notes from the nice side of the fence

“One of the things I came to see is that enlightenment only becomes available when it has been accepted that it cannot be achieved.

Doctrines, processes and progressive paths which seek enlightenment only exacerbate the problem they address by reinforcing the idea that the self can find something that it presumes it has lost. It is that very effort, that investment in self-identity that continuously recreates the illusion of separation from oneness. This is the veil that we believe exists. It is the dream of individuality.

It is like someone who imagines that they are in a deep hole in the earth, and in order to escape they dig deeper and deeper, throwing the earth behind them and covering up the light that is already there.

The only likely effect of extreme effort to become that which I already am, is that eventually I will drop to the ground exhausted and let go. In that letting go another possibility may arise. But the temptation to avoid freedom through the sanctification of struggle is very attractive. Struggle in time does not invite liberation.

Life is not a task. There is absolutely nothing to attain except the realisation that there is absolutely nothing to attain.

No amount of effort will ever persuade oneness to appear. All that is needed is a leap in perception, a different seeing, already inherent but unrecognised.”

At home there was a game that all the parents played with their children. It was called, What Did You See? Mara was about Dann’s age when she was first called into her father’s room one evening, where he sat in his big carved and coloured chair. He said to her, “And now we are going to play a game. What was the thing you liked best today?”

At first she chattered: “I played with my cousin… I was out with Shera in the garden… I made a stone house.” And then he had said, “Tell me about the house.” And she said, “I made a house of the stones that come from the river bed.” And he said, “Now tell me about the stones.” And she said, “They were mostly smooth stones, but some were sharp and had different shapes.” “Tell me what the stones looked like, what colour they were, what did they feel like.”

And by the time the game ended she knew why some stones were smooth and some sharp and why they were different colours, some cracked, some so small they were almost sand. She knew how rivers rolled stones along and how some of them came from far away. She knew that the river had once been twice as wide as it was now. There seemed no end to what she knew, and yet her father had not told her much, but kept asking questions so she found the answers in herself. Like, “Why do you think some stones are smooth and round and some still sharp?” And she thought and replied, “Some have been in the water a long time, rubbing against other stones, and some have only just been broken off bigger stones.” Every evening, either her father or her mother called her in for What Did You See? She loved it. During the day, playing outside or with her toys, alone or with other children, she found herself thinking, Now notice what you are doing, so you can tell them tonight what you saw.

She had thought that the game did not change; but then one evening she was there when her little brother was first asked, What Did You See? and she knew just how much the game had changed for her. Because now it was not just What Did You See? but: What were you thinking? What made you think that? Are you sure that thought is true?

When she became seven, not long ago, and it was time for school, she was in a room with about twenty children - all from her family or from the Big Family - and the teacher, her mother’s sister, said, “And now the game: What Did You See?”

Most of the children had payed the game since they were tiny; but some had not, and they were pitied by the ones that had, for they did not notice much and were often silent when the others said, “I saw…”, whatever it was. Mara was at first upset that this game played with so many at once was simpler, more babyish, than when she was with her parents. It was like going right back to the earliest stages of the game: “What did you see?” “I saw a bird.” “What kind of bird?” “It was black and white and had a yellow beak.” “What shape of beak? Why do you think the beak is shaped like that?”

Then she saw what she was supposed to be understanding: Why did one child see this and the other that? Why did it sometimes need several children to see everything about a stone or a bird or a person?

You can’t make a wrong decision; you can only experience the story arising about how you made it. I like to ask, “Are you breathing yourself?” No? Well, maybe you’re not thinking yourself or making decisions either. Maybe it doesn’t move until it moves, like a breath, like the wind. And you tell the story of how you are doing it, so you can keep yourself from the awareness that you are nature, flowing perfectly. Who would you be without the story that you need to make a decision? If it’s your integrity to make a decision, make it. And guess what? In five minutes, you might change your mind and call it “you” again.

- Byron Katie, Question Your Thinking, Change the World

I turn on the tap and check the water, then pour in some Dr. Bronner soap, Eucalyptus. if it came to that, I’d give up coffeeshopping to be able to afford my Magic Soap. luckily it doesn’t quite come to that. though who knows what I’m indirectly missing out on on account of my coffeeshopping (and soap). I check my bank account - if there’s money there I use it, if not I don’t.

I put my foot in and it tells me that the water’s too hot. I find myself thinking about the water and where it comes from. am I being wasteful? would taking a shower use up less water than a shallow wash in the bath? is it more important that I save up water in my home, or that the government explores alternatives like recycling and desalination, many of which are avoided for political reasons? I don’t know. I turn the tap off as soon as I have enough.

I soak in, and my mind drifts to the future day’s activities. I’ll write that email, submit that application form, work on that song, translate that book. all of which will involve sitting at my laptop, while something I tend to think of as “real life” will be going on outside; on the streets, in offices, in bars and cafes, in checkpoints and refugee camps. I am struck by how little I actually live. so many hours of my days are consumed by sitting across from a computer screen, and the ones that are not mostly involve maintenance and upkeep to that end, like cooking and making tea so that I can keep going. sometimes even meeting a friend for lunch is just a respite from this routine, a charge-up. I converse with people online, I do my learning online, I do much of my paid work online, I make my art online - I even do most of my political protest online. it’s all by proxy.

I live my life not in reality, but in representations of reality. is this significant? is this wrong, or unhealthy? did I choose to live like this? when was the last time something actually happened, I ask myself. as response, my mind gives me images from the events of the weekend - housewarming, clubbing, weekend papers, sex (with other people, for a change). surely, leaving the house and meeting someone is more sensual than talking to them on skype, and therefore more real, more meaningful. surely, ranting on the Occupation at a house party is more effective and powerful than doing so on facebook. it moves things. it makes things happen - faster, better.

but hang on a minute, I tell myself as I rub my scalp. what is this duality about? I mean, what is this “real life” I’ve so readily idealized? does it even exist? when I meet a friend and listen to them speak and watch their body movements, am I experiencing what’s “real”, or just a representation of something I can never have any access to in the first place? I hear the sounds coming out of their mouths and I attach them to words I’m familiar with. I then attach those words to meanings, and I go on to attach those meanings to stories from my experience that match them. I call this “understanding”. but what did I understand? I just constructed a story about what is happening in the moment of the conversation (“where did she get that scar?”, “why is he being so nervous?”, “how long have we been sitting here?”, “is it hot in here?”), and about the narratives that I’m hearing (“she’s taking too long to grieve”, “he shouldn’t have done that”, “she’s being too pushy about this”, “he’s so adorable”). not only that, but even when I’m relatively free from my own interpretations, I still rely entirely on my subjective imagination to relate to another person. someone tells me they’re upset about getting dumped, and I imagine what heartbreak must feel like. I conjure images from my past or theirs (which I can only imagine). I hear songs about breakups and see tear-jerking movie scenes. I look at their reddening eyes and connect them to all those things, and I say “oh you poor thing”. so what I react to is not reality. I react to my interpretation, based on an experience that can only ever be mine. much like I would to a blog entry or a status message. even when a hand touches my skin, when fresh air enters my nostrils, when my muscles ache from running - it’s all I ever do, all I ever can do. all my life I’ve been trapped behind these eyes. the internet, like everything else, is just another little reminder of this. it’s here to wake us up to what we already know - there is no world outside of thought. there is no pain or pleasure outside of thought. we live inside our own representations.

I get out the bath and look outside the window. I make tea and sit down to write. it’s a life.

 

it’s already dark by the time we arrive. the Dead Sea. or, “Yam Hamelach”, the Sea of Salt, in Hebrew. as me and two friends unload the car I wonder which of these names is more descriptive. 

 

it’s quiet. 

 

very quiet. 

 

thoughts in my mind are like marathon runners. only this race is on a loop - someone tore out the finish line and painted the trails back to the start. no one knows. thoughts run the endless race until they face complete exhaustion, when they humbly cross the sideline into the cheering crowds who always accept them without question. there is never a sneer. everyone knows that each of them is always doing its best in trying to interpret the world, even when that interpretation is cruel or unkind. their nylon tops bear the names of their emotive sponsors: “Compassion”, “Ambition”, “Anger”, “Resentment”, “Self-Flagulation”, “Melancholy”, “Ecstacy” etc. they run with blind ambition, in complete oblivion. 

 

some thoughts run with abandon and bliss, endorphines flowing through their bodies. others face excrutiating pains at every footfall. new thoughts hardly ever join the race, only ones that are giving it another shot.

 

if this sounds tiring, well. it is. 

 

it takes a while for things to quiet down. given the right environment, everything slows down to a more managable pace. things become clear, movements less blurry. the crowds stop handing out water bottles from the sidelines - that endless barrage of rejuvinating stimuli that keeps the race going. suddenly each participant becomes aware of itself, aware of the moment - and suddenly a memory hits: I have been here before. I have run this course. it doesn’t ever end. how strange. 

 

and when this finally happens, I call it peace. 

 

in a place like the Dead Sea, peace is a bit of an inevitablity. 

 

as we spread out our picnic blankets, sleeping bags and a strangely random collection of foodstuff, I register shock in my consciousness. it isn’t used to so much quiet. I opt out of the fire-making arrangements and just sit there, wondering what my mind will come up with next to keep itself busy - to keep itself from experiencing the moment in all its glorified simplicity. I try to watch the race. after a few minutes, I figure it’s just more of the same old: money worries, romantic musings, people I don’t talk to anymore, countries I could be travelling to. situations I hadn’t handled all that well. notes for the future. comments on the past. lists. 

 

the next day I find a small pool of warm fountain water concealed by tall bamboos. a few people occassionally enter in the nude to wash off the mineral mud off their skin. through a manmade tunnel out of tires and wood, the water streams down and out into the sea, only several meters away. 

 

 

by the stream, two self-proclaimed Rainbow People are washing their crockery. one of them is from Bolivia, the other from Israel. 

after some small-talk (I learn that flying to Ethiopia is cheap and that a huge Rainbow Gathering is scheduled to happen there in March), we watch the water flow in silence. I see a small school of tiny silvery fish swimming vigorously upstream.

 

“wow! check them out.”

 

the Bolivian woman smiles. “yes, the water’s fresh. that’s their whole life, these little ones - swimming upstream. if they stop, they wash out to the sea and die, because of the salt.”

 

“that’s incredible. so much effort, just to survive. I wonder if they ever get tired of it.”

most of the time my mind thinks it knows what’s going on.

 

“I am having lunch with my mom.”

 

“I am getting my eyes tested.”

 

“I am refusing to give change to a beggar on the street.”

 

and so on.

 

this was no exception. I am walking down Even Gvirol street in Tel Aviv. I am going to pay in a cheque at the bank. I seem to have a special talent to always be unconscious during bank opening hours, which admittedly isn’t difficult to do in Israel. so I make full use of online services and branch postal boxes.

 

my mind registers a guy in jeans and a tight white t-shirt swaying on the pavement a few meters ahead of me. his eyes find mine, and that window of opportunity opens: that half-second that offers a choice between looking away, getting on with whatever it is you think you are doing, and letting reality present something new - an interaction with mostly predictable yet ultimately unknown results. wallets are unlikely to be opened, nor telephone numbers exchanged, nor lives be saved or lost. but then again, you never do know. I go for the second option. my eyes rest on his for another twinkling, authorizing his approach.

 

“man, have you seen a grey Honda?”

 

I go in. I always strive to give truthful answers unless I have a good reason not to. he gestures at the cars parked along the pavement.

 

I see grey cars.

 

now, I’m a person who, when being asked by a parking attendant what kind of car it is that I can’t find in a lot, says “it’s grey.” I don’t own a car and so I always drive others’ - I don’t care where they bought them from as long as I’m not taking them to the garage, despite the obvious usefulness of knowing outside of that particular eventuality.

 

I see grey cars. I don’t know which is a Honda. but before I get to dwell on the matter, this guy’s body movement and the half-empty Smirnoff bottle in his hand (no brand-recognition trouble there then) suggest more urgent questions to be answered.

 

“are you alright?”

 

“what can I do man. what can I do? she left me.”

 

he tells me this not so much apologetically but in anticipation of sympathy, as if being dumped justifies any kind of behaviour.

 

“oh. um. well, maybe you should have a drink of water instead of that vodka if you’re going to drive?…”

 

“but. but I don’t have water.”

 

“then… buy some,” I say, capitalistically enough.

 

the guy’s completely drunk. not a common sight for central Tel Aviv at 4pm. his eyes widen, obviously struggling to maintain focus on anything. his mouth opens and closes randomly, and his legs lose their balance every time someone walks past.

 

“hey man, you think it’s this one? man, you gotta help me. where did I park it? d’you know?”

 

“no, I… - look. you shouldn’t be driving right now.”

 

“but I need to get to work.”

 

he’s obviously not thinking straight. I put my hand on his shoulder in a performance of affection and care. the truth is I don’t know if I want to be in this situation. I want to go to the bank. this guy has been drinking, and I don’t want to help him. especially not to find his fucking car, with which he could only harm himself and others in the state he’s in.

 

“that bitch. there she is, up there,” he looks up at the two-storey building, “three years. three fucking years, you know - just like that.”

 

“listen, I have to go to the bank. sorry.”

 

“look, man,” he takes out a car key from his pocket and puts it to the lock of the nearest car, “I think maybe it’s this one, but that shit at the back, I don’t think. I don’t think it’s mine. just - the key won’t fit. can you - just help me unlock the door man and then go.”

 

“I don’t wanna help you do that, sorry.”

 

I turn away and go. my mind begins to evaluate the situation, reviewing my taken steps and possible outcomes. if nobody stops him, he’ll probably find his car, and if he doesn’t pass out inside, he’ll probably attempt to drive it. this is likely to end in some kind of crash. traffic may come to a halt. I don’t know if that’s a bad thing. people might be outraged. I don’t know.

 

he could also try and go back to the woman. maybe violence would ensue. maybe one of them would get hurt, or both. I don’t know.

 

or maybe he runs into someone with a little more sense of responsibility for others who will sit him down and bring him some water, or a coffee. I don’t know.

 

suddenly I find myself deeply saddened by the whole affair. under different circumstances, and granted a little more resourcefulness, I would have loved to hear his story, I tell myself. for a couple of seconds I indulge in seeing us both sitting on a step, maybe even sharing the rest of that vodka, spilling our hearts out. it’s not like I don’t know heartbreak. it’s not like I don’t know self-numbing. sure, he’s being stupid, but how many times have I nursed a bottle in hopes of avoiding my pain? I can see where he’s coming from. my reaction was heartless and passive. I could have insisted a bit more, I could have listened. or maybe that would have just postponed a terrible end. maybe what he needed is to be left to his own devices. I don’t know.

 

after slipping my cheque in the hole in the wall, I turn back where I came from. I decide to buy a big bottle of water, just in case. the man at the counter offers plastic cups, and I take one, thinking the drunk guy might struggle holding a 2 liter bottle upright. should I take two? no, I’ll just drink from the bottle. what if he’s one of those hygienics though? nah, he wouldn’t mind, especially being so drunk. drinking from the same bottle would create solidarity. he’ll see I thought about him, and that I’m open to spending time with him as long as he’s willing to sober up. it’ll be good. would he still be there though? I don’t know.

 

as I approach the spot again, I see a police car parked there behind “his” car with some people gathered around it. god. too late. he tried opening that car, someone called the police. damn it. I should have been quicker, I should have asked him to wait, or come with me. would the cops let me bring him water? I guess they could give him some at the station. maybe this is for the best, maybe they’ll keep him from doing serious damage. I still don’t know.

 

I spot the white T. he’s steadily leaning against the car, in conversation with the people around him, surely there to keep him from running away. I come up to him and give him the bottle in a bag.

 

“wow, you came back. guys, check it out, he came back to bring me water.”

 

he says this with a wholly sober accent.

 

“it looks like you don’t need it anymore. the police sobered you up?”

 

“yeah,” he laughs.

 

a girl with a clipboard comes up to me. the other three people there are all excited smiles.

 

“that is so sweet of you. Eyal is actually an actor, and we’re shooting this new TV series. don’t worry, we didn’t film you.”

 

I smile and drop my head, feeling foolish but relieved. duped out of my big moment of charity. “and I see the cops are cooperating?”

 

“yeah. but it’s so sweet of you!”

 

Eyal gives me a firm handshake and hands me back the bottle. good actor.

 

“well,” I say, “I guess I thought this is what would have helped me if I’d been in the same situation.”