I am often taken with the power of stories to convey better, with deeper meaning, and more efficiently, complex or difficult to explain ideas. A few weeks ago, I wrote a post that was basically two stories; I got good feedback.
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Jack grew up poor. He hated it. He would watch important men in suits walk by and think, One day, that’s going to be me.He dreamed of driving a beautiful car and living in a big house. He made plans for this, schemed, and imagined ways to become rich and powerful and successful—of never again feeling the shame and pain of wanting. His mother told him he needed to be strong, and he grew skilled at burying any sign of weakness or discomfort.
He did well in school, and when he arrived at college, he studied economics. He learned about homo economicus and Adam Smith’s belief that rational self-interest leads to prosperity. He also realized that not all classes were equally useful, so applying the lessons of economics, he paid other students to handle the ones he found tedious and impaired his ability to make money. It wasn’t just about efficiency—he despised the unease that came with writing essays that forced him to think about himself. While he liked people and people liked him, he spent most of his time working and saving money. By graduation, he was already on his way.
He did well. He worked longer and harder than anyone else. He learned to optimize for what mattered. He hated cleaning—the smell, the mess, the reminder that life could get dirty—and he hired someone to do it for him. Cooking, laundry, grocery shopping—he developed clever solutions for every unpleasant, boring, or unproductive part of life. He was a master at solving for feeling small or clumsy. He once tried hiring someone to go to the doctor and dentist for him but concluded that– for now at least– some problems with his physical body could not be delegated.
When it came to dating, he hired a matchmaker, but that proved too much work. He instead assigned an assistant to manage his dating life—to vet potential candidates, understand their interests, buy appropriate gifts, and plan events. Given that he was young, ambitious, and rapidly becoming very rich, there was no shortage of suitors.
When it came, parenthood was mostly a distraction from what was important. But he realized he could hire that role out too, and found child experts to handle the unpleasant parts. As his children grew and difficult conversations arose, he hired therapists to have those talks for him. It was better this way—professionals were trained for that sort of emotional mess. It was not Jack’s core competence.
As he became truly wealthy, people sought him out and genuflected at the altar of his success. He enjoyed it. Their admiration confirmed what he already believed: he was right to keep moving forward, right to stay focused on the future, right to stay focused on the areas where he truly excelled. The houses and edifices he built were only preludes; he barely saw them, already lost in plans for what came next.
When people made him uncomfortable, he removed them from his life and turned back to his plans for the future. Given how much he had to dream about, it wasn’t hard to forget them. That’s what happened, essentially, to his younger child, who kept asking for his attention and refused to see the bigger picture. His assistant blocked her as a contact, and the problem faded away—but that was fine, because there were important things to attend to.
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I recently came across this story in a book by Joko Beck that was written by Dogen Zenji, the founder of Soto Zen, about an elderly tenzo (cook) at a monastery, working hard outside the kitchen.
He carried a bamboo stick but had no hat on his head. The sun’s rays beat down so harshly that the tiles along the walk burned one’s feet. He worked hard and was covered with sweat. I could not help but feel the work was too much of a strain for him. His back was a bow drawn taut, his long eyebrows were crane white.
I approached and asked his age. He replied that he was sixty-eight years old. Then I went on to ask him why he never used any assistants.
He answered, “Other people are not me.”
“You are right,” I said, “I can see that your work is the activity of the Buddha-dharma, but why are you working so hard in this scorching sun?”
He replied, “If I do not do it now, when else can I do it?”
There was nothing else for me to say. As I walked on along that passageway, I began to sense inwardly the true significance of the role of tenzo.
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We often avoid the hard parts of life because they are… hard. We live in the past or the future, we live in our plans or our schemes. We try to move away from the difficulty at the core of our relationships and our situations. The irony is that often, the more we try to avoid suffering by avoiding these hard parts, the more difficult it all becomes.
Love,
Doc
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