Oh, excuse me, was I recently berating people for their thievery? I must have conveniently forgotten that too I have enjoyed stealing a little bit, albeit rarely and in a petty way.
You know how a lot of supermarkets nowadays have those self-checkout things rigged up? A computerized female voice prompts you to “please place the item in the bag” after you scan the barcode. Ever tried just putting shit in the bag without scanning it first? The robot doesn’t like that. “Please remove the item from the bag and place it on the scanner, ” says she. It’s hard not to anthropomorphize that humanoid voice. After the fourth or fifth repetition of this routine I am surprised that she/it remains so patient and polite, and doesn’t say, in the same even-tempered robotic voice, “please stop trying to steal shit from the Pathmark corporation.”
But you can occasionally steal shit just by leaving it in your cart and wheeling your way through, pretending it’s an oversight. I had the pleasure of purloining some figs this way a while back, and it really was a mistake that time. “Oh look!” I said to myself in the parking lot, “free figs!” Some months later I stole a nice can of sardines because I had recently read or heard something about how nutritious they were and decided a couple more sardines in the diet would be healthy. They were also delicious! I was really glad I stole them. I might even pay for some next time. (Which gives rise to the interesting possibility that this free sample, so to speak, will ultimately benefit the grocery store’s and/or sardine provider’s profitability.)
The sole employee overseeing the several self-serve checkout stations doesn’t give a shit. It would have been fun to be a fly on the wall at some meeting of Pathmark executives where they decided to do this. You just know they had to have known customers would get away with some filching, and decided it was still cost-effective because it meant fewer humans on the payroll, hence a savings that would outweigh the loss of loss prevention.
Comcast, PSE&G, and don Adilio: thieves
Once again, my friends, it’s time to review an important teaching: people will steal your money if you let them.
I had three different entities try to reach into my pocket in the space of about two weeks. First it was the management of the building out of which I moved. The building manager Alberto presented me with a check for my security deposit — without interest.
“Dude, it’s with interest, I explained. “This isn’t just me; it’s the law.”
“Oh, well we don’t do that,” he said.
I repeated, “that’s the law of New Jersey my friend. Interest.”
I went on to suggest that at 2% per year the interest should be something like $50 for $1500 over a year and a half. This took place in the back office of the small supermarket that occupies the first floor of this building in beautiful and historic downtown Jersey City. The old Cuban gentlemen who owns most everything on that block was sitting at his desk witnessing this, and my effrontery apparently upset him. He went into a screaming rage. I did my best to ignore this and waited for Alberto to write out another check, accepted it, and bid them goodbye. The encounter was sufficiently unpleasant that it took tens of minutes for its residue to leave my body — those chemicals that tell you to fight or flee.
I have been considering how much of his tenants’ money don Adilio González has had on deposit for how many years. From a little consultation with don Google I see that he has been lauded as a hero of entrepreneurial capitalism, received honors and awards, for building his business up from very little. I wonder how much money he has cheated his tenants out of. He certainly didn’t like it when I refused to let him cheat me.
Next up, Comcast. I called to shut down the service in the first days of February. They said I was subect to a $150 early termination fee. I said fine, so what’s my final balance going to be? A hundred sixty-one dollars and change. Thank you very much. Imagine my surprise — I was simply shocked, flabbergasted! — when a few weeks later Comcast billed me for $293. Sarcasm aside, I was mildly astonished, speaking of effrontery, to read the invoice and see that on its face it plainly showed they were charging me for services not rendered. The itemization said termination, February 02, followed by the service for the following month. In other words they acknowledged it was shut off and yet continued to charge. Does it surprise you to learn that it took over 30 minutes of voicemail menu navigation, holding, and grappling with so-called customer service personnel before the matter was finally straightened out? Now, suppose I had gone ahead and paid the extra $132 they tried to overcharge me. Maybe they would have eventually detected their mistake, and said oh gee we’re sorry Mister Bludgeon, here’s your refund. I rather doubt it. Indeed I doubt it was a mistake. Closing an account is normal, routine business operation. A corporation of their size ought to be able to handle it properly on the first try, don’t you think?
Next up, PSE&G, the electric and gas utility. Service at this apartment was discontinued early in March. So they sent me an “estimated” bill for $86 for the last few days of service. Please note that in the entire history of the account my bill never once exceeded $53 and change. Odd, isn’t it? Does it surprise you to learn that I had to call them on the phone to turn it into $12? Again, do you think they’d have refunded my money if I had simply paid them?
Comcast, PSE&G, don Adilio: shame on you. I only wish you would find a means of livelihood that doesn’t involve stealing from people.
Fight the power: don’t let health care providers fuck you
When you go to some sort of health care provider for the first time, you are invariably presented with some forms to fill out. One of these usually contains language that says you agree to be responsible for any and all charges not covered by your insurance. Cross it out, put your initials next to the stricken text, then sign the form.
This has been my practice for at least the past ten years. Why on earth would any person of sound judgement agree to pay for anything without first knowing how much it is going to cost? I still get a little anxious when I walk up to the little window and hand in my completed forms, fearing they will give me some shit about refusing to bend over. I think I’ve gotten shit about two times out of… 50? In other words about 95% of the time no one will argue with you. Sometimes they don’t bother to look at what you’ve written, at least not right away. Sometimes they do, but you know what? The grunts in the front lines are, for the most part, weary and do not want to fight.
You will thank yourself for adhering to this sensible practice. I got a bill for something like $9000 for an upper endoscopy from a place that styles itself The Ambulatory Center for Endoscopy. I had crossed out the offending language on my forms. I sent them a letter that said, show me when and where I ever agreed to pay you whatever amount that you unilaterally determined to charge me after the fact, without my prior knowledge and consent, and I will reconsider. Until then, you will accept whatever you get from the insurance company and that’s that. They backed down.
A couple years later I had the pleasure of doing business with these people again. They billed me some two thousand dollars. I sent them a letter that said, gee, this sounds familiar, and the outcome will be the same as last time. You get what you get, and fuck off. They sent me another statement for the same amount. I sent them another letter saying, what was it in my previous letter that you didn’t understand? That was some months ago and I haven’t heard from them since.
You can just guess what would have happened if I had been too timid or ignorant to resist. They’d have taken the money from me and put it in their pockets. Fuck that.
By the way, if you think striking out the objectionable language is irrelevant as a matter of law — either the contract is enforceable or it isn’t — you may or may not be right, depending. I just found this jewel in the Blue Cross/Blue Shield 2009 Service Benefit Plan, a PDF weighing in at 136 pages:
“In some instances, a Preferred, Participating, or Member provider may ask you to sign a ‘waiver’ prior to receiving care. This waiver may state that you accept responsibility for the total charge for any care that is not covered by your health plan. If you sign such a waiver, whether you are responsible for the total charge depends on the contracts that the Local Plan has with its providers. If you are asked to sign this type of waiver, please be aware that, if benefits are denied for the services, you could be legally liable for the related expenses. If you would like more information about waivers, please contact us at the customer service number on the back of your ID card.”
Interesting, isn’t it? Note that they don’t tell you not to sign. Heaven forfend they should alienate their Providers. Their attitude towards you the patient is, you’re on your own, good luck. They could use a little help with their punctuation, too.
But the important point of the above excerpt is that following my advice may well save you a bundle. Remember these two simple words: fuck that.
All of the preceding discussion assumes you actually have the good fortune to enjoy health insurance. Any fool knows this system is broken and Single Payer is the way. Of course that will only happen over the insurance companies’ dead bodies — which is fine with me.
These cats
These cats
one black and white,
one orange and white
come in the night to sleep in our bed.
warm and furry beyond reason
they slither under the covers in cold weather
Or install themselves above our heads
as if to coronate us
there to purr in all their regal magnificence
and sleep untroubled like gods.
Until they get hungry!
then they start knocking
shit off the dressers, upending lamps
they trash the place like vandals
and claw our flesh without mercy.
goddamnit, cats! all right. you win.
we will go downstairs to the kitchen
and eat some cat food.
Hazelnut-flavored coffee: yuk!
Coffee is sublime. It really is one of the greatest things ever invented, isn’t it. Coffee is great. Everyone knows that. And the smell of quality coffee in unsurpassed.
Hazelnut — well, it’s inoffensive in and of itself.
Flavored coffee is an abomination. Let’s face it: it is disgusting. The flavor of coffee itself is marvelous, and needs no assistance. The very notion of “flavored coffee” is insulting. Get that shit out of my face, please.
But hazelnut coffee, apparently the most popular flavor of all flavors for flavoring coffee: to say that it sucks is an understatement. It is utterly revolting. Nauseating beyond words. Horrible. A tragedy if ever there was one. It could almost be considered a crime against humanity.
2008, year of firsts
In 2008,
- I got my first divorce. You know what they say about divorce: the first one’s the hardest. Let’s hope so. Anyway, the hard parts were accomplished in 2006 and 2007. In ’08 a judge signed a piece of paper.
- I sold my first piece of real estate, which was also the first and only one I have ever bought. We (ex-wife and I) sold it after property values peaked, but a couple months before they collapsed. The new owners must be pissed that they paid so much.
- I bought my first Toyota Prius. Indeed, this is only the fourth car I have owned in my 50 years. I am thoroughly satisfied. Now all I have to do is read the manuals and figure out how to work all that fancy shit. Don’t hold your breath.
- I ran my first marathon, and found it extremely enjoyable and satisfying.
- Come to think of it, I ran my first half-marathon. That’s what got me addicted to distance running.
- I took my first week-long vacation in Aruba with Amy. We enjoyed it so much, we just might go do it again.
- I had my first colonoscopy. Too much information? Sorry. Anyway the preparatory purging and fasting was not nearly as unpleasant as I thought it might be. And being knocked out cold by an anesthesiologist is always great fun. First you’re there, then you’re — not anywhere.
- I jumped off a 36-foot diving platform — twice. Can’t recommend it enough. Nothing like a good blast of pure, naked fear to wake you up.
Happy new year.
Buying Long-Term Health Care insurance: oh, fun!
My parents — all of whom are old — have Long Term Care insurance. For years I felt that it was almost their ethical duty to have this insurance, although I myself had no obligation to insure myself. Apparently my unexamined assumption was that they were old and getting older, and would get infirm enough to require care in their final years, whereas I was young, and therefore would never become old and infirm, and thus never need LTC insurance. In my 50th year this delusion has begun to dissipate.
Then I had to overcome my reluctance to get involved in one of the uglier products the insurance industry provides in our capitalist economy. Profitting from old age and frailty is reprehensible. A civilized society should care for its weaker members at government expense. (Call me a socialist, that’s fine.) But I persuaded myself that this is the way it is, and the longer I delay, the higher the premiums will be.
I went to the site of a company that provides LTC policies to federal employees, and began the process of educating myself in the bewildering jargon and options. Within 30 minutes I was a veritable expert — compared to 30 minutes before — but I still had questions. You can choose between a three-year, five-year or unlimited term of coverage. Of what use is this if, for example, after your three years elapse you still need to pay someone to empty your bedpan? The website encourages you to call if you have questions, so I called and was promptly connected to a knowledgeable and courteous gentleman. He explained to me that the majority of people who require LTC are dead in about 2.7 years. Fifty percent of policyholders therefore choose the 3-year option, thus placing a grim but rational bet against their survival. Another 30% take the 5-year option. And what of the other 20%? They are generally in two categories: either they have high enough incomes that they just don’t care about the higher premium, or else they have a nasty family history of longevity and Alzheimers.
Much as I would like to fancy myself a clear-eyed and courageous realist, having to make this choice is troubling. The temptation is to choose “unlimited”, almost as if doing so would make my lifespan unlimited. On the other hand I am disgusted at the idea of giving more money than necessary to a for-profit venture that benefits from human beings’ decline into helplessness and death. I sat in front of the computer for a while, playing with different options in their interactive rate-quoting thingy.
A few days later I came across a blog entry by Jane Gross describing how large insurers like Conseco have been fucking their LTC policyholders — I paraphrase, to be sure — by wrongly denying claims and erecting all manner of bureaucratic obstacles in the hope that the customer will die before they have to pay. The program I am considering involves different companies, but the current financial meltdown teaches us that even the largest and oldest of financial services companies are subject to collapse. By the time you need to file a claim, they may have disappeared; if not, they may fuck you.
This dirty business is emblematic of the orgy of greed and incompetence that has been dragging these United States down the toilet. People like Gore Vidal have been telling us for years that the American empire is in decline. Kevin Phillips compares our collapse to those of the English, Spanish and Dutch empires of centuries past. Perhaps these closing days of the Bush administration are the final movement of some glorious symphony of decadence and corruption, the fantastic scandals of Governor Bagojevich and Bernie Madoff exploding like great fanfares of brass and tympanies.
As it turns out, however, there is nothing to be gained by failing to procrastinate about buying my LTC policy until the eve of my next birthday. Rates are tied to age, but a 50.01-year-old is treated the same as a 50.99-year-old. So I can wait until my next birthday approaches, well into the Obama administration. If I don’t get hit by a bus, and if Obama hasn’t established the socialist utpoia that the right so dreads, I will deal with LTC insurance in the spring.
Philadelphia Marathon 2008: Woo hoo!
Your humble servant Professor B had the privilege of running the Philadelphia Marathon on Sunday, November 23, 2008. The bottom line: 3:51:51, average pace per mile 8:50.7. In relative terms, that’s 2529th out of a field of 7261 finishers.
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For those who like to look at pictures, I have a couple over here.
If you like both pictures and sound, feel free to download this clip of me expressing my gratitude to runner and running guru Rick Morris of runningplanet.com, and while you’re at it don’t forget to view the incomparably profound postscript to that message. (My watch said a couple minutes less than my chip time, most likely because I accidentally stopped my timer for a while while fumbling with the splits. I was deluded when I was bragging about 8:49:something in the video clip.)
If you like textual narrative, please read on while you wait for those fat-ass AVI videos to download.
* * * * *
As I mentioned in a previous post, I signed up for my first marathon and began training in earnest last summer, following a program intended to prepare you to run a four-hour marathon. It usually called for six training days per week — though I was not able to fit in more than five — and mixed various types of workouts. With precise instructions as to speeds and distances, the program is highly scientific and technical, designed to develop speed, endurance, lactate acid processing, oxygen uptake, and so forth. The treadmill was more a necessity than a convenience for accurately regulating speed, so I did a mix of treadmill and outdoor running.
The coolest thing about this training regime is that it works. My wheels got a little beaten up at times, but my engine kept getting stronger. It was also highly addictive. Crack pipe became my nickname for the treadmill. The “easy” runs, at slower than marathon goal pace, were times of soothing relaxation and enjoyment.
I did my last of a series of progressively longer “long” runs on Election Day, November 4. I cast my vote for Barack and ran my 23 miles, and was more than pleased with the outcome of both contests. Per the program, there followed a sort of holy period where you run relatively little, concentrating instead on recovery from the last long run while staying tuned up for the great day.
My girlfriend — let’s call her Amy, to protect the innocent — was phenomenally supportive throughout this project. Empathic and generous by nature, she also knows from experience what it’s like to train and run races. We made arrangements for the care of our respective children and drove together to Philadelphia on Saturday to stay overnight a downtown hotel.
Also lodged at the hotel were our friends, whom we’ll call Jennifer and Alain. The latter, an experienced marathoner, is the one who encouraged me to get into this endeavor (i.e., it’s all his fault). He was not wedded to meeting or beating a 4-hour goal, so we agreed to run together for as much or as little of the way as felt comfortable, and he encouraged me to move ahead whenever I felt the need.
I made a point of sleeping adequately Friday into Saturday because having known myself for a full 50 years, I expected the jitters might keep me up Saturday night. Indeed, I slept maybe 3.5 hours, but I didn’t worry too much about that. Hey, you can always take a nap after the race, right?
My anxiety level was moderate to low the day and night before. But in the morning, as the final minutes ticked off before I was due to meet Alain in the lobby and head over to the site, I was a basket case, anxiously buzzing around the room looking for things that I should have arranged neatly the night before. I thought I had allowed plenty of time, but this was a valuable lesson for next time: organize all your stuff, attach your chip and your bib, set out your clothing and accessories the night before rather than the morning of.
Temperatures at 6:30 a.m. were in the upper 20’s. Cold. I did what my marathon-experienced friend recommended: wore a couple outer layers of cotton things that should have been donated to charity long ago, and discarded them in the street once I warmed up.
Within the first few miles Alain checked a mile marker against his watch, and announced that either the mile marker was substantially off or else we were going way too fast. I have since heard rumors that some of the early mile markers were in fact misplaced. A little later, by my calculation we were behind schedule by more than two minutes. We probably slowed down too much, overcompensating for the miles we wrongly thought we had run too fast.
In the days before the race I had gotten the idea of printing out a timetable indicating what time should have elapsed at each mile, laminating it, punching two holes in the lower corners and pinning it upside down to my windbreaker for reference. I actually had this laminated thing ready to go in my hotel room, then discarded the idea because at the last moment I didn’t have time or inclination to fool around with any more safety pins. It wasn’t till dinner the night before that I heard from Alain that the idea has already been thought of, in the form of a bracelet that you can fashion out of paper and tape, and rotate around your wrist. Duh. That’s another lesson for next time: if you’re the obsessive sort who likes to know where he is and you’re not a savant whose glucose-starved brain can perform hour-minute-second arithmetic on the fly, then carry your little reference thingy if it makes you happy.
After about the first third or so, I moved on ahead of my friend because I was interested in getting back on schedule. Later I calculated that I had overcompensated again and was a couple minutes ahead of schedule, and slowed back down. Meanwhile my friend picked it up a little and we met again about half way through. Amy positioned herself somewhere near the half-way point at a strategic time and waited to greet us as we came around a turn and down a hill. It was well worth stopping for a mid-race hug and a kiss.
At some point I became uncertain whether I was ahead of schedule or behind, but thought most of the miles had probably been fast enough. I focused on the individual mile splits and maintaining a decent pace, staying around 8:45 to 9:00. I monitored my fatigue level, wondering if I was running stupid or smart. I enjoyed the scenery and the rhythm of the feet, and had a good time. The atmosphere was pleasant and convivial, the spectators and volunteers enthusiastic.
Alain and I ran together till around mile 18 or so and then I decided to pick up the pace, as I had planned to do. I went ahead, telling him he might see me later weeping by the side of the road.
After mile 20 I was looking for signs of serious fatigue, wondering again if I was going to crash into the dreaded wall about which I have heard so many horror stories. But the last several miles went by fast and I felt remarkably comfortable. I was passing people all over the place, as if walking through a room full of people standing still. Soon we were almost home and I stepped on the gas a little harder. I ran the last 200 meters at a dead run.
It really was glorious, an incredible thrill, busting it across the finish line with crowds of cheering people left and right. Without question, the whole race was one of the most rewarding and enjoyable experiences of my life. I am astonished that this body was able to do what it did, and I am overwhelmed with gratitude for being healthy enough and having a sufficently lucky and privileged life to accomodate the training.
The wall must have been somewhere beyond 26.2 because I never hit it. Since the race I have been tempted to second-guess myself, thinking I might have run more aggressively, but that’s stupid. Which mistake would you rather regret? It’s a delicate balance between fuel conservation and performance.
And it’s interesting, is it not, how gratitude and greed can exist side by side. On the one hand you have tears of gratitude welling up in your eyes, and in next instant you’re demanding more, scheming and planning to beat this performance next time. Who’s up for the New York Marathon in 2009?
PS: my gratitude to the good people at the downtown branch of Urban Athletics for providing excellent advice, apparel and shoes.
Feet and ground: the Zen of long distance running
I spent a few minutes googling around for online literature — is that an oxymoron? — on the subject of Zen and running. Though it surely exists, I found but little. Mostly I found the word Zen misused, as so frequently happens, as a synonym for bliss. According to what I have learned about Zen (admittedly, not much), the heart of the practice is meditation, and meditation in turn is fundamentally not so much about vegging out, escape, self-improvement, or even stress reduction, but rather the practice of sitting with what is. Yes, there are occasional moments of what I call shocking clarity and calm. Perhaps for the experienced, skilled meditator these moments occur more often and for longer periods — ask me in 20 years and I will tell you. But for the most part, it’s about disciplined repetition. Inhaling and exhaling. The attention wandering off, and coming back, wandering off and coming back again. Again and again, minute after minute, day after day, sitting with what is: that dog yapping, a pain in your back, some car passing by in the distance, thoughts swimming around in your head, the movement of the breath. Stilling the mind and ever so gradually getting acquainted with reality.
So it is for the runner. While training for a marathon I have been struck by the strange and fascinating comparison of running and zazen. At first glance they seem utterly different from each other, located at the opposite extremes of activity and inactivity: running your ass off for miles, versus sitting absolutely still staring at the paint for 30 minutes. But both are disciplined repetition; both involve paying attention and then wandering off. Paying attention: feet and ground. Breathing in and out. The stride. The breath. The surroundings. Monitoring body and mind. Feet and ground. Breathing in and out. Then wandering off: following thoughts. Reviewing and editing the past, scripting the future, having a grand old time. Then coming back to what is: feet and ground. Left right left right…. One foot after another, mile after mile: this is reality not delusion.
Many runners are fond of running with digital audio players and the like. I don’t believe in that. Yes I have enjoyed using a radio or iPod on occasion. But for serious running I suggest we should eschew such distractions. It’s not about entertainment, or trying to make the running something other than what it is, or making it somehow more palatable, or less boring. No. Embrace the boredom, if that’s what it is. It’s about paying attention to feet and ground.
The Sandokai by Master Shitou says:
When you do not see the Way, you do not see it even as you walk on it.
You could study this text for years and still keep learning more about it. I wouldn’t presume to explain what it means. But! (You saw that but coming.) But for me, running is more than just running. It is, in fact, just running. I am convinced that all those who ever put on a running shoe experience this truth whether they realize it or not.
Distance running and zazen: two activities some might call weird, each a wonderful complement and support to the other.
Update
Fast forward to nearly two years later. I am now 52 instead of 50, still sitting every day, and running considerably faster than when I posted the above. I have no means of proving that the practice of sitting has made me a better runner than I would otherwise be. Life is not a controlled experiment: if you do this, you can only speculate as to what would have happened if you’d done that instead. Still, there is little doubt that the sitting practice enriches one’s life. It teaches you to pay attention to what is happening rather than just being dragged around by it. This in turn serves you well when you need discipline, self-control, and the ability to tolerate a certain amount of pain and/or exhaustion in an equanimous, non-reactive way. Skills such as these are essential to runners who push themselves to achieve their goals.
Zen: Is it bullshit?
I have been a serious lay practioner of Zen for not quite two years — not very long, I grant you. I originally got into it around the time of other profound changes — moving out of an unsatisfactory marriage after 13 years, quitting the habit of abusing alcohol, feeling absolutely marvelous for the first time in years. I had long had the vague idea that some sort of meditation practice would be beneficial, so I visited a zendo of the Soto/Rinzai lineage, and adhered to it immediately. I attend the zendo regularly, and meet with my teacher privately every week — daisan, as it’s called. I study koans. I sit every day, and participate in extended sittings several times a year — i.e., doing little other than meditating all day, all weekend, or all week. This is what serious practitioners do.
Why do this? I don’t know. There is much that I find appealing in Buddhist thought generally, and in Zen Buddhism in particular. The basic ideas — such as impermanence, the ubiquity of human suffering and its causes — make sense to my rational mind. And I am convinced — as it is well established — that meditation itself provides meaningful benefits to mental and physical health.
On a more intuitive, visceral level, I am powerfully drawn to the idea that all the wisdom you will ever need is already within you. You have only to still what Master Lin-chi calls the ceaselessly seeking mind — methodically, patiently, relentlessly — to come to an understanding of nothing less than the essential nature of reality. If you think about it — no, if you contemplate it — you have to say, of course! How can it be otherwise?
Wait — says who? Mister Buddha, the dude credited with launching the whole program? A multi-thousand year succession of masters and disciples and adherents? So? What if they are nuts? What if they are full of shit? Can anyone prove this stuff to be true in any credible, objective way? No, I think not. This is where the F-word comes into play: faith. Some call it trust. Whatever you call it, I sometimes have a big problem with it
This is an example of what they call Great Doubt and it is very much part of the program, according to what I have been taught. Doubt is encouraged. Doubt is your friend. The Buddha said, don’t take my word for it. See for yourself. But it’s still doubt and can be disconcerting, disquieting, distressing — all kinds of dis-words.
Do you say, you are crashing and burning because you trying to approach rationally something that works below the level of rational mind? Maybe so. But rational mind is something we need to carry around with us to function and survive, and for the most part it’s a good and helpful thing. Common sense — prudence, if you will — urges caution before investing decades of your life and incalculable amounts of energy and sacrifice in something this weird. Sometimes when I listen to one of the teachers speaking about such things as Zen and Reality and the One Absolute Truth, my inner voice tells me I might as well be listening to the demented ramblings of a lunatic. One of these teachers has said that Zen is and always will be a minority practice because it is such hard work. Gee, could it be that it’s a minority practice because it’s crazy, and most ordinary unenlightened dumbass people are too sensible for it?
In my great arrogance and psychospiritual immaturity, I have other problems with this Zen stuff. I am about as unspiritual as a person can be. You might even say anti-spiritual. For this devout atheist, the very word spiritual often sounds uncomfortably like agnostic code for religious. I’m all for bowing to people, but I think bowing to statues is silly, and do it only to go along with the crowd.
At a weekend sesshin just the other day my samu task was to clean the bathroom. As I was dilligently wiping the mirror my unmindful mind suddenly noticed something absurd. Here we are, a group of some 40 more or less privileged, educated white people from New York City, and we are paying to sweep floors, wash dishes and take out the garbage. What do you suppose people who actually clean bathrooms for a living would think? It is a ridiculously pretentious and comical affectation.
Sometimes I wonder what the hell I am doing here, and entertain fantasies of rising from the mat in the middle of a sitting period and walking out of the zendo, never to return.
But I don’t. Instead I sit when it’s time to sit, walk when it’s time to walk, chant when it’s time to chant, eat when it’s time to eat. And when Sensei gave a talk this past weekend about how we were at sesshin to realize Nothing, the tears started coming out of my eyes and would not stop. Go figure.