Rambling to the Sun

It was a nice fall day in southern California in 2003. I was in graduate school in Irvine, California studying fuel cell technology. Specifically, I was sitting in a research meeting with faculty and students and the meeting was coming to a close. As was typical, the director of the Center would ask if there was anything the students would like to address before convening. Funny how I remember some details in life. A post-doctoral student from Spain studying combustion flows for micro-turbine technology raised his hand and said words to the effect:

"I left two slices of pizza in the lab fridge yesterday. Somebody took them. You know who you are. That was uncool." 

He was right. I did know who I was, and it was uncool. 

I don't put a lot of mental energy into thinking about karma, but I had to laugh recently as the universe settled the score, as far as pizza karma goes anyway. It's nine years later. The refrigerator is different. The lab is different. Heck, the entire school is different (apparently I had to try out a few graduate schools before I found the right one). But this time the pizza that came up missing belonged to me. There was no meeting or announcement, no chance for me to point out the culpable ways of one of my fellow students. And yet, nothing was wrong. In fact, something subtle inside me relaxed a bit and I even had a chuckle at the long-time-coming paying of penance.

The pizza thief unknowingly started a chain of mental events that led to the writing of this post. Reflecting upon the incident with a silly sort of smile, indicating justice had been served, I began to  recognize that beyond the sameness of the two events there was a larger cycle, a larger pattern of play. I looked back and saw that by November of 2003 I had made up my mind (or was the mind making me?) that everything in my life was wrong. Wrong school. Wrong town. Wrong research. Wrong classes. Wrong house. Wrong girlfriend. Wrong, wrong, wrong.

It wasn't something new. It was a mental modus operandi that I had been practicing for some time. Didn't matter where I went, or who I met there - I thought something was wrong. Like any habit, it became ingrained in my brain just the same. So ingrained, that it took me a long time to see it, and even longer to free myself from it. I'm still working on the freeing part. But I'm loosened up from it enough in this moment to sit here and write about it with a bit of self awareness. That bit of awareness tells me this: There is no difference between the circumstances in Irvine, California back in late 2003 and the circumstances in Ann Arbor, Michigan on January, 23 2012. 

Only my thoughts about what is happening in the moment have changed, nothing more.

ebb: (verb) to flow backward or away; decline or decay
flow: (verb) to spring forth from a source; to move along in a stream   

Once upon a time I thought myself outside the flow. Flow, in this context, is that mental state of operation in which a person in an activity is fully immersed in a feeling of energized focus, full involvement, and success in the process of the activity (thanks wiki).

I'll argue that there is no special activity or goal on the horizon, no encompassing task that I must immerse myself in, to discover the flow. All that is required for the conditions of "flow" to emerge is already here, in this moment. It doesn't matter what label I attach to it - "right" or "wrong", "mundane" or "profound". 

Do I choose ebb, or do I choose flow?

It seems like as soon as I get the "me" out of the way, and as soon as I stop looking for something wrong in the moment, however subtle that search is, the flow just sort of shows up. 

And the ebb disappears, faster than a couple slices of pizza.

What we imagine is order is merely the prevailing form of chaos.
--Kerry Thornley

So, back to the point of the story, what was the unique experience I hinted at? It was a simple accident, a combination of events that forced me to face my fear. Let me back up again to the beginning of the second day in-country. There I stood with about thirty other adventure seekers on the shore of a Class 3-4 river receiving detailed safety instructions prior to our departure on a two hour ride down el Rio Toro. I’ve never whitewater rafted before and felt a little conflicted. The daredevil in me pictured rafts flying out of the water on a wave of foam and spray; the little kid at the shallow end of the pool volunteered to sit in the back of the raft just in case. The daredevil relished the spirited rafting guides and the nervous butterflies as we descended the steep gorge walls en route to the rocky waters below; the little kid was nervously checking the various straps on his life jacket. 

Our team of six rafters consisted of a young athletic bunch. Our guide Luis was a raspy, macho type that had been leading trips downriver for a decade. We spent ten minutes honing our skills under his commanding voice in a slow section of the river until a whistle was blown and the adrenaline-charged convoy of six or seven rubber rafts headed for the first stage of rapids.

The initial training immediately proved useful as we paddled and leaned in unison under Luis’ direction and navigated a sharp drop from a rock ledge at the first turn. The accomplishment managed to build our confidence for the rougher waters downstream, and that was the cycle – successfully navigate rocky section, laugh and holler in glee, self congratulate and grow more confident, proceed to next obstacle. This cycle continued unabated until Omar, an attorney from Irvine, California, our second starboard oarsmen, took an unexpected header into the drink as the raft bounced off the river bank in a narrow bend. The mood quickly turned utilitarian as training again kicked in and each team member fulfilled their particular role in re-beaching Omar. Smiles soon returned as Omar proved to be alright and again we paddled down river.

Luis began to test the crowd. “Is everybody sleeping yet?!” A genuine hardy reply to the contrary was returned. By this time we had all taken multiple, unexpected, full-body riverwater power-douches, and each of us had been tossed about sufficiently to not even consider taking our eyes off what lie ahead. After several more fits of frantic paddling and leaning and bracing for collision with rocks and bank, we entered a calm stretch of the river and welcomed a chance to rest.

All oars were raised in a ceremonial toast to our initial performance and Luis led us in a war cry “PURA VIDA!!” Pura Vida literally means “Pure Life” but Costarricenses may tell you it is closer to "full of life", "this is living!", "real living", "Awesome!" or "cool!" Luis had taken a bunch of northern neophytes and made us worthy. We were pumped! We were going to kick this river’s ass!

Yeah, right.

Just about the time we were growing complacent with our new-found, self-bestowed status as river rafting rock stars, Mother Nature was planning a surprise. Her gift to us was a big, fat rock strategically hidden in a quick stretch of river. I chose the back of the raft because the little kid at the shallow end of the pool thought it was safer. Funny. As the raft came off the preceding rock shelf, it was lined up perfectly to nose-plant into the big fat rock. None of us saw it coming and as the boat stood up on end, everyone in the back of the raft rather rudely joined everyone up front for a close inspection of the big fat rock. Three of us: Luis, my girlfriend Anocha, and I went ass-over-elbow into the drink.  

Calamity ensued. It took little time to realize that I was in the grip of something powerful and fast and indifferent to my general welfare. The river decided when I would go under and when I would surface, and its schedule of dunking me was not lining up with my schedule of gasping for air. After the second big choke of water, the little kid at the shallow end of the pool was saying it was time to panic.

Then something transformative happened. I forgot to be afraid and stopped struggling.

A few bounces off the bottom of the river reminded me that a mash head-first against the rocks was unlikely to help the situation so I turned my feet downriver like the guides had instructed. I watched the next wave arrive and waited patiently as I went underwater and then surfaced. Here I was, being thrown about out of control and yet a calm began to wash over me. No longer gasping for air, I laid back and relaxed into the flow. I went from being lost in the chaos of a bounding river, to being a part of the river. I looked up at a single cloud in a deep blue sky.

By the time the rafters still in the boat had pulled aboard the other two escapees I had drifted ahead.  People began yelling to me as they paddled to catch up. Someone reached out an oar for me to grab and I was pulled aboard. In the midst of more rapids there was little time to reflect on what had just happened. Luis asked if I was injured. A quick scan produced nothing of interest. With that, he handed me a paddle.

The kid in the shallow end of the pool had survived a fall into the deep end. He smiled as he leaned out over the edge of the raft and traded fear for something full of life.

Pura Vida.  

The mountains rise up to touch the clouds ahead of us as we ride to the international airport in San Jose. The taxi driver describes to me 'la diferencia del tiempo en los regiones': the mountains receive more precipitation than the valley where Costa Rica's largest city is situated. As I take in the view at the conclusion of the trip, this gringo is plum tuckered out. 

I haven’t felt this way – completely exhausted but really awake – for a long time. It’s like something wild in me woke up and doesn’t want to go back to sleep. I sort of forgot what it felt like. What would bring on such a feeling? There are several clues: A self-described tree hugger gets plopped down in the middle of a place that has one of the highest levels of forests per capita in the world. A country boy finds a small town where motorcycles are for rent and he’s given free access to remote pueblitos and sketchy little mountain roads.  A once-upon-a-time daredevil is sent zip-lining two kilometers down through the jungle at 40 miles per hour. A cowboy wannabe helps lead a pack of city folks on horseback down a rocky ridge. 

But to be honest, these experiences can be had by anyone with a similar penchant for the outdoors and a willingness to shuck out several hundred bucks. I can’t say for sure that any of these events would have put me in that emotional sweet spot or given me that “kid in the candy store” feeling without some added, unique stimulus, some bonus kick in the shorts. Sure enough, it came while I wasn’t looking. A little background is in order…

See, I was the kid at the shallow end of the pool when the other kids were diving into the deep end. Yep, that was me. I didn’t learn to swim until I was probably 10 or 12. I was deathly afraid of drowning. I’d play in the creek or in a flooded ditch after a heavy rain all day long without a care, but if it got so deep that I couldn’t touch bottom, adios. There were a couple near misses when I was young that reinforced the fear - once in a pond and again in a friend’s pool - but eventually I overcame the fear enough to be a functional swimmer. I was good enough to pass the swim test in Navy boot camp, but then again, that wasn’t exactly a rigorous test. Uncle Sam doesn’t want to send anybody home because they can’t swim.   

Contentment is natural wealth; luxury, artificial poverty.
--Socrates (B.C. 469-399)  

Thanks, for everything. Yep, everything. It's easy to forget to include it all. But maybe it's not as much forgetting to be thankful as it is forgetting that everything I could ever want is already here, right now. 

The following is an excerpt from a recent email between I and a friend. The subject seems to me to be related to giving thanks. It was about sustainability in general, but the focus was on consumption. What's behind our drive to consume? What's left if that is taken away? I consider ideas such as sustainability and consumption to be related to a notion that is deeper yet simple.  

 
...I understand a consumer culture is involved but is that a root cause or merely a mechanism? There are a lot of ways to approach that topic but one angle I'm interested in maybe goes a little deeper. It seems like we (Americans specifically and the developed world in general) are driven to consume at least in part by a innate sense of lack - that there's something missing in our lives that has to be filled with "stuff" or activities (think money, sex, power, fame, reckless behavior, etc.).
 
Buddhism (I'm not Buddist) and Taoism (not that either) talk pretty directly about this. So do many of the land-based theologies like Shintoism and most native/tribal cultures around the world. 

Where does that sense of lack come from? Why do we, as a society, need external things to make ourselves feel whole? One might box this as a spiritual topic, but it seems simpler and more pragmatic than that. Maybe we are losing our connection with what is already, always here - our true nature - that thing that we instinctively knew when we were little kids and just forgot about in the course of our daily lives.
 
It's a multi-dimensional topic, and maybe a little unsettling (and paradoxical) to think that the only thing that can "fill us up" is to remember that there is nothing there. Little kids (especially those given free access to the outdoors?) don't have to remember that, they haven't had time to forget yet.
 
I've met several people who have "gotten it" after something happened in their lives as a wake up; I've met others who just sort of never forgot. But I think it might be interesting to investigate the topic further.
 
"Why are we not happy with what we have?" "Why are we (me included) so afraid of not having enough money and "security"? "Why are these things, situations, accomplishments, relationships, places unsatisfying after a short period of 'happy'?" "What does 'happy' even mean?"
 
And here's a mind bender: "What motivates me if I don't have some thing, person, material goal to pursue, purchase, consume?" "What's left when those things are taken away either by design or by default?" 

A man's work is nothing but this slow trek to rediscover, through the detours of art, those two or three great and simple images in whose presence his heart first opened.
--Albert Camus

The "garage" has long been a place I'm drawn to. At a young age I learned that the garage is where many of the people I looked up to spent much of their free time. It is where they went to get greasy, to smell of gasoline and paint, to gather their instruments to perform preventive maintenance or resurrect a wide range of items: a muscle car, an antique tractor, a piece of furniture, or the random failed mechanical part from the household furnace or washing machine. 

It was a place, I learned, where it was OK to diassemble something just for the sake of seeing how it worked. It was a place where if a youngster showed interest and eagerness to fetch this or that tool and place it in an outstretched hand emerging from underneath a vehicle, he was invited back to the garage to participate in future dissections. It was a place where a youth might discover what made up the innards of mechanical things, but also a place where he might get a glimpse of his uncles, or his dad, or his grandpa in their natural setting. Out in the garage, among the various tools, he learned that this is where his elders were in the flow, engaged with the task at hand, yet more relaxed and likely to smile or even crack a joke. 

Mark Twain said, "A man who carries a cat by the tail learns something he can learn in no other way." I learned several things as a kid out in the garage by "carrying the cat by the tail". For instance, when one sets fire to a coffee can filled with gasoline and water, it is poor form to try to put out the four-feet high flames by tipping the can on its side. This spills the fiery liquid across the garage floor making the situation worse to the point that the aid of an older brother must be sought. My older brother managed to save the garage with a fire extinguisher. Unfortunately, the babysitter was not salvaged, she quit later that day. 

Maybe the attraction is part of my genetic make-up. If there is such a thing as a "wrench turner" gene, it must lie somewhere in my DNA, probably close to the "all the tools in the proper place" gene, and not too far from the "ornery" gene. But I think the environment I grew up in has something to do with it too. I was surrounded by mechanics and auto-body men, electricians and carpenters, welders and woodworkers, general handymen, each and every one. The garages I inhabited as a kid were places where art met practical, where things were brought to life or saved from the dead. Christmas gifts were sometimes born there. Many items, from toys to Toyotas, were repaired there. Familiar family possessions, many with sentimental value, were laid to rest there. I learned volumes from a handful of people in a few garages, and in many cases not a word was spoken. I wouldn't trade that for anything.

Ever since, I've found that I tend to gravitate to whatever garage, garden shed, tool shed or barn is available in the place where I live. I find myself sometimes spending a lot of time and energy trying to make those spaces resemble the ones of my childhood. It is only as I write these words that I understand my motives.

Have you ever gotten caught in the woods in a thunderstorm and stopped, giving up any notion of resistance to the moment, to savor the thick aroma of a forest just after the rain? Have you ever jumped into a mud puddle with your "good clothes" on, instead of avoiding it, just because? Have you ever fallen victim to fascination with so-called mundane things: the dance of hummingbirds, the emergent intelligence in a flock of swallows, a wisp of wind across a field of wheat that resembles a million fingers beckoning you?

In general, have you ever encountered an instance of being so beautiful, so visceral, that you were overcome with emotion? Maybe you were unable to speak, maybe you wept deeply? Where did that emotion originate? What was the source of beauty? Did it come from another person, or situation, or environment, or activity? Maybe, just maybe, in any instance of a deep sense of beauty, the beauty came not from some external entity, but from the "seeing" of the beauty. Maybe it came from you. Maybe you created it.