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.

http:bertauski.com

 

Foreverland is Dead

The Annihilation of Foreverland

The Discovery of Socket Greeny FREE

Drayton, the Taker FREE

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.

http:bertauski.com

 

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.

http:bertauski.com

 

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.

http:bertauski.com

 

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

http:bertauski.com

 

Foreverland is Dead (Coming soon!)

The Annihilation of Foreverland

Claus: Legend of the Fat Man

Halfskin

Dharma Bummed

Meetings. Not my favorite.

This one, however, has potential. I'm part of a small group applying for a month-long trip to Japan. Expenses paid. You have my attention.

The minutiae of grant writing, however, takes the shine off. It's not like they're handing out money to whomever is standing in the Japan line. We need 40 pages of why and how and where. In that order.

At some point, Zen temples are mentioned. One member, sitting across from me, says, Would you like to sit meditation? Sit on a cushion facing a wall?

I said, Yeah. Yeah.

He doesn't take me serious, doesn't believe me. Figures I'm just going along. And why not. I'm probably the last person that looks like he practices Zen. I'm not sure what a Zen practitioner looks like, it's just not the guy with a Chicago Cubs ball cap, I'm thinking.

Wait till I tell you about Mindfulness. He raises his eyebrows. It'll change your life. 

Here's where practice starts. The first step is to notice thoughts, notice the ever-present inner dialog, the contents of our beliefs that continually go unnoticed. Joko Beck taught to label thoughts, as in,

Having a thought [fill in blank]

For instance, having a thought...

...I already know about mindfulness.
...I already know how to sit.
...I probably know how to sit better than you.
...dude, I'm pretty sure I'm more mindful than you.

The more we pay attention to our inner dialog without judging, just observing, the more absurd and irrational and, often times, childlike some of our beliefs appear. It becomes apparent we're clinging to systems we learned as a child or toddler. Perhaps even an infant. As AH Almaas once stated, We see everyone and everything as a giant boob.

So labeling is the first step, thoughts are just thoughts. The second step is the work: being present. Paying attention to bodily sensations, experiencing subtle tensions, where and what they feel like, allowing them to unfold. Hell of a lot harder than it sounds. Be fully present with the experience we label embarrassment, shame or fear. Arrogance. In some cases, we're going against instinct ingrained in our DNA. It can be terrifying, earth-shattering. Feel life-threatening.

Joko Beck described emotions as a thought connected to a bodily sensation. Expressing anger is not the same as experiencing it. This distinction, or lack thereof, is what gets most of us in trouble, makes our lives messy. Hurts those around us.

It's painful, sometimes, to see how infantile my beliefs still are. How absurd my systems still operate. Case in point, the story in my head before the meeting ended:

Our entourage ascends the steps of a Zen monastery at the peak of Mt. Everest (Yeah, I know, Everest isn't in Japan). The teacher sits at the head of the temple and, with eyes closed, senses there is one among us that is further along the path than the rest. He opens his eyes, gestures to the cushion. I take my place next to him. 

Having a thought... I want to punch myself in the face.

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

http:bertauski.com

 

Foreverland is Dead (Coming soon!)

The Annihilation of Foreverland

Claus: Legend of the Fat Man

Halfskin

A Smile That Won't Fade

Death is inevitable.

It fascinates me that none of us will avoid it. It is the one certainty. I suppose if it's boiled down, death is change and change is the only guarantee in life. As someone once said, change is good, and I hate it.

Death is a stranger in my house. I'm 46 and I've only lost 3 of 4 grandparents. I know people that have lost that many people in less than a year. I'm lucky, I suppose. I'm also completely unprepared for it. I mean, I'm in my mid-40s and haven't dealt with real loss. If God deals one of my loved ones the Ace of Spades, how will I face that?

I'm not ready.

Recently, Mike Smith passed, unexpectedly. A high school friend, he was known as Smiley. He was, arguably, the nicest person you could ever meet. Thus, the nickname. Smiley and I didn't keep up. We probably spoke once in the last 20 years. However, it seems apropos to share my favorite memory.

1987. My future wife lived in Florida. I lived in Illinois. Smiley and Red (another high school buddy) planned to move to Florida because we were 20 years old and moving to Florida seemed fun. Why not. They planned an exploratory excursion down to the Sunshine State and I would tag along, help with gas, see my future wife and fly back. You can do that when you're 20.

Days before we leave, they deliver the news. We ain't going.

"What do you mean you're not going?"

Can't see it. 

No use in playing out the argument. They're not going. End of story. But screw that, not the end. I got a future wife waiting. I can take a bus. Danny and Coady drop me off at an East St. Louis bus station sometime close to midnight. I remember it clearly because there was steam coming out of the storm sewers and I was scared shitless.

30 hours later, I arrive at Sanibel Island.

Day 2-ish after arrival, my future wife gets a call. It's Smiley. Or Red. Maybe both, I don't remember. They want to know what her address is. Like exactly where she lives because they want to send her something. It's a PO Box.

No, what's your address? 

"Why?"

Just cause. Like where do you live exactly. 

Sonofabitch.

For next week, Smiley and Red slept on the couch. Of course we let them in. They were supposed to look for a place to live, for work. Instead, they sat on the couch quizzing each other with random questions to prove who was smarter. Yeah, I was pissed the first day. But truth be told, that trip never would've been the same without them. It was a hell of lot more fun with them on couch.

Smiley warmed a lot of lives. I was not immune.

He will be missed.