We only have what we practice || 僕らにあるのは実践して習得したものだけ。

"We only have what we give."
私たちが所有しているのは他者に与えたものだけ。
-- Isabel Allende

I came across the quote above in the autumn of 2009 while working as an ESOL instructor as part of my teaching practicum for my master's degree. I taught academic listening using a series of essays that had been featured on NPR some years prior. The essay by Chilean-American author Isabel Allende resonated with me then and has remained a favorite of mine since. Ms. Allende believes we only truly own that which we give away, either literally or by using it up in service to others. It is only in sharing freely and unencumbered by feelings of possessiveness or lack that we truly possess something outright. Until then, we are just clasping at it; it is not truly our own to enjoy fully.

I believe we only have what we practice. The idea that we gain through practice is not unique to me. Even young children can recite the adage "Practice makes perfect." We learn many things by practicing over and over, proceduralizing them until we are able to do them quite unthinkingly. We brush our teeth without thinking about the maneuvers necessary to do a thorough job and even operate vehicles with relative ease. Have you ever succumbed to a spell of highway hypnosis, wherein it is possible to drive long stretches, maneuvering and responding to changes in the road accurately and then reaching a destination without any idea how this happened? This phenomenon is an example of the proceduralization and automaticity afforded us by practice (and perhaps a lack of mindfulness--but that is another post altogether).

The same basic principle of practice is also true of our way of thinking and even of our personality. It seems to me that, by and large, we consider our personality quite constant. Our pervasive use of attributive adjectives to describe people reflects this quite well: He is a lazy fellow and she is a cruel person. We speak of personality traits, character flaws, and the like as though they were indelible facts about us. This is especially true of adults. After all, one can't teach an old dog new tricks, right? 

If we spend a little time reflecting on the past and our path to the present moment, though, we will see that we amassed these traits by practicing and proceduralizing them. Our personality traits are no more than deeply-ingrained habits we have picked up along the way and then drilled into ourselves; while they may have started off as opinions about us held by others, it is we who took them on. The human is a self-domesticating animal, after all. Our ways of thinking are habits in much the same way.

If I am quick to rage on the road* when other drivers are inconsiderate or take inordinate risks to get where they are going ahead of everyone else, it is likely I have a long-established pattern of reacting in this way. Somebody cuts me off; I swear a little under my breath. Someone pulls out when it was clearly my turn at the intersection, and the gesture I offer them is certainly not the peace sign. Well, maybe half of it. How many times have I done this or engaged in similar actions? I react this way every time something goes wrong on the road, and at some point, road rage becomes a matter of course; there is not even a hair's breadth between the offense and a shower of profanity from me or, at very least, a gritting of the teeth and sense that That really burns my bacon.

And so perhaps I might be characterized here as an angry person or someone with road rage. However, just because this is a rather predictable pattern in me now does not mean it always was or that it always need be. It may seem hard to change; it may not seem worthwhile to attempt to change. Maybe the people who live in my area are really terrible drivers and they have it coming. Perhaps. Nevertheless, my propensity for anger was not always there. Indeed, there may be instances where I am decidedly not an angry person. Being around certain people or in certain locales might have me in a jolly good mood. Perhaps holidaying at a resort, for instance.

You may be thinking to yourself, "Well, that's well and good. I'm not an angry person." That may be so. I may consider anger foolish or childish and yet be convinced that the dawn of Monday morning is unbearably depressing as it means the coming weekend is so far from reach or that the heavy rains** of a given day are deplorable. Perhaps my oft-practiced, habitual way of thinking is not an angry one but a negative one. Negative thinking is a far more insidious and widespread problem than even anger.

A negative orientation might seem automatic, an inevitable consequence of a gloomy personal disposition, family legacy, cultural values, or even messages on television and in the media. Still, feeling bad about rain on Monday or having road rage or anything else I may be prone to is actually the result of a great deal of practice in a certain way of thinking and feeling about the world. These thinking and feeling patterns become habits. They're like grooves in the road, so when the thinking, feeling vehicle that is the mind comes down the road, it is easy to get caught in them and continue barreling down these well-worn circuits of thought.

The path of anger or of sadness or of fear can be quite seductive. We may have started down it at a young age, long before we could have realized its possible implications. Before we know it, we've unwittingly practiced anger to the point where we cannot even distinguish between where the offense ends and our own reaction to it begins. Or perhaps we've memorized every lyric to Rainy Days and Mondays and can sing along the Carpenters without missing a beat.

We only have what we practice.

Isabel Allende holds that we only have what we give away to others, the possessions we hand over willingly, or the time, money, and other resources we spend in the service of others. As she sees it, we only truly own something when we have willingness and agency enough to entrust it to another, to give it away. In the same way, I believe that we only have that which we practice having, over and over. Put differently, we can only bring into our lives that of which we are aware. We can really see only that which we allow ourselves to take in, that upon which we choose to rest our attention. We can only receive what we will allow ourselves to take in.

For whatever reason, I may have practiced being angry or feeling blue or victimized in my life up to the present. Good news is, I can also choose to practice something new. Sooner or later, I'm bound to become expert at it. This concept may seem simplistic, may seem too far-out, may seem hopeless when we start the new practice. This is only another judgment, another thought about the prospect of changing one's habits through practice. In reality, at one time, it may have seemed hopeless that we would ever be able to operate a car smoothly, to play a guitar or piano, or to do any number of other things. The problem with thinking, the reason we are so apt to assume that changing our thinking through practice is a futile proposition, is that, while it is a complex process, it is also something we do so automatically.

One reason I began this collection of writings, one reason that I've made the decision to inflict yet another blog on the Internet, is that I need to get back into practice capturing my own thoughts, which often seem to speed by faster than the superexpress here in Japan. I want to practice gathering my thoughts and lining them up into some kind of coherent and creative work. What is important to me is not so much the product--the blog itself--as the praxis--the doing.

I see importance in making a practice out of patterns of thinking as well. My practice of having negative thoughts--anger on the road, that blue and pitiful feeling at the sight of more rain or another Monday--may be deep set and feel convincingly like objective reality. It doesn't help when your own negative opinion on something is shared by many others. Monday isn't a fun day for most. Rainy weather does get a lot of people down.

But neither of these is very true. Not really. These are just widely-held ideas.

If I decide that Monday is the best day, if I choose to belt out "Monday, I'm in Love***" while getting up in the morning that inevitably follows Sunday night, it may ring pretty hollow for a while. If I decide that donning the PVC rain boots I bought for $9.00 at the local Workman's and going out into the rain is the spice of life and something I get to enjoy every June for a limited time only, this might sound pretty delusional, pretty strange, and not a little insincere.

But with enough practice in these particular ways of thinking, they can be come true. For me, at least. And why not? What have I to lose?

It's become abundantly clear to me in a very short period of time that making choices like these is not any more ridiculous--any more delusional--than choosing the more widely-held and culturally accepted ones of feeling melancholy or enraged (see above). They're just different practices. Maybe they're a little harder practices to begin, owing to culturally-held beliefs or what others are doing around me or the fact that it's not fun when your shoes get soaked with rainwater and you have to slosh around while you do your grocery shopping. But they are perfectly acceptable choices.

And practice will inevitably make pretty close to perfect.

And since we only have what we practice, a positive outlook--however zany it might seem--will only become automatic with a bit of practice. Or a lot of practice. I'll let you know.

But it seems to me that this is far preferable to the alternative. I'd rather be zany than gloomy. I'd rather be seen as a touch delusional than a curmudgeon.

And so it is. All is well in my world.

DA

--

Notes:

* I don't drive! Not for the time being, that is. I've been without wheels since mid-February of 2014, when I moved from rural Mie Prefecture into the city. This is a hypothetical. =) I was never particularly angry when at the wheel... But Matsusaka drivers really got to me.

**It was the rainy season in Japan when I wrote the first version of this post. Let me tell you: if I had had a dime for every time I heard someone say that the weather was crummy or unbearable, I would have had enough for a fancy coffee every day at work.

***Profuse apologies to the Cure.

Would you rather be right or happy?

This oft-quoted question comes from "A Course in Miracles" and in a variety of flavors.

Which do you prefer: being right or being happy?

Would you rather be right or happy?

Correct or happier?

These words float around the Internet, have been written about in pop psychology, and are, I suspect, words some might write off fairly quickly as a platitude. Or quackery.

But this is an important question to consider.

No, I do not mean you should not take a stand for what you believe in, for what you think is truly right and just. Indeed, Truth propels us to do just this: to shine our light in little ways every day. We are called by Truth to shine the way only we can and to make a stand for Truth: for what is beautiful, for what is just, for what is right.

But making a stand for right is not the same as being right.

When we take a stand for what is right, we shine our light into the world. This we do by being creative, by being generative, by making a positive difference. We do it by accepting what is--just as it is--and doing something to effect positive change. We are intent to look at the way things are in the now, to truly face the present state of affairs without the need to judge, and to subsequently engage in the constructive work that will result in positive, substantive change.

When we try to be right, we move into a dualist space of mind, affixing values of positive and negative, right and wrong, good and bad to life. We abstract ourselves from the present and then judge the situation, taking stock of what is and explaining--arguing--why what we believe is right to the exclusion of other ideas. We get to experience righteous indignation. We get to experience being right. We put ourselves up on a shelf and then go to town judging and finding fault. This allows us a relatively safe place from which to operate: there are fewer spaces to occupy that are safer from criticism and blame than one firmly rooted in criticism and blame. Or, at least, it appears so.

If I am arguing for a position and against another, I get to harden my heart and make every other voice wrong. The result is a veritable fortress around my heart, my emotional body. I'm tapping into that righteous indignation, that invincible feeling that I'm right and you're wrong, and there's nothing you can say or do that will convince me otherwise. You lose and I win.

But do I really?

Just what do I sacrifice to be right and maintain my righteousness?

I lose access to other modes of thinking. If I am busy digging in my heels and plugging my ears while I rattle off reasons I'm right, I cannot very well entertain many alternatives.

I lose my connection to others. A very dear friend of mine once told me, with so much perceptiveness and clarity, that we all have a strong proclivity to seek first to be understood and only then to understand. Even if we don't mean first to seek understanding, it often happens that way in our choice of topic of conversation. This is not bad or wrong; it is quite natural. It is perhaps because we equate understanding with love and acceptance. If the person with whom I am talking understands me, I feel accepted, validated. However, if I am bent on being right, then this can be damaging. I may get carried away and seek not understanding but unconditional surrender. I may debate and argue logically, but even this may hurt my connection to the person with whom I am talking depending on our relationship and my interlocutor's worldview, self-esteem, sociocultural background. And if I pull out all the stops and do everything in my power to show how right I am--and therefore how wrong (s)he is--then this can be very detrimental indeed.

The need to be right can result in limited ability to consider points of view and new information thereby narrowing the possibilities for our worldview. And it can cause isolation and separation. Ultimately, it can cut us off from our very capacity for the gentleness, compassion, and openness that are the source of all those warm and fuzzy feelings that make us feel best.

After all, we only have what we practice. If I practice criticism and judgment of people, places, and things and cleave to my need to be right in my thinking and opinion, this may first only apply to all outside me, to the secondary relationships in my life. It is, however, only a matter of time before it seeps into my primary relationship: the relationship I have with myself.

This need to be right then manifests itself as perfectionism, as worry, and as hindsight-is-20/20 thinking. This is a very real phenomenon that occurs when I make an error and upon realizing it react with judgment and "should-have" expressions. "Dang it--I know better than that. If only I'd..." Or "I knew I should have..."

You see, if I engage in hindsight-is-20/20 thinking, I get to salvage my rightness even after I've made the wrong choice, made a mistake, erred in some way. By acknowledging my mistake and immediately criticizing myself, censuring myself, castigating myself, I get to feel that while I might have made an error, I am more acutely aware of it than anyone and so whatever else might be said, it's no match for my own disdain for the whole affair.

This may sound contrived, preposterous, to you. But I can assure you that I've experienced variants of hindsight-is-20/20 thinking in my own patterns of behavior and I have also seen and heard many others engage in it to varying degrees. It is subtle, insidious.

Of course, I may opt never to see myself as wrong. This is most isolating of all. I may lash out at others when their opinion differs from my own. I may choose to criticize them mercilessly. The gloves come off, we clash, and I maintain my rightness.

But at what cost to interpersonal relationships? What cost to my relationship with myself?

The truth is that being right is not at all the same as taking a stand for right, for truth, for justice.

Say that I hate poverty, really hate it. I have all sorts of opinions about why poverty happens and who is ultimately responsible for it in my society. I can tell people about it, cry and lament over it, argue and debate about it. But hating it will do nothing to change the reality. My righteous indignation is about as useful as spitting on a fire in hopes of extinguishing it.

On the other hand, if I want to take a stand, I can help distribute food at food banks, volunteer with political causes I believe in, write letters to individuals and organizations that can make a difference. This is where change can take place.

Ultimately, the problem is not so much with being right or wrong. These are just concepts, after all. The problem is with the persistent need to be right, to justify, to attach.

When we have awareness, we see that Truth does not need our cleaving, our arguments, our justification. It just keeps on being true. People can doubt, can choose not to believe. This is their prerogative, their choice, their business. It does not negate the truth or erode it in the least. When we have awareness of this fact--when we have a visceral sensation about the truth of this concept--we can rest assured in this. And the need to be right falls away and we are free to be happier.

Right or happy?

You don't need to be right to rest in your knowledge of your truth. What others believe--that is their business. Your truth can be yours and you can also respect theirs. And then you are free to respect and accept them, to give them the understanding and acceptance they seek. You can hold your own truth and theirs and not fret and worry about who is right because you know--really know-that the truth just keeps on keeping on without your help. You can hold so many concepts at once and not bat an eyelash when someone tries to force their truth on you. Because you know that it doesn't matter.

What matters is being happy.

And that is the truth.

Take Two: A Tribute

My grandfather passed on last Monday. I was unable to attend the proceedings at home but forwarded the following message to be read at the service. He is an inspiration to me in a lot of ways. He kept me grounded with the constant reminder that simple is best, family and friends are the most important touchstones of our lives, and one cookie is never enough. I post this to keep a copy for my own record and to share it with our family and friends who were unable to attend the service. Hope you'll join me in having two cookies in his memory. Love to you all.

Address for Celebration of Life
for Carl Elmer Baxter
1924.03.30 ~ 2015.09.07

2015.09.12 14:00 (PDT), Kennewick, WA

It's not an easy thing for me to be unable to join you today. However, I rest assured in the happy fact that so many have joined their hearts together in celebrating Carl Elmer Baxter, my grandfather and a great teacher of mine on this path of discovery we call life. My hope is that these words I have cobbled together will, in some small measure, express to you how much I have learned from him.

My grandfather was a simple man. I say this with utmost certainty and without the least disrespect. His simplicity was evident in his favorites: He was a plain eater who did not venture far outside the realm of meat and potatoes. He had a few basic hobbies. He liked to listen to old music and held everything newer than the mid-1960s in great contempt--noise, he would say, dismissively. He liked to watch the news and a few game shows on television. He was forever interested in the weather and and had fancy thermometers and the like. And he would sit reading the newspaper, cover to cover, nearly every day.

My grandfather was a simple man. He believed in the simple virtues of hard work, honesty, and fidelity to one's family and friends. He liked to chat about simple things: if you would but lend him your ear, you would be treated to an account of his time overseas. He would beam with pride as he recounted stories with such vivid specifics it makes me wonder why I cannot seem to recall my own time overseas with such compelling detail. He was fiercely proud of his family. His children were the apples of his eye. His grandchildren and great-grandchildren were, for him, his pride and joy.

My grandfather has such faith in us, it was almost a religious sort of fervor. Even when things weren't going 100 percent to plan, he would always tell us how smart we were, how creative, and how deserving we were of every success. When it came time for me to move to Japan for work, he was so proud. When I took my current job at a university here, he was so pleased to receive my business card and took the opportunity to share it with anyone who knew me. I have to admit I was a little embarrassed by such exuberance, but I realize now that I needn't have been.

My grandfather was a simple man. And his life was a testament to the importance of simple virtues and the simple pleasures of life. Who among us cannot benefit from the value of a day's hard work or honesty? Who among us does not believe in the importance of loyalty to one's family? I must admit there was a time when such simple things seemed so mundane; I was certain I had to do great things--pursue great achievements--to find happiness.

I can tell you with conviction now that my grandfather had it right: simplicity is the true constant in life. It is enough to do an honest day's work. It is enough to talk about simple things with people who will listen to you. The greatest pleasure in life comes from the simplest of things: sitting down to a home-cooked meal, going out for a walk in nature, or a trip someplace. And family and friends and the loyalty you show to them are the greatest joy. The moments and days we have with them are the real treasures of life. Not yesterdays, nor the promise of tomorrows to come. Today. Right now.

Funerals can be such sad affairs. We get so caught up in appearances: the apparent death and parting from a loved one. But earthly death is just that: an appearance. My grandfather had faith in the One who created him and has not really gone. He lives on. We simply cannot see him with our earthly vision.

I look at it this way: I'm unable to join you today but send this message to you from across time and space, across the miles and the minutes from where I wrote these words to where you are sitting, listening to them. You cannot see me, nor I you, and we seem so separate. But really, we aren't so far away from one another. It's the same way with where Grandpa is in relation to all of us. Sure, we cannot see him, but that doesn't mean that he's gone. He's with us. We need only close our eyes and bring him to mind. We need only join our hearts in prayer and there he is, sure as I am across the globe. I look forward to the day when I will see him again with my own eyes. I pray that such hope unites us all.

And so I thank my grandfather most sincerely, from the bottom of my heart. Thank you, Grandpa, for teaching me the paramount nature of the simple things. Thank you for believing in me with such unwavering conviction even when I could not. And thank you for teaching me that one cookie is never, ever enough. I hope that those of you who have gathered today to celebrate my Grandpa Carl will take two cookies in his honor. You can be sure I will today. I send you my love and wishes for delicious cookies. Take two.