my favorite hits. After that, it was about eleven-thirty and I was bushed so I went home, though I don't really remember doing it. I finally went to bed after some more RE4 at two. Blah, blah, blah.]

Things that are regular and predictable are comforting. It makes me feel like I’m in control, and that I have a sense of purpose. So, I have a handful of annual events that I try to attend, and when I miss out on them it saddens me. One is the daradara matsuri, a festival at the famous Shiba Daijingu at Daimon. For hundreds of years this shrine has been important to Edo-Tokyo life, and every year in September the wondrous powers of fresh ginger are celebrated. So I go to the shrine and buy a bundle of the pungent and exotic plant from the kind, ceremonially-clad elderly folks at the shrine.

This year I managed to get there at about the same time as usual, just before closing. I got a special preparation for receiving the last roots in stock at the moment, and along with my purchase a bag of delicious ginger candy as well. The jovial man who sold it to me beamed as he extolled the many virtues of ginger, in particular how consuming the root would make it easier to bear healthy children, and give me the “strength” to invoke such a process– in the morning, in the afternoon, and in the evening as well, apparently.

Behold the all magnificient ginger! It’s delicious! It’s nutritious! It helps you get up in the morning!

After thanking the gods for so much fortune in my road to Geisai, I went to the nearby Zojoji, arriving just in time for the monks’ five o’clock meditation and chanting. I wish I could say that I came to some sort of realization, or even that I calmed down a little, but unfortunately I’m still wound way too tight for any of it to even scratch the surface of my shaky mental state.

It was this little shot of Cuervo at dinner in Azabu Juban that got me motivated to make a spur of the moment decision about travel. Diego would be proud.

But I have my ginger to make my brown rice stir fry with, and I have the solace of performing one more annual ritual that makes me part of this culture-dripping city of old.

I have a long-seated loathing for waking up early, one that surpasses the joy and anticipation of so many Easter and Christmas mornings spent rollicking around the house in pajamas and slipper-socks. It comes from a string of long-journeys, usually involving some considerable amount of physical discomfort and fitful sleep.

When I was fifteen I had major surgery on my chest to correct a genetically-inherited disorder known as pectus excavatum. My sterum has always grown in a cork-screw inward direction, and my ribs and breastplate are dislocated, placing an unnatural amount of pressure on my internal organs. Aside from the cosmetic effects of an asymmetic and under-developed torso, long term side-effects include increased stress on the heart and lungs. Upshot is I had extensive corrective surgery where my sterum was broken and chest bones repositioned. At fifteen, I wasn’t looking forward to my first hospital visit since birth. We left at roughly four in the morning after a sleepless night for a long morning of pre-op in Baltimore.

I used to hate flying. Loathed it. I think that grew out of getting airsick in flying to the Ozarks for my great-grandparents’ fiftieth wedding anniversary when I was six. How small my world was back then, never being more than a couple hours’ drive away from home. I insisted that somehow I would survive college and my career with my trips to the airports few and far between. Ha. As Counselor Troi says “the best way out is through.” After my rise to computer science department student representative at Virginia, I found myself accelerating into an explosive suite of paid flights for interviews, contests and appearances, the dot-com age of recruiting was still in full-force at the end of the 90s, and I was virtually required to be jet-setting on its coattails. I travelled twelve thousand miles in three months after previously rarely venturing any father than two states. Already I marvel at how boastfully accomplished the traveler I thought I was then, where now routinely crossing the Pacific three times a year. Still, at the dawn of my era of enlightenment, fatigue and a mild sense of dread were the prerequisites for those morning rides to Dulles or BWI in my father’s stoic, smoke-filled sedan.

So many pre-dawn rousings for the fraternity did little to improve my sentiment for my grandfather’s adage of “early to bed, early to rise…“. Everytime I awoke to the cold darkness it was matted hair, track pants and eyes glued shut with sleep while Brandon waited with a sports drink bottle of water in the pitch den. We walked in silence, the only sounds the swishing of nylon against nylon, fingers cupped under arms as the we waited the long, hard minutes for the Neon’s diminutive heater to provide yet another bitter reminder of how blissful the sleep we were sacrificing was. Someone would be late. Someone else would be late. Someone would go to call the first person from Small Hall (cell phones were not yet practical). The first person would arrive in supposed ignorance of the planned meeting time. We’d wait for the person who went to call to come back. Someone would go after them. We’d give up on someone and mutter about how many dozens of pledge tasks would be piled upon the woeful class for such insubordination. The roll would meet with mixed results. Some of us would go back to bed for a late class, some would give up and sleep through it. Some would go to O’Hill and be the first at the omelet bar.

I want to change the seemingly insoluble abhorrence I have for waking up early. In a perfect world I’d display the lunar efficiency of my father and have three hours of work done in blissful solitude before anyone else even showed up at the office. Then I could leave at the end of the “working hours” posted on my contract at 6:30 and share a normal life with the millions of 20-something office workers, teachers, and shopkeepers.

The Dalai Lama says change in five steps: education, conviction, determination, action, effort; the last of which requires consistent application for a substantial period of time. He wakes up at 3:30 to start the day. I guess the least I could shoot for is 7. I wonder not what tomorrow’s attempt will bring, but the average for the next three weeks.