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Month: December 2016

More Kale, More Peeing, More Desire and More Suffering

More Kale, More Peeing, More Desire and More Suffering

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I was walking around the farmer’s market and saw a bundle of kale that looked delicious; crispy and green, my mouth was watering as I imagined a crunchy salad for dinner. The problem, I had no cash.  

I went back inside and got in the painfully long line for the ATM.  5 minutes goes by and I have barely moved an inch, 10 minutes, 15 minutes and now, I have to pee so bad, but I can’t lose my spot in line. I’m shifting my weight, trying to avoid doing the all-out pee dance in public and I realized — If I want the kale I need to accept the ATM line that goes with it. A few inches forward…if I want to live in San Fran, I have to stomach  the crowds that come with it. Nearing the machine…if I want to keep my job I have to tolerate the late night concerts that come with it. One more person ahead of me…if I like the money that comes with my husband’s high paying job, I have to bear his crazy hours.  It’s finally my turn… because I’m enamored with this world, with this life, with being born, I have to endure all the aging, sickness, disappointment, loss and death that come along with it.

The things I like, I want, so often come with parts I don’t want (always actually, but it took longer to realize that) –its beyond my control that the two sides are woven together. Its like a red and blue carpet, only I don’t like the blue part. The problem is, if I start pulling out the blue threads the whole thing comes undone, its just not a carpet anymore. I never liked looking at the downsides of my desires, but whether or not I acknowledge them, they are there. Its part of the contract I sign to get something, the consequences are built into the terms.

This very short contemplation turned out to be pivotal for several reasons:

  1. It was the beginning of being able to see the costs of my desires. Without seeing the costs it’s impossible to ask the question —  is it worth it?   
  2. I saw clearly that ultimately the downsides,  disappointments and sufferings of my life are not caused by other people, they are part of the contract I signed, they arise based on my wants,  decisions, and  beliefs (wrong views). Sure, I could blame the kale seller for charging too much, the other folks in the ATM line for being too slow, the coffee shop for making my coffee so strong I needed to pee…but in the end, who wants the kale (me)? In other terms, I  bought the carpet, I have to accept the red and blue, the colors come together after all and it’s the mix of threads that make-up a carpet.
  3. Looking at the suffering, the things I don’t want which attach themselves to the things I do, (costly kale, long atm lines, crowds and late nights at work) proves my lack of control. If I had control, I would have been given free kale, or at least had no atm line, or a speedy line, or not needed to pee while in line, but I was powerless in each of these regards.

Control is the thing I keep hoping will keep me safe from suffering, but my own suffering proves my lack of control. In other words: Before I had believed that because I don’t control I suffer. My persistent belief is that this will somehow get better, that with some effort I can tweak-it and “win”. But this  belies my actual experiences in everyday life.

In the end, I did get my Kale and ate a yummy salad. Its so easy after that to forget the long line, the frustrated waiting, the painfully full bladder. But they were all real and after this contemplation, ignoring, forgetting, blaming others for the costs became much much harder.

A Final Installment of the Break From Our Regularly Scheduled Program

A Final Installment of the Break From Our Regularly Scheduled Program

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Well Dear Reader, the boxes have begun to dwindle, my stuff has mostly found a home (even if I don’t feel I have), so soon we will be getting back to the regular schedule of blog posts. But, I didn’t want to end this interlude without some final thoughts:

For those of you who are just tuning-in, my new home, New York, is not all I had hoped it would be. Its not what I had imagined. See before the move, I thought my life here would be fun and exciting. I thought my house would be mine, be beautiful, and make life easy. I had a fantasy of Eric and my loving charmed life together, of us embracing the challenges that arose, like a fun new adventure. I was happy, optimistic. I was hopeful.

But then, once I was on the ground, my imagination shifted. Suddenly I started having nightmares of buildings going up to block my windows, of construction disasters, of going broke trying to make it here in NY. I envision the city as a dark, loud and ugly hole that I can only escape on short vacations. I worry it will change me, that the struggle of living here will ruin my relationship.  I feel miserable, trapped. I feel hopeless.

The truth however is New York is what it is — a place with 2 sides, good and bad, a place that is constantly moving and shifting and changing — it abided by this truth before I moved here and it abides by it now that I am here. It abides by it totally independent of me. What has changed is my imagination. When I saw all rainbows and unicorns I was happy. When I saw all tar-pits and booby traps I became sad. My imagination flings me about, takes my heart on an emotional roller coaster and, here is the kicker, what I imagine isn’t even real. Clearly its not real or the imagination wouldn’t have shifted so easily. It wouldn’t have been so one sided and then the other sided. What I imagined to be true would have been true, and that would be the end of the story.

I cause my roller coaster. I cause the suffering of the continual ups and downs. The excitement and disappointment. The hope and the fear. I cause it all with my imagination even though, in reality, all these imaginings, they don’t impact the outcome. They don’t tell how things really are, or predict how they will be (see Killing the Crazy entry for a more detailed analysis of how I divorced my emotion of fear with a necessary outcome. A similar matrix can be applied for how I imagine things will be and how they turn out) .  Basically, I am suffering for free.

And Now an Interruption in Our Regularly Scheduled Programming Part IV — My House Thats Not Quite Mine

And Now an Interruption in Our Regularly Scheduled Programming Part IV — My House Thats Not Quite Mine

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As part of our move to New York, Eric and I bought a new home in Lower Manhattan. We had seen it once, while he was here interviewing with his new company, and we fell in love at first sight. As soon as we stepped into the sunny loft space we began to imagine our life there  — Eric cooking in the chef’s kitchen, me lounging by the fireplace, all the rooms open to each other so we could feel together even when were doing different things. Even the decor of the former couple was so ‘our style’, funky and artsy and eclectic. It felt like we could just slip in and take it all over, that we could have the charmed life it looked like they had from their photos and stuff. I used the rupa to paint a picture and I believed it with all my heart.

When Eric got the job offer we put an offer in on the home. We didn’t shop around, didn’t bother to try to understand New York neighborhoods or real estate. We were told the house had lot line windows (windows which could need to be boarded anytime if the building next to us is ever sold and developed higher than 5 stories), we knew it needed some work, clearly it was a bit quaint, but we “knew” it was just perfect for us. There was simply no convincing us that the future would be anything other than we imagined it, that the house (which we owned after all) wouldn’t mold to our expectations and be exactly what we wanted it to be. In other words, we were fools with a permanent view of the future and an irrational belief the world, or at least our home, would revolve around us and be in our control..but I get ahead of my story here.

Even before we signed the final papers we started to get jitters. When move-in day came, it became clear that the house size wasn’t just quaint, it was small, too small. The open floor plan had only one small closest and no cabinets, no place to put our stuff. The couple before had ordered their life to fit the house, they made it look easy and sweet. But with their stuff gone, surrounded by my boxes, it suddenly felt impossible.

It also became clear quite quickly that the place needed work, a lot of work, to make it workable for us. We sort of knew we would need some, we thought it would be a fun project to do together, a design to make the place really ours. But after interviewing a few contractors, the extent of the project, and the cost became clear. Suddenly we are looking at all new appliances, a wall getting moved, a flooring riddle I won’t even get into, lighting, electric, and building-wide projects of patching leaks, and updating a lobby, and fixing a creaky old elevator.

With each ‘discovery’ my optimism faded more and more; a place, a project, a home that had so recently been, was supposed to be, a joy was morphing into a burden. Still, in my heart, I kept feeling like the house, its mine, there is something I can do to fix it, to organize it, to make it work, to force it to be what I want it to be.

I was taking a break from unpacking, lazing in a spot of sun one of my lot line windows let in and it dawned on me. My house, my enjoyment of it (or at least of its sunniness), its totally out of my control. Even if I can renovate the place, elfa out every nook and cranny to organize and make space, I am one building sale, one ambitious development project away from literally losing my sunshine. I was crushed. Suddenly I hated the place, hated myself for buying it, the picture I painted was shattered. I saw so clearly that its not really mine. When I thought it would fit my image, play by my rules, exist on my terms I could pretend it was mine. I wanted it. But when I see that something about it I value so much can be ‘taken’ any minute, I don’t even want it any more. This dark-at-any-moment house doesn’t serve me anymore (even though its still light right now, even though its a perfectly fine place to live), it doesn’t bolster me or  sell the deeper more critical picture– ALANA master of her universe, goddess of her relationship, home and life, buttoned up and in control, all I want to be, and all others want me to be, and ME ME ME I I I AM.

But here is the crazy part: None of the information was new. I knew the size of the place, square footage was clearly placed in the listing. I knew of at least some of the upgrades, it doesn’t take an architect to spot appliances older than me. I knew about the windows, it was disclosed.  The house, it never lied to me. It told me the same truth that every object in this world screams loud and clear for anyone to hear — “I will change, fade, decay, cease to be what you want at some moment in time. I abide by my own rules, am subject to my own causes that won’t just adhere to your terms (subtext:  who are you anyway, crazy lady, to think your so special that you can control my fate).” But I had let my own picture, that I had painted all by myself, lie to me. Actually,  I used my picture to lie to myself. When, seriously when, am I going to learn that I am the liar and the sucker who believes my own lies? I believe even though my lies hurt me.

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And Now an Interruption in Our Regularly Scheduled Programming Part III — Boxes of Rupa

And Now an Interruption in Our Regularly Scheduled Programming Part III — Boxes of Rupa

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In my time of transition I continue to ‘broadcast live’ some of my thoughts on my recent move to NY. Sitting shadowed by a tower of boxes, stuffed with the things I ‘own’, its a bit hard not to have some thoughts on that favorite old topic:

Rupa

 I am surrounded by, swimming in, a sea of my stuff. I can look at each item and remember  how badly I wanted it back when I bought it. My heart believed that that table/rug/lamp would solve my problems, fit perfectly in my space, make my home beautiful. That by extension, these items would make me a sort of person — the sort of person that values beauty, surrounds myself with it, cares enough to have a lovely home filled with lovely things. An adult, a non-slob, someone tasteful but unique.  I wanted these things and I bought them. But the story isn’t over…

Now I have all this stuff, tables/rugs/lamps/clothes, in a new space where it doesn’t fit anymore. Where it is non-beauty, just clutter, part of the endless piles I need to sort through. In a town where even donating items involves work (I either need to get an Uber XL and carry it down, or I have to order a Salvation Army pick-up and wait all day for them to come). I saw all the benefit when I bought these things, but I ignored the  burden. But (and we will cover this topic much more in a later log) the burden was always there, just waiting for its moment to come to the fore, to rear its ugly head.
Most of the time, I think these items serve me —  after all, who buys something thinking,”I wanna pay good money to be this table/rug/lamp/dress/etc.’s bitch?” But here, amidst the stress and fall-out of a cross country move, it is very very clear, I am subject to these items (actually, to my desire for them)–finding ways to salvage some stuff for the new space, finding storage or haul-away for others. The stubbed toes, the aching back, the stress of inadequate closet space. And then there is the dependency; how can I live without all 4 feather pillow that I’m used to, even though my new “bedroom” is barely big enough to fit a bed.
And did these items even do what I believed they would do? Did they fulfill the ‘promise’ I imagined they made to me? Sure, for a bit there was convenience, beauty to my eye. But did it make me that tasteful, non-slob, adult? Did it make me fashionable, and pulled together, and worthy of love, and adoration, and even a bit of envy? How can I say these objects succeed in making me all that awesome stuff, when now they make me look like a hoarder with a cramped space, when the effort to just dispose of them is making me haggard and stressed. I promise my  situation is utterly unenviable.
At the end of the day, my desires changed. When I wanted that table/lamp/rug my desire felt so solid, so fixed, so permanent, so real. But now, I want it gone.  I always believed, I want, I get, I am satisfied, game over. But in truth, this is a game I can never ever win. Lasting fulfillment will always  evade me. How can I win when my wants are so capricious, when the desirable can become undesirable with even the most minor changes? When my once beloved furniture oppresses me.
And Now an Interruption in Our Regularly Scheduled Programming Part II — No Going Back to SF

And Now an Interruption in Our Regularly Scheduled Programming Part II — No Going Back to SF

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For those of you just tuning in, we are taking a little break from our regularly scheduled program ( a chronology of highlights in my Dharma practice) as I move and settle into a new home. So for a few weeks, you will be getting real-time reflections. A blow-by-blow of my life and my practice as I adjust to my new home. Last week I talked about my disappointment in my new home in New York. This week, I want to talk about the flip-side…

I wish I could just go back to my old home, to San Francisco

I keep catching myself whispering the secret-not-so-secret mantra, “I wish I could just go home to San Francisco.”  I miss my friends, my house, my routines, I miss my old life and I want it back.  But spoiler alert, its not possible, there is no going back. After-all, what would going back really look like? My husband’s job is here now, am I going to go back without him? Or go back with both of us unemployed? In either case, is it really going back to the life I had before? My house is sold, my car sold, my position at my old job filled, none of those are there for me to go back to. And even my friends, after these few weeks, do they still have our weekly yoga time held on their calendar, that Thursday lunch spot free? All I remember San Francisco to be, its moment had come and gone, arisen and ceased, no mantra can wish away the impermanence.

But me, I am in constant denial. I am always trying to repeat the past, recreate those ‘perfect’ moments, make my memories manifest again. I once ate the best pizza in the world and kept going back to the same restaurant again and again hoping to recreate it, but each time it was worse than the first. Burberry had the perfect coat one season, each season after I kept going back, hoping to find one like it, but the cuts, they changed.  I wore that outfit one time and it was adorable, but I put it on again and I was too fat/too pale/ it was too cold/inappropriate for the occasion/ out of season/out of style.

And when I am in the moment, enjoying something, a little part of my mind is scheming, saying, “how can I get this again?” If I  come back to this hotel, can I get the same room? If I come back to this restaurant, can I get the same dessert? Can I buy extra cans of this tomato so I have more later? Can I buy extra ‘back-up’ versions of the same purse, so when the original is beaten-up I still have another one left?

I try so hard, put in so much effort, and then suffer so much disappointment because its always a fail. I can never quite seem to get back the past. Still I try. Still I hope. And that trying, hoping, grasping,  it moves me, drives me, pushes me forward. But it can’t ever return me to where I have been.

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