The Price of Fame

I find it interesting, in retrospect, that two of the books I am teaching--George Selden's Cricket in Times Square and E.B. White's Trumpet of the Swan--are both somehow related to themes of fame. Animal characters in both stories become surprisingly talented enough to play musical instruments and become inducted into the human world through those means. Such kinds of stories are interesting on many levels. One is perhaps to show that there is no clear dividing line between animal and human: animals have many strengths and abilities which, though unrecognized in the human world, do have some human equivalents. The second is more educative: to show the ups and downs of fame, as well as illustrate how sensible the animal characters are in detecting that fame is "unnatural" and not what it's cracked up to be. Rather than letting their fame and success get the better of them, these characters opt to retire into country life, just when they reach the "peak" of their fame and success.
    Are there teachable moments in both books--ways, that is, to connect young learners with the lessons of fame and success? I can think of several examples, but perhaps one is to show that having an ability or talent doesn't necessarily mean always taking every opportunity to reap its rewards. It takes a certain amount of courage to say no to taking advantage of one's fame or popularity. Leaving a successful career "at one's peak" may not be a sign of weakness, but more so the mark of a person who is conscious and decides not to fall into the temptations of fame and success.  The second aspect is how both stories stress the "unnatural" aspect of fame. Chester in Cricket in Times Square feels a longing to go back to the country and retire into country life when he sees the signs of September in New York. Louis in Trumpet of the Swan longs for the solitude of family, similar to his parents who raised him in a marshy area. Both stories revolve around becoming successful, only to abandon the machinery of success during its peak time. Success, contrary to "natural life", is portrayed as regimented, repetitive and always demanding more of the protagonists' time and resources. Success (and its related fame) literally exhausts the main character.
   Children might be taught, when very young, to think about their successes as relative to community, rather than as the mark of personal distinction. For example, if I have a talent for science or building things, does this mean I always should use it, especially if that talent compromises the community or creates more mischief than good. If fame takes a person out of their "moments" or their ability to create spontaneous connection with others, is that fame a benefit or a detriment to the person? Although most people don't realistically achieve fame in their lifetime, the equivalent might be to reflect on who we live for, and who we imagine we are achieving success for. Children can, through these books and their enjoyable characters, reflect early on their own sense of values in life.

The Fox and Mosquitoes

Tonight, I had a power outage in my area, due to an accident close to Yonge and Steeles. I experienced a bit of a irritation, to feel that my pattern of the evening was slightly disrupted, but at the same time, things weren't going well as I had planned anyway. I was having difficulties updating my online ethics protocol for my thesis project---so when this happened, it was like the universe telling me to stop trying to fix it and get out of the house. Where that took me was, first, to the place where I might find fuel for my computer and for my belly: namely, the local Starbucks, which happened to close just as I arrived there. My second option was to simply feed the mosquitoes and go to Lilian Park. I had no choice but the latter.
  On the way to the park, I stumbled upon an unexpected friend: a red fox! And I must admit, I have not seen any such animal casually prancing around the park, the way I had done this time. While I felt bad for the fox, I didn't feel bad for the swarm of mosquitoes around me, who seemed to have a field day feeding on my skin and blood. They did this while I tried to figure out the ethics protocol issue using the data on my cellphone. It was then that I discovered that I was able to do revisions through my cellphone.
   When I arrived home, the power had been restored. I wonder, would the same be said for the hungry fox, who seemed powerless against the humans outside who were trying to take selfies with it? I appreciate that I have a home to return to, but the fox didn't seem quite at home, at least not as much as the mosquitoes and flies were.
   Life sometimes asks that I leave the familiar, and even to stand under the sky naked, without the familiar distractions of words, projects, timetables and books. Well, being naked (or lacking the familiar) always feels discomforting, but there are these reminders that many beings make their homes on the edges, and manage to survive somehow. The food they eat is adventure. I know that sounds ridiculous to say to a fox, but when I say "adventure",  I do mean the traditional meaning of "to venture", to set forth, or to initiate things that have no beginnings or endings. A fox knows that it belongs nowhere, but does someone with a brief power outage have such self-knowledge?

Grateful for Bothersome Things?

 Can we be grateful for things that challenge our comfort zones and "bother us"? I am hesitant here to use the word "grateful", for fear that it entails a forced sense of joy. I think gratitude might be used to mean a sense of seeing meaning in bothersome things rather than going to a place of dislike/like. If I can see pain as meaningful in some ways, I am already close to opening up to it in some way. But that also means being open to the complex emotions I might feel in that space of meaning: neither total like nor dislike, nor total openness or closedness. In the space of meeting that "thing", whatever bothers us, there is actually a transcending of halves and binaries.
  The problem is that this experience I am edging toward has no opposites, so there is no language to really describe it. Language can render some of this irritable contact "comprehensible", but language also obscures the rawness of that contact. It fails to capture the vulnerability of being with others. Even when I use the word "bothersome", I am entailing a kind of stance toward it--a contracting back or inward--and this obscures the pain of vulnerability to the other. The mind seems to be beyond these binaries. Perhaps this is where bothersome can become thankful, because anything that awakens one to the wholeness of mind is surely of benefit.

The Value of Repentance

I have been reflecting on repentance: what is its true value? One that I can think of is that it promotes a total responsibility for all that has come about in life. But repentance is not easy. For instance, I might superficially accept the things that have happened to me as coming from my previous karma, but that acceptance is only half-heartedly so, or perhaps even begrudging. If I am resigned in my attitude toward my present life, how can that really be "repentance' in any sense of the word? I think to really repent requires a deep appreciation that this life perfectly matches/meshes with one's previous karma, and can be a powerful way to learn from it.
  For example, if I think of karma as a punishment, my attitude will be that of a helpless person who is angry or resentful. I carry the sense that someone else is deliberately trying to punish me. On the other hand, if I think of karma as the inevitable result of causes and conditions that never fail, I can take a much more curious, even scientific approach to it. Knowing that this karma is a "natural" result of previous actions, what can I do differently? Or, what can I really learn and reflect based on what's given to me now? If I am not in tune with this idea, I will naturally feel a kind of begrudging sense that some being (a parental figure or deity perhaps) has deliberately put me in this situation. In reality, the situation is none other than the result of many past conditions.
  I have influence in terms of my attitude: not seeing this in a resigned way, but seeing it from the perspective of an explorer: what new things can I learn from this situation ? How might I develop more flexible strategies? What do I need to let go of? It's important, at least from my point of view, to explore the idea of karma as a kind of learning, rather than as a strict punishment that is designed to make a person feel bad.

Vivacity and Restraint

 Looking at L.M Montgomery's Anne of Green Gables, as an adult reader, I relate more to the adult characters (such as Marilla and Matthew) than to Anne herself. I am pretty sure that things would have been different had I read this book as a pre-teen or as a teenager. The exuberance of Anne, at one point, leads Marilla to realize the depth of her love for Anne, only to then restrain herself again with the injunction to "not show her feelings", much less encourage Anne to show hers. And, of course, I begin to see a change in Anne herself as the novel progresses, and she herself loses her appetite to talk voraciously as she matures. This perhaps leads me to wonder whether many, if not most, children lose that natural vivacity to talk or to volubly express their thoughts, in the name of "maturity". (And then comes the deeper question of what maturity is, and what cultural factors shape one's understanding of its meaning and direction).
  One of the clues, perhaps, comes at the beginning of the novel, when Anne describes how it's better not to get too close to things we love if we know that they are going to leave us (I am paraphrasing, here). This is the same plain that I heard when I read Freud's accounts of melancholy: the idea that beautiful things scare people, and cause them to back away, because loving something too much might lead to a huge mourning that cannot be surmounted. To put it in another way, perhaps the hidden shadow of restraint is a lack of restraint, just as coldness and rigidity might be hiding a warmth that is afraid to lose.
   In any case, the mourning I feel the most in this novel is Anne's eventual socialization into the competitive world, starting with rivalry with other students for the top grades, and continuing into her journey as a teacher. But at the same time, the process does shape Anne's character, and allows her a sense of purpose that her vivacity would have denied her. Too much vivacity and romanticism,without restraint, can lead to all kinds of dead ends, which are recounted humorously throughout the book. Eventually Anne (and Marilla, for that matter) find a balance in all of this, as their souls begin to connect as mother and daughters do.

The Belief in a Benevolent Universe

 I have been thinking recently about the difference between my early spiritual ideas about providence, fate, and the hand of "God/gods", and my more recently learned ideas about karma. I realize that when I was in my early twenties, the idea of having a benevolent caregiver in the universe was not only a idea that I fancied as being "spiritual", but seemed necessary as well. This is because, being young and not having established myself anywhere, I needed to create some kind of optimism or hope for the future. Interestingly, I do believe that when I nourished that confidence and faith, people around me would come to me with the same confidence and nurturing qualities. I think this is because we invite the very things we believe and nurture in our minds.
   Now that I am older, I find that I seem to lean less on the idea of universal benevolence. I seem to recognize that nothing in life is totally enduring and everything will inevitably have its ups and downs. Although I still reassure myself that things will be "ok", I no longer feel the need to trust in the permanence of okay-ness. Sometimes things will be okay, while other times they may be not okay I think I am saying that I no longer feel that I need to rely on a permanent source of benevolence to get on in life.
   I wonder if this means that I have taken a step "back" from spiritual life...or might it mean a step forward? Have I perhaps become cold to the kinds of things that might require more warmth from me? Perhaps what I am really driving at is that I have more tolerance for the impermanence of life than before, and I am willing to suspend thoughts altogether, without having to control things to make them seem favorable to me. Perhaps this comes from a deeper confidence that life does not have to go as per any plan, and from equanimity.

What One Can Provide

 According to the bodhisattva path, one must aim to "deliver all sentient beings". But I have found that in this kind of lofty goal, I have often found myself overstepping my means--that is, not having the wisdom or resources to be of help when it is needed. I wonder if trying to be of help can also be a kind of self-attachment, meaning that we have an idea of what being helpful might look like, and then try to impose it on others. Similarly, even at work, wanting to be everything to everyone turns out to be an impossible goal, and it would be perhaps the height of self-attachment to think that one could embody that goal. Could some of the process of becoming a bodhisattva consist in realizing the impossibility of helping all beings? And could that impossibility be the road to no-self?

 In Christian tradition, Paul Tillich uses a similar idea that humans are born eternally and irrevocably guilty. Humans owe immeasurable things to their creators and supporting beings, yet have no way of paying back the dividends. In reaching the point of impossibility--after genuinely trying to embody it--one has an opportunity to drop the self altogether. This is because all those efforts to vainly cover and help all sentient beings proved to be an utter delusion, so much so that one  is in a corner and all they can do is drop the illusory "giving" self that they had harbored for so long.

 In The Man Who Died, D.H. Lawrence talks about a Christ figure who decides, after his resurrection, to abandon the life of a savior, perhaps realizing the futility of trying to save all. I take this as an allegory for the exhaustion of the self, and the realization that the goal was to lose the self altogether, rather than harbor a sacrificial self.