The Kitchen Knife of Truth

"Don't be mean," my daughter told me.

"Boyfriends should be a little scared of dads," I explain. "Besides, I wasn't mean last time. I was direct. There's a difference."

What I don't tell her are the things I was doing at her age. I know the shenanigans. Our only chance as parents, I tell my wife, is that our kids aren't half as dumb as I was and I turned out all right. For the most part.

Now that I'm older, I know better. I don't know everything--there's plenty of path ahead of me--but I know more. Problem is, I can't tell my kids what they should do. I sure as hell wouldn't have listened. To some extent, they'll have to figure things out.



A long-time friend of mine is a successful therapist. I once asked him how he helps people, I mean truly helps them. "You can't tell them what to do," he said. "You have to grow with them. And sometimes that takes years."

Sometimes that takes years.

When I was a kid, I didn't need someone to tell me what I was doing wrong or how to live my life, even if they were right. I stewed in bitterness and anger, ignored them to my own detriment to prove them wrong. And when things fell apart, as they inevitably did, the advice-givers can accurately say it.

I told you so.

Age has nothing to do with being a kid. A 50 year old "kid" can be a dangerous person--emotionally and physically. I asked my therapist-friend how he truly helps people because the answer relates to all my relationships: professional, casual and personal. In order to grow with them, I've got to work my own shit out. And that takes a lifetime.

So my daughter's boyfriend arrived to meet us. I didn't plan on being mean, just direct. However, I did grab a kitchen knife on my way to the front door and showed it to him. It was rash and a little funny, but somewhere behind the joke was a message.

That's my baby girl.

It shouldn't take him years to learn that lesson.

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Narcissism Gets Shit Done

Steve Jobs smelled.

Early on, he didn't shower. He would sometimes hike his funky feet up during meetings or interviews. He shit on ideas he didn't like and, sometimes, claimed the ones he did as his own. He's been described as difficult, insufferable, overbearing, pretentious and narcissistic.

But he got shit done.



According to Walter Isaacson's biography, Jobs studied Zen at an early age that most likely contributed to his laser-beam focus and famed reality distortion field. If he wanted something, he made it happen. He also stomped a lot of mudholes in a lot of assholes. He was an end-justifies-the-means sort of guy.

He seemed completely indifferent to others' opinions. When every person in the universe complained of his horrific body odor, he simply declared that he did not stink and forged ahead. When an engineer said something couldn't be done, he berated him and belittled him until it happened. He valued beauty and simplicity but also didn't seem to give a shit about anything that got in the way of that.

A focus-only Zen practice that eschews understanding can get messy. That sort of power can supercharge a self-centered life. People get hurt. Some Zen practices emphasize a "bottom-up" practice, one that seeks understanding of one's life and joriki, or Zen power, is not as important as the way in which one lives.

Who knows, maybe all the people in Jobs's life did have shitty ideas and maybe they did deserve to what they got. Maybe his take-no-prisoners approach pushed them to greater personal growth and lifted human spirit to loftier heights and brought the world closer to spiritual Oneness.

Or maybe he just made a cool phone.

Either way, he wouldn't give a shit what I think.

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Peter Pan is an Asshole

Time to grow up.

Joko Beck told me that during a Zen retreat almost 25 years ago. It's taken about 25 years to understand what she meant. Right now, at age 46, I think I'm about 60% there. And that might be a little high.

A kid is only interested what he wants. He wants whatever feels good or tastes yummy. He wants the cookie.

An adult is only interested in what life needs.

It's doubtful anyone is 100% adult. We're genetically predisposed to selfish-behavior. It's hardwired into our survival gear. We can bump the number up, but a 100%?

Someone once said that practice become increasingly more difficult because our 'kid' becomes more subtle. Even enlightened can become the cookie. Unless we're vigilante, we won't realize we've got our arm buried to the elbow in the cookie jar.

I've got kids that are 15 and 18. They're approaching very difficult periods of life. They're not really kids anymore. Not adults. They want all the freedom of adulthood. They want all the yumminess of childhood. They don't realize Peter Pan is an asshole.

Someone once said, "Growing up sucks." I think it was everyone that said that. It's not fun. Letting go of the blankey feels like death. Losing the pacifier is torture. If we don't get the raise, the advance, the house, the book deal, the adulation, the cigarette drink car job clothes vacation spousesexfillintheblank.

Then it sucks.

The saying becomes, "Life sucks."

Because it's not the way we want it.

We don't want to serve life.

It's supposed to be the other way around. Life's supposed to serve us.

When we're 5.

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Trust is an Oil Filter

Another repair.

I expect cars to never breakdown. I also expect green lights. I'm always disappointed.

My regular mechanic is across town. I couldn't drive that far, so I parked it at a local repair shop, dropped the keys in the night slot. Next morning, I get the call.

"Your oil pump isn't working. And we'll need to replace all the belts and the water pump."
I just replaced the belts and water pump.
"You did?"
Yeah.
"Let me talk to the mechanic."
Let me send a tow truck.

I don't know if a mechanic is taking advantage of me. I took high school auto mechanics but all I learned was how to steal tools. I mean, if he said the hood needs a paint job I'd be a little suspect. But belts, pumps, plugs...I just need it working. Tell me what it costs. I've got to trust him.

We instilled that lesson in our kids, that trust is one of the most critical traits they can develop. The more you lie to us, the more you lie to yourself. That doesn't mean shit to a five year old so I think we said if we trust you, you'll earn more "stuff". We moved to earn more "freedom" when they got older.

Why was this lesson at the top of the list? Because, ONE, it's that important and, TWO, I sucked at it. I threw my grade card in the drain and said I lost it. I said I was late because a dog chased me. It became habit. It caught up to me.

Trust. Sounds easy. Judging by the widespread display of dishonesty by leaders (political, religious, education), it's anything but. Zen has it's own boogers in the woodpile.

• A Zen teacher so drunk he had to be propped up by students
• A Zen teacher having sex with his students without telling them he had AIDS
• A Zen teacher having female students expose their breasts for the sake of practice

Men and women of great intelligence are fallible. Their folly can cause great harm. It is incumbent upon our leaders to know themselves, to do the work to such a degree that their shortcomings--when they manifest--do little damage. A teacher once told me that understanding must precede power.

And Socrates said "The measure of a man is what he does with power."

My regular mechanic, the one I trust, towed the car to his shop.

He fixed it with the correct oil filter.

An oil filter.

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Foreverland is Dead

The Annihilation of Foreverland

Claus: Legend of the Fat Man

Halfskin

The Rearview

18.

It's the chrysalis. The pupa.




18 still remembers endless summers where fun is interrupted only by sleep. 18 can still feel the slip-and-slide on its belly, the cook-outs and late night games of Hide-n-Seek. 18 remembers snuggling on the couch when it was sick, having soup delivered in front of the TV. 18 remembers laughing so hard it farted.

18 sees these things in the rearview.

To see the road ahead, 18 has to look away. 18 will see the potential that lies in winding roads and steep mountains. 18 will know there are views at the tops it has never seen. 18 will feel the thrill of riding to the bottoms and the labor of climbing back up. 18 can't see the butterfly that lies ahead until it lets go of the rearview.

Knowing that, every once in a while, it can look back. Because it was fun.

Great fun.

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Foreverland is Dead

The Annihilation of Foreverland

Claus: Legend of the Fat Man

Halfskin

The Fat Skinny Girl

I speak English. Just can't always write it.

I just released Foreverland is Dead. It's my 10th novel, I think. It's a good sign when you can't remember how many you have out, but then again I can't remember a lot of things. I keep in touch with the indie publishing (formerly known as self-publishers) community, which is invaluable. Some indies are killing it, rolling in 6 figures annually. The fact that I'm making ANY money is wondrous.

But all things are relative.

One indie, Elle Casey, is like a writing machine, cranking out 20+ novels in less than a couple years (again, run those stats through my memory filter, they're ballpark). I generate about 3 books a year. I'm a slacker. My wife says:

You sound like the skinny girl that thinks she's fat.

She's right. The fact I can even write 70,000 words is an accomplishment. And they're coherent. And people like them (some, not all; no fiction writer wins them all, not even Rowling).

Here's why indie writing has a place in the world. I suck at English. I'm not the worst, I know some big words and when to use them, most of the time. Incorrigible, see? I just used that. However, it became abundantly clear just how far I am from professional writing when I had Foreverland is Dead edited. It's clear I don't know:

• When to use lay/lie
• When to use farther/further (didn't even know I was screwing that up)
• Once my character "shuttered" (instead of "shuddered")
• Once my character walked down an "isle" (that would be "aisle")
• I don't care about dangling participles (but dangling is funny)
• I don't care about semi-colons or ems because I'll never know how to use them properly (that doesn't stop me from using them
• I don't care about font treatment (larger font, all caps; evidently this is frowned upon)

Here's the deal. I'm a decent storyteller. I've got some tales to spin, but I don't care about proper English etiquette. That bothers some readers. They have every right. The English language is a craft some hold close to their heart. It doesn't bother other readers (I couldn't care less).

I'll never win a Hugo Award or impress an English professor. I just want to tell the story. My editor can have it pressed and ready for the dance.

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Foreverland is Dead

The Annihilation of Foreverland

Claus: Legend of the Fat Man

Halfskin

Don't Kill the Buddha on the Trail

I met Jason at a Zen group, 24 years ago.

I wasn't even interested in Zen, at the time. I was just looking for a group that did spiritual stuff, i.e. meditation. They'd do their thing and I'd do mine. I'm not sure what I was doing except sitting still for 30 minutes at a time. Eventually, I found Zen.

I haven't seen Jason in 17 years. He was at the birth of our son, but then I went one direction to start a family, he went the other. Next thing you know, 17 years go by.

In the turbulence, so still. So present. (Linville Falls)

A week ago, we got together to hike the mountains in North Carolina, a halfway point between our homes. I arrived at the campsite first and have a couple hours to kill so I hit the trails of Linville Falls. The weather is beautiful and the views glorious. I'm an hour up the mountain when I pass a small contingent of folks, one of which is a Buddhist nun decked in full regalia: orange robe, shaved head, eyes thoughtfully downcast.

Okay. All right. A Buddhist nun, hiking. A Buddhist... when do you ever see a Buddhist nun... hiking? EVER?

I think that odd.

Jason arrives. I'm quickly reminded 17 years has passed. His beard half gray, eyes aged. He still flashes the contagious smile, but now one tempered with years of living. Experience. It's clear he's become a skilled counselor. We spend the next 3 days hiking. At night, we return to the camp for a cigar, talk about family, Zen practice, and all the years between now and then. The space in-between our words rests easily, contentedly.

In the morning, I drink coffee. He, tea. Then we climb into his tent for a half hour of zazen before hiking. The men camping in the lot next to us form opinions about what we're doing in there. At least, that's my thoughts. Can't say the proof doesn't seem a little dodgy.

We end the weekend at the top of Wiseman's Pass, smoking our last cigar and laughing until our guts are sore. He asks, a bit demurely, if I'd like to end with a session of co-counselling. He's told me about the process, but I'm not clear. He starts by asking to hold my hand. So here we are, two men, sitting in the grass, holding hands, talking about feelings. Cars passing.

We get in our cars. He turns left. I go right.

Maybe it'll be another 17 years. If it is, we'll pick up right where we left off.

Sometimes, time seems so irrelevant.




More on Practice: Joko Beck, AH Almaas, and Bruce Tift

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Foreverland is Dead (Coming soon!)

The Annihilation of Foreverland

Claus: Legend of the Fat Man

Halfskin