My housemate, Mia, recommended that we watch "The End of Suburbia" (I am constantly tempted to call it the "Story of Stuff" which is another documentary about America's consumptive lifestyle.)
The film was wonderful because it was eerily accurate. Even though it was made in 2004 the film's stark predictions about problems regarding our energy use, economic strength, infrastructure, and lifestyle patterns have already come to our immediate attention.
Moreover it was a visionary film. The film showed that the energy-scholar community has reached consensus that our lives will fundamentally change within my lifetime. We have depended on exhaustible resources for too hard for, too long, so that our transition into the new economic and cultural era will be even more challenging. Most important is that Americans address the heart of its cultural problem: our attitudes toward access and use. At least a new progressive era has a chance to mitigate the worst damage by finally telling the truth and taking action.
The End of Suburbia also did an exceptional job weaving several stories into a single narrative critiquing America's way of life since World War II. It's more than about energy access, or consumption, sprawl, or poorly planned infrastructure, or the failed suburban dream, or bad policies, or our weakening economic engine, or localization, or trends toward new urban planning. It's about the detriments of unaccountable power.
Here I wanted to convey a few messages to specific people inspired by the film:
Dear Mom.
I love you and worry about you the most. I can imagine the housing industry quickly evaporating further limiting your opportunities within the next ten years. Soon I will finish school. I will support you if you should return to school, seek out training, or pursue your dreams. I know it has always been your plan to live with me once I have a home. You are always welcome. I do not think a global transition will be difficult for you. All in all you live very simply, and have always done a lot with few resources--like so many people are forced to do, even within our Rich Land. Your passion for nature and living things may soon become economically valuable. You've experienced much bigger hardships.
Dear Dad.
Your life curve has peaked at just the right time. Any major global shifts will hurt you as your lifestyle epitomizes Suburbia. I know you don't like change either. The next 10-15 years will be hard if you remain in Centreville. But since you become eligible for retirement a year ago, you should be able to retire in the near future. You've been a proud and accomplished public servant for which you deserve a restful retirement. I think retirement may offer you a different sort of wealth than the suburban affluence you enjoy now. I can see you in a city. City-life will keep you at the center of vitality and provides easy access for your children and other loved ones. It may also allow you to have a more healthful life, in which you can continue to greatly contribute to your local community. I encourage you to embrace the many changes that you will encounter soon.
Dear Little Bro.
Enjoy your SUV while you can! The future holds a culture shock for you because all we have ever known has been hyper-suburban life. You'll be OK going with the flow. Soon, when your music career launches, you'll be separating from dad and experiencing a great deal of change, anyway. Just remember how your "hippie" sister may have been right about a few things.
Dear Friends.
Most of you share the vision shared by The End of Suburbia and like-minded films, so I will be brief. I do have a few friends attached to their cars. This will change. Most of you, however, are under 30 so you will easily find your lifestyles more active within "walkable communities" assuming that either your neighborhoods are converted or you re-locate to one. For my fellow city-dwellers I would expect more white-affluent-influx (we are currently seeing this in Columbia Heights). More gentrification, increased segregation, unless we speak-out. As we see crises converge we have to demand that our solutions converge as well. We cannot enter 21st century American Life by trading one set of evident problems for another.
Indeed, we have a lot of work to do!
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Monday, December 22, 2008
Understanding In Three Acts
Act I
I visited my grandparents in Ohio this weekend. I hadn’t seen my father’s parents in over four years. My father found inexpensive plane tickets, and he asked if I could join him about two weeks ago. I told him that I would think about it. I did and we left Virginia without my brother on Friday.
I never doubted that I would make the trip. I was certain this visit would be my last time to see my grandparents alive. Rather, I was preparing myself for an intricate time. Both my grandparents have been ailing for a long time. The last time I saw my grandmother she was struggling to remain in her simple, two-story home on Main St. It was the first time I cared for a sick elder; for my brother it was a traumatic experience. My grandmother now resides with a family who offers her twenty-four hour care (she was violently unhappy at a caretaking facility); my grandfather has survived at “Heartland” moving once from their Bridgeport hometown to his current location in Centerburg, Ohio. Centerburg is said to be the center (read: heart) of Ohio.
Overall the visit was positive. My uncle remarked that my grandfather was more active during this visit than he had been in years. (The previous year my grandfather was not able to wake-up when my cousin visited.) Grandpa was fully awake, speaking, and expressive. He even managed to tease my father whom he told that although he was talking, he wasn’t saying anything. Our end was as nice as our beginning. We finished the visit with a few pictures.
We saw my grandmother twice who was admitted into the hospital for an infection. Her doctor described her as “ornery” which was assuring to my dad and uncle because that meant “she was back to herself.” Well, in a way. My grandmother has lived with cancer twice, thyroid disease, and a host of other physical ailments. But since I had last seen her, things had changed.
Like with my grandfather, my grandmother warmly greeted me. I remained silent for most of the time being content with smiling and being attentive to her physical needs. My father was surprised that she remembered details about who I was. I took this as a sign for reunion.
Yet I think I understood her. Grandma was sharing about how all of her family members were on TV. She had seen my brother on Letterman several times. My dad assured her that without her glasses that she saw people who resembled us on TV, but none of us appeared on TV. Grandma was particularly concerned about the UFOs hovering over the roofs outside her window. My uncle changed the subject. When we left the second night, grandma reminded me to let her know when I was ready—ready to run her hotel and get to the bottom of conspiracy surrounding her wealth that had engulfed my dad and uncle. I smiled and told her that I would.
Doctors have diagnosed my grandmother with Alzheimers, and another form of dementia. My father was persistently correcting her, insisting that she was mistaken, wrong, or sometimes chose to ignore her. I understood why he did this. I know how difficult it is for him to witness this change in his parents. At the same time my grandmother was very upset that she was being treated as if she was “crazy.” This I saw. Her family and caretakers’ attempts to be “rational” with her—to tell her the “truth”—deeply hurt her despite their best intentions. I think I understood her. We talked freely. And I enjoyed being with her.
Act II
Sunday evening I saw Seven Pounds. The film was awe-inspiring. I regret that I cannot share much more for fear of compromising the film, nonetheless, I think it was one of those unique transformative films. I related to Seven Pounds as a film about the depth of human capacity. Our power is remarkable. Yes. I think I understand.
Act III
Sleep tells a lot about us.
I was in an outdoor classroom with fifty or so students. One of my classmates was none other than a young Spike Lee. Our professor was dialoging with the class, and Spike Lee raised his hand. When called on, all he said was “ex-cess.” A sharp “ex” and “cess.” Silence--
He had made a poignant point.
Then he continued, “ex-cess,” “ex-cess,” “ex-cess,” and he went on for about a half an hour.
I woke up and in three instant flashes--noticed my dad’s snoring—remembered my uncle’s remark about Faithful over-consumption—and thought about my own sweet-food addiction.
Three simple acts. A lot of clarity. Prajna paramita.
I visited my grandparents in Ohio this weekend. I hadn’t seen my father’s parents in over four years. My father found inexpensive plane tickets, and he asked if I could join him about two weeks ago. I told him that I would think about it. I did and we left Virginia without my brother on Friday.
I never doubted that I would make the trip. I was certain this visit would be my last time to see my grandparents alive. Rather, I was preparing myself for an intricate time. Both my grandparents have been ailing for a long time. The last time I saw my grandmother she was struggling to remain in her simple, two-story home on Main St. It was the first time I cared for a sick elder; for my brother it was a traumatic experience. My grandmother now resides with a family who offers her twenty-four hour care (she was violently unhappy at a caretaking facility); my grandfather has survived at “Heartland” moving once from their Bridgeport hometown to his current location in Centerburg, Ohio. Centerburg is said to be the center (read: heart) of Ohio.
Overall the visit was positive. My uncle remarked that my grandfather was more active during this visit than he had been in years. (The previous year my grandfather was not able to wake-up when my cousin visited.) Grandpa was fully awake, speaking, and expressive. He even managed to tease my father whom he told that although he was talking, he wasn’t saying anything. Our end was as nice as our beginning. We finished the visit with a few pictures.
We saw my grandmother twice who was admitted into the hospital for an infection. Her doctor described her as “ornery” which was assuring to my dad and uncle because that meant “she was back to herself.” Well, in a way. My grandmother has lived with cancer twice, thyroid disease, and a host of other physical ailments. But since I had last seen her, things had changed.
Like with my grandfather, my grandmother warmly greeted me. I remained silent for most of the time being content with smiling and being attentive to her physical needs. My father was surprised that she remembered details about who I was. I took this as a sign for reunion.
Yet I think I understood her. Grandma was sharing about how all of her family members were on TV. She had seen my brother on Letterman several times. My dad assured her that without her glasses that she saw people who resembled us on TV, but none of us appeared on TV. Grandma was particularly concerned about the UFOs hovering over the roofs outside her window. My uncle changed the subject. When we left the second night, grandma reminded me to let her know when I was ready—ready to run her hotel and get to the bottom of conspiracy surrounding her wealth that had engulfed my dad and uncle. I smiled and told her that I would.
Doctors have diagnosed my grandmother with Alzheimers, and another form of dementia. My father was persistently correcting her, insisting that she was mistaken, wrong, or sometimes chose to ignore her. I understood why he did this. I know how difficult it is for him to witness this change in his parents. At the same time my grandmother was very upset that she was being treated as if she was “crazy.” This I saw. Her family and caretakers’ attempts to be “rational” with her—to tell her the “truth”—deeply hurt her despite their best intentions. I think I understood her. We talked freely. And I enjoyed being with her.
Act II
Sunday evening I saw Seven Pounds. The film was awe-inspiring. I regret that I cannot share much more for fear of compromising the film, nonetheless, I think it was one of those unique transformative films. I related to Seven Pounds as a film about the depth of human capacity. Our power is remarkable. Yes. I think I understand.
Act III
Sleep tells a lot about us.
I was in an outdoor classroom with fifty or so students. One of my classmates was none other than a young Spike Lee. Our professor was dialoging with the class, and Spike Lee raised his hand. When called on, all he said was “ex-cess.” A sharp “ex” and “cess.” Silence--
He had made a poignant point.
Then he continued, “ex-cess,” “ex-cess,” “ex-cess,” and he went on for about a half an hour.
I woke up and in three instant flashes--noticed my dad’s snoring—remembered my uncle’s remark about Faithful over-consumption—and thought about my own sweet-food addiction.
Three simple acts. A lot of clarity. Prajna paramita.
Thursday, December 11, 2008
Two Inches
There are two inches between the top of my hip bone and the bottom of my ribcage. I find this fact remarkable. I hardly have a torso! I had made this observation before, though, not in such an illustrative way. I am amazed that I have all of the internal organs I need--and that they fit.
My body and body-relationship have rapidly changed over a year. At the same time I hardly look at "it." If I closed my eyes and envisioned my body, parts would be missing. These parts would not be missing because I am necessarily ashamed or embarrassed of how I look. Rather, I just don't have a vivid memory of what these parts look like, likely, for the reason I never take an opportunity to see my body as much as I feel my body. It was a stunning realization.
I wonder if I was subconsciously motivated by recent conversations about body image. Within November I spoke to two women about our body-relationships, their evolutions, and our relative happy places at present. I concluded that I am happy with my body despite my wanting body-relationship. I attribute improvements to a health consciousness that reflects through my body in a way I have not known during my adult life. I pay much more attention to what I put into it (what I choose NOT to put into it), how I treat it, and how I see it--as also a deserving part of me. I no longer wish to look or appear a certain way. I feel good and my body agrees.
How can I characterize this transformation? My shift in thinking from an assailed body-image to a happy body-relationship. I refer to another lesson from The Heart of the Buddha's Teachings. Thich Nhat Hahn describes the Three Bodies of Buddha as Dharmakaya (source of enlightenment and happiness), Sambhogakaya (body of bliss or enjoyment), and Nirmanakaya (historial embodiment of the Buddha). My physical body has benefited from my return to activity. Exercise allows me to see Dharmakaya, feel Sambhogakaya, and be led to Nirmanakaya.
I previously called my early life my athletic "first life." I was always active because I was naturally inclined to be and enjoyed experiencing my nature. I was forced to suddenly leaving team sports as a teenager, and I struggled to return to an active way of being without team sports. During my senior year in high school, I discovered power-lifting. Today, weight-lifting is a passion. I look forward to building my strength, setting and reaching goals, and essentially challenging myself in a productive way.
Dharmakaya means that the living Dharma can be seen and lived by us. We can see it in a sunset, a blossoming tree, or pushing 30 lbs. weights over our heads. It is when we see light before us so that our path toward love and understanding is clear. Exercise allows me to feed my body, and thus, practice self-love.
Sambhogakaya is the celebration attached to the living Dharma. It is easy to see how physical activity manifests itself vis-a-vis bliss, enjoyment, results, and rewards. Particularly satisfying is reaching a weight-or-running goal which you have set for yourself. In many ways exercise is a great metaphor for the practice. Incremental training, persistence, and patience lead to the Sambhogakaya body. Ultimately mindfulness toward your body and each (training) moment makes a strong, vital self.
Exercise is a form of self-love that relieved suffering to which I had grown so accustomed that I did not even realize it existed. Nirmanakaya is here.
Now it is just a matter of embodying this experience into other parts of my life. I guess that's all it takes :)
My body and body-relationship have rapidly changed over a year. At the same time I hardly look at "it." If I closed my eyes and envisioned my body, parts would be missing. These parts would not be missing because I am necessarily ashamed or embarrassed of how I look. Rather, I just don't have a vivid memory of what these parts look like, likely, for the reason I never take an opportunity to see my body as much as I feel my body. It was a stunning realization.
I wonder if I was subconsciously motivated by recent conversations about body image. Within November I spoke to two women about our body-relationships, their evolutions, and our relative happy places at present. I concluded that I am happy with my body despite my wanting body-relationship. I attribute improvements to a health consciousness that reflects through my body in a way I have not known during my adult life. I pay much more attention to what I put into it (what I choose NOT to put into it), how I treat it, and how I see it--as also a deserving part of me. I no longer wish to look or appear a certain way. I feel good and my body agrees.
How can I characterize this transformation? My shift in thinking from an assailed body-image to a happy body-relationship. I refer to another lesson from The Heart of the Buddha's Teachings. Thich Nhat Hahn describes the Three Bodies of Buddha as Dharmakaya (source of enlightenment and happiness), Sambhogakaya (body of bliss or enjoyment), and Nirmanakaya (historial embodiment of the Buddha). My physical body has benefited from my return to activity. Exercise allows me to see Dharmakaya, feel Sambhogakaya, and be led to Nirmanakaya.
I previously called my early life my athletic "first life." I was always active because I was naturally inclined to be and enjoyed experiencing my nature. I was forced to suddenly leaving team sports as a teenager, and I struggled to return to an active way of being without team sports. During my senior year in high school, I discovered power-lifting. Today, weight-lifting is a passion. I look forward to building my strength, setting and reaching goals, and essentially challenging myself in a productive way.
Dharmakaya means that the living Dharma can be seen and lived by us. We can see it in a sunset, a blossoming tree, or pushing 30 lbs. weights over our heads. It is when we see light before us so that our path toward love and understanding is clear. Exercise allows me to feed my body, and thus, practice self-love.
Sambhogakaya is the celebration attached to the living Dharma. It is easy to see how physical activity manifests itself vis-a-vis bliss, enjoyment, results, and rewards. Particularly satisfying is reaching a weight-or-running goal which you have set for yourself. In many ways exercise is a great metaphor for the practice. Incremental training, persistence, and patience lead to the Sambhogakaya body. Ultimately mindfulness toward your body and each (training) moment makes a strong, vital self.
Exercise is a form of self-love that relieved suffering to which I had grown so accustomed that I did not even realize it existed. Nirmanakaya is here.
Now it is just a matter of embodying this experience into other parts of my life. I guess that's all it takes :)
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