Beachbum Metaphysics, pt. 3 

Existence, with Pool Toys

Briefly, two inflatable pool rings and a long straight foam raft come together to form a pattern that looks like a face. The three pieces hold together like this and I begin to feel some fondness for them. Kinship, even. So when they break up and drift apart, I'm sad, and even now I'm looking at the pool wondering when this new and departed friend might reappear.

The pool teaches us the ease of fellowship; and then it teaches us the temporariness of all things.

There is wisdom in the pool.

Beachbum Metaphysics, pt. 2 

Existence, with Butterfly

A butterfly flits through the yard. Because of the way it flies—in excited jerks and zigzags—I assume the butterfly is directionless. Meandering. Unfocused. But more likely, its erratic flight has nothing to do with its will or psychology. Rather, it's a matter of physics: it flies in crooked lines because it's made that way. Its behavior looks non-linear, undirected—because that's the way it's built.

I too have meandered toward this yard, in zigzags, in fits and starts—the only way I could have. The way nature allowed.

So have you.

Beachbum Metaphysics, pt. 1 

Existence, Poolside

The pool is mostly quiet except for gentle gurgles and drizzles; but then, every couple minutes, for reasons unseen, it erupts suddenly like a hot spring, like it's alive.

The pool is a complicated system of fluids and chemical balances and filters and pumps; and I realize—so am I.

I don't know enough about things to explain to you why we believe that people are alive and the pool isn't. While it breathes and bubbles and gushes, I sit here in the knowledge that we are the same.

Koan of the Jigsaw Puzzle 

The Zen master scatters the pieces of the jigsaw puzzle across the table. He does not attempt to assemble the puzzle. Instead, he picks up a single piece at random and contemplates it for the rest of the day.

The solution to the puzzle is the puzzle. The puzzle is the solution to the puzzle.

Ravel / Unravel 

Somewhat unique in the English language, the word "ravel" has the same definition as the word "unravel":

ravel: 1. to disentangle or unravel the threads or fibers of (a woven or knitted fabric, rope, etc.).
unravel: 1. to separate or disentangle the threads of (a woven or knitted fabric, a rope, etc.).

Additionally, each word also means its own opposite:

ravel: 2. to tangle or entangle. 3. to involve, confuse, perplex. 4. to make clear; unravel.
unravel: 2. to free from complication or difficulty; make plain or clear; solve. 3. to take apart; undo; destroy.

If there is (as some scientists suggest) a single unified theory that is capable of expressing all of the complexity of the universe in one simple formula, then this is it:

ravel = unravel

Koan of the Colander 

I have a blue sponge in one hand and a bright yellow colander in the other, and hot water pours from the faucet. I'm trying to rinse the colander free of soap bubbles. I try and try, but I can't rinse the colander, because the colander is designed to let the water pour through. The soap bubbles persist.

Then I realize: life is like that.

I pause for a moment to contemplate this, but the water keeps pouring out of the faucet, so eventually I return to scrubbing.

On the Veranda 

Part of her thought if she'd been able to just let go, the sheaves of renderings would have built themselves, harvest come home. Another delusion, no doubt. She knew she'd been grandiose, and didn't have much to show for it. She had committed that most American of sins: failed to move laterally.

- from Bruce Wagner's Memorial

It's going to be another one of those days, by which I mean frustrating. I'm staring at the computer screen, hitting "Refresh" every thirty seconds or so—as if inspiration of any sort ever comes via the Internet.

Sure. If I hit "Refresh" just this one more time, all my problems will be solved. My Inbox will suddenly overflow with love, affection, opportunity, wealth, challenges, self-confidence, and the answers to all my still-unarticulated questions. That's going to happen. (I mean, how big would that attachment have to be, exactly?)

I hit "Refresh." And when I'm not "Refreshing," I'm typing, using similar (if slightly better-founded) logic: that if only I keep typing—spewing words as fast as they pop into my head—then eventually, like the monkey at the keyboard, eventually, I'll have to stumble on to some wisdom.

And eventually, maybe I will.

But I'm not sure it's going to happen today.

* * *

My Zen archery teacher (yes, I had a Zen archery teacher) would talk about the importance, in Japanese architecture, of the veranda. Because of his pronunciation, vee-lan-da, it took me ridiculously long to realize what he meant. Actually, it took me ridiculously long to realize what he meant, because teaching Zen archery (kyudo) to a Westerner is a somewhat futile exercise. We harbor B-movie samurai fantasies about shooting things—but kyudo has almost nothing to do with shooting, or even bows, arrows, or targets. Rather, the study of kyudo is a kind of brain-washing through storytelling—and the bow is nothing but a set of stories, which, if used properly, might break some entrenched habits, and replace them with new ones.

In kyudo, you don't pull the bow string. You open the bow.

In kyudo, you don't shoot the arrow. While opening the bow, the arrow will release.

In kyudo, there is no target. (The word we used for "target" means "that fuzzy faraway thing.") An arrow might hit the ceiling and still have been the result of an excellent shot, depending on how it was released. In self-help parlance: you are the target.

All you have to do is let go.

* * *

A veranda is a space in between—neither inside not outside, neither here nor there. When you have left a place and have not yet arrived at the new place, you are on the veranda.

In my culture, in Western culture, we are encouraged to move quickly from one place to another, always to be on our way ... somewhere. We are encouraged to aim for a target, and to hit it, and if we do this, we have made a "good shot."

But in kyudo, the ceilings of the verandas are littered with arrows that strayed very far from that fuzzy faraway place called the "target". In kyudo, one is encouraged to take off one's shoes, kneel down on the veranda, and contemplate the path of these arrows, each of which might have been a "good shot."

Sometimes it's a good shot, even if it fails to move laterally. Sometimes you have to stay on the veranda, and be patient, so that you can know where to go next. Sometimes you have to let go.