Advice

Don’t take any wooden nickels.  Never play cards with a man named “Doc.”  Close cover before striking.  Do not consume the desiccant.  

Back up your work regularly; even more importantly, back up the work of your rivals in the office and call it your own.

Never give a sucker an even break; never give a breaker an uneven suck.

Don’t drink and drive; drinking then driving, though, is fine.

Wait at least half an hour after eating before swimming; wait at least a week after eating at McDonald’s for your bowels to move properly again.

If you see something, say something; if you don’t see anything, then maybe you should get glasses.

Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do unless you’re not me.

Brush after every meal; your teeth, Fool, not your hair!

Consuming raw or undercooked eggs can be dangerous; consuming them with their shells on will be worse.

Keep your options open; make sure your fly is closed.

No one, on their deathbed, ever said, “I wish I’d spent more time at the office,” except, of course, the actors in the sitcom “The Office.”

If you want to live a long and happy life, make sure you don’t die young.

If you do want to die young, it’s too late!  Sorry.

Always plan to arrive at the airport at least 90 minutes before your flight; it’s not a bad idea to do so a day in advance, just to be on the safe side.

Don’t count your chickens before they cross the road.

Be the person your dog thinks you are, unless you have a chihuahua; those dogs are terrible judges of character.

Measure twice, cut once, swear loudly three times because you still fucked it up.

If you do what you love, you’ll never work a day in your life; the same result can also be achieved by getting a degree in Philosophy.

Don’t take my advice; don’t take anyone’s advice, don’t listen to me.

Freedom

 In America (and probably throughout most of the world), the car represents and symbolizes freedom.  

You’ve read On the Road and you know how Dean and Sal roar all over the country in their big bad V-8 powered automobiles.  To be “on the road means” to be free and that means being behind the wheel (or inside as passenger) of a car, presumably the bigger and faster the better.

But oddly enough, everything associated with automobiles that makes a person less free.

Owning a car means you’ve got a lot of “haftas.”  You hafta have a license and registration; you hafta have insurance; you hafta obey the speed limit and traffic lights; you hafta find a place to park; you hafta be sober; and on and on and on.  If that’s freedom, I’m gonna hafta pass.

With a bike, by contrast, you can do whatever you wanna.  You wanna run a red light?  No problem, just don’t get run over.  Wanna pull up right outside your destination?  Sure, just lock to a parking meter or whatever.  Wanna get drunk and ride?  Sure!  You’re free to do so, just don’t get killed.

The bicycle doesn’t just mean freedom; it is freedom.  It’s freedom from car payments, from sitting in traffic, from getting fat and lazy, from being told what to do by electric signs and signals and cops pulling up behind you with their light flashing.

The bicycle makes possible freedom from your parents, your teachers, your crummy (and even good) job; it allows you to be free to ride the wrong way down one way streets, to pedal over closed trails in shuttered parks; on a bike, you're freed from your many responsibilities as a parent, a spouse, even a friend.  

Above all, the bicycle gives you the full freedom to be yourself.

So you can keep the “freedom” the automobile gives you; if that’s freedom, I’ll keep my chains—that is, of course, my bicycle chains!

Adieu

If you do Ashtanga yoga for many years, there will come a time when you begin saying goodbye to poses that you used to be able to do.

Consider the historical trajectory of your practice: you begin my learning some initial postures—the sun salutations, a couple of standing poses, Trikonasana and Uttitha Parsvokanasa, a few sitting poses, Paschimottanasa and Purvottanasana, and then, as you develop flexibility and strength, you add new ones (or, in the traditional model, you teacher “gives” you new ones when you’re ready.)

Perhaps there comes that day when you can bind all by yourself in Marichyasana “D,” and you’re able to roll around with your arms through your lotus in Garbha Pindasana; your teacher “gives” you the first few poses of the Second Series; you’re on your way to being an “Advanced Practitioner,” wow!

But then, maybe you have an injury, or there’s a pandemic and you gain a few pounds, or maybe (or in addition to), you’re just getting older and it’s harder to reach around and clasp that hand that used to be so accessible.  Paschasana goes away first and then, within the passage of a few years or even months, it’s goodbye to Marichyasana “D” and sooner or later, “B.”

No longer is it all about “progress.”  Your teacher’s promise that if you just keep working steadily, you’ll one day be able to achieve postures that are currently out of reach no longer rings true.

The mantra that has kept you going all these years, “Do your practice, all is coming,” has now become “Do your practice, all is going.”

But that’s okay.  You learn to bid a fond adieu to physical postures you were once able to do.  

It’s not about giving up; it’s about giving in—to life, to the impermanence of all things, to your ego’s conception of who you are and what makes you worthwhile.

It’s about giving over to discernment: goodbye, delusion; hello reality.