Unfortunately, permanent joy isn’t part of our lives, while passing pleasure is something we are used to – a dependable feature of our human state. When some sensory experience promises to please us, we cannot think of anything else or imagine there could be anything higher. We get into a fever of longing until we get whatever it is that we want. Only then does it turn out to be not so important after all. I remember a line from James Thurber that captures this perfectly, something about “peach ice cream not tasting as peachy as it used to.”
It is human nature to go after passing sensory gratification. We want it, and want it, and want it . . . until we get it. Then we are likely to find that it isn’t as peachy as it used to be, and it is already gone. Yet we always think the next time it will be peachier.
At the outset, when something pleasant comes our way, we say to ourselves, “What could be more satisfying than this? What could be sweeter?” We do not know that in the long run this sweetness can turn bitter. What is beneficial, on the other hand, may be bitter at the outset – a fitness program, for example, or a low-fat diet. But after a while, as we begin to enjoy the benefits, we see that what seemed bitter is truly sweet, for it brings the happiness we wanted all along.
In San Francisco, when Christine and I had business to do in one of those massive old office buildings from the thirties, I was introduced to another marvel of American technology: the revolving door. This particular building had a big, heavy glass door that carried a lot of momentum, and once I got in I couldn’t get out. Every time I neared an opening, the door would slap up behind me and push me past; and the harder I pushed to get around to try again, the faster I was pushed around. I thought I was going to be trapped there permanently. That is the feeling: you just can’t stop; you have to keep going round and round.
Seeing I was in trouble, Christine called out, “All you have to do is stop.”
I stopped, the door stopped, and I was free.
That is what happens when the senses get out of control. The revolving door keeps hitting us from behind – slap, slap, slap, slap! – and we keep running faster and faster, not realizing that the faster we go, the more we will be urged to go even faster. In order to get out of the trap, we have to slow down the thinking process so as to get control of it, then begin to change our likes and dislikes so we can get free.
I think it is Oscar Wilde who says, “I can resist everything except temptation.” When a friend is yielding to a sensory craving that is going to harm him, it is easy for us to see how easily he could overcome it. “Jonathan,” we say, “why don’t you just step out of the revolving door? Turn your back on the temptation. Just say no.” Only when such things happen to us do we experience how difficult it is to go against a conditioned craving. We need to allow ourselves a wide margin for mistakes while learning to resist old, rigid habits – and to allow our parents, our partner, our children, our friends, and even our enemies an even wider margin for the mistakes they make, too.
I am talking here about what G. K. Chesterton called “tremendous trifles.” It is my experience that most of our temptations don’t come in titanic proportions; usually they are little, little trifles. There is some drama in fighting a great temptation, where the whole world is watching as if its fate depended upon whether we win or lose. The real challenge is to resist puny cravings that nibble at us like mice. While we are looking toward the left, one mouse takes a nibble from the right; when we turn to the right, we feel a nibble on our left. We can’t even take these nibbles seriously – until we find that we’ve had a third helping of dessert or an extra drink for the road. Life consists of trifles, Chesterton says, and how we deal with them is the substance of our lives.
Remembering how quickly time passes adds meaning to every moment.
The Buddha called life a sea because the sea is moving constantly. All the world’s great religions remind us that we are sailing on an ocean of impermanence. Every experience is transient. Even this body, with which we identify ourselves, changes from day to day. This body of mine is not the same as it was last year. And what about the mind? In the language of Buddhism, the mind is a process, changing all the time. It is a succession of desires. If we satisfy one desire, another will follow; if we satisfy that, a third will come. No experience can bring permanent satisfaction because there is a limitless series of desires, one behind another, in the vast sea of consciousness.
In this world of change, the Buddha reminds us, time is passing very, very quickly. It is not a negative reminder. To remember this truth does not take away from the joy of life; it adds meaning to every moment.
Some time ago Christine and I took a group of children to Ghirardelli Square in San Francisco. It was summer and the city was crowded with tourists, so it took a long time even to find a place to park. For a moment I even wondered if we should have gone elsewhere. But I had only to look at the children. To them the crowd was part of the attraction, and they could hardly wait to get out of the car and join in.
We wandered through Ghirardelli for a while just looking into the shops, enjoying the mimes and jugglers, and counting the different languages we heard around us. Distractions and color and noise and confusion reigned. The children were in heaven. While they explored the sights, Christine and I found a bench a little to the side and from there simply watched the crowd.
Eventually we joined the long line in front of the old Ghirardelli Chocolate Factory, which we found crowded with pilgrims in search of the perfect chocolate. If it’s available anywhere in the world, it must be available in Ghirardelli Square, and people from as far away as Munich and Tokyo were there to enjoy it. I was watching the crowd and looking around to see what was the great favorite of the day. Almost everyone was paying their respects to the hot fudge sundae, so we ordered hot fudge sundaes for the children too. Christine and I shared ours with one of the youngest – which meant that we didn’t get the cherry, we didn’t get the chocolate, we got only spoonfuls of what ice cream was left melted in the bowl. We didn’t mind; we were there to enjoy the enjoyment of the children.
At several tables, I saw people actually photographing their chocolate confections. This was something I had never seen. They were like patrons in front of a painting at the museum, or like pilgrims at a temple; there was the same worshipful glow in their eyes. The person with the camera would direct people as if he were on a Hollywood set, trying to get everything just right, from the arrangement of the napkins to the big red cherry on top. But the curious part was that after the pictures had been taken, they were too speeded-up to pay much attention to their sundaes. They kept talking about the next attraction: Golden Gate Park, Pier 39, the ferry ride on the bay.
I’m sure we sat at our table much longer than anyone else, but the management didn’t seem to mind. We did not want to hurry. We felt no need to rush to be anywhere else. We had everything we wanted right there.
Ideas and Suggestions
When you find yourself daydreaming – for example, anticipating some special event – bring your full attention back to the present. When the event arrives, focus on it completely. If you find yourself dwelling on it afterwards, bring your mind back to the present again. You’re teaching your mind to enjoy without grasping – and to be present here and now.
Go on a leisurely outing with family or friends, doing what they like, enjoying their enjoyment.
To practice patience, listen to a friend with concentration even if you find the topic boring.
Observe your day to see if media exposure is adding to your impatience or diminishing your peace of mind. One way to bring more peace into your life is to avoid agitating movies, programs, and music.
CHAPTER 6
Time for Relationships
We all need personal relationships if we want to function beautifully in life’s ups and downs.
Years ago, when automation was still new to me, I went to San Francisco with a friend. On the way
, she stopped at her bank for cash. “It will take only a minute,” she assured me.
I thought this unlikely, especially because we didn’t even enter the bank but joined a queue in front. There was a machine there but nobody to take care of her transaction. Curious, I approached the man in front of us to watch what he was doing.
My friend got an apprehensive look on her face and whispered hurriedly, “Let’s not stand so close. He’s using his secret code, and he won’t want us to see it.”
That was my first encounter with automatic tellers. I must say it was convenient to get the transaction done in two or three minutes. But I couldn’t help but feel sorry that this was one more small incident where technology has replaced the human presence, where being in a hurry has eliminated any time for human interaction. Even the sparse human contact that used to exist between teller and customer has been broken.
Whether it is the little exchanges between a bank teller and a customer or the fundamental relationships that shape our lives – our ties to partner, parents, children, friends, and co-workers – human bonds are becoming more and more tenuous in today’s world. Partly this is because we simply do not take time for human companionship. Personal relationships cannot be left to chance, especially in a speeded-up world. But even in the midst of distractions and stress, we can learn to shape our relationships if we are willing to take the time to do so.
If we have been slowing down the pace of our life, practicing one-pointed attention, and loosening our likes and dislikes, we should begin to see the benefit of these new patterns in all our relationships. For these are some of the tools that can help us make for ourselves a personal world rich in companionship.
The real essentials of life – compassion, kindness, good will, forgiveness – are what is fundamental to living as a true human being.
In order to re-create a world of personal connections, it is important first to understand just how impersonal the lives of most people have become. We are used to hearing “modern progress” affirmed categorically. It is helpful to remember that although we have made important advances in certain fields, we have regressed in other areas that are essential to our humanity. Where certain crucial human virtues are concerned, we lag far behind our ancestors.
Autotellers, telephones, fax machines, and computers are unquestionably useful, but they are not fundamental. The real essentials of life are compassion, kindness, good will, and forgiveness. It is qualities like these that are fundamental to living as a true human being – and that is where our age lacks a great deal.
There is a place for mechanization; there is even a place for automation. But our modern way of life touts mechanization for the sake of the machine and automation for the sake of automation, and everything for the sake of speed. I see everywhere the rapid advance of these forces that strike at our humanity, corrode our sympathy, and make us almost like machines ourselves in a world of machines.
Relationships can be beautiful – if we take time to nourish them.
I am in a special position to illustrate both sides – the human versus the mechanized, the loving versus the hurried – because I come from a world where life was rich in personal relationships, from the richest person to the poorest, the most educated to the most illiterate.
I am not idealizing India. India has many problems. But there is a bright side too, and part of it is this richness of personal relationships.
I grew up supported by intimate relationships. In my ancestral family, which is matrilineal, the day-to-day influences on my early life came from the women, and particularly, of course, from my grandmother and mother. The three of us were always together. I spent every day with them and never grew tired of their company.
When I was in high school we had an hour’s break for lunch, and the school was about a mile away from my home. Many students used to bring their lunch, but not me; I had to have my meal with my granny and my mother. As soon as the bell rang I would run all the way along the paths through the rice fields, working up a big appetite. When I reached home my lunch would be ready, timed perfectly. My granny would sit on one side and my mother would sit on the other, and there was nowhere else in the world I would rather have been. Nothing was allowed to interfere with this time spent with my family.
It was the same story in the evening. I always wanted to go right home after my soccer game because I knew my granny and my mother would be waiting for me, wanting to hear all about my school day and the game. I related every detail because they were interested in everything. Every friend of mine at school was known to them by name; every play I had made on the soccer field was replayed for them.
This is how my grandmother and my mother laid the foundations of security in my heart. I knew that I came first with them, every day, always, and it gave me a confidence that has withstood every storm life has brought me.
It is not that my grandmother spoiled me. She was a terribly tough teacher. I was not allowed to get away with anything. But she would always stand by me. She pointed out my faults, which were many, and she never connived at what I was doing if she disapproved. Yet under no circumstances would she undermine my faith in myself. This kind of spiritual teaching is a great art, and she was a master of it.
When I was ready to leave for college, she didn’t try to dictate my career or influence my course of studies. In India it is common for older people to give strong advice to younger people, and several of my uncles told me in no uncertain language that I should pursue a course in engineering. My grandmother told me simply, “Follow your own star.” She didn’t try to tie me to her. She said, “All your mother and I want is that you go out into the world and make us proud that we gave birth to you.”
I know that circumstances today in our modern way of life are very different from those that surrounded me as a boy in my village. Yet some things are universal. I believe that our relationships with our children, like all our relationships, can be beautiful, though it takes a lot of time and patience. This is what my mother and my grandmother taught me by their way of life.
This simple truth is ignored in our speeded-up world. While appreciating the technological advantages of our modern civilization, let us take time for relationships and cultivate – and help our children to cultivate – the timeless values and fundamental virtues that make us human.
It is through personal relationships that we learn to function beautifully in life throughout its ups and downs.
We all need the little human contacts of life, and we all need intimate personal relationships with family or friends. I am aware that many people today do not live with a family, but that is not the issue. Whether we live alone, with family, or with friends, we can cultivate daily personal relationships. This is precisely where our modern way of life fails us, because it deprives us of the time and the opportunities we need to sustain these relationships.
We can cultivate personal relationships everywhere, in everything, every day. I like to have a relationship with each person in my life, even the bank teller and the mail carrier. When I first took up residence in Berkeley, I developed a friendship with the postman. In those days – it seems hard to believe if you don’t remember – mail was delivered twice a day. I used to get many letters from family and friends, and after a while their delivery became a personal affair. “Hey,” the carrier would say, “there’s a letter for you from India today!”
I would tell him, “That’s from my mother,” or “That’s from Meera’s mother,” or “That’s from one of my students.” He learned all about my family and told me all about his. Soon we had a personal bond. He was not just delivering letters; he was bringing me messages as a friend.
On those special occasions when I would receive a package, I would say, “Wait a minute, and I’ll show you what this is.” I’d open the package and even share the contents with him if it happened to contain something I could share.
We can reverse the ten
dency of our civilization to impersonalize everything by making an effort every day to see other people as people, not objects. I’m sometimes asked, “What does it matter whether you have personal relationships at the bank? It’s simply a business transaction, and the quicker it can be conducted, the better.” But these transactions do not have to be impersonal. When I was still new to this country I went to a small bank where I could get to know the people who worked there. I was interested in them, so they became interested in me. After a while, when I entered, it was not as an anonymous customer. I would greet them with a smile and they would ask me what news I had from home. I used to spend a few minutes chatting with the people there and got to know them rather well.
Things didn’t begin that way. On my first day there I made out a check in the Indian style, writing the word “Self” where it says “Pay to the order of.” The teller had never seen a check like that, and she turned to the others as if I didn’t exist and said, “This guy doesn’t know how to write a check.”
I laughed along with everyone else. Then she came to hand me the money and gave me quite a bit more than I was entitled to. I said to her, “This is a good bank. Here is a customer who doesn’t know how to write a check and a teller who doesn’t know how to count the money!” She laughed, a little embarrassed, and after that we were friends.
All this banter makes for relaxation. Even now, despite the convenience, I never deal with autotellers. I like to talk to a human being. These are not just financial transactions. They are human relationships in which trust and concern for each other can grow.
Take Your Time Page 9