I don't know if this says something about my own nature, or whether it's something more or less inherent in the modern western world we live in. But the truth is that I honestly cannot remember the last time I felt the contentment that goes with feeling that everything's done which needs to be done.
My work days end with dozens of in-progress tasks, all with very urgent deadlines, that aren't yet completed. On a given day, I've probably made progress toward completing some of them, but the moment one small duty is completed, two more have popped up to take its place. Contracts to negotiate, schedules to be approved, budgets to be created, initiatives to be launched.
At home, there are always garden beds to be weeded, siding to be patched, carpeting to be replaced, floors to be refinished, leaky faucets to be repaired, kids to be counseled, trip reservations to be made.
It can all be a little overwhelming and crazy-making, especially when I get seduced by the wish for an end to chaos.
So my method of coping is this: Rather than aiming for permanent Completion of Duties, I simply give myself a small moment of private recognition whenever I've done something that is helpful in any way. Days are generally full of these small opportunities, ranging from opening a locked door for an employee who needs access to a studio, to approving a check request, to making a decision for somebody who needs one, to answering a question from a consumer who calls with a problem. At home, pulling a single noxious weed is helpful, changing the bag on the vacuum cleaner is helpful, so I take note of that small act of helpfulness.
Generally, this means small celebrations of what I CAN do, and little time spent thinking about what I WISH I could do. Focusing on the process of life rather than a goal.
That's in my better moments. In more difficult ones, I still long for a perfection that is far beyond me.
Showing posts with label workplace. Show all posts
Showing posts with label workplace. Show all posts
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
For Now, Anyway
A recent change in my work life is greatly cutting into my available time for blogging, and also for checking up on your blogs, which is a far more serious crime. My job now involves direct supervision of 20 people, many of them remarkably immature personalities, and it is very rare that I'm able to put together more than 20 minutes to focus on a single task in between interruptions. Sometimes, days go by before I can get back to cyberworld and check up on what my friends are doing.
So life has become a bit more dense lately, but strangely, it hasn't particularly affected my level of happiness. What I'm aware of is a kind of controlled frenzy, but within it there never seems to be a lack of space or perspective. I feel a bit like a conductor orchestrating a large group of rowdy musicians. It's noisy, but all the notes are still defined by the space and silence surrounding them.
I'd like to think this hints at a certain spiritual maturity has been reached, but this could well be wishful thinking on my part, ego puffing itself up. I am aware, though, that in recent days I feel a good deal of comfort and trust in my instincts to respond appropriately to circumstances, even very difficult ones.
A phrase from a favorite teacher keeps popping up for me. "...(true practice) is realizing that space contains matter, that matter makes no demands on space and that space makes no demands on matter. Spirituality is a panoramic situation in which you can come and go freely and your relationship with the world is open. It is the ultimate non-violence."
For this moment, anyway, I get it.
So life has become a bit more dense lately, but strangely, it hasn't particularly affected my level of happiness. What I'm aware of is a kind of controlled frenzy, but within it there never seems to be a lack of space or perspective. I feel a bit like a conductor orchestrating a large group of rowdy musicians. It's noisy, but all the notes are still defined by the space and silence surrounding them.
I'd like to think this hints at a certain spiritual maturity has been reached, but this could well be wishful thinking on my part, ego puffing itself up. I am aware, though, that in recent days I feel a good deal of comfort and trust in my instincts to respond appropriately to circumstances, even very difficult ones.
A phrase from a favorite teacher keeps popping up for me. "...(true practice) is realizing that space contains matter, that matter makes no demands on space and that space makes no demands on matter. Spirituality is a panoramic situation in which you can come and go freely and your relationship with the world is open. It is the ultimate non-violence."
For this moment, anyway, I get it.
Saturday, April 5, 2008
That Was Then, This is Now
All things come around.
After an abysmal week at work, I slept not at all Friday night with a mind full of worries and regrets and strange dismal dreams.
I awoke with eyes feeling like sand had been ground into them, and all signs suggested that it wouldn't be much of a Saturday. A bad day, though, is the very best time to just get on with the chopping wood and carrying water, and so I did. There were dozens of routine chores around the house to take care of, and there is a kind of dignified elegance to tending to small details when you're feeling depressed. It's awfully good therapy.
Then, about noon, my son appeared downstairs.
"Hey, old man," he said. "Got anything we can build today?
Well, now, there was a thought. Not much better than tinkering with hardware on a bad day.
This is something of a joke around my house, the fact that I will try to fix and build almost anything around the home. My knowledge far exceeds my skill though, and it's a running joke that if you look closely, the signs of my imprecision and lack of motor skills are evident. My daughter likes to grab my hands and hold them up to new friends, pointing out the stitch marks and scars from various battles. My sons friends joke whenever they come over, wanting to know what I'm building now. "Can you teach us something?" one will say. "My dad can't even change a car tire."
Though he had worked the overnight shift at one of two jobs he tends while trying to make the leap from college grad to career man, Boy was rather bright-eyed and serene after just a few hours of sleep. He's now in job interviews and apartment hunting, as well, and so he has a fresh haircut and is generally clean-shaven, which also helps.
So on Saturday we added some roof gutters around a section of the back porch that has been funneling water into the window well for the basement egress window--which happens to the last building project Boy and I tackled a year ago.
So we listened to the ball game on a radio as we measured and cut and nailed and screwed. And we made a total of four trips to the hardware store, since no American man ever manages to get everything he needs in just one trip. And the trips to the store were actually the best part of the day. Men, they love their hardware. The last trip to the hardware store was a lark: we bicycled there to buy wrenches with which to tune up our bikes. Boy teases me about the old-man bike I've just bought--I no longer have any interest in being streamlined, and it's just fine to sit bold upright where I can see things and my back doesn't protest.
Sometimes I regret that my son and I don't share more interests. But then I pause and reflect on the fact that we'll occasionally go to rock concerts together to see guitarists we both admire, that we've been to action films together twice in the last two months. There is a pretty unique pleasure to having a 23-year old son who is a good, responsible man, well adjusted and friendly to people. And moreover, one who not only tolerates his dad, but seeks me out to do things. I couldn't say the same thing about myself at age 23. I never really did get to know my dad. Still don't.
Odd thing. People have asked me what was my favorite age as the kids were growing up, and upon reflection I always recognize that their current ages are always my favorite. I've never got more pleasure from parenthood than I do right now. I will admit, though, that it's the thought of toddler grandchildren, just beginning to master language, that I'm now looking forward to.
Then on Sunday, I drove over to the University to watch my daughter, a freshman, compete as one of the coxwains on the University rowing team. This is big time Division 1 college athletics, and she made the team as a walk-on, while also earning an academic scholarship and studying Chinese and global politics. So Sunday was spend with my other child, sitting in a comfortable chair on the banks of the Mississippi and reading buddhist philosophy in between races while sipping hot tea. Her team won three times.
This is very early spring in Minnesota, and although it was mild in temperature, the limestone walls of the river valley were still coated with glacial ice on the far side, where the direct sun doesn't shine. It's chilly over there. Then my eyes raised a little higher and I was startled to suddenly recognize the big brick building on the far side of the river, sitting high up on the bank. Riverside hospital. A gust of wind came up and I shivered. I counted up to the windows of the seventh floor of the hospital. More than 30 years ago, that's where I spent the better part of a year staring out at the world and not knowing if I would ever really emerge again.
How very strange. Only thirty years, and yet this is an entirely different river I see today.
After an abysmal week at work, I slept not at all Friday night with a mind full of worries and regrets and strange dismal dreams.
I awoke with eyes feeling like sand had been ground into them, and all signs suggested that it wouldn't be much of a Saturday. A bad day, though, is the very best time to just get on with the chopping wood and carrying water, and so I did. There were dozens of routine chores around the house to take care of, and there is a kind of dignified elegance to tending to small details when you're feeling depressed. It's awfully good therapy.
Then, about noon, my son appeared downstairs.
"Hey, old man," he said. "Got anything we can build today?
Well, now, there was a thought. Not much better than tinkering with hardware on a bad day.
This is something of a joke around my house, the fact that I will try to fix and build almost anything around the home. My knowledge far exceeds my skill though, and it's a running joke that if you look closely, the signs of my imprecision and lack of motor skills are evident. My daughter likes to grab my hands and hold them up to new friends, pointing out the stitch marks and scars from various battles. My sons friends joke whenever they come over, wanting to know what I'm building now. "Can you teach us something?" one will say. "My dad can't even change a car tire."
Though he had worked the overnight shift at one of two jobs he tends while trying to make the leap from college grad to career man, Boy was rather bright-eyed and serene after just a few hours of sleep. He's now in job interviews and apartment hunting, as well, and so he has a fresh haircut and is generally clean-shaven, which also helps.
So on Saturday we added some roof gutters around a section of the back porch that has been funneling water into the window well for the basement egress window--which happens to the last building project Boy and I tackled a year ago.
So we listened to the ball game on a radio as we measured and cut and nailed and screwed. And we made a total of four trips to the hardware store, since no American man ever manages to get everything he needs in just one trip. And the trips to the store were actually the best part of the day. Men, they love their hardware. The last trip to the hardware store was a lark: we bicycled there to buy wrenches with which to tune up our bikes. Boy teases me about the old-man bike I've just bought--I no longer have any interest in being streamlined, and it's just fine to sit bold upright where I can see things and my back doesn't protest.
Sometimes I regret that my son and I don't share more interests. But then I pause and reflect on the fact that we'll occasionally go to rock concerts together to see guitarists we both admire, that we've been to action films together twice in the last two months. There is a pretty unique pleasure to having a 23-year old son who is a good, responsible man, well adjusted and friendly to people. And moreover, one who not only tolerates his dad, but seeks me out to do things. I couldn't say the same thing about myself at age 23. I never really did get to know my dad. Still don't.
Odd thing. People have asked me what was my favorite age as the kids were growing up, and upon reflection I always recognize that their current ages are always my favorite. I've never got more pleasure from parenthood than I do right now. I will admit, though, that it's the thought of toddler grandchildren, just beginning to master language, that I'm now looking forward to.
Then on Sunday, I drove over to the University to watch my daughter, a freshman, compete as one of the coxwains on the University rowing team. This is big time Division 1 college athletics, and she made the team as a walk-on, while also earning an academic scholarship and studying Chinese and global politics. So Sunday was spend with my other child, sitting in a comfortable chair on the banks of the Mississippi and reading buddhist philosophy in between races while sipping hot tea. Her team won three times.
This is very early spring in Minnesota, and although it was mild in temperature, the limestone walls of the river valley were still coated with glacial ice on the far side, where the direct sun doesn't shine. It's chilly over there. Then my eyes raised a little higher and I was startled to suddenly recognize the big brick building on the far side of the river, sitting high up on the bank. Riverside hospital. A gust of wind came up and I shivered. I counted up to the windows of the seventh floor of the hospital. More than 30 years ago, that's where I spent the better part of a year staring out at the world and not knowing if I would ever really emerge again.
How very strange. Only thirty years, and yet this is an entirely different river I see today.
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Citizens of 4F
subbtitle: Straight Eye for the Gay Guy.
Thomas and William get on the northbound 7:12 am 4F bus about five blocks apart. They are aging gay men in their mid 60s, of modest means. They clearly know one another, though I don't take them to be close friends. It is perhaps simply that they are acquainted from years of riding the same bus, or perhaps they have mutual friends in the neighborhood. They converse with smiles, but without the closeness of good friends.
I judge them to be gay mostly because I perceive in them a kind of superficial precision of appearance and style that I associate with gay men, a precision that I, like many men, secretly admire. There is perhaps just a bit of the effeminate in their speech and hand gestures, but it is a subtle thing. They are not politically, stidently gay.
Thomas has the appearance of a modern monk. The color pallet of his clothing is always in browns and cream colors. He has a carefully clipped gray beard, and a circle of brown-gray hair floating around a bald spot on the center of his head. He always wears a calm smile that never seems to vary, no matter what the circumstances. No matter how hideously slushy the spring morning, Thomas is always—always—immaculately neat. I have no idea how he accomplishes this.
William has something tenderly comical about his appearance. His badly worn shoes are always polished to a sparkling gleam. Oddly, he wears an expensive knit cap pulled down so low that it hides his ears, but the edges of the cap are very carefully folded twice, in opposite directions. It is a clear fashion decision, one that might have worked just a bit better on a younger man. William wears an earring in one ear, highly unusual in a 65-year-old man who is not Harrison Ford. William's trousers always have a carefully pressed crease down the front.
They are both gentle men. Gay gentlemen have it a little easier in the modern world of modern women, for it's my observation that when a gay man leaps to his feet to offer his bus seat to a women, it is rarely interpreted for anything but polite etiquette. Young professional women, in particular, sometimes resent the inference that they are weaker; but this resentment seems to be quickly set aside if the man offering the seat appears gay.
Mostly what I admire about gay men is their fluency with personal style. William and Thomas are men of extremely modest means, yet they find quiet elegance and satisfaction in the simple acts of good grooming and maintaining their clothing. There is nothing trendy about their wardrobes, yet they somehow look far more stylish than I'll ever manage.
Some time back, I realized during an important board of directors meeting that I had dressed that morning with a sweat sock stuck to the inside of my sweater vest.
On my very best days, I wouldn't even be allowed in the land of metrosexuals.
It's why I generally prefer the wilderness.
Thomas and William get on the northbound 7:12 am 4F bus about five blocks apart. They are aging gay men in their mid 60s, of modest means. They clearly know one another, though I don't take them to be close friends. It is perhaps simply that they are acquainted from years of riding the same bus, or perhaps they have mutual friends in the neighborhood. They converse with smiles, but without the closeness of good friends.
I judge them to be gay mostly because I perceive in them a kind of superficial precision of appearance and style that I associate with gay men, a precision that I, like many men, secretly admire. There is perhaps just a bit of the effeminate in their speech and hand gestures, but it is a subtle thing. They are not politically, stidently gay.
Thomas has the appearance of a modern monk. The color pallet of his clothing is always in browns and cream colors. He has a carefully clipped gray beard, and a circle of brown-gray hair floating around a bald spot on the center of his head. He always wears a calm smile that never seems to vary, no matter what the circumstances. No matter how hideously slushy the spring morning, Thomas is always—always—immaculately neat. I have no idea how he accomplishes this.
William has something tenderly comical about his appearance. His badly worn shoes are always polished to a sparkling gleam. Oddly, he wears an expensive knit cap pulled down so low that it hides his ears, but the edges of the cap are very carefully folded twice, in opposite directions. It is a clear fashion decision, one that might have worked just a bit better on a younger man. William wears an earring in one ear, highly unusual in a 65-year-old man who is not Harrison Ford. William's trousers always have a carefully pressed crease down the front.
They are both gentle men. Gay gentlemen have it a little easier in the modern world of modern women, for it's my observation that when a gay man leaps to his feet to offer his bus seat to a women, it is rarely interpreted for anything but polite etiquette. Young professional women, in particular, sometimes resent the inference that they are weaker; but this resentment seems to be quickly set aside if the man offering the seat appears gay.
Mostly what I admire about gay men is their fluency with personal style. William and Thomas are men of extremely modest means, yet they find quiet elegance and satisfaction in the simple acts of good grooming and maintaining their clothing. There is nothing trendy about their wardrobes, yet they somehow look far more stylish than I'll ever manage.
Some time back, I realized during an important board of directors meeting that I had dressed that morning with a sweat sock stuck to the inside of my sweater vest.
On my very best days, I wouldn't even be allowed in the land of metrosexuals.
It's why I generally prefer the wilderness.
Saturday, March 8, 2008
Thoughts on a Cold Morning
It was a long, odd week, and I very much needed the three-hour walk in 5 degree temps this morning to clear my head of it all. Friend Stacey might say that it was a week where certain alignment of heavenly bodies led to spiritual discomfort for us all. I'm admittedly a bit skeptical of the horoscopic diagnosis, but I have to admit that everybody seemed at a higher pitch of prickly edginess than usual this week.
At work, I noticed that lots of people were elevating the smallest provocation to disastrous proportions, and this would have offered a fascinating subject for study, if it wasn't for the fact that they seemed to want me to solve each catastrophe.
But it did give me an opportunity to once again observe a very common little human trait. It was present in spades all week long, and yes, there were also times when I caught myself in exactly the same fallacy.
We all have a tendency to think that our perceptions--our thoughts and feelings about a given circumstance--are actually objective facts. It's not so.
"X, he hates me," one worker said to me matter-of-factly this week, speaking of another coworker during a one-on-one session.
"Really?" I said in surprise. "I didn't know that. When did he tell you?"
"He hasn't told me" my worker said. "But he hates me."
"Mmm," I said. "I am surprised. X tells me lots of things, but he hasn't mentioned this yet. Did you hear it from somebody else?"
"No," I was told. "But I know it."
" Did you see it in a memo he wrote?"
"No," came the reply, impatiently. "Can't you take my word for it? It's a fact. He hates me."
I decided to take just a small step. "Well, it appears that you FEEL that X hates you. That's the fact I'm seeing."
My worker looked at me blankly. "What the hell are you talking about?"
How would my worker take the next idea, I wondered. It was worth an experiment, even though I really should have known better. "Your thoughts, your feelings, are inner events," I said. ". They're only true in the world of your mind. They say nothing about the world out there."
I had gone too far, I saw immediately. Introspection isn't for everybody.
Once upon a time, there came a somewhat life-changing moment for me when I suddenly recognized that an enormous amount of emotional baggage I had been wrestling with for much of my life was quite simply NOT REAL. These things were nothing more than mind states, and had no connection to larger, concrete truth whatsoever. A few inches outside my skull, none of the anguish I had been feeling existed at all. This recognition was unbelievably freeing to me. I simply didn't have to lend a lot of weight to anything that had no objective reality. I didn't have to keep feeding energy to such nonsense.
What this implies, ultimately, is that the only world we really know is a world of mind, and so that's where the problem-solving efforts need to dwell. I one had a worker tell me that he had worked for 15 bosses over the years, each one of which who had deliberately intended to set him up for failure. The stunning nature of such a coincidence did not register with him. Somehow, he had stumbled upon descendants of Hitler in 15 consecutive jobs. For 20 years he had bounced from job to job, each time believing that his mildly paranoid feeling was based on a concrete truth "out there" rather than an inner condition.
My wife and I have a friend who has been in relationships four times to selfish men. Each time, she expects to cause changes to her partners; but she has yet to wonder why it is that she seeks out men so skilled at making her miserable. "Men are such shits," she says, "why won't they change?" as we silently change the pronoun. The strange twists of logic used by this friend are too numerous to mention.
These are dramatic examples, but I think on quieter levels we do the same thing almost every day. We react to thoughts and feelings as though they represent laws of physics, as though they are monuments of stone.
I can hear an argument building from some of my friends that are highly skilled in logic, so I'll address it right away.
I'm not trying to argue the case for solipsism--the belief that the mind is what literally creates the physical world. I think solipsism represents a terrible form of human arrogance. But I would argue that most of what causes us to suffer is a subjective, inner event, not a fact of the world.
When we're suffering, it makes no sense to try and change the world. What makes sense is to return home and heal.
At work, I noticed that lots of people were elevating the smallest provocation to disastrous proportions, and this would have offered a fascinating subject for study, if it wasn't for the fact that they seemed to want me to solve each catastrophe.
But it did give me an opportunity to once again observe a very common little human trait. It was present in spades all week long, and yes, there were also times when I caught myself in exactly the same fallacy.
We all have a tendency to think that our perceptions--our thoughts and feelings about a given circumstance--are actually objective facts. It's not so.
"X, he hates me," one worker said to me matter-of-factly this week, speaking of another coworker during a one-on-one session.
"Really?" I said in surprise. "I didn't know that. When did he tell you?"
"He hasn't told me" my worker said. "But he hates me."
"Mmm," I said. "I am surprised. X tells me lots of things, but he hasn't mentioned this yet. Did you hear it from somebody else?"
"No," I was told. "But I know it."
" Did you see it in a memo he wrote?"
"No," came the reply, impatiently. "Can't you take my word for it? It's a fact. He hates me."
I decided to take just a small step. "Well, it appears that you FEEL that X hates you. That's the fact I'm seeing."
My worker looked at me blankly. "What the hell are you talking about?"
How would my worker take the next idea, I wondered. It was worth an experiment, even though I really should have known better. "Your thoughts, your feelings, are inner events," I said. ". They're only true in the world of your mind. They say nothing about the world out there."
I had gone too far, I saw immediately. Introspection isn't for everybody.
Once upon a time, there came a somewhat life-changing moment for me when I suddenly recognized that an enormous amount of emotional baggage I had been wrestling with for much of my life was quite simply NOT REAL. These things were nothing more than mind states, and had no connection to larger, concrete truth whatsoever. A few inches outside my skull, none of the anguish I had been feeling existed at all. This recognition was unbelievably freeing to me. I simply didn't have to lend a lot of weight to anything that had no objective reality. I didn't have to keep feeding energy to such nonsense.
What this implies, ultimately, is that the only world we really know is a world of mind, and so that's where the problem-solving efforts need to dwell. I one had a worker tell me that he had worked for 15 bosses over the years, each one of which who had deliberately intended to set him up for failure. The stunning nature of such a coincidence did not register with him. Somehow, he had stumbled upon descendants of Hitler in 15 consecutive jobs. For 20 years he had bounced from job to job, each time believing that his mildly paranoid feeling was based on a concrete truth "out there" rather than an inner condition.
My wife and I have a friend who has been in relationships four times to selfish men. Each time, she expects to cause changes to her partners; but she has yet to wonder why it is that she seeks out men so skilled at making her miserable. "Men are such shits," she says, "why won't they change?" as we silently change the pronoun. The strange twists of logic used by this friend are too numerous to mention.
These are dramatic examples, but I think on quieter levels we do the same thing almost every day. We react to thoughts and feelings as though they represent laws of physics, as though they are monuments of stone.
I can hear an argument building from some of my friends that are highly skilled in logic, so I'll address it right away.
I'm not trying to argue the case for solipsism--the belief that the mind is what literally creates the physical world. I think solipsism represents a terrible form of human arrogance. But I would argue that most of what causes us to suffer is a subjective, inner event, not a fact of the world.
When we're suffering, it makes no sense to try and change the world. What makes sense is to return home and heal.
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