Self Inflicted Joy

Reader beware: in the interests of accurate reporting, this post contains strong language.

The first real snowfall of winter came yesterday: a three-inch deposit of fat, soggy flakes that turned my street into a Norman Rockwell Christmas card.

We Canadians, at least those of us who don’t live around Vancouver, have to cope with a great deal of winter. As a result, we tend to classify things like snow and ice. When I was a kid, I would have described the white blanket covering my lawn as snowman snow. Yesterday, as I trudged to the back shed for the snow shovel, I thought of it as heart-attack snow. Pace yourself, Bren, I told myself as I inserted the edge of the shovel into the blank white expanse where the front walk used to be. Beneath the snow, lurked a thin treacherous layer of hip-breaking ice. Be careful, Bren, I told myself and added rock salt to my mental shopping list. This turned out to be a mistake, but that’s further on in the story.

Since reading Buddha’s biography, I’ve been thinking about the philosophy of the middle way. Not as a path to enlightenment, I have no ambitions in that arena, but as way of coping with life in general. Snow shoveling, for example, has always seemed like a cold, thankless chore, one to be pushed through as quickly as possible. Yesterday, unwilling to push too quickly and risk cardiac arrest, I tried an experiment. Every time I stopped shoveling, I tucked my hands into the sleeves of my ski jacket and looked around for something to appreciate about the situation.

Shovel, shovel, tuck. The snow on the crabapple tree looks pretty.

Shovel, shovel, tuck. Great. The snowplows are out.

Shovel, shovel, tuck. Are those deer tracks on the front lawn? Cool.

Shovel, shovel, tuck.  I love the smell of snow. It’s so clean and empty.

Shovel, shovel, tuck. Why is that bird hanging upside down? Oh. It’s a chickadee.

Shovel, shov… Hey! I’m done!

The experiment worked so well, I continued it during the day.

It was a slow morning at the library. I get sleepy when I’m bored and rely on a quart of kick-your-butt coffee from the library café to maintain consciousness. Yesterday, the café was closed. I felt pretty grumpy and hard-done-by until Barb came around taking orders for a coffee run to the McDonalds two blocks up the street. To break the monotony, I bundled up and joined her in what turned out to be a coffee slip-and-slide, since the downtown sidewalks were coated in more of that hip-breaking ice. We came back, distributed cooling paper cups of coffee to the other library employees, and I spent the rest of my shift in the warm, caffeinated glow of their appreciation.

I got off at one and went food shopping because I had a hankering for corn fritters, which require corn. Entering a supermarket with an empty stomach is never a good idea, and especially not when Christmas goodies are on sale at fifty percent off. I finished shopping and slip-slid to the bus stop with forty pounds of groceries pulling my shoulders out of their sockets, wishing that my mittens weren’t in the pockets of my other coat and that I had remembered put on an extra pair of socks.

When I arrived at the bus stop, I stood in line behind an attractive young woman and listened to her converse with someone on her cell phone. (It’s not eavesdropping when the person standing three feet away from you is practically shouting.)

 “I mean, you’re all like ‘I love you,’ and ‘I want you to have my babies,’ but when you see Amanda’s profile picture on Facebook, you’re like, ‘Wow, your friend is hot.’ Like how am I supposed to take that?” On the other end of the phone, her boyfriend must have dug himself a deeper hole, because she replied, “You’re an asshole, you know that?” and snapped the phone shut.

Now there were two things I really liked about this slice-of-life conversation:

1)   It wasn’t me having it. I’ve had my share of conversations like that one, the forks in the road of every romantic journey, when the myth of being the one-and-only crosses the grass-is-greener attraction of unconquered territory. One of the many advantages of reduced estrogen levels is that I no longer feel the need to be a one-and-only. Which is just as well, given the esthetic side-effects of estrogen deficiency.

2)   It made me forget about my shoulders, fingers and toes.

The bus came. I climbed aboard, gratefully slung my shopping bags onto the seat beside me, and blocked out the discomfort of returning circulation by listening to the young woman, who sat behind me and called a girlfriend to discuss whether or not she should dump the asshole. When the bus pulled up at my street, I slipped-and-slid to my front walk, where I realized that in my frenzied need to acquire corn and cookies and liverwurst and fruitcake and eggnog, I’d forgotten about the rock salt.  

An image of myself—lying on my front walk, pelvis shattered, writhing in agony—rose up in my mind. You should have written it down, Bren, I castigated myself. You can’t rely on your memory any more. Then it occurred to me, I’d been slipping and sliding around town all day without giving a moment’s consideration to the integrity of my pelvic bones. Now was not the time to start. Giggling, I slipped-and-slid the last twenty feet to my front door.

By any realistic assessment, most of what actually happened to me yesterday would fall under the headings of inconvenient, annoying or uncomfortable. Yet that evening, when I poured a shot of whiskey into my eggnog, sank into my easy chair, and picked up my knitting, I felt really, really happy. I can’t be sure about this, but I think it’s because I made an effort to notice good stuff, and there was enough of it to balance out the crappy stuff.  

So here’s what I’m wondering. If suffering can be self-inflicted, why not joy?

Smart Until Proven Stupid

One morning last week, I opened an email from my publisher, requesting I put a link to iBookstore on my website. There were two attachments. The one labeled Marketing Guide turned out to be instructions and restrictions for placing the oversized iBook logo on my website. The other attachment, Affiliate Program Overview, was a one paragraph sales pitch for something called Linkshare and a bunch of frequently asked questions that seemed to assume I already knew what Linkshare was.

I didn't, so I followed the link in the document and discovered I’d actually have to sign up before I found out what I’d signed up for. Now I didn’t fall off the turnip truck yesterday, and normally, when I encounter this sort of vague teaser and a request for membership, I blow it off as a scam. But it came from my publisher, so I worked my way through the signup process, until I hit the terms and conditions, screens and screens of legalese so dense it would take a team of IP lawyers to detangle it. Overwhelmed and confused, I closed the browser window without signing up.

Later that day, a well-groomed woman, just past a-certain-age and wearing a seasonally appropriate sweater featuring jingle bells, approached the internet stations at the library, with the timid, apologetic smile I’ve come to associate with the compu-phobic.

“Can I help you?” I asked, although I was almost certain I couldn’t. Most of my technology-challenged clients give up long before we’ve mastered Mousing 101.

“It’s my Excel homework. I just don’t get it.”

Excel homework! Well, I might be able to help her after all. “I’ll be happy to help if I can. Tell me about your homework.”

She plopped a large, embroidered canvas bag on my desk and extracted a folded piece of paper. The page had been crumpled, then smoothed out again before being folded. Clearly, this assignment had caused considerable frustration. Hoping her homework didn’t require the beta probability density function, or some equally obscure feature of Excel I’m clueless about, I smoothed out the paper to look it over while she chattered on nervously about how she’d never been good at math in school and this was her first Excel assignment and it was due tomorrow… I held up my hand to stop her talking so I could read the assignment, which turned out to be a standard beginners “budget” problem, listing amounts for rent, utilities and food over January and February. The instructions said to find the average cost per month for each item without using any functions.

“It seems straightforward,” I told her when I finish reading. “I can help you, but it would probably be better to discuss this with your instructor.”

She looked down at her lap, her expression halfway between mutinous and embarrassed. “I don’t want to talk to him.” Given her age and proportions, it seemed unlikely her instructor had hit on her. Still, I’d never met the man, and you never know what jingles someone’s bells even when you have met them.

I turned over the paper and handed her a pen. ““Okay, let’s take a look at this. What have you figured out so far?”

She drew a three column table, wrote the months across the top, the item names in the leftmost column and filled in the amounts. She sighed heavily. “I just can’t figure out where to put the equal sign.”

At this point, I realized we were embarking on a steeper learning curve than I’d originally anticipated. It was a slow day at the library, the book I’d picked up to read was boring, and although I probably couldn’t get her to the end of the assignment, I might be able to put her feet on the path. “Let’s break it down,” I said and began her initiation into the mysteries of Excel.

We got as far as referencing a cell by its coordinates before I had to break off for a few minutes to help someone change their profile picture on Facebook. When I came back to my desk, I was surprised to see she had not only figured out where to put the equal sign, she had finished the assignment. She’d used ‘x’ to indicate multiplication instead of an asterisk, and an old fashioned division sign “÷” instead of a forward slash, but she was obviously quite clear on the concept.

After showing her the correct symbols for multiplication and division, my curiosity got the better of me and I asked her why she didn’t want to talk to her instructor. Without uttering one even remotely derogatory word, she left me with the impression her class was being taught by one of those nasty teachers who make themselves feel smart by making their students feel stupid. He basically treated her as though she was stupid, and if she bought into it, her reluctance to be denigrated was going to make it a self-fulfilling prophesy.

The world is a complex place. No one can be an expert at everything. That doesn’t make us stupid, and it doesn’t give anyone else the right to treat us as though we are because they know something we don’t. It just means we have to choose what’s important for us to understand and what isn’t worth the effort.

I went home after my shift and took another look at the Linkshare documents and contract. With its pompous assumption I’d love to affiliate myself with something it hadn’t bothered to explain and its obscure technical language, Linkshare failed the worth-the-effort test. I binned it.

Did I foolishly throw away the opportunity of a lifetime? Time will tell. Until then, I prefer to think of myself as smart until proven stupid.

Mrs. Buddha

Of all the spiritual philosophies I have explored, I always liked the gentle, moderate teachings of Buddhism the best. Wow, I thought the first time I encountered the eightfold path, that Buddha must have been a really nice guy. Wish I could find a boyfriend like him.

So last week at the library, when I ran across a biography of Siddhartha Guatama, the most recent incarnation of the Buddha, I picked it up. I didn’t expect much in terms of factual detail, since the biography was a modern interpretation of a 500 year-old text based on a 2,400 year-old text written 100 years after Siddhartha Guatama died by a committee of religious fanatics in a language that hasn’t existed for over 1,000 years. I just hoped for a glimpse of my perfect man.

Boy, were my eyes opened! Turns out the Buddha wasn’t very nice at all. Actually, he was the kind of guy you’d cross the street to avoid.

Sid was born into a wealthy family and lived his first three decades in what passed for the lap of luxury 2,500 years ago in what is now northern India.  But he wasn’t the kind of person who could enjoy good fortune. He complained about his “petty” and “pointless” domestic responsibilities (he named his son “Fetter”)  and yearned for a simpler way of being as “complete and pure as a polished shell”.

Well, who hasn’t been there? I estimate over two-thirds of my waking life has been devoted to the mundane drudgery of earning a living and maintaining personal and domestic hygiene. But I can’t really sympathize with Sid on this one, because he had servants who did most of this stuff for him, which makes him seem more like a spoiled brat than a great spiritual teacher.

Sid’s overprotective dad certainly deserved some of the blame for his whiney son. Not wishing the boy to experience ugliness, he hired a troop of guardians to ensure Sid lived in constantly beautiful surroundings. As a result, Sid was twenty-nine before he saw his first old person. It was a terrible shock to him.

Now this one I can sympathize with. I see an old person every morning and I still flinch when she appears in the bathroom mirror.

Sid went home, looked at his wife and newborn son, and experienced unbearable suffering when he realized that one day they too would grow old, get sick, and die. To avoid the pain brought on by this existential epiphany, he abandoned his family to become an itinerant monk. Or, to put it another way, he gave up his luxurious home, beautiful wife, and healthy child to wear inadequate clothing, sleep in ditches and beg for food, thereby adding whole new layers of discomfort and guilt to his suffering.

Big mistake, Sid, I muttered as I stopped reading to nuke dinner. I began to question his intelligence and nearly skipped a few chapters, since I had already figured out what would happen next, and clearly Nirvana was not imminent. But it was like watching a train wreck, I just couldn’t stop reading.

He wandered homeless for many years, hooking up with various spiritual gurus who taught him yoga and told him his suffering was the result of being too attached to the material world. To prove them wrong, Sid fled to the forest, where he abstained from human companionship, clothing, personal hygiene, food, and water. (He did some other strange stuff, but I’m not going to tell you about it, because this is the holiday season, and I don’t want you tossing your Christmas cookies.) Naturally, he became desperately ill, which resulted in even more suffering. Apparently, he tried to give up breathing as well, but failed.

Well that’s too bad, Sid, I said as I tossed the book into my tote bag to take back to the library, because your death by asphyxiation would have ended the suffering for both of us. But the next day, I realized I hadn’t got to the part of the story where Sid attained enlightenment yet. Certain there had to be a happy ending, I started reading again.

As Sid’s earthly feet took their last wobbly steps towards death’s door, a glimmer of reason finally penetrated the fog of misery he’d been lost in for his entire life. He realized suffering was unavoidable.

Seriously Sid?!? I shouted as I threw the book at the wall. Because the way I see it, 99% of your suffering was self-inflicted and absolutely avoidable. A couple of days later, as I was tidying the living room, I picked up the book, which happened to be lying open on a page with the words “rice pudding” at the beginning of the first line. Feeling foolish for getting suckered in once more, I sat down and finished the book.

Sid ate some rice pudding, then developed the principles of morality, moderation and wisdom that allowed him to embrace suffering and led him to Nirvana under the bodhi tree. He spent the rest of his life spreading the word. Eventually, he returned home and converted everyone except his wife to Buddhism.

Finally! I crowed, snapping the book shut with satisfaction at having found my happy ending. Someone in this story had a functional cortex! I totally empathized with Sid’s wife’s reluctance to take him back. She was probably still mad at him for deserting her and their week-old baby. Also, by that time, even if Sid had re-embraced personal hygiene along with suffering, he couldn’t have been winning any beauty contests.

I wonder if Mrs. Buddha is the real author of the Zen koan: If you meet the Buddha on the road, kill him.

Two Flimsy Excuses

I don’t own an e-reader—yet. Truth be told, I’m a bit intimidated by them. Not the technology itself (although I haven’t got a clue what goes on inside a computer chip anymore) but the hassle of learning to use it and the additional strain it places on my budget.

I already know how to read a paper book. I learned when I was five years old. Although content has varied over the years, the basic process of scanning marks on a page remains unchanged. Books still exist. Why add an additional layer of complication to a simple process that’s been working perfectly well for over half a century?

Then there is the cost to be considered. Sure, it’s not a big investment at first; perhaps a few hundred dollars for the equipment and a few days to figure out how to work the thing. But in a couple of years, my e-reader will be obsolete and I’ll have to go through the buying, the learning and the downloading all over again. In a few more years, the whole concept of e-readers may have gone the way of the dial telephone and eight track tapes. Landfills around the world are already littered with my discarded typewriters, record players, transistor radios, cassette players, VHS players, Walkmans, under-powered PC’s, DVD players, and stupid (as opposed to smart) cell phones.

Of course my great-grandmother probably said something similar about telephones. I clearly remember my grandmother once stating she had no use for a television. My mother would have frowned on internet surfing as a ridiculous waste of time. What all these things have in common is that they were introduced to the public as toys, then ultimately became so interwoven into the fabric of our lives that it is impossible to imagine living without a telephone, difficult to imagine living without a television, and increasingly hard to accomplish the basic tasks of modern life without the internet.

So, what’s the point in getting an e-reader? Well, I have recently discovered, not one, but two reasons to justify getting myself a new toy.

Reason One

It’s no secret technology drives change, and after a period of disoriented grumbling, most of us adapt to our new more complex environments. But I wonder if we are rapidly approaching the technology/brain barrier, where the speed of progress outstrips the human ability to cope with it.

Some nursing association in Ontario has decided to accept only online renewals from its members. So, recently, much of my internet volunteering has been spent helping internet-phobic nurses renew their memberships. Sometimes I can’t help them, because they’ve forgotten their password and the password reset routine is sending a new password to the email address someone set up for them when they registered, which they’ve also forgotten.

Now these nurses are not senile or stupid. They are qualified medical professionals, reduced to quivering mental jelly by a mouse and a screen full of flash graphics.  They are people who have not kept up and are now stranded on the slope of an insurmountable learning curve. Keeping abreast of technology requires constant scrambling. By not embracing e-readers now, I’m just setting myself up for a desert of boredom when dead tree publishing goes the way of vinyl records and I have nothing to read.

Reason Two

 A while ago, I attended a book launch, where I bought a copy of the novel to support the author. I read about thirty pages on the bus into town a few days later and realized I had no desire to finish the book. No slight intended toward the author; it was a very well written book; I just didn’t resonate to any of the characters.

I got off the bus in front of a local second hand bookshop, hoping to trade the unwanted book for credit on a book I did want to read. Just in time, I remembered my book had been signed by the author. I stood outside the store, debating the etiquette of signed book disposal and finally decided it would be tacky to trade in a signed first edition. The author might frequent this bookshop and be upset to find her magnum opus on the BUCK A BOOK table less than a month after publication. I threw the book into a paper recycling bin before entering the store. On a display rack just inside the door I found a copy of my book. Resisting the urge to see if it was a signed copy, I scurried to the science fiction racks at the back of the store and picked up a China Mieville steampunk for the bus ride home.

The biggest advantage of e-books is that they can’t be signed. If everyone had e-readers, authors would spared these embarrassing dilemmas.

So there you have them, two flimsy justifications for buying an e-reader. Now if I could just figure out which is the best kind to buy. Do I need 3G? A micro-SD expansion slot? A camera?  And what’s all this DRM/mobi nonsense?