“What’s so funny ’bout peace, love and understanding?” — Elvis Costello
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All right, then.
Yes, I know. Sorry for the absence. I’ve been in a fog for several months, getting used to the idea of living in a country where it’s acceptable to be both intelligent and skinny. I should be happy, I suppose, but honestly, it’s freaking me out.
Nevertheless, here I am, so let me get to the point. Although I don’t usually do New Year’s resolutions, these are unusual times. No, it’s not too late—New Year’s resolutions may be announced anytime before Groundhog Day, so I’m in under the wire. Here are my commitments for 2009:
- Achieve enlightenment.
- Finish kitchen floor.
I know, it’s a short list, but it should keep me busy. The first item is likely to take at least until Columbus Day, leaving just enough weekends to do the floor before the holidays.
And even that may be ambitious: conventional wisdom says enlightenment is a multi-year task. Still, I am hopeful. When I was studying Buddhist meditation in Nepal several years ago, my instructor, the Venerable Gompo (seriously), posited a shortcut, which he said begins with seeing the movie The Matrix (again, seriously). I took the advice to heart, so presumably I am at an advantage.
But what’s the hurry? Well, I was doing a periodic clean-up of my Outlook address book recently, when I realized I could delete three people because they’re dead. All gone since the beginning of 2008.
Gulp.
All told, the death count in my circle for 2008 included one casual acquaintance, three professional colleagues, two family members, and one mortal enemy. True, all of them were much older than I, but not as much as I would have liked. And you know what? There are plenty more where they came from—all marching helplessly toward the same unavoidable destination. Worse, I am among them.
As regular readers will recall, I’ve known for some time that I’m dying—at this point, the doctors are giving me less than 40 years—but that doesn’t mean I’ve made peace with the idea. (Curious, since living is no picnic, either. Really, it would be so much easier to pull the covers over my head once and for all. What keeps me going is the fear that the world won’t know what to do without me around to run things.)
So I need to get ready. As I see it, I have three options: (1) live in blissful denial; (2) select (on what basis?) a religion that gives me comfort (stop me if you think I’m repeating myself); or (3) come to grips with what is actually going to happen.
I choose number 3.
I’m not exactly starting from scratch here. Intellectually, I have long understood the reality—there is no discrete entity identifiable as me. Like all other matter, “I” am merely a continuously changing collection of impermanent aggregates, with no beginning or end, and no clean separation from the rest of the universe. That’s basic science—and I understand the ban on science was formally lifted last week. The idea of a separate self is an illusion. If there’s no self, there’s nothing to die. Problem solved.
(Aside: If nothing has a beginning or an end, then my kitchen floor can never really be “finished,” can it? Let’s scratch that right off the list. Progress!)
Knowing it intellectually and experiencing it on a visceral level, however, are two different things. It’s hard to get used to the idea that I’m not here. In fact, I frequently forget it and set an extra place at the table.
Hence, this year’s plan: defeat death by embracing my oneness with the universe. I.e., get myself enlightened.
Even as I’m writing this, however, second thoughts are presenting themselves. Enlightenment, it turns out, is invariably accompanied by a mysterious, unnatural serenity that places even the most vigilant person in grave danger of accepting things as they are. If you can imagine that. I don’t quite see that fitting into my worldview.
An enlightened being, so I’m told, doesn’t go on rants about pumpkin spice coffee or dangling participles. A bodhisattva doesn’t fly into a rage just because some MORON leaves a freakin’ SHOPPING CART in a @#%! PARKING SPACE at the supermarket. One who has touched nirvana apparently isn’t supposed to stare in disgust when some pasty, unshaven SLOB wearing slippers and PAJAMAS shuffles into the convenience store at 10 in the morning and buys a 32-ounce coffee with his @#%! CREDIT CARD.
This, then, may take longer than I’d hoped.
No, enlightened beings aren’t troubled by those things. They’re too busy yammering about love and happiness and forgiveness and all that garbage. They’re big-picture people, brimming with equanimity and perspective. I hate perspective.
And yet, to my own astonishment, that’s my goal. If I can master death, I’ll take whatever odd personality modifications come with it.
Which raises a ticklish question: Whither The Johnston Papers? I fear, frankly, that my soon-to-be-acquired love for all humanity may be at odds with TJP’s fundamental premise that people are idiots. Once I learn to smile compassionately and without judgment at people wearing sweatsuits and eating blueberry bagels, will the Papers turn into a forum for sappy poetry about—well—peace, love, and understanding?
Sends a shiver down the spine, doesn’t it? As Mr. Costello’s rhetorical question suggests, there’s not a lot of humor in there.
Well, let’s not panic yet. Despite my stated determination, one might legitimately doubt that this transition will ever take place. Fear of death is a strong motivator, yes, but it will be butting heads with the most powerful force in my life: inertia. There is at least an even chance that a year from now, I’ll still be sitting in the same spot, cursing into my computer screen late into the night while seeking meaning in Barney Miller reruns and a bottle of Wild Turkey.
I’ll let you know how it’s going. In the meantime, people, I know you’re going to keep dying, but could you slow it down a little? I’d appreciate that.
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Enlighten someone. Forward The Johnston Papers to a friend, a casual acquaintance, or a mortal enemy.
