A Lunch Gathering

                 It turns out I am in the wrong place. The first table is for the all you can eat lunch, while the second is for the a la carte menu.  I find out a bit too late as I seat myself in the last empty space at the Spoon and Fork. I am beside strangers, and young strangers at that. Can I speak their language, I wonder? I quickly relocate to the table of my familiar colleagues and co-workers. I choose a curry vegetable dish from the menu and place my order. Meanwhile, the younger folks are using an I Pad to order their all you can eat dishes. They need food, but they don’t need servers to take their orders. Things have changed.

                As I wait for the food to come, I start to contemplate the dynamics of conversation. When I am not conversing, I am waiting to find a way to join the conversation. And sometimes I just listen.  Occasionally I even look outside the window to gaze at the passing butterfly fluttering between plants. And I see the occasional stranger. In this situation, I wonder what it is like to be able to roam freely out there, unencumbered by social engagements or group gatherings.  I note the contrast between my time, others’ time and “company lunch” time. And I see that they are very different things. I see that the two kinds of life, solitude and society, thrive on each other. Through solitude, I give myself the space to reflect on what I value deeply, and this replenishes how I see myself in relation to others. And I also start to note the details, like the way the glass of water shakes when someone is using hand gestures to make a point. Yes, even the water in a glass communicates when it needs to.

 Is there ever a moment when one is truly alone? It’s funny how when I am truly letting go into accepting solitude, unexpected things will connect with me. Water will connect with me, as will the moving sun. Everything in motion, down to the smallest fork, can tell me something and connect dynamically with me. On the other hand, if I am so anxious to be like by others, I might start to miss those invisible connections. That is why I am learning to try not to be so anxious to connect with others. But it’s not meant to be easy. It’s a process of realizing that being in solitude with others is not going to make me disappear or become a pariah to others. It might also be a chance for me to realize that people may come to like or appreciate my reserve, even when the world often pressures people to be very expressive. It is always refreshing to find someone who is simply at peace with themselves, and does not need to be propped by any gesture from others. But that is a quality that all people must have within.

I recall one story I had read in one of Master Sheng Yen’s talks, where he describes how he was in solitary retreat and yet did not feel alone. He recalls being able to detect the presence of snakes and other animals around him. This remarks leads me to believe that being lonely is not necessarily about  being physically away from other beings. I suspect that ‘feeling lonely’ is more like a special kind of longing for a memory. In that sense, the lonely person is never ‘alone’ after all, but is haunted by that memory of someone who is no longer present. With solitude, there is a state of not being haunted by memories, and not being so fettered by the past. And that solitude can be a space where spontaneous connections arise, but they still arise in mind. There is no illusion of two separate minds who are playing hide-and-seek with each other. Rather, there is a kind of equanimity about it. I am not chasing after connections but allowing spontaneous connections to arise from the situation itself.

One of the skills I am trying to learn is that sweet spot between anxiously struggling to ‘say anything’ to be connected, and withdrawing from the conversation altogether. They are like the twin poles of ‘being’ and ‘non-being’. A desire to ‘be’ is that struggle to grasp others for approval and to feel that I belong ‘with’ a group. And that seems to involve trying to create a pleasant memory and then grasping that memory as though it were a precious jewel. At the other extreme is the safety of shutting down when the anxiety to connect is too great. This is almost like the desire for annihilation, for ‘rest’ from being with others, and for the end of anxiety altogether. The true middle way is finding that I can be accepting of myself even when I am not connecting in ways that I desire. In accepting myself, I might also see that I can still contribute socially without having to generate a special feeling about the situation. I can put down the self a little in those situations and accept the anxiety of potentially not finding acceptance.