Moderation is a Bitch

I don't have to lose weight. But I should.

In my mid-40s, things don't work the same. I need glasses to watch a movie and I read notes like Redd Foxx. I don't sleep through the night without a trip to the bathroom. If you're 40+, you know there are other things.

My son could eat lard for breakfast and still be a rail. He'll  burn it off with 19 year old metabolism and a weekend of skating. I exercise five days a week, but I can't eat lard. In fact, the older I get, the less indulgence I can afford.

I was listening to the audiobook The Mindful Way Through Depression that introduces the practice of mindfulness by eating a raisin. By engaging all the senses, he transforms the simple act of eating one raisin into something exquisite. I eat my food like a desperate wolf. When my wife made vegetarian burritos, I stared at the lone burrito on my plate, aware of my thoughts.

• This isn't going to be enough.
• I need chips.
• I just want to be happy.

What was interesting was that these thoughts were non-negotiable. I WILL eat another burrito. I WILL eat chips. And, later on, I WILL eat dessert. This, by the way, did happen.

I had lunch with a friend who recently got into shape. He described his process of slowing down when he makes decisions, pointing out that we tend to rush our actions when we know they are compulsive so we can't change our mind.

Eating is challenging, no doubt about it.

Things like cigarettes or booze, we can cut those out. Not eating. Eating presents the challenge of self-deprivation and self-control. It's not just being fully present with my dull oatmeal, it's being fully present with hunger. Saying no to an awesome dessert. It's one burrito, not two. It's being fully present with life as it is, regardless of how I feel about, with no guarantee I'll lose weight or reduce my nightly trips to the bathroom.

Moderation is a bitch. I think the Buddha said that.

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Who is the Teacher?

I've learned more as a teacher in the past 15 years than I did as a student.

It's the moments that I stop being a student that I fail as a teacher. I feel less like an authority, more of a messenger. I don't have anything special, I've just been doing it longer than most of my students.



When I first started, I handed out a lot of I don't knows to questions. But as the years accumulated, I found answers and passed them along. Now, fifteen years later, I look like an expert (to some). However, it doesn't seem special any more than walking or running, which, to a toddler, might seem quite impressive.

The challenge, as I see it, is to find a way to connect through the embodiment of beginner's mind. What's it like to hear about a concept for the very first time? How can I present this information, this experience, in a way that someone can digest?

This is assuming that all students come with sharpened pencils and shiny apples. If they did, it would be like sailing across glass. But they bring with them the messiness of life--the emotional hardships of home, the confusion of identity and the conflict of survival. They bring with them everyday shit that makes the waters choppy.

For some, it's quite stormy.

Can I find a way to cut through the wind, to be a beacon in darkness, to share with them direction? Not if I have no light to show, no direction to point. But if, every day, I arrive at work as a student in front of the class, I might do so.

But if I am a student...who is the teacher?

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A Ticket to Dignity

Let's be honest, it's a speed trap.

The road had recently changed from 45 mph to 35 mph when the town decided to just pull the 45 mph signs. It still FEELS like it should be 45. Ask the people getting busted on a daily basis, they'd agree.

My ticket in the process.

So I head down ticket alley and see a car pulled over on the right shoulder. I follow the two cars ahead of me into the left lane, giving the officer plenty of space to get back to his car. Twenty seconds later, I've got lights in my rearview.

I find the nearest side road, wondering if he's going to bust me for going 38. Or maybe my speedometer is broken, or there's a taillight out, or he doesn't like blue pickups.

"Do you know why I pulled you over."

"No, sir."

"You are required by law to slow down 10 mph below the speed limit when passing flashing lights."

This, I did not know. Apparently, switching lanes isn't enough.

I give him my info. My driving record is spotless and I wasn't going unreasonable fast, so I expect a warning. I get a ticket for $165 with no points. He tells me I could've gotten a $500 ticket and 6 points. This feels ludicrous, but I politely take the ticket.

I'll go to court in February. I'll plead guilty and, in most cases, the judge will knock the ticket in half. I'll pay the $80 and leave and never, ever, ever pass flashing lights without slowing down.

But here's the thing.

I want to plead my case. I want to pay $0. I can afford the fine, I won't get the points, but I want to win. I want to plead not guilty and explain to the judge that there was an entire lane between me and the officer and that, in fact, I wasn't speeding. I could even claim to be going under the speed limit. He didn't have a speed gun on me.

But all that's not true, and I know it. I wasn't an entire lane over. And I know exactly how fast I was going because I use cruise control on that stretch. All I have to do is lie and, maybe, I'll get the fine reduced even more or, hallelujah, have it thrown out.

How common has dishonesty become? We see it practiced in courtrooms, in politics, and everyday life. We teach our children to be true to themselves and others but, when it comes right down to it, we sometimes knowingly lie, even if it's tiny, insignificant self-deceptions for our own benefit, because it's not the truth that matters but what you can prove. I'm guilty of this. Sometimes, it happens so automatically, I don't catch it until later. Am I really going to sell my dignity to beat this ticket?

The measure of a man is what he does with power. --Socrates

Here's what I hope happens: the judge looks at this ticket and reads the officer the riot act for such misjudgment. Here's a citizen with a clean record and, by switching lanes, was clearly observing your safety. The fact that he didn't slow down to 25 mph does not warrant a ticket. Now give me your badge, you are relieved of duty.

Here's what will happen: pay the fine and leave.

And from now on, Mr. Bertauski, slow down.

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Get Broke

The car is in the shop. Again.

15,000 miles and it's in the shop for the third time. The steering linkage broke in the Target parking lot. At least it didn't happen on the Interstate at 70 mph.

Blessings counted: 1



But this is the third time in six months. Come on, now. At least, we discussed, it's still under warranty, but, you know, we should get something for our troubles, right? A little payback for pain, suffering and general hassle. It's starting to feel like a lemon. There's no chance we can get a new car out of this, but maybe we can haggle for an extended warranty to restore our confidence in Nissan.

I show up with speech rehearsed when the service technician says, "Yeah, we're not paying for this."

"I'm sorry. What?"

Larry the service technician goes on to explain that that part can't break unless there's been an accident, in which case the warranty is null and void. We haven't been in an accident and there's no indication of an accident. If you have eyes, you can see that. Larry has eyes.

"Here's what happened," I explain. "We backed up, it broke. That's all I know."

"Something could've bounced under the car," Larry says. "So, no warranty."

Now, here's what I think. Larry is generally a good-spirited guy. After all, we've been to him twice already. He smiled, helped us out, even hooked us up with a loaner the last time. Larry, however, doesn't return phone calls in a timely fashion. Say, for instance, he tells you he'll call later today. You might hear back from him tomorrow. In that respect, he was consistent.

My wife was none too happy with Larry's phone habits and had called the service manager. The service manager couldn't have cared less what she had to say about Larry and his spotty track record.

I tell that story to finish this story. Larry wasn't not happy to see me this time. I don't mean someone-drank-the-last-cup-of-coffee unhappy. It was the sort of I-show-you-whose-phone-habits-blow sort of unhappy. Paranoid? That's possible. But Larry didn't go to bat for us. And now they want $1000 for the repair. Well, guess what? I'm towing it somewhere else, so who got the last laugh now?

Huh?

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Want

What do you want most out of the next chapter of your life?

A friend asked me that.



I think I’ve always struggled with identifying what I want. When the question was posed early in life, even as simple as coming up with a 5-year plan, I was always at a loss. As a kid, my decisions were based on what felt good, which worked just fine. That compass, though, became a problem the older I got. What I wanted was to feel good, and that included things like booze, sex, food, and sleep…the standard sins.

If all of those wants were boiled down to their essence, what I wanted was security and safety – the guarantee that nothing would hurt me. I wanted to fall asleep with momma’s tit. Of course, all of those wants lead to a very small, very self-centered life. Ultimately, depression. So, over time, I’ve steered away from things that shrink my openness. But I still have trouble answering the question.

What do I want?

Right now, I’m 3 months into my latest novel. As I outline the final third or so of the story, the ending is slowly coming into focus and I realize there’s no way I could’ve planned for that 3 months ago. I had a general idea of what the story would be, but as the story progressed the characters started to grow. The thread that will eventually hold the story together isn’t anything I could've imagined in the beginning. And that, I suppose, is a good answer.

I don't know what I want because I don't know where I'm going.

Maybe it's not what I want, I should be asking, but what I need. But, I'll be honest, I’m afraid to ask the universe for what I need because, quite frankly, I’ve got everything I want. I won the marriage lottery. I have a great family, a successful career, and good health. I’ve got it all. So I’m afraid to ask for what I need because life might have one big ass pothole up ahead and I don’t want that. But perhaps that’s what I need.

If I had to answer the question “what I want” it would be this: remain open to this very moment, regardless what it contains, no matter how I feel about it, whether I like it or not, and to continue growing. To serve life.

Oh, and a G.I. Joe with kung-fu grip.

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The Clarity of Water

Childhood is a shallow pond.

The water is cold and clean. The surface, uncluttered by debris. Its contents so clear that only its reflection indicates anything is there.

Pebbles are scattered across the bottom, rocks of different colors and shapes and sizes. We can reach in and stack them, move them into piles of likeness or arrange them into designs. It's all so accessible.



But the seasons change.

Leaves fall, temporarily floating, eventually sinking. The wind chops the surface, particles of dust obscures reflections. Algae grips the rocks and currents, stirred up by the wind, break it away until specks swirl in the depths. In some cases, it floats to the top in blankets of slime.

Drop a pebble into the water now, and it fades from sight.

Perhaps that pebble is a name of someone we just met. Maybe someone's birthday or where we left the keys. Now we rely on lists to remember things, create reminders to avoid forgetting. We stay organized. We read books but the details pass through us. We see faces that we should know. We look for the stones at the bottom but the colors have faded, the edges are warped.

What happens when we can no longer see the bottom, when the details of our life disappear as soon as they slip below the surface? What happens when our memories fade.

Am I my memories?

Perhaps meditation can clarify the waters, reveal the wonder that was present when we were children. But as children, it was shallow. Now it has become deeper, the potential so much more richer. Maybe the stillness can return and the debris settle upon the bottom so that we see clearly, once again.

Or maybe we are not the clarity but simply the lotus at home in the muddy water.

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Goodbye Art

I arrived at grad school in 1990.

Champaign, Illinois was, by no means, a metropolitan city but it was bigger than any place I had lived. It had mass transit so, yeah...it was bigger. I was 23 with an undergraduate degree and barely a clue. I was attending graduate school because I figured I might want to teach college at some point, maybe, I suppose, I think. I don't know.

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I was lumped into a large room with other graduate students and assigned a desk and shelves. It wasn't much but it was mine and I felt important. I assumed that professors all worked as a team, that we would all come together for the betterment of academic truth. Didn't work like that. There are small worlds within an academic building that contain egos of all colors and sizes. There was no "Secret Santa" game at Christmas.

Art Spomer operated within this academic universe. A former Army captain, he was now a researcher in plant sciences. His disheveled hair always had the distinct "finger comb" look.  His shirts were plain and wrinkled and his tennis shoes were not expensive. He would show up at the office at 3:00 AM, claiming to be one of those people that only needed a few hours of sleep. And he never drank coffee.

I passed his office on the way out every day. His had a computer floppy disc pinned to the door with the message: ANYONE LOSE THIS? When the department head was out of town, Art was dubbed the Acting Head, a the humorous title not lost on Art when he taped the title to his door and underlined ACTING HEAD several times.

His office was dimly lit and packed with boxes, bowls, books and whatever else lurks in corners. I once stopped by with headphones around my neck, one of the speakers missing the foam padding. Art found not one but several foam covers I could use. Hidden within the magnificent disaster was order.

A bronze hand apparently clawing it's way out of the filing cabinet was the first thing to greet you. It was one of many works displayed in his office, works that he forged with his own hands. He was not just an accomplished scientist but a creative mind. In that transition between childhood and adulthood, a time when I needed to figure out where I fit in the world and why, Art's office was a reprieve. A timeout. It reminded me to stop and, usually, smile.

Something made me think of Art this week. I thought I'd throw him an email, say hi, see how he was doing. Sometimes I like to let people know what impact they had on my life. He died this past summer. I missed him by three months. This blog entry is a poor substitute but the only thing I have now.

Thanks, Art.

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