Moribund

They—the Buddhists among others—say that as soon as you’re born, you start dying.  I suppose that’s true for some things, like your skin and hair cells, but it seems to me a bit of an overstatement; the real dying doesn’t start happening until your late twenties or early thirties.  And by the time you’re almost seventy years of age, the declension is in full swing.

The warranty on your body and mind expires sometime around the age you’re old enough to be eligible for the US Presidency, which is sort of ironic; you have to be in your declining years to qualify for the highest office in the land.  

Some folks are already on the downhill slide at 25, when a person can run for the House of Representatives or at 30, when one is allowed to pursue the US Senate, which perhaps explains why the interests of the future are discounted significantly in the setting of public policy.  In any event, it’s clear that the Federal government is made up almost completely by people who are essentially on their way out of here; no wonder so many of their decisions—and non-decisions—are both literally and figuratively killing us.

I tell myself I’m not particularly concerned about my own deliquescence; it is fascinating to watch how things that used to work quite easily, like fingers or knees, start to operate much less effectively and more painfully, but I suppose being able to observe their decline is something of a gift.  When the brain really begins to fail, one is unlikely to be aware and who knows, anosognosia may already be in full swing unbeknownst to the knower.

“Everything arises and passes away” is a fundamental truth of how the Nature operates, although it doesn’t seem to apply in the case of having to pee; that feeling seems to arise and keep arising, unless something is done about it.

So, pardon me now; Nature calls

Autopoesis

 There is no me.  “I” know that; it’s all either one thing or no thing or both or neither.  

We misidentify ourselves as individual beings when, in fact, we are all a singular universal Self, or perhaps we’re just an operation of processes with no discrete identity whatsoever.

In any case, this thing “I” call “me” is an illusion; it has no beginning, nor any end; it’s no more what “I” really am than my image in the mirror or a photograph. When I die, it will re-merge with the fundamental ground of all Being from whence it came and of which it truly is.  This “me” will be no longer, but since it never actually existed, we need not mourn; everything is as it ever was, the song—to quote those great philosophers, Led Zeppelin—remains the same.

All of this is somewhat confounding, however, given one’s appetite for breakfast cereal.  If it’s true that none of us is really what we think we are, then why would “I” be craving another bowl of granola.  Why, in fact, would “I” even had one in the first place?

And if what we really are is the Universal Self, eternal, unchanging, non-dual, pure Being, pure Consciousness, pure Bliss, then how come clothes that “I” purchased last year don’t fit “me” anymore?

Brahman’s got some explaining to do, if you ask “me.”

Perhaps it has something to do with what Alan Watts referred to in the title of his book The Book: On The Taboo Against Knowing Who You Really Are.  Maybe we’re culturally, socially, philosophically, theistically, and just plain stubbornly unable to admit to ourselves that our selves aren’t these things we go around pretending—and convincing—ourselves to be.

It sure would make for a more peaceful and harmonious world to accept the reality of our essential shared identity and moreover, it sure would be nice to share the same bowl of granola every morning as one.

Adequate

You don’t have to bring your “A” game to everything.  Sometimes, “B+” or even “C” is plenty.

Suppose, for instance, you’re cleaning the bathroom.  If you scour the toilet and wipe down the sink, that’s good enough for this week.  Next time, you can mop the floor and scrub the shower.

Or consider your daily yoga or exercise practice.  Just “going through the motions” is better than nothing if, at least, it gets you doing the thing.

Or imagine that you are a college teacher and you’ve overserved yourself a little bit the night before.  You can have students break into groups and discuss the reading; that will get you all through the period and you can prepare to do better the next time your class meets.  

Just imagine.

Striving for excellence is admirable, but occasionally, just settling for adequate is to be appreciated.  

You don’t have to make your beans from scratch; the canned ones are fine in a stew.  It’s not necessary to use the washcloth all over your body every time; as long as you’ve got your pits and privates, that should do the trick.  The dog doesn’t need an hour long walk twice a day; taking her around the block so she can sniff and poop will do.

This isn’t to say you should settle for anything; one draws the line at instant rice, for instance.  And there’s no reason anyone should accept single-ply toilet paper on a regular basis.

But as has been said before: “Not everything is everything.”  Sometimes good enough is good enough.  The bare minimum does meet the minimum requirements.

That old chestnut asks, “What do they call a doctor who graduated last in their class at medical school?” The answer? “Doctor!”  And while you may not want to have them perform your brain surgery; they’d be okay for your annual physical.

No doubt this essay could have been much better, but note it's not nothing and that’s something.

Finale

Human beings have had a pretty good run, but now, it’s almost over, and if you ask me, it’s about time.

We reached our apogee around 478 BCE, when both Confucius and Socrates were alive.  (Granted, Socrates was only 8 or so, but still, that’s a lot of simultaneous smarts.)

It’s been downhill ever since.

I mean, think about it: back in those days, even children could speak Ancient Greek!  

And it only took one person—Confucius—to know all there was to know about Confucianism!  Nowadays, it requires entire academic departments to barely scratch the surface of his teachings.

You might argue that we’ve advanced since 500BC, what with nuclear power, vaccines, and Dippin’ Dots, The Ice Cream of the Future.  And while that latter item does make a powerful case for human progress, it’s to be noted that humanity managed to carry on three thousand years ago in the absence of that former pair.  No way we’re going to make it another thirty centuries given where we stand these days with those two; it’ll be something of a miracle if we make it another thirty years!

People used to know how to do things.  They could build temples, memorize epic poems, sail across the wine-dark seas, using only the power of the human mind (and granted, the bodies of many slaves and peasants, too).  These days, by contrast, people need a computer communicating with a massive data center just to create a menu for a dinner party.  (Actually, ChatGPT does this quite well.)

We’ve befouled our nest and it’s only a matter of time before the Earth has had it with us and homo sapiens ceases to be.  It’s sad to think about a world without Shakespeare or Mozart or Dippin’ Dots, but since there won’t be anyone around to mourn their loss, I suppose it doesn’t really matter.

Socrates and Confucius knew when to check out; humanity probably should have joined them then, too.

Amitiveness

 I like to do what I like to do and I’m not a fan of doing what I don’t.

I realize that sometimes we have to perform tasks we’d prefer not to, but why can’t life be more about fulfilling more of our preferences?

I’m guessing that our hunter-gatherer ancestors didn’t spend a lot of time engaged in activities that they didn’t want to, so it’s likely that we’re genetically hard-wired to mostly only do what we desire. No wonder it’s so hard to get out of bed sometimes and why it takes so long to get up the gumption to schedule a dental exam.

Deferred gratification is great and all, but isn’t a marshmallow in the mouth worth two in the researcher’s hand?

Perhaps I’d be more successful if I were more regularly willing to privilege the needs of my future self over those of my current self, but when it comes down to a matter of whether the here-and-now or the there-and-then is the one who has to suck it up: sorry Future Guy.

If you love what you do, you’ll never have to work a day in your life, but the same goes for being chronically unemployed and the thing about the latter option is that it means you never ever need to wear socks.

Doing what you must “builds character,” but you what also has that effect? Coming to grips with the guilty feelings of not having done what you should have.

It’s been shown time and again that the lawn isn’t going to mow itself, but as the 18th century British Empiricist philosopher David Hume reminds us, we can’t be sure that just because it’s always been that way in the past that it will continue to be that way in the future, and who am I to argue with one of the greatest thinkers in Western history?

This is what I wanted to say and now I’ve said it; I’m glad!

Nothing

I’ve got nothing, nada, zip, zilch zero. I’m empty, barren, vacant; even my synonym generator has no words.

Blame it on the time of year, the weather, my upbringing, and what I had or didn’t have for breakfast.  There’s no such thing as free will, anyway, so it’s not my fault, the Universe itself made all this happen; I’m just along for the ride.

I could be sleeping, then I wouldn’t be bored.  But is there anything more boring than sleeping? (I ask that merely rhetorically; don’t let’s bore ourselves with detailed explanations.)

Would that we could avail ourselves of the subjunctive.  Don’t let that get in the way of commands.  Is anyone asking questions?  

Run-on sentences are one way that some people, at least those who live meaningful lives, might express themselves in ways that others, who aren’t as fortunate, wouldn’t be able to unless they experienced an infusion of good will from unnamed sources who choose to remain anonymous because they don’t want their identities revealed.  

Get it?  Got it.  Good.

I’m just trying to make my way in a world that seems so similar to this one that no one can tell the difference.  Does that make sense or is sense something that can’t be understood via false dichotomies?

As I sit here, I’m sitting; when I stand for something, I do so on my own two feet; I won’t take this lying down unless I’m reclining.  Do you know what I mean or are there other options for making meaning?  Try baking cookies, why don’t you?

Remark how this is an example of the unremarkable; notice, then, what you don’t notice, and remember: never forget.

Today is the first day of the rest of your life, or maybe it’s the last one of the previous part.  In any case, it’s all it’s all there is in this moment, right now.  Tomorrow’s another day, and so is the day after.

Nothing doing, doing nothing.

Apocalyptic

Would you want me on your team for the zombie apocalypse?

I can’t fight; I won’t kill; and I don’t really like the sight of blood, especially my own.

I’m not very strong, nor particularly handy, and my farming skills are pretty limited.

I could cook, I guess, but how much of an appetite will there be for soufflés and gratins when the zombies are on the prowl? Like 90% of the population, I sort of learned to bake sourdough bread during the pandemic, but my starter is long dead, so I don’t think I’d be much help there, either.

I suppose I could assist in maintaining the fleet of bicycles, but unless my local bike shop was still open, I’d be hard up for parts and the necessary guidance on unfamiliar tasks.  Don’t expect me to be much use with automobiles, apart from adding windshield wiper fluid when that tank is empty.

Moreover, I’ve never really understood the strong desire to carry on after society completely collapses; if I have to hole up in a bunker and poop in a bucket while the world outside burns, count me out, honestly.  So, clearly, I won’t be much help in the morale department, either.

Perhaps I could teach philosophy or lead yoga classes.  (Oh, I got mixed up there; that’s not the zombie apocalypse, that’s for our Adult Summer camp.)

Maybe I could apply my experience as a Union president if it came to negotiating with the zombies; my sense, though, is that they would be resistant to the collaborative “Interest-Based Bargaining” model with which I am most familiar.

I am a fast reader and have a solid track record as someone who takes afternoon naps.  So, it will help the effort for me to sit in a chair and doze over Victorian fiction, sign me up.

And, of course, if all else fails—and it surely will—I can write 327-word essays about our inevitable collective demise.

Odd, Ya See?

After a trying day of fighting grading, I was trying to leave school and get home, where my wife was overwhelmed with providing snacks to our daughter’s soccer team, but my Dean roped me into an Accreditation meeting that just went on and on.  She promised that if I stayed later and worked on Outcomes Assessment with her that I’d never have to do another post-tenure review, but finally, I couldn’t take it anymore and appealed to the college president to convince her to let me leave.  

He did so but on the bike ride home, it started to storm so powerfully that I had to take refuge in a local bar where I ended up telling my tale of woe to the friendly bartender.  I recounted how, after class the day before, I had gotten so stoned on the ride home that I forget all about getting back quickly and at one point, I had to stop for a BLT with extra bacon at a local eatery.  Getting back on my bike, I came across an outdoor concert where the band was playing such enticing music that I needed to put in my own earbuds and listen to an audiobook to tear myself away.

After that, the bike path narrowed and I was barely able to squeeze past an SUV and a monster truck to continue on my way.

At this, the bartender took pity on me and loaded up my bicycle and me in her cargo van and drove us to my house.  I was pretty dirty and ragged upon my arrival so no one recognized me until my dog started barking and jumping with joy at my arrival.

I sent the soccer players packing and my wife emerged from the kitchen and asked if I could help her move our bed to a new spot in the bedroom.  I complained that it was too heavy; "it's you!" she cried, and she embraced me warmly. 

Home, at last!

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Love

We are creatures born of love (or, at least, lust), and so it is odd, isn’t it, that there is so much hate in the world.  

You’d think that the residue of what made us would hang around longer and result in lots more kindness, compassion, and caring, but I guess it evaporates quickly, leaving people with a hole in their hearts that all too often fills up with cruelty, indifference, and malice.  Nature abhors a vacuum, which is strange because everything often sucks.

Somehow, it’s possible for teenaged boys to acquire handguns and bring them to a city-wide food festival.  Back in the day, to complain about someone cutting the line, you had to throw your falafel in their face; nowadays, you pop a cap in them and continue dining.

No nation is going to kill their way to peace; has that ever really worked?  For every head you cut off, two new ones grow; for every parent bombed to death, dozens of children rise to avenge.   The only way to stop the violence is to stop the violence; why isn’t that obvious?

Someone is profiting off the carnage, and I suppose, anyone who has mutual funds in their 401K is complicit in some way, as well.  But does being able to afford to travel during retirement justify the murder of innocent civilians with state-of-the-art AI drones?  Apparently, says the stock market, “yes.”

If only we all could remember that everyone, everywhere, is someone’s child, even that terrible, awful guy clipping his toenails in his seat on public transport.  It’s hard not to hate him, for sure, but what if that were you?  How would you feel about yourself?  Disgusted, dismayed, grossed out, (one would hope), but maybe, just maybe, if we could put ourselves in his shoes, then thankfully, we wouldn’t be able to reach our toes and would stop, just stop, even in the absence of hate.

And thus, there’d be more room for love.

Precious

 In her poem, “The Summer Day,” Mary Oliver asks, as everyone who’s ever been in the greeting card section of Wal-Mart knows, “Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?”

As I sit here on Midsummer’s Eve (which oddly enough, occurs in spring—remember that for your trivia contests), I’m perfectly happy to answer: enjoying a Swiss cheese on rye sandwich while watching a World Cup soccer game between two teams I don’t really care about.

Granted, that’s not ALL I will do with it, but for now, it’s sufficient.  Of course, before the season is out, I hope to realize my essential nature as identical with the fundamental ground of all being and with any luck, make a major contribution to solving the homelessness crisis, but in the meantime, mustard, mayonnaise, relish, tomato, lettuce, and Swiss does the trick.

You only live once—thank goodness—so you might think that one’s plans for this wild and precious instantiation ought to be about maximizing experience and accomplishment at every moment and there’s much to be said for that, of course, especially if you’re in the business of selling vitamin supplements or even college course, but there’s also plenty to spoken about in favor of a life that isn’t treated as nearly so precious.  

Consider one, by contrast, that’s just kind of everyday, one that’s more like the flatware and less like the silverware, one that you don’t have to worry so much about breaking, one that stands up to day-to-day use and can still do its job even if cracked and dented a bit.

What this looks like in practice is open to interpretation, but perhaps it opens the proverbial door to such possibilities as afternoon naps, beach book reads, the occasional bout of day-drinking, and maybe even watching sporting events that one doesn’t care particularly much about in the basement on a sunny day just before summer begins.

Nothing

I suppose you could do something, but why?  

The sun’s going to deplete its fuel in a couple billion years, become a red giant, and burn up the entire solar system, so what’s the point of yard work, really?

Besides that, (and much sooner), global thermonuclear war is looking pretty likely, so I can’t see why one ought to reorganize their sock drawer, even though it’s kind of a mess.

Plus, I’m going to be dead in a couple of decades, so does it really make sense to spend the limited time I have left taking bags of books and clothes to Goodwill?

Plenty of great art created by human beings has already been created; I’m certainly no Shakespeare, but even I were, I’d already have more than three dozen classic plays in my oeuvre; would another couple really make a difference?  Probably not.

It might be noted that there is an endless number of social or political causes that are worth fighting for, but as a pacifist, how can I do so?  Much better to remain peaceably ensconced in this here easy chair, right?

Some say that we are put on this earth to fulfill a purpose, but that suggests that there is something or someone who’s in the business of handing out said purposes.  That’s a job I’d consider doing, but then how would I know that that was my purpose since I was the one handing them out?  Who shaves the barber, you know what I mean?

Passing on one’s wisdom to future generations might be a thing, but given how royally screwed things have gotten during this lifetime, it’s probably better for everyone if I don’t even pretend to have anything of value to impart.  Let it end here.  Or over there behind the bushes as the case may be.

None of us ever asked to be born but if we had, Dolly Parton would likely have a lot more kids. 

Thanks, Mom!