Finally, my desk is uncluttered. I sit here, looking across to the front left side of the desk, and I see a darker square of wood, the spot where my copy of The Essence of Zen: An Anthology of Quotations, used to stay close at hand. In the house where I used to live, that was where the book protected a six-inch by six-inch square of wood from constant sunlight. My late wife and I bought the desk when we lived in Chicago—between 35 and 40 years ago. The desk was hers until we moved to Hot Springs Village in 2014, approaching 11 years ago, when we switched our two desks to better suite the available spaces. The desk is one of the dozens of material “things” I have been unable to bring myself to discard or replace since my wife died. At least the desk has utilitarian value; some of her imprinted t-shirts remain in my closet. And while I was straightening my desk and desk drawers, I came across a file folder she kept; labeled UUVC. Inside it, I found copies of several orders of service she kept with handwritten notes she made about the insight presentation or the sermon that was delivered that day. And clippings from the minister’s newspaper articles that she found thought-provoking. Her notes caused me to reflect on matters she thought important enough to return to and to contemplate. Of course those handwritten notes inundated me in sentimental tidal waves—far more powerful than the one I felt seeing the protected place on the teak desk. For reasons more complex than I understand, I try to stem the flow of particularly strong, teary emotions except when I am alone. Perhaps it’s because I do not want to try to explain them; that only exacerbates them. But it may be the lifelong societal inculcation—that I try my best to fight—of the idea that tears are embarrassing when flowing from masculine eyes. That is, of course, bullshit; intellectually, I know it deep in my brain. But it refuses to be completely dislodged. Ach! This paragraph, like so many I write, went down unplanned paths and through dark tunnels. I am so fortunate, though, that mi novia understands and comforts me when these emotions rear their heads.
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Humans have been marking their skin for thousands of years, according to a popular online article about various historical cultural practices. (Smithsonian Magazine, I think.) In modern North America, though, the widespread disapproval of and distaste for the practice continues today, though tattoos are becoming far more common and accepted than in recent years past. Not so long ago, tattoos often were considered irresponsible (and even disgusting) expressions of youthful rebellion and military pride. Today, it is not at all uncommon to see older and more conservative folks sporting tattoos. Regardless of the age of the inked body, tattoos are considered artistic expressions of individualistic “uniqueness.” The same seems to be true of body piercings. Both are resurrections (or more common and more visible announcements) of age-old illustrations of a tattooed or pierced person’s individuality in modern times. Peculiar youthful rebellions and individual idiosyncrasies have morphed into a common form of indistinct distinction. What, I wonder, will be the next “new” expression of individuality that so many of us will find offensive…until we come to realize how ancient that expression is and how appealing it can be to embrace it? Many people seem to look back at the practices of younger generations in bemusement or aversion, failing to fully comprehend that those generational practices are simply later versions of earlier rebellions. But generational adoption of “the way it used to be” almost always leads to significant change; mocking the latest iterations of ancient practices fails to acknowledge the power of reintroduction and rebirth of ideas.
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Yesterday’s grey Sunday afternoon, coupled with rain and temperatures in the low-to-mid-forties, helped keep me indoors, though I would have remained inside anyway, had the day been bright, clear, and warm. I spent a couple of hours shredding papers that had piled up in my study (I try to shred anything that contains personal information before discarding it). When I finished that task, I skimmed the Associated Press news website, where an article about a giant statue in New Jersey of the Buddha, caught my attention. The statue sits on the grounds of the New Jersey Buddhist Vihara and Meditation Center, where the statue and the Center‘s practices, according to the article, serve as a “a hub for interfaith efforts and a spiritual home for practicing Buddhists, Hindus and Christians, reflecting New Jersey’s diverse religious landscape.” I find many aspects of Buddhism’s philosophies and moral codes powerfully appealing. I do not consider it a religion in the same way Catholicism or Protestantism or Islam are religions, because it is non-theistic and doesn’t worship a god or deity. But some say otherwise, noting for example that Kuan Yin is said to be the Buddhist goddess of compassion. Regardless of its status in the context of religious thought, many Buddhist principles and practices resonate with me. Anyway, as I scanned the AP website, I focused on the article. Aside from the Center‘s promotion of religious diversity, a comment attributed to one of its regulars—a 76-year-old retired high school teacher—struck a chord with me. She said, of viewing the statue, that it prompts her to think about “the qualities that the Buddha stood for…peace, understanding, compassion, respect for all, and living in the moment.” Obviously, my practice of shredding personal papers to shield against potential future threats is at odds with “living in the moment,” but like my friend pointed out about Unitarian Universalism during our conversations on Saturday, some principles are aspirational. A core theme is that Unitarian Universalists recognize their flaws, but strive to correct them.
At least twelve of the 4872 posts I have made on this blog—thirteen of 4873 including this one—have mentioned Buddhism. One of those posts, written twelve years ago, before I became familiar with Unitarian Universalism and before I relaxed my rigid opposition to religion in general, attempts to unearth specifically what appeals to me about Buddhism. Reading that post last night and this morning, I concluded that “spiritual” evolution (whatever that is) is endless—because otherwise the circle of introspective thought is destined to reach a pointless dead end.
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It’s almost 7. I woke well before 3 and got out of bed shortly before 4. I have both a radiation treatment and a chemotherapy session this morning; together they will devour the entire morning and part of the afternoon. I wish I would have slept. I plan to take a shower, but I may allow my plans to get derailed so I can try to get another hour or so of sleep.
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