Typing the Tao, #5 & 6

All of the teachings point to the same place. There is different imagery and words and technique but under it all, the same destination.

Last night I watched a documentary on David Bohm, a scientist whose ideas tied together theories of quantum physics and consciousness. Science, it seems, may point to the same place as well.

The "valley spirit" is humility. A lack of self. The gateway to seeing and understanding the connection between all.

You can find the documentary, “Infinite Potential: The Life & Ideas of David Bohm,” here on YouTube.

Typing the Tao, #4

"I disturb your peace," she said. And it was true. And then she was gone.

Something clicked in that moment--though it has taken time to really understand.

The peace which was disturbed had been predicated on a carefully-constructed and limited life of simplicity. Few bills. Nothing to fix or maintain. A tiny cabin, a tiny life, with tenuous connections to more.

Somehow, that moment helped me understand that a peace which could be disturbed was not a true peace. The peace I seek is an eternal and internal state of being. One that cannot be disrupted or disturbed.

A year later and my life looks wholly different. It is not simple. It is not so small. It is more connected. There are bills and things which break. It is a larger and more dynamic life.

And the peace? Well. It is there. Always present. Harder to see, experience, relish. Sometimes I find it; often I don't.

A peace which can be disturbed is not true peace.

I will not impoverish myself through an acceptance of poor substitutes.

Typing the Tao, #1-3

My mother died of cancer when I was was 21, and among a few things of hers that I kept was a copy of the Tao Te Ching.

The Tao was likely written in the six century BC by Lao Tsu. It is a classical Chinese text that lays out the philosophy of Taoism. In its simplest terms, this is a philosophy of accepting things exactly as they are—not desiring reality to be different than it is.

For a few reasons, I’ve decided to re-type the Tao. First, I like this translation quite a bit but the actual book, though beautiful, is large and unweildy. I would like to have a more travel-friendly copy to read. Second, I am hoping to connect more deeply with the text by re-creating it.

My mother acquired this version of the Tao in the later years of her life—there was a period where she was searching, as her cancer progressed. She had some range: Raised in the Presbyterian church, she also explored eastern philosophies and Catholicism.

Did she find what she was looking for? I don’t know. But I find myself on a similar path: wanting to connect with the peace, joy and love which exists in (and is) all of us.

The Tao is short—81 chapters, though only about 5,000 words. And there’s a lot in it.

Allan Watts said of the Tao:

“The [Tao’s] whole conception of nature is as a self regulating, self-governing, indeed democratic organism. But it has a totality, it all goes together and this totality is the Tao.”

So … A few thoughts on these first sections.

“The Tao that can be told is not the eternal Tao.” … the finger pointing to the moon is just a pointer, a direction—don’t mistake it for the moon itself. “Ever desireless, one can see the mystery.” … Basic ideas of non-attachment.

Charles Johnston’s translation and commentary explains it:

“He who relinquishes attachment to external nature finds his way to the spiritual consciousness which is the Life behind nature. He finds the Way, the door of spiritual life.”

“Having and not having arise together.” … Non-dualism; there is no life without death, “good” without “bad,” no beginning without an end. These aren’t opposites but natural companions and one cannot exist without the other.

“If nothing is done, then all will be well.” … This isn’t an admonition to do nothing, but to work with the universe and the ways of nature rather than against it.

Or, as is inscribed on the headstone of Charles Bukowski: “Don’t try.”

You might think of Bukowski as a misogynistic, alcoholic chronicler of skid row—and he was. But he also came quite naturally to a kind of booze-addled Tao-tinged approach to life. When asked how he wrote, he replied in a 1963 letter:

“You don’t try. That’s very important: ‘not’ to try, either for Cadillacs, creation or immortality. You wait, and if nothing happens, you wait some more. It’s like a bug high on the wall. You wait for it to come to you. When it gets close enough you reach out, slap out and kill it. Or if you like its looks you make a pet out of it.”

I’m not sure about killing the bug, but the rest sounds right to me.

Turning 44, and an Intention for the Next Year

Purchase this card.

Five years ago, I moved into a tiny, secluded cabin in the woods. Now I live in a beautiful old farmhouse on a main road, just outside of the village of Trumansburg, NY. Before, I lived in Washington, DC. At some times, I lived on the road.

There have been shifts in the last few years. Here's the thing.

A week ago I had dinner with a friend and we discussed the question, "Are we special?" It's a wonderful question, because the answer is "No!" Also, "Yes!"

We live in a society that sells a message that we are special and unique. But there are 8 billion people on the planet. I am absolutely not special. You are absolutely not special. Everything we want, everything we need, all our dreams--someone else has them. And if not one specific person, they've been shared in part by millions. We are NOT special.

Of course, also: We ARE special. So incredibly wonderous--these perfectly imperfect human bodies, our imagination and awareness, our dreams, our capacity to build and love ... that we have come to exist in this moment is an almost-impossibility that occured with total ease. We are the very definition of special. And yet we are not.

I take great comfort in not being special.

I say all of this because I am trying to define my own direction and purpose and values. Which is a melding of skill and self. How can I--how can all of us--use what we have, who we are, in order to create what we value?

Me? I communicate. I stumble, I fumble, and I often get it wrong. But one thing I know about myself, is that I have an honest vulnerability and the skills to communicate it. I'm not special. So. That must mean there can be value in my experience for others.

I am also tired of my self. Tired of being predictable--tired of my reactions, my ingrained ideas, tired of the way my wounds and traumas shape the world I see. I am even tired of the word "I," which I've now used ... almost two dozen times in this short passage (so far).

Six years ago something happened. A brutal loss of friendship and connection. An excommunication. A glimpse of my own and other peoples' limits and capacities. It was an event that sent me into therapy and onto medications, and ultimately towards a deeper exploration.

I once thought that what happened was the worst thing. Now I think it was the best.

These days, I think about all these events as clues. Breadcrumbs from the universe. A trail leading back into myself--and from there, to everyone.

Without knowing it consciously, I spent five years in a cabin searching--not for the answer, but instead for the beginning of a path. The trailhead. What did I learn, after five years of shitting in the woods and going weeks between showers? ... I learned where the path began. I didn't find the end, I found the beginning.

Why did I move into this new house? I ask myself. The answer, I think: I bought this place because I wanted to live publicly. A total reversal of my time in the woods. I wanted to leave behind the image of myself as a big child, living with caution on the outskirts of community. I bought this home to represent a lack of separateness.

A year ago, I dated someone briefly and the relationship seemed full of possibility. There was connection and ease. But it quickly became apparent that my needs were not being met, and the whole thing fell apart in a flash.

For once, I didn't feel guilt. You know what I felt? CURIOSITY. For a relationship that spanned just weeks, it was incredibly impactful.

Since then, my world has opened up. I've learned how to look. And I've learned that the looking is the important part. What's important isn't so much truth, but realizing what is NOT true.

I started looking, and the Me I found was wholly different from who I believed I was. It turns out, I have wounds from trauma I don't recall and wisdom from classes I don't remember taking. It turns out, I am precise and fumble; am curious and afraid. And I'm just like you.

The relationship I mentioned led directly into another, which turned out to be infinitely more accelerating. It revealed the love which exists inside me. That I am.

If there is one thing I've learned--that has been shown to me--and which I now believe deeply through lived experience: YOU ARE LOVE. We all are.

We spend our lives looking for love--be it romantic or familial, a place to fit in or a sense of self--we spend our lives searching for the very thing we are. Understanding that Sisyphean struggle evokes waves of compassion in me. So. Now what?

I just turned 44 years-old, and it's like I want a bicycle pump for my life. I want to inflate it, until the tube is taught. Taut. Both. Communication. Sharing. Looking deep and then bringing out whatever I find.

So. That is my intention for the next year. An endeavor to look, to learn about myself--and by sameness, to know others. And to share what I find.

You aren't separate from me. We are the same. I see it. I can't show you, in part because I don't fully understand it myself. But the trail is so clearly marked that I know without doubt that there is value in helping others find where it begins.

Back on the Grid

Built in 1832, it came with all kinds of wonderful surprises including a family of groundhogs living under the porch.

After five years of living in a tiny, off-grid cabin in the woods, I have recently made a major move and purchased a 200 year-old farmhouse just outside the village of Trumansburg, N.Y.

Of course, this is incredibly exciting—moving from a one-room cabin into what feels like a palace: with bedrooms and bathrooms and barns and a tiny pond. It is also somewhat daunting: so much to take care of, in a completely different environment.

The move is so distinct, perhaps even so jarring, that it begs the question: What is going on here?

I spent five years living in this tiny cabin, cooking outside and living under the trees. Amazing—but what did I learn?

When I moved to the Finger Lakes in 2015 there were lots of reasons and factors at play. I was looking for a new home, a new adventure, some stability and direction. I was also trying to learn more about myself—what I wanted and valued and needed. Buying the land, putting the cabin together; it was a piecemeal approach, a slow searching.

What did I find?

I spent five years essentially camping. And I learned that I can feel safe, secure and happy, with very little. By focusing on process, daily life, details and small things, I learned that much of what I thought was necessary for a fulfilling and healthy life was in fact other peoples’ ideas and opinion.

I also learned that I want more—to build something bigger; to be supported by more infrastructure; to be in closer contact with community; to have more I can offer to others.

The new house represents a major life shift. It is such a stark change that it seems impossible not to represent a new direction. Towards what? I have hunches and ideas, but I think time will be necessary to distill the right course.

And it will probably take years to truly understand all I learned by living in that tiny cabin.

In the meantime, I am enjoying this new way of living. I have been here one month, now. I cook in larger batches and smell less of the woods. I appreciate simple joys like running water, and revel in how easy it is to consume when backed by grid-supplied electricity.

I still have not cut the grass.

5 Great Books From a Year of Reading

I’ve done a lot of reading in the past year, and most of the books have been excellent.

I wanted to share the five books that have stuck with me most — they’ve brought about changes in my life; I’ve recommended them over and over to other people; they moved me to tears and deep realizations.

Pretty quickly, you can see a theme emerging.

1. The Power of Now. Described as “A Guide to Spiritual Enlightenment,” this book has been fundamental to much of the work I’ve been doing—trying to break the identification with thought that I experience. At its essence, this is a how-to guide to awakening. It’s fundamental message is that we are not our thoughts, not our mind, not our ego; instead, what we truly are is the being and awareness which witnesses it all. … I’ve identified as an atheist for many years and have shied away from much that is “spiritual.” Eckhart Tolle’s book simply makes sense to me.

2. Tao Te Ching. While most of my reading on consciousness is non-religous, the Tao is often described as both a relgious and philosophical text. I was introduced to this book by my mother, who explored many different schools of thought after she was diagnosed with cancer. Its opening lines sum up so much: “The Tao that can be told is not the eternal Tao.” … Perception and reality are not the same. It is possible to live in a way which aligns with what Is.

3. Being Peace. Called a ”starting-point for those interested in Buddhism,” this book is adapted from teachings and speeches by Thich Nhat Hanh. If I had to sum it up: The work to become more conscious and aware is important work for the well-being of the world. Individually, it is the most impactful work we can do.

4. Shambhala: The Sacred Path of the Warrior. The key to courage is not being afraid of yourself. Chögyam Trungpa writes, “Real fearlessness is the product of tenderness. … You would like to spill your heart’s blood, give your heart to others. For the warrior, this experience of sad and tender heart is what gives birth to fearlessness.”

5. The Overstory. This is a novel, fiction. … One thing I have noticed, as my interest in awareness and consciousness has grown: The language of enlightenment is everywhere. Wikipedia says Richard Powers’ masterpiece is “about nine Americans whose unique life experiences with trees bring them together to address the destruction of forests.” But this is also a book about awakening to reality. It is the most beautiful novel I have read in years, and I cannot recommend it enough.

Northern Exposure, Episode 8: Cumin, the Aurora Borealis, a thin Barry White and the best episode of Season 1

The Northern Lights: They really do look like that.

Nice shot of characters reacting, as Chris and Bernard realize they are related.

Every Northern Exposure fan has their own list of favorite episodes. There are some perennial entries (“Burning Down the House” makes almost every top-5), but people’s beloved tend to center on whatever it was that most resonated about the show for them.

For me, this 90s TV gem was at its peak when it embraced magical realism. And Episode 8, “Aurora Borealis,” was the first where it totally dove in. In the final episode of Season 1, the writers introduced us to two new recurring characters and set a bar that would be difficult to top—though at times they did match it.

Episode 8 opens with Chris on the radio, talking about the full moon which has beset Cicely with a kind of lunar madness and sleeplessness:

“Knowing how we’ve been tossing and turning these last few nights, for fear of where our dreams may be taking us, I’m not about to pretend that man in that moon has our best interests at heart. No way. He’s too much of a kidder. So until the big fella packs his bags and hits the road, put away those sharp utensils and stay close to your loved ones. If you’re lucky enough to have any.”

Basic storylines: While out golfing, Joel and Ed come across a huge footprint — possibly of “Adam,” Cicely’s own bigfoot on whom the residents blame all manner of mischief and minor thefts. Does he exist? Most say No. … At the same time, Chris is rushing to finish his sculpture, "Aurora Borealis,” before the Northern lights peak. He gets help from a mysterious biker who rides into town—Richard Cummings Jr. as “Bernard,” the first African American actor on the show.

Ed: So …you’re black.

Bernard: Yeah?

Ed: We had a black logger here once, but he left.

Bernard: Why is that?

Ed: I guess he wasn’t into drinking beer and fighting.

Adam (played by Adam Arkin) turns out to be real, and Bernard is revealed to be Chris’ half-brother.

This dream sequence features a truck-driving Karl Jung and Bernard as a “thin Barry White.”

Great lines include Joel telling Ed, as he practices his golf swing on a beautiful Alaskan spring day, in front of a mountain view:

“There is something intrinsically therapeutic about choosing to spend your time in a wide-open park-like setting that non-golfers can never truly understand.”

Part of what made Joel’s character work was that he consistently held beliefs and unconscious ideas out of sync with what the audience saw. He hated Cicely, for many of the reasons viewers loved it.

“Adam” turned out to be an enigmatic, angry hermit and ex-chef who had abandoned civilzation—though as he returned in later episodes, viewers learned he was still fairly tied to the world.

He prepares noodles for Joel, and furiously shouts" “It’s cumin!” when pestered for the secret ingredient. Adam later vanishes, leaving Joel to question if he imagined the encounter.

“It’s cumin! Are you happy now?”

“If you want to call it art, you’ve got the benefit of all my doubts.”

Of the first season’s eight episodes, this final one is my favorite. It isn’t the most complex, but somehow it embodies much of what the show would go on to be. As Maurce put it, standing at the end in front of Chris’ sculpture: “I get it.”

Ranking Season 1 episodes (with links to my reviews:

#1-Aurora Borealis (1.8)

#2-A Kodiak Moment (1.7)

#3-Brains, Know‑How and Native Intelligence (1.2)

#4-Pilot (1.1)

#5-Dreams and Schemes and Putting Greens (1.4)

#6-Sex, Lies and Ed's Tapes (1.6)

#7-Russian Flu (1.5)

#8-Soapy Sanderson (1.3)