Meditation on Distance

There are a few times of the year when things get me down:  October, February, and right after school gets out in the summer.  Why the last one?  As a public college teacher, I don't officially have to get dressed between May and September:  this is a problem?  A good problem to have, some will no doubt grumble.  I suppose if I were a normal person, I would agree.

The Buddhists have a compound term, "dukkha-samsara," which roughly translates as "the shit of the world that gets you down."  Example:  Our forest is dying.  Whatever doesn't die will be consumed by the fire caused by what does.  This sucks.  Nothing like being reminded of this on the way down the hill every day.  In my fossil-fuel burning car.  On my million-mile commute.  I am, from this perspective, doing it all wrong, no matter how great Bluetooth is.  I'm contributing to the problem, and will, someday, be punished for it.  Ok.  Boo hoo for me.  What about the trees?

This is kind of the dukkha-samsara circle I travel in when I'm depressed.  Which is now.  Oddly enough, the trees I so love haven't seen me up close in over a month.  Shouldn't I go there?  Yes!  It usually works as a good soul strainer.  I thought that moving to the mountains would force me into more peaceful zones, but it is kind of like a dream where you are so close to something you love, but also so far.  It doesn't happen unless you make it happen.  I'll file this under "things you hate to do before you do them, but love that you did them afterward."

There are civilizations that seem to filter out the dukkha by design.  All live close to the land.  All don't expect busy-ness.  All are able to sit still.  I seem to be able to sit still only when in bed.  I consume chaos at a rate that would probably stagger you, though you have probably noticed this if you look at my Facebook feed (the never-ending but often tasty samsara vomiting).  

Actually, I was thinking about this the other day, within the context of softball.  I didn't play softball for a long time, because the first time I did it I was put into left field.  Even as a child I felt the distance between myself and the infield.  Something seemed to be going on over there that was highly social and intense.  I liked to watch them, but then the first fly ball came sailing towards me and I was disoriented on a few levels:  the intensity of the team and the crowd's (small crowd) attention, suddenly focused on me (what?!), and the fact that I had no idea where the ball was.  It wasn't the sun; it was me.  I don't seem to have much of a sense of depth.  After a few rounds of non-fly-ball-catching, neurosis started to kick in during the downtime.  Hypervigilance.  Cuticle-picking.  Fear.  Relief when a lefty came to bat.  A whole new fear of the hop-up grounder (I never caught those, either).  The idea of playing softball at all became terrifying, yet I persisted.  (I also persisted during one soccer match in the goal, which is a more hardcore form of playing outfield.  I learned here that there is an outfield/goalie personality type, of which I, even medicated, am not of.  All respect.)

It wasn't until my Ph.D. program that I attempted to play softball again, for our creative writing dept. team (The Prose).  It was kind of a "we need a body" request, and the great thing is that no one expects writers to be good at sports.  I joined, mostly for the camaraderie, but also for the beer.  Imagine my surprise when I was asked to pitch at practice.  Pitch!  Isn't that the most coveted, most admired position of the team?  Didn't one graduate to pitching if they were a good enough fielder, the way a lackey someday becomes CEO?  Wasn't the infield like the cool table in the junior high cafeteria? (Can you tell I never watched baseball on TV?)  I was stunned, but since I knew I sucked at fielding, I did it.

Well, I was good at it.  It took a few weeks of practice to get to the point where I could huff the ball all the way to the plate, but after that hurdle I was pretty accurate.

More than that, though, I learned this magic thing:  anxiety can actually help when you are up close to the action.  I was able to turn plays, even without a ton of coordination, with a consistency that shocked me.  Hit the ball at me?  No problem.  Complicated chaos at home plate?  I could handle it.

What a revelation!  The more distance I had from the action, the more neurosis set in.  The closer I was, the better.  Bring it!  We won three intramural championships, and I had something to do with it each time.

What a weird revelation!

I need to get up and do something.  Mindfully.