Summer solstice is nearly upon us and I am challenging my thought processes about the marking of the day like I have continuously since I started down this little tumble-worn path of mine going on close to forty years ago.
Aside from October 31st, I have largely moved away from the merged eight-fold seasonal holiday structure and compressed it to observing the two solstices in my own way, and giving nod to the equinoxes when I can. The remaining three are a different kind of observed holiday than I am into embracing after all this time of serious pondering. Interesting in their symbolism, but ultimately not part of my crooked, winding path.
I was thinking (dangerous stuff, that) about totems last night after waking up (this morning?) to use the toilet and after laying back down and trying to find a comfortable position to grab another ninety minutes of shuteye before dealing with the day.
I wonder, at times, if there are truly no new tales to tell or does everything always sound familiar? What does it take to break that glass barrier? Or is it a concrete barrier we try to push past and discover new tales or, at least, new ways of telling the old tales and speaking the old verse?
I was joking around with my twin daughters last night about music and starting up a band (one more than a passable singer, the other plays flute and piano). They are toying around with starting up a cover band that does 80s songs in their own style and with their own instrumentation and in the middle of the discussion I smacked my forehead and cussed.
“Total missed opportunity,” I said. “I wish I would have thought about it when I was playing with various bands when I was younger.”
You know how it is when you are looking for something and you cannot seem to find it no matter how hard you try and then you stop looking for it and it suddenly appears?
Maybe it is an object you lost.
Maybe it is a social thing, like a new beau.
Maybe it is a word on the tip of your tongue.
Or a song you are trying to recall.
You turn around and see it, whatever it is. You are in the shower and suddenly the fragment becomes whole. You sit in a cafe and a stranger asks if you have a piece of paper to spare.
When we are no longer looking, it seems we find what we are looking for.
One of the few personal milestones I mark on this site is the anniversary of my sobriety.
In ways it is much like a birthday. If so, I am seventeen years old today. Happy birthday to me?!
I am lucky that there is rarely any temptation, even around others when they are drinking with me in the room. I would say that I am only tempted a handful of times throughout the year, if that many. And, when those moments occur, I find plenty of reasons not to indulge. When I made the decision to go sober, I was pretty close to bottom. The elevator didn’t go down much further.
I can’t say I recommend following my path to sobriety, if you or someone you know is looking to dry out. My path could have killed me (cold turkey without supervision or a support network). My body rebelled, heartily and I was physically ill for the better part of six or more weeks while my body adjusted to a new reality. Pangs of illness for another six months as the cravings kicked in. I didn’t use AA or other support networks. I went solo.
It was pretty stupid all around.
Anyway. I post to remind myself of how far I’ve come since those days, not to get all preachy on folks. You do you. As they say it, I won’t “yuck your yum” if you drink, nor do I judge people on that metric.
I hope all of you are doing well on this Wednesday.
“The fish trap exists because of the fish; once you’ve gotten the fish, you can forget the trap. The rabbit snare exists because of the rabbit; once you’ve gotten the rabbit, you can forget the snare. Words exist because of meaning; once you’ve gotten the meaning, you can forget the words.
Where can I find a man who has forgotten words so I can have a word with him?”
— Zhuangzi, chapter 26 translation: Burton Watson
To consider:
Which of us is still carrying the trap around after the fish is already in the boat?
For better or worse, the age of the internet has resulted in a homogenization of our lives. It has blurred boundaries in ways never before possible. Counter-culture is now the performative norm. Punk is dead; long live punk.
It is tempting to put a sandal on one’s head in the way of Jōshū and then just leave the courtyard. Better yet would be if we could put the courtyard on our head and leave the walking to the sandal while we talk a bit about mū with a dog.
If the normal position is resistance to authority to the point of mediocrity, there is little left to rebel against.
Perhaps Zen is when you realize that all words are superfluous and find yourself listening to jays cussing at crows, watching cats watch chipmunks, feeling the unseasonable cool air chill bare calves as it drifts through from patio door to window, the taste of coffee on your tongue, that chipmunk chirping back at the cats.
It is that moment that something clicks and you realize this is just it.
Get up, eat breakfast. Tomorrow we will add work to the mixture. Chop wood, carry water — as the old wisdom goes.
Today there is no writing that is wanting to be written for poetry, nor the tale I am telling mostly to myself. There is no music to be chased. Text one daughter or her twin, ask if the parent doing her sleepover at a friend’s house would mind terribly if I showed up closer to 11 instead of 10.30 because my last daughter will want a ride to job she hates and refuses to replace so she only has to pay for Uber one way. I’m still trying to figure out how her transportation woes are my own.
Still… Chop wood, carry water. Just doing. because doing is all that we can know. We pretend we know what has happened and what will come, but we know neither very well. When you really examine it, now is all we know and it is gone before we can even ponder it.
I miss those days before 24/7 television. I think that’s when I actually still liked some of what was out there. There was no need for “reality television” that is anything but reality. Life was reality enough and we still fully embraced the escapism of turning on the television. If you needed more reality, you could grab it between five and six-thirty most evenings. And, again, for a half-hour at ten (here in the Upper Midwest anyway).
The afternoon circus talk shows aside, it was all escapism. And that was fine.
Twenty-six weeks starting in the autumn. Repeats the next half year where we could relive our escapism. And you had to wait each week for your show to come around again. Binge-watching was unheard of.
My daughters sometimes make me watch shows, promising me that I’ll really like this one or that one. And sometimes they are okay recommendations. Good even.
But then comes the inevitable binge watching requirement. All three pull that one on me: “Dad, let’s watch television for three hours each night for the following four days!” And then, the groaning about how they’ll have to wait a whole year for the next eight episodes of varying length will be available while I pray they forget to include me because I am utterly burned out on the storyline that has a weak premise to it anyway and is generally anything but escapism.
But the part I miss most is the late-night station sign off. That crappy quality video of the American flag flapping in the perfect breeze to the Star Spangled Banner or America the Beautiful at midnight or one a.m. It could mesmerize when you were over-caffeinated, over-sugared and generally not intending to wake up until after ten in the morning. I would watch the perfect flag perfectly flapping in the perfect breeze between the wear artifacts in the magnetic video tape.
And then… Suddenly… White noise visually and sonically. Big Bang residue, they said at least at one time, although who knows if that is really the case.
