Thursday was glorious. I joined friends for coffee in the morning, followed by a spin around the library, before I met another friend at a wonderful chai spot on the lower east side, and I rounded out the day at the Paris Theatre next to Bergdorf’s to see a movie.
The next morning I got up, meditated, ate some breakfast, brushed the cat, and then checked the New York Times website to see what fresh hell was in store for the nation, and as the page loaded, I realized I hadn’t looked at the news the previous day. A whole 36 hours had elapsed since I heard the latest outrage, been duped by provocative headlines, felt my blood rise at some new indignity upon our democracy.
Ever since the ascension to the throne of our little Mussolini and his cadre of villains, I’ve made sure to manage my media dosage. What do I need to know? Why and how often? What does this add to my life or what does it leech from it?
I’ve settled on a daily drive-by – peruse the headlines and subheds, open things that seem especially egregious, skim for the particulars, definitely ignore the “analyses” written by pundits (unlike the canaille, I can think for myself, thank you) – because, for the most part, the bad news keeps. I don’t need an update on the economic mess or the protests against Israel or the latest madman confirmed to a high-profile government post. It’ll be there tomorrow.
But this sunset won’t be. Nor the chance to read in the park. Or gossip with a friend. Or sip a divine hot chocolate. Or meditate by the river.
America’s spiritual marketplace has debased all philosophical truisms into catchy maxims scrawled across t-shirts and the ass of yoga pants, which makes me, unfairly, conflate the message with the medium, but that “live in the moment” thing still lands.
I’m no Pollyanna, and I consider those types socially irresponsible and spiritually juvenile. Life is tough. It’s more often tragic than not. Injustice is so de rigueur it’s shocking anyone can subscribe to the tripe about the moral universe having a bend towards rectitude and recompense. Violence is standard. Disease is common. Abuse is to be expected. I don’t believe telling a suffering person to think their way out of their dark night is compassionate or even appropriate – more, it’s self-righteous and rude.
All that as a preface to my own antidotes for this moment through which we, nationally, even globally, find ourselves staggering. People are getting disappeared. The administration is dismantling all funding to our library system. The Department of Education is soon to be a pile of charred brick. Talks of a third-term are in the air. An infrastructure for exiling unmentionables to foreign political prisons has been created for when the theocratic despots move on from obvious “enemies,” so-called terrorist gang members here illegally, to dissidents – women, the gays, Black people, etc.
But now, as I’m writing this, the window’s open on a lovely spring day. There’s a breeze. I can play Chopin nocturnes through the computer, and I’m physically without pain.
Good news all ‘round.
Some years ago, I started a gratitude practice where, after a meditation, or sometimes when I go for my morning walk, I speak aloud five things for which I’m grateful, and what I discovered is that they were nothing fancy, nothing big-picture.
I'm grateful I can walk, I heard a robin's lunatic laugh, I caught the smell of the sea on the east river, I took a breath clear and deep, Oh, yes, the velvet touch of magnolia blossoms.
There will be some reading this who’ll cry “Privilege!” as if privilege isn’t what we all want, the ease of life whereby our basic needs are cared for by ourselves, our communities, and our circumstances, but I would encourage you to step out of icy resentment and into sun-drenched gratitude. I’m not talking that treacled trash where people don trucker hats blazoned with “Blessed” (the trucker hat suggesting quite the opposite), but a recognition that there’s something here, now, that is a boon. It’s not loud. It’s not a Disney musical number. It’s the every day, and without a reorientation towards that local wonder, we become possessed by the bastards who want all our attention, who want to infect us with an obliviousness to delight.
One of the yogic principles extolled in Patanjali’s Yoga Sutras, a work far more complex than the dreck dribbled out by a teacher after savasana, is santosha, usually translated as “contentment.” There’s an argument to be made that most translators and most teachers remain wholly ignorant of the text, but whether or not the translation is accurate, the principal is vital to our well-being.
When is enough enough?
When is laughter fulfillment? Or the first tulip of spring? Or a rush of wind down the street that takes off your hat and ruffles your hair? Or watching a pair of lovers hold hands in the park? Or the surprise of celery in the fridge which makes a tuna sandwich so much more satisfying? Why not focus on these small, but satisfying victories instead of obsessively checking the headlines?
Some examples from right now:
TRUMP TARIFFS SEND MARKET REELING Your Life Will Never Be The Same After These Tariffs Trump Sidelines Justice Dept. Office, Eroding Another Check on His Power Why Are So Many Young Adults Getting Cancer? Invasion of the Home Robots
In 2015, Cate Blanchett and Robert Redford starred in the movie Truth, Redford as Dan Rather and Blanchett as his producer, Mary Mapes, both of whom were disgraced by a kerfuffle about the provenance of George W. Bush’s AWOL military records (awwwww, Georgie, what a piker you look now). In a scene I sadly can’t find on the interwebs, Redford says that once the corporate goons figured out the nightly news could make money, the nature of the news changed.
And so we return to the above headlines. These are designed to hijack your attention, to get that click, to make sure the advertiser slithers into your peripheral and your subconscious. Words and phrases like “reeling,” “never be the same,” “invasion” (even with its cheeky, 1950s sci-fi tone), the all caps usually reserved for declarations of war, all of these are click-bait, formulated to keep your nerves strung out and your attention on the site, the urgency of the moment, and, ironically, the very person all of us are sick of talking about. He wasn’t wrong when he said he’s good for the papers.
Having been a journalist, I know the tricks when I see them. I know how to work quotes to support the story I want to tell, while still providing a counterpoint for the sake of “integrity.” The above headlines are yellow journalism meant to excite us, not stimulate measured responses based on information.
I’m not encouraging anyone to ignore our circumstances. That’s foolish, especially given the danger posed to…well, soon enough everyone, but I do exhort you to tend your dosage of the above chicanery and to balance it with moments of ease, peace, wonder, and laughter.
In spite of hardship, life plods cruelly on. During the pandemic, as bodies were chucked into trucks because the morgues were full, the birds sang, the flowers opened, the waves sparkled with light. Life continues, even as death, change, fear, despair rise up against us, but most certainly when these specters haunt our days, we must indulge the deep pleasures of simplicity.
After I saw these headlines, I got up to stretch, pet the cat, open the window, get a glass of water, and then a true miracle occurred.
I saw a paper bag on the counter.
What is that – WAIT! I forgot! I bought chocolate rugelach at Blue Stripes earlier today. What bliss! The best rugelach I’ve ever had awaits me as a reward. Sure, fascism rises again, but if we really tumble down the well, I’ll clutch this chocolate confection during the plunge.
Which reminds me of a Buddhist story:
A monk flees a tiger who pursues him through the jungle. The robed man jumps over downed trees, skirts ponds, breaks through the underbrush to find…a cliff! With the big cat bounding behind him, he leaps over the edge and grabs a vine hanging from the cliff face. The tiger swats at him from above and roars, angry that dinner is now out of reach. The monk looks below him, hoping the drop isn’t far. He might make it, but then another tiger emerges from the jungle and peers up at him, curious about this morsel swinging from the rock. The monk then sees two mice, one black, one white, skitter down the vine and begin to nibble at it, sure to bite through his one salvation. Nearby, a branch from a mango tree with one swollen fruit. He plucks it.
How sweet it tastes!
My own tiger who, apparently, has created a lair…in my couch. I’m rattling a box of treats to lure her out. No luck, but another reminder that not everything has to do with the news.
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I keep saying this, but I think this may be the best one you've written, by far. The message it offers is one each of us should contemplate every day as a palliative to the fire
hose of madness coming at us almost by the minute. It didn't hurt either, that you included one of my very favorite Zen stories (but in mine, it is a strawberry that tastes so sweet!) Another terrific column!
That cat has discovered a whole new way o take over the couch. We had a cat once who managed to commandeer the couch by stretching out her whole body and tail so that wherever we tried to sit, we'd squash a bit of her. But at least we could see her. The possibility of a cat hidden in the depths of the sofa makes sitting down to enjoy those pastries challenging...