Minimalist Thoughts

A few days ago, someone asked me about minimalism. I had done a few local podcasts with a friend about minimalism and as a consequence I am sometimes viewed as a “minimalist.” Hopefully this website URL nixes that idea.

That said, this person asked me if I thought folding phones would be good for minimalism. “After all,” he said, “they take up less space.”

This very question underscores a deep flaw in a lot of minimalists: that ironically, they are still obsessed with things. The obsession with possessions has just switched to a preference for things with a “minimalist aesthetic.” The inner materialist is not destroyed, but rather transferred to new yearnings. Thoughts are still dominated by acquisition, but isn’t the purpose of minimalism supposed to be free oneself of consumerism?

I replied that if you want a phone that helps you to not give a damn about “things,” your best bet would be to have a phone that you don’t give a damn about. Get a cheap Motorola (if you actually need a new phone) or something that that is so low on the status totem pole, it’s unlikely to encompass any amount of time or thought at all. Don’t get a thousand dollar “folding phone.” After all, the whole idea of “minimalism” is to not place one’s focus on material possessions. I don’t think Seneca or any stoic would care about how big or small his phone was. Seeking more compact models that take up less space has the same end result as seeking iPhone upgrades: you’re still constantly looking for the next best thing.

This flaw in minimalism can also be seen in the pursuit of clothes. I know minimalists who are constantly seeking “more minimalist pants.” In most cases these are pants that serve multiple functions: pants you can bike, hike, travel, or go to the office in. They are pricier and tend to be made of more premium materials. And therein lies the issue: the pursuit of minimalist pants is a materialist pursuit. Whatever space you save in “wardrobe space” is negated by the time you lose thinking about pants.

If one was really seeking minimalist clothes, I think a more effective approach would be to shop for basic and affordable things and then forget about “how many things are in a wardrobe.” The whole idea is to not think about your wardrobe at all.

Live with imperfection. That’s the only way to really free yourself of consumerism.

I state this to emphasize the obvious: there is a maximalist lurking inside most minimalists.

Welcome to the Hustle

PC powered on immediately upon returning from a morning run. VPN connected. An onslaught of unanswered emails. Microsoft Teams messages requesting answers to urgent questions. Everything is pressing, everything is dire. The careerists will rest when they’re dead, and if their sleep is any indication, that may sadly happen sooner than they’d like.

I prepare a smoothie and a coffee. In those minutes spent preparing breakfast, the emails continue piling. Performance is on the line. Schedules must be finalized. People must have answers.

I sip my coffee slowly and read a little Orwell. I mute the abrasive Microsoft Teams sounds. Peace is my preference.

The screens glow, but it is nothing like the soft and soothing incandescence of a firefly at night. It is an intrusive glow, a glow that disrupts rest and shortens breath, a glow that sends the blood pressure steadily up. It is an artificial light from an artificial app, rife with artificial messages that are plagued with artificial pleasantries.

There is no empathy for my own personal interests in this screen-plagued environment. I am a cog in the wheel. Should I break, another cog will quickly replace me. I am one bullet point in a list, somewhere in a section within a procedure. My replacement would likely be bought at a cheaper price. If I exercise routinely or eat well, the other cogs scoff; they are content to just sit, log in, turn the wheel, and be careerists. They don’t prioritize movement, long meals, sunshine, or conversation. They prioritize work.

Health is nothing in the eyes of the false idol that is careerism. This false idol demands you sit, obey, and devote yourself at the altar of the corporate ladder. If you are not a team member, by golly you must be selfish.

The adherents to careerism answer emails well into the evening hours. They do not read a bible before bed; they check emails. They do not take a walk through the park unless they can multitask it with conference calls. They do not see meals as festivities; they seem them as necessary acts of binging that could potentially impede productivity.

I ignore my messages for a few minutes and take a walk outside; it’s 9:00 am. Patience is not a virtue in this place; it’s an interference. You need goals, I’m told. I have a goal though: to enjoy my day. The sun still shines outside. Microsoft Teams will be obsoleted long before the sun collapses. A mere hundred years from now, most career roles will be obsoleted and their participants likely buried. Yet trees will still grow at that time. Birds will still lay nests. The earth will continue its revolutions around the sun, and careerism will have not even managed a blip on the radar of the universe.

I salute you, quiet quitters.

Happiness, Pain, and Destruction

We’re on the cusp of the curtain call for 2022.

I spent last night reading some of George Orwell’s old journals and letters (he was a prolific writer even outside of his novels). In one entry he wrote of the inevitability of experiencing happiness, pain, and destruction in one’s life.

2022 was, personally, a great year that certainly included a plethora of happiness, a cocktail of pain, and glimpses of destruction.

Happiness:

1. Hiking through Yellowstone and exploring mountain ranges outside Bozeman, Montana.

2. Attending weddings in Ohio and North Caroline, for a cousin and a friend, respectively.

3. Bikepacking along the east coast of the United States for hundreds of miles and camping in nature.

4. Exploring the San Diego, California beaches and city.

5. Completing my first (and second) half-marathon.

6. Visiting family in Fort Lauderdale, Florida and observing the insanely large numbers of iguanas in the area.

7. Exploring Northern California, particularly Sonoma County and San Francisco, seeing the various geographies including valleys, forests, and beaches, and drinking some of the best wines I’ve ever tasted.

8. Hiking through Shawnee National Forest and lodging in a cabin nicely tucked away from civilization.

9. Celebrating three years of a relationship.

Whew! All that in one year!?

I had one pain that was more obvious than all others, and it was physical. I began 2022 the same way I ended it: in physical therapy. In January I was finishing physical therapy for a damaged foot after being hit by a car in 2021.

Then, in early November I broke my collarbone in a cycling crash. I’m therefore closing 2022 in physical therapy as well (but this time I have already returned to running and most activities). I do not want this to be an annual December activity!

It’s a shame that both injuries occurred on a bicycle, but it’s a reality that I must accept. Your pain is a lonely endeavor, and the relationship between you and your pain is perfectly monogamous. Pain devotes itself solely to you, and like any relationship, only you can grasp the entirety of its severity.

I’d write that the good thing about pain is that it inevitably goes away, but this would be a lie. Various pains linger on, and some pains only gradually worsen. Orwell, for example, contracted tuberculosis, and his final years alive were spent in gradually worsening pain.

My point from writing this is not to horrify, but to note that pain shouldn’t be feared, but rather accepted as inevitable.

And what about destruction? One of my uncles passed away, which was another reminder of my own mortality. We tend to put the “ass” in “assume” by assuming that our lives will be long, but the sad fact is that many of us go too soon. What awaits on the other side I won’t delve into here. I will only note that we have no choice but to pass eventually.

If we fear the future it breeds anxiety. We should just accept it so that we can focus on today.

And that quick summary of some happiness, pain, and destruction closes 2022, dear reader. I’ve kept my online journal going for more than two years and intend to continue in 2023.

Hopefully next year brings a plethora of happiness and a minimal amount of pain and destruction for the both of us! On to the next adventure…

The Waiting Game

Two weeks after my collarbone break, I find my health status and daily routine mostly the same.

I visited an orthopedic on Friday with hope of better-than-expected news: hope that the bone was healing faster than forecasted, that I would be running in a few days, and that the sling was no longer needed.

That was not the case. The break had not yet reattached and if anything it had displaced a little further. I was relieved that this is typical during the first two weeks, and the displacement was still not significant enough to require surgery. No surgery required yet, at least, but I have to keep resting. I still require the sling, at least for a few more weeks. I am “nowhere near running.”

So, I find myself playing a waiting game. Removed from most physical activity, I’m spending more time reading and writing. I’m trying to focus on the silver lining of the situation: I’m sleeping better, relaxing, and healing. I’m trying to do what I can do well without too much worry over what I can’t do. I’ve been down this road before. Last year ended in the exact same fashion for me.

Though I had initial thoughts that my cycling days might be over, I found myself spending the weekend watching videos of bikepacking trips through mountains and forests. The videos left me envious, motivated, and inspired. Of course I’ll be back on the bike. Falling is a natural part of the process. I’ve had some great adventures and don’t want those to end. There’s something I get by being out in the wild that I cannot find anywhere else. As most bikepackers will tell you, there’s often a search for some deeper meaning at the start of the journey. Whether or not it’s found is pretty irrelevant. Something is found regardless.

There is another silver lining: I am more immersed in my own thought. I’m more attuned to what I want and where I see myself going. I’ll have more vigor when I am finally moving around like my old self. I’ve gained some intentionalism.

As I wait for the bone to heal, I also remind myself that we tend to have short-term memories when it comes to pain. What can seem unbearable in the moment is quickly a distant memory. We can try to recapture the agony, but it’s as though our minds usher the feeling out of our neurons completely.

Eventually this collarbone injury will be a memory too. I’ll be back on a bicycle with recollection that breaking it hurt, but the extent of how badly it hurt will be lost. And maybe that’s for the best. We’d never take another risk again if our minds kept acute memories of every bump and bruise.

The Origins of Wind

I woke up just before dawn, stretched, and went for a brief jog that cut straight through downtown and then looped back to my apartment. I haven’t done much jogging the past few weeks; after a few half-marathons, I decided to spend November doing other exercises and activities. You can overdo anything, after all.

The weather forecast never indicated rain, though the skies were gaunt and the air had the metallic scent of an impending storm. Puddles blotched the streets from rainfall the night before.

A torrential downpour of rain slammed down on me shortly after I crossed the St Louis Arch. Gusts of wind gained intensity and lashed rain against my face. The wind, in my imagination, seemed capable of leveling each building and tree, and finally rendering downtown a pile of rubble.

Finally, I arrived back at my apartment, totally drenched.

I thought about when I was young and I always wondered if wind had an origin. In my mind, there was some faraway land, owned by wind’s creator, initiating these gusts and storms. Or did wind just appear out of thin air?

Obviously there is a scientific explanation for wind, but some things in life are best left a mystery. The unknown opens the imagination, whereas explanations kill it.

The rain stopped about as abruptly as it arrived. There was something other-worldly about it.

The escapist in me looks for these “other-worldly” signs. The day before, I crossed a rest station on the Riverfront Trail, and it reminded me of a train station. Suddenly I imagined the train station from Spirited Away that Chahiro took to visit the witch’s twin sister. It was the same train station occupied by various spirits, navigating a strange purgatorial world.

Would I take this haunted train, and would it take me on some fantastic adventure, away from the consumerism and hustle culture that seem to prevail in the city?

Spirited Away is an amazing movie. Who were these spirits, and where were they going? Brilliantly, the movie doesn’t tell us much. Like the origins of wind, it’s best left a mystery.

“I Would Prefer Not To”

I find myself thinking about Herman Melville’s masterpiece of short fiction, “Bartleby, the Scrivener: A Story of Wall Street.”

In the story, a newly hired clerk named Bartleby is subjected to an intense day’s work. After being overworked he answers every task with a simple, “I would prefer not to,” and then he does nothing. He arrives at the office daily, but sits and stares at a brick wall. When pushed for productivity, he always gives the same answer: “I would prefer not to.” He enrages his colleagues, but holds steadfast with this routine to the end. He’d rather sit and think than succumb to industrialized society.

Bartleby is the hero of the story: he does not let others impose their realities over his own.

I look at my own to-do list and think that sometimes “doing” is overrated. Sometimes task completion is arbitrary.

Yet leisure, always, is underrated, especially in hustle culture. The morning ritual of drinking coffee or tea should arguably last for hours, not seconds. It should be a joy, not a chore.

We should dream when we sleep, and remember our dreams, and aspire to spend much of our lives asleep, not under-slept. Sleep should not be a hindrance to work: it should be the amplifier of livelihood.

And what about the to-do list?

“I would prefer not to.”

Changing Seasons, and Retirement

The air is brisker at dawn this week, a preliminary sign of fall. Fall is probably my favorite season; as chlorophyll’s green subsides and is replaced by vibrant shades of rust, orange, and yellow, one can easily gain a sense of change in oneself.

I was talking about retirement with a colleague the other day as she approaches her own retirement. She told me about her best friend’s husband, who died suddenly of a heart attack while on a cruise, just months after retirement.

“That’s horrific,” I said. “All that saving, all that planning, and in the end it meant nothing.”

There’s a similar lesson in the acclaimed Korean film Parasite: the best kind of plan is no plan.

“That’s why I don’t want to wait any longer to retire,” she said. “I don’t want to wait for more money or whatever. I don’t want to wait to be rich. I’d rather just be free now.”

A lesson lurked beneath those words. There is a cost to having money. There is a cost to wanting things.

That cost is often freedom, and in a life that’s already painfully short and impossible to forecast, this cost tends to be much higher than people want it to be.

I’d be lying if I said that I don’t still desire things. There’s always an upgrade, and the rate of potential upgrades is accelerating as society turns its faith toward the credit card.

There is always a better car, or another car, or another shirt. Believe me, I can find them easily. Hell, there’s always a better bicycle. One can surgically make oneself taller, lift the face, dye the hair, and smooth out some wrinkles. All of these enhancements will provide a nice illusion: the illusion that time isn’t actually degrading you.

I try to take some deep breaths and absorb this present moment in time. How is this not enough? How do I not have enough?

I am not thinking much about the future these days, or even retirement. It can’t be forecasted, and hopes bring with them stresses. I’ll just be glad to enjoy this fall season.

Hustle Culture

Hustle culture can seem omnipresent in the city.

Cars rush forward at the break of dawn because hurry is the queen bee of the hive. Stoplight to stoplight, interstate entry to interstate exit, drivers hope to save ten seconds, for the sake of being on time (the white rabbit is always a slave to the queen). Their mood and their morale are fully dependent on the mercy of the stoplight and the traffic congestion. The roads, and their vehicles, are therefore their masters.

Breakfast is not so much an experience as it is an inconvenience, solved via the drive-through.

Coffee is slammed, not sipped.

There are agendas for the day. Emails to answer. Calls to take. Appointments to arrive at.

The best to-do list, according to hustle culture, is one that forever adds and never subtracts.

To that I say, the best to-do list is one thrown in the garbage and forgotten!

A breakfast is better spent over three hours than over three minutes. Give me jokes, countless cups of good coffee (and no deadline to finish them), merry company, and sunshine! Let me taste real food and engage with real people.

A rushed drive to work is best replaced by a slow walk through a forest.

A screen is best replaced by a book, a painting, or a music album to listen to.

An obsession over retirement is best replaced by a spontaneous and fun hobby for today.

Fretting over the future is best replaced by contentment for this beautiful, precious moment, a moment in which we are aware of our own existence.

This is what I aspire to… which is why I’ll take my time with my coffee this morning.

Conversion to Machine

I enter age 37 with a desire to take a trip and get lost on a random adventure. In a banal daily work routine, which can feel like a constant slideshow of indistinguishable and bland virtual meetings, interactions seem progressively colder and more detached. Work hours pass in purgatorial fashion. All smiling is off-camera. All laughter is on mute. There is an agenda and we must tackle it. We must perform. There is no time for small talk. No time for warmth.

The conversion to machine is gradual and is predicated on the need for comfort.

I try to counter these dark feelings, which I write about freely here, with cycling. Cycling is purely for me, the most selfish of hobbies. Adults generally don’t give a damn that I can ride a bike really far. There’s no one to impress. It’s not like my old days as a swimmer, when I won to gain the adulation of everyone around me. I just find cycling fun. Adults are often too consumed with their own consumption to be concerned with activities involving movement. Cycling is my antidote to the soul sucking virus that is careerism.

Is there still a ghost in the adults of today, or has the spirit left the shell?

Virtual work means that jokes are followed by silence and emails are followed by a false sense of urgency.

“This is the new trend!” I’m told, but I note that the general population has gained misery, weight, and anxiety since the pandemic. There is always a trade-off for convenience. Faust doesn’t grant wishes without taking something in return.

Years ago, I was lost somewhere in Russia. It was a random trip I took while living in China. It’s a coastal city with a relatively friendly atmosphere.

Getting lost is actually pretty fun; cycling reminds me of that when I take a wrong turn. Trips remind me of that when I meander aimlessly through the foreign city streets. Adults hate being lost, but kids generally love it. Adults prefer predictability and assurance. A destination is the ultimate form of salvation for the worker. They want a linear path without bumps. Point A to Point B, and not a minute to waste.

Yet the white rabbit is always a slave to the queen, as Alice in Wonderland showed. But the modern adults wants pavement, an air conditioned environment, and a to-do list that forever grows, forever demanding haste. I cannot relate: I find solace in the rocky terrain of a faraway trail, where haste is revealed to be arbitrary.

I remember hiking Eagle’s Nest Hill in Vladivostok and quickly getting lost, somewhere off the trail due to a lack of focus, and not really caring. Time ceases to matter when there is no agenda. Can adults abandon agendas for awhile? Who cares if the paved route is far away? I remember being somewhere high, on a bluff, overlooking the city. So I still arrived at some interesting destination. It’s the randomness and unpredictability that I prefer. I was on the opposite side of the world, which is both thrilling and terrifying.

The computer, and its primary appendage the phone, is placed at the altar of the modern posh careerist. It demands of its flock a new form of faith and a false set of promises. Mortality can be avoided, it says, with the swipe of a credit card, the pop of a pill bottle, or the adherence to a politician. Swiping requires money, which requires work, which requires sitting and staring and hurrying.

May we all be lost somewhere, in a strange city we’ve never been to, and wander aimlessly, without an agenda, in search of new adventures. Maybe somewhere, in the midst of that wandering, we’ll reencounter our long lost inner child.

A Yearner’s Dilemma

The boy sat at the crest of the sandy New Mexico hill and gazed out toward the pastel-colored horizon. The air was still and the sun seethed his flesh. He didn’t mind the heat. The sweat reminded him that he was still alive, that he could still feel discomfort. If I could just finish school and get into college, he thought, I will have made it. I won’t need to worry anymore.

The student waited anxiously in his college dormitory for his exam grades to appear on his computer screen. He refreshed the screen continuously, hoping for the grades that would lead him towards salvation in the form of salary. If I can just finish college and get into Grad school, I will have done what I need to do, he thought. I will have made it. I won’t need to worry anymore.

The young graduate sat at his newly purchased office desk and stared at a phone that wouldn’t ring. Any day the company’s HR department would call to let him know whether he was selected for the position. If I can just get a good job I will have done everything I set out to do, he thought. I will have made it. I won’t need to worry anymore. I’ll have a salary.

The young professional calculated his new retirement plan to gauge whether it was trending towards his financial goals. These goals were fed to him via his company and told him whether or not his life would be secure in old age. Four years into work and he was still far off-target. He wouldn’t have his annual health insurance, life insurance, or vacation savings at an adequate level to keep from going under. Heart attacks are on the rise, after all. So he stared at his financial figures. Numbers floated in the space of his computer screen, but the numbers were not high enough. If I can just have another one hundred thousand dollars, I will have made it, he thought. I’ll have everything I need. I can finally stop chasing.

Having suffered a mid-life crisis in spite of a generous salary raise, the newly anointed executive stared at his newfound gray hairs and furrowed brow. Who is this balding and debilitating thing staring back at me through the mirror, this creature that was once a child? Now the kids have expenses for their sports. The family food bill is a flood that’s drowning his hopes and dreams. Damn their carnivorous appetites and their needs for toys. I was supposed to have made it, the executive thought to himself. But I’m falling farther behind. He couldn’t even begin to think about college expenses for the kids, nonetheless retirement. He’d be bound to virtual work as an octogenarian, crippled in a nursing home yet still reviewing spreadsheets. But if I can just get another two hundred thousand dollars, he thought, maybe I’ll have what I need. Maybe I can stop worrying. I will have made it.

The newly retired corporate careerist left the office at noon a free man. He was scared: hopefully Social Security would be high enough to cover his future costs. He had no benefits. And to make matters worse he had crippling anxiety from the past decades of work, and his fears steadily debilitated his cardiovascular health. He had enough, but did he have enough to truly be free? His dreams of European vacations still seemed out-of-reach. Maybe if I work part-time, he thought, I’d still have time to get there. He just needed an extra hundred thousand dollars. Time was ticking. The males in his family have a history of strokes and most of these strokes hit in the late 60s. He was 67. And yet he hadn’t done anything but try to get ahead. None of it felt fair. He didn’t have anything that he was entitled to.

Still, he thought, just another hundred thousand dollars and I’ll truly be free. I’ll have what I need to cover my bases. I will have made it. I can finally stop worrying.

He thought of the little boy on the New Mexico hill and wished he’d learned to stop yearning sixty years prior.

Willingness to Experiment

I ran this morning with minimalist shoes. Running with minimalist shoes is something that I’ve been slowly and steadily reintegrating into my routine. Most of my “runs without cushion on my feet” are slow-paced and shorter in distance.

Upon returning to minimalist shoes and the occasional barefoot walks, I quickly rediscovered the value of minimalist running. Minimalist shoes do quickly bring me closer to what I would describe as a “natural stride.” Cushion tends to blunt the mind’s ability to register bad form. We have a gazillion nerve endings in our feet and their duty is to detect danger; numbing them with foam doesn’t necessarily help our form.

Minimalist shoes also seem to work the calf muscles more than “maximal shoes.” I certainly felt more of a “calf burn” on the last mile.

There is value in trying new things. I’ve gained something from running in both maximal and minimal shoes. I don’t necessarily prefer one over the other. I can say that when running at a high intensity for a large number of miles, I find cushioned shoes to be pretty useful. I also find minimal shoes useful for correcting my form and general casual activities.

It’s important for me to not peg my identity on a brand, a style, or even a category. I’m not a “minimalist runner” any more than I’m a “maximalist runner.” I simply run by using whatever manner works, and I’m willing to try a different method if it reads as interesting. At the end of the day it’s an activity that we were born to do, and it should be fun. So, I’m willing to use whatever methods make running fun.

On another front, I’ve also been experimenting with diet. For example, upon returning to the US from China I dedicated myself to intermittent fasting. I stuck with it for the better part of three years and had a degree of success with it. How much of my improved health was actually a result of fasting, though, versus a multitude of other factors (caloric restriction and increased exercise, to name two factors) is difficult to say.

I abandoned intermittent fasting because I found it difficult to maintain running and cycling performance while adhering to a feeding window. I’ve tried a few long fasted runs over the past few months and even completed a fasted half marathon. However, I found my power to be limited and my abilities in a fasted state to be confined to a “low heart rate range”.

Also, there is no extra medal given for completing a run without food. If you lose to a guy who ate pancakes for breakfast, you still lost.

Moving away from intermittent fasting was simple because my feeding window was simple: I skipped breakfast.

Are there advantages to fasting? Sure. When deprived of carbohydrates, the body uses fat as its primary fuel source. The advantage of this is that fats are an extremely efficient form of energy. If my aim was simply to walk around the world on minimal fuel, a diet high in fat and low in carbohydrates might be a wise option. Fasting can also be an effective means of weight loss for this reason, especially if your body is not adept at fat oxidation due to carb overload.

For me, fat is not the best fuel source when seeking running and cycling performance. Glycogen provides me more power and arguably requires less oxygen to burn. The downside is that glycogen depletes quickly, so you need a lot of fuel. That said, for what I’m seeking (my best possible marathon time), I prefer relying primarily on glycogen.

This means I’ve largely abandoned my fasted runs and fasting routines. Maybe I’ll do some fasting during the occasional break from running, but I don’t view it as a priority. I haven’t noticed any diminishing returns from eating breakfast yet and it’s been about a month since I quit fasting.

Like I regard running shoes, I don’t want diet to define me. It’s easy to label oneself based on current diet. One can be “keto,” “vegan,” “carnivore,” “paleo,” or “low carb,” among a multitude of other things. I don’t want to permanently peg myself in any one category because it prohibits the opportunity of trying another. There’s a valid argument to be made in a lot of them; otherwise, they wouldn’t have popularized.

I can say that these days I’ve limited my meat intake and increased my carbohydrates. I generally feel better and I’ve noticed a very sizable performance increase. I’ve been eating some meat for the occasional dinner, but that’s about it. Starchy foods and vegetables have largely replaced what was once plates rife with beef.

The point is not that one diet is better than another, though: the point is that there is value in self-experimentation. We only have one life so we might as well learn what we can!

A Conversation about Minimalism

Last week I had a fun coffee shop conversation with a friend about minimalism. He recorded it for a podcast that he runs. I don’t consider myself a minimalist, but I do enjoy reading about minimalism and consider some minimalist practices to avoid overindulging in consumerism.

If you’re interested in minimalism feel free to give it a listen:

A conversation about minimalism

The Quest for More

Upon reflection, I most often find myself feeling broken by my own quest for more. It can seem like I am trapped within a Sisyphean fate; each acquisition is a larger stone to push. No purchase has patched the void that started the quest for more.

The fire that lights my hell is therefore the notion that I do not have enough.

A feeling of inadequacy transmutes into a craving for something better.

This craving for something better pries open the wallet, for the sake of better days ahead.

The opening of the wallet compels the purchaser to work the hours he or she would rather be idling.

It is difficult to reverse this sick pathology, which is so well-engrained in consumerism.

At the core of my quest for more I see that there is a social element to suffering.

When fully engrained in consumerism, I compare myself to others and vie for what they have, or for more than what they have. It is the dark side of the competitor. The sense of “enough” is therefore not internal. I adhere to the perceived expectations of others, and the expectations of consumers is always to have more. So I acquire more, which requires more labor, which curtails freedom and cripples the mind.

At the same time, I sense that the “old me” is still alive, which means that there is still hope to say “enough.”

I hope to eliminate “lack” from my vocabulary.

Mitakpa

Mitakpa is impermanence. From what I’ve gathered, it is arguably the core of Buddhism.

If Mitakpa is impermanence, it obviously means that, well, nothing lasts forever. Everything changes and nothing can be held eternally, kept frozen in its present state. Even stars die.

Suffering therefore stems from attempting to cling to the current state of something. Wishing to prevent change breeds anguish. This attempt to keep something “as is” can be directed toward a person or thing, or even toward oneself.

Buddha’s final words were notably a reminder that nothing lasts forever, that all things die. “All things change. Whatever is born is subject to decay…” he said. “All individual things pass away.”

What are the consequences of a false sense of Mitakpa?

“I will do that when I retire,” we constantly say as we withhold our true desires. We prescribe ourselves to the false notion that our time is everlasting, drawn from a fountain that pours with an infinite water supply. By wasting this year we believe that we open the gates to our eternal salvation, many years from now, a “promised land” lurking in a hypothetical future, a future that was written by someone else.

But our cells steadily weaken and degrade, whether we choose to withhold our desires or not. My own mind, body, and spirit will not be the same in twenty years. I have limited influence on my rate of decay (and some things could change for the better). Your control is also limited, and a better health insurance plan will not prevent the inevitable.

The smartphone deludes its owner into believing it is a key to immortality, having been given access to an entire world of information at all times, and given infinite lenses from which to view strangers. But these Faustian things drain you of your life force while falsifying your sense of being. They tell you that you exist in an eternal state of watching and consuming. Their manufacturers want you to believe that they are a medium of absolute power. Meanwhile, they insidiously accelerate your sense of time, rendering your brief stay on this planet even briefer. Days on a phone feel like seconds. Years feel like moments. Nothing is created but a few health issues from long periods of staring.

Bodily enhancements delude us into thinking we will prevent cellular degradation. A sag can be countered with a lift. Bad diet can be countered with a triple bypass. But no number of lip injections can keep a person from eventually withering away. Surgeries may tighten your skin, but they will not prevent your insides from rotting.

“Well, once my savings are high enough.” This is the antithesis of Mitakpa. This is a heralded phrase in this day and age. And yet the concept of “work until retirement” is relatively new in the scope of human history. Death is the only certain retirement. “Retirement” claims to be heaven, but for most it is tragically brief and limited.

Mitakpa also sheds light on the dangers of materialism. We want our acquisitions to remain as pristine as they were when we bought them. But cars rust and dent. Paint chips away steadily, revealing spots of ugliness beneath the lovely pastels. Kitchen flooring needs replacement. Objects collect dust and we constantly fret over maintaining our aura of perfection. Maintenance requires money. Yet we truly own nothing.

Meanwhile, industry constantly redefines standards of what perfection may be. This definition shifts according to what industry requires for economic growth. Clothes must be cleaner. Cars must be faster. Jobs must offer better “benefits.” Skin must be smoother. Social acceptance must require more time on the phone.

So we acquire more and more, needing that “one thing” to bring a sense of inner peace, and the hole inside us deepens. We obsess over keeping more things in a “new” state of being, in a state of permanence, our futile attempt to defy Mitakpa. And our suffering worsens, and we decide that we suffer more because we need more. And it hurts that much worse when the things that we purchased are inevitably destroyed or cast aside!

I do believe that there is relief in accepting that life is brutally short and that control over one’s own lifespan is limited. Letting go of the romantic sensibilities of materialist-driven salvation, and evading the Hollywood endings meant only to keep one subjugated and downtrodden, can at least give one a sensible grasp of his or her own true power.

The crux of consumerism is the suggestion that the consumer has deficiencies; there just isn’t much power in that.

I say this because time is precious; if you are aware that this current hour you find yourself in is unique and beautiful, you may be more apt to make the most of it. It will not be forever, but it can be incredible.

Let the chasers play the industrial slot machines.

Fork in the Road

I find that my most joyful time on a bike ride is when I stray from my plan. It is when I ignore the voice in my head that whispers to exhaust myself, to burn the maximum amount of calories, and to “pedal at full speed.” The further I stray from this voice, the more at peace I am.

This morning I found myself at such a metaphorical fork in the road, ten miles north, along the Mississippi River. I was four miles shy of my “planned route,” which is typically the Chain of Rocks bridge, but a flock of geese was feeding in the moist grass to my left, and there was a balmy scent in the air that strengthened as I pedaled farther away from the city.

Rather than “maximize my workout,” I shunned this inner competitor and stopped. I parked my bike against a tree and watched the geese, without any particular plan to resume my ride or turn back. I did not have a watch or a phone with me and I realized just what a brutally manufactured device the clock is for so many who live and die by its limitations and permissions.

Suddenly moments passed more slowly and with gratitude I stopped activity and absorbed my surroundings. As I breathed, my own anxieties over tomorrow calmed and the diabolical planner within me died, and I felt better for it. Let my inner planner die: he lived too long already!

It is a modern mantra, I think, that an idle mind is a wasting one, but in fact the opposite is true. An active mind festers and an idle mind blossoms. The less I try to do, the more I am able to think and the more I am able to be at peace with my own existence.

How few have the courage to stop all duty and appreciate the stillness of nature. Those at work say time flies by, and this is true for anyone in a constant chase for tomorrow and a constant bracing for “the next step,” heeding for “the next thing needed for fulfillment.”

Life is brutally diluted under this mindset. What was organic becomes a construction, a ladder to climb that is in a constant state of lengthening, and when one reaches the end of the lifespan, there is nothing to do but look up and realize that the ladder still extends out of sight. Then the mind will cry in anguish, “But I had so much higher to climb!” But who’s version of fulfillment do you climb for?

If we grant ourselves permission to halt our inner urges for progress, time ceases to rush as well, and ironically, I believe, the years graciously slow.

You deserve to own each day, and therefore make it distinct, even in your chores. You deserve to spend your hours freely and merrily, to sleep and dream, to be outside, to have a picnic that lasts for hours instead of the brief office lunch in which employees tragically cram their food in haste, often at their work desks, under artificial lights, breathing artificial air.

A “year” spent in leisure is infinitely better than a year spent in labor so long as the stopwatch, and the compulsion to plan, are removed from its borders.

Weekly Plunder: Week 24 - Plotting

“You have all the fears of mortals and all the desires of immortals. You will hear many men saying: “After my fiftieth year I shall retire into leisure, my sixtieth year shall release me from public duties.” And what guarantee, pray, have you that your life will last longer? Who will suffer your course to be just as you plan it? Are you not ashamed to reserve for yourself only the remnant of life, and to set apart for wisdom only that time which cannot be devoted to any business? How late it is to begin to live just when we must cease to live! What foolish forgetfulness of mortality to postpone wholesome plans to the fiftieth and sixtieth year, and to intend to begin life a point to which few have attained!” - Seneca

I understand why most relevant religious figures warn about money (and in most cases avoid it like a plague).

Fortune is one of the great paradoxes of humanity. What one gains inevitably becomes the point of anxiety over what one may lose. It will render the brief time you have to live perceptibly briefer, because a simple, miserable, thoughtless, begrudged chase for more will dominate your memory.

Fortune’s woes are timeless. Its ills conquer us now the same as they have conquered our progenitors for thousands of years. Fortune may, as it did to Roman aristocrats, render you paranoid of your usurpers, and it may give your heirs ruthless malevolence in the quest for your inheritance.

Inevitably, what promises utopia, “enough money,” creates strife, collusion, plotting, and fretting.

Money sells us the lie that we “only need more” to finally be “happy”, to “rest” and “enjoy the sunshine.”

“I’m ready to build my empire,” I hear a lot of young people say or suggest these days. To that I say, all empires fall. Build a home, and then build a garden!

At some point, the lie that money will bring you utopia will be shattered. For each stage from birth to death, you will create your own problems from money.

If you live for the chase you will die with regret.

Wrote Seneca on those who waste time planning in his famous letter, On the Shortness of Life: “They form their purposes with a view to the distant future; yet postponement is the greatest waste of life; it deprives them of each day as it comes, it snatches from them the present by promising something hereafter. The greatest hindrance to living is expectancy, which depends upon the morrow and wastes today.”

Money is a major reason why we stave off today for a better tomorrow, though so long as a better tomorrow hinges on money, it will never arrive. Money is why we kneel to the stopwatches of those who do not consider our health or interests, and why we cannot feel adequate with the present breath that escapes us with such tragic haste.

Wealth is a catalyst to our plotting, scheming, and fretting.

For this reason, my unknown friend, I say this, and may you and I both take it to heart: beware of money. Enjoy what it can offer, but don’t fret over it. Don’t let it own you.

What I’m watching: I have two episodes left of All of Us are Dead. What a stellar show.

What I’m reading: On the Shortness of Life by Seneca. The beautiful thing about philosophy is that is spans every era and that it allows one to realize that often, the best wisdom is found by looking back, not by pushing forward.

What I’m listening to: “Dialectic Chaos” by Megadeth. This is a showcase of Mustaine’s and Broderick’s guitar virtuoso.

What I’m doing: I bought a new GPS for my gravel bike (Garmin), not to track my mileage but to route new maps to places I haven’t been. Tomorrow I’m going to take a route I haven’t taken. Exploration is the aim.

A Last Time for Everything

As the first gray hairs settle in just above my ears and my ankle heals, it dawns on me that I may be approaching the midpoint of my lifespan. Who’s to say with certainty? We have no control over the future, but if considering the median age of a male life, I’m nearing the midway marker.

The car hit last year struck me more mentally than physically (and that’s saying something because it struck me with pretty good force). By this I mean it spurred a number of realizations about mortality. The chief realization among them that is on my mind today is that there will be a last time for everything.

I was fairly certain upon feeling my foot bend the wrong direction against the road that I had ran for the last time. That was it, and suddenly it was gone like the rabbit in a magic show’s disappearing act. I was lucky enough that it wasn’t the case. Nonetheless, that day will eventually arrive, and I must accept this.

If that day did mark my final run, I did not get to wish my running days goodbye. There would be no “festive final run” or “emotional farewell to the act.” It’s simply there one day and gone the next. I suspect that most final acts end the same way and that most of us in the west do not realize this.

One day, there will be a last hike. There will be a last dream, a last bike ride, and a last beach trip. There will be a last glass of wine, a last kiss, and a last act of love. There will be a last dessert and a last witnessed sunrise. There will be a last hug. Mothers will see their babies become adults for the last time. Fathers will play catch with their kids for the last time. I will see a last colored hair fall from my face and see this city for the last time. I will write a final blog and a final story. I will read a final book. I will share a final joke. And of course, there will be a last breath of oxygen.

I suspect these moments happen, they pass, and we often take them for granted. We don’t expect the end of any to be near, but each day likely presents the final time we will ever do, or feel, or think something. Every day is in some way a final act.

In the daily rush that modern culture attempts to sweep me into I find that the act of “hurrying to what’s next” makes these final acts even less apparent. They are hidden by the greatest magician of them all: industry. In the chase for something better, for fewer problems, and for perhaps a glimpse at immortality, we lose something important today and are unaware that we ever lost it.

I don’t think this to put myself in a gloomy or nihilistic mood, but to note that it’s worthwhile to pause and appreciate what I have, and what I’m doing, at this moment. And to appreciate what I’ve done and where I’ve been.

Weekly Plunder: Week 23 - Joyless Urgency

I have written somewhere in the dark recesses of my notes that Marilynne Robinson coined the phrase “joyless urgency.” I think it’s an apt description of modern Westernized culture.

“Joyless urgency” is a difficult trap to free oneself from and I’m not sure if one can ever pry out of its snares completely. This mental prison is deeply engrained from a childhood of perpetually “preparing for what’s next”.

Even our exercise habits exhibit joyless urgency. We rush to the gym, obsess over machine metrics, count our calories, and then hurry to what’s next.

I try to counter this joyless urgency by exercising without metrics most of the time. I don’t use a smartphone app or calorie counter, nor do I go to the gym.

I bring this up because with each passing year, as time accelerates and mortality seems more obvious, it seems more important to find ways to counter “joyless urgency.”

Notes for this week:

• This was the first week I was able to run two days in a row (since a foot injury last August).

• The first week in which I was able to sprint with only minor aches in my bad foot.

• Still completing my physical therapy exercises daily. Three times per week I perform 2x30 minutes of physical therapy.

• I took the bus to Central West End on Saturday and on my return, the first bus that I expected never showed. I ended up having a fun conversation with an Indian college student at SLU while waiting the extra 30 minutes. I always appreciate a random and fun talk with a stranger.

What I’m watching: All of us are Dead. Okay, this show is incredible. What starts as a simple zombie apocalypse narrative quickly becomes something much darker.

What I’m reading: Four Thousand Weeks (finishing it up as I left it half-way completed for the sake of another book). Also revisiting Orwelle’s Animal Farm.

What I’m listening to: “Northwards” by Amorphis. This album is what I would describe as “proggy melo-death metal”. I also listened to the new Korn album but it did nothing for me.

What I’m thinking: There’s an interesting passage in Four Thousand Weeks that I can only quote to do it justice. It has been on my mind all week:

“One way of understanding capitalism, in face, is as a giant machine for instrumentalizing everything it encounters—the earth’s resources, your time and abilities (or “Human Resources”)—in the service of future profit. Seeing things this way helps explain the otherwise mysterious truth that rich people in capitalist economies are often surprisingly miserable. They’re very good at instrumentalizing their time, for the purpose of generating wealth for themselves’ that’s the definition of being successful in a capitalist world. But in focusing so hard on instrumentalizing their time, they end up treating their lives in the present moment as nothing but a vehicle in which to travel toward a future state of happiness. And so their days are sapped of meaning, even as their bank balances increase.”

The Voices in Your Head

It was a quiet morning. As dawn broke I embarked on a run alongside the Mississippi River. I saw patches of ice and snow scattered over the road and was mindful of each step that I took. The river glistened and its water crept south under a pale winter sunlight that was partially blocked by clouds.

At some point, a few miles into my run, a homeless man faced me. We were the only two inhabitants beside the river. His face was streaked with dirt, his beard unkept, his flesh wizened.

He had Apple headphones in his ears and the wires dangled down, connected to nothing but air.

“Hey, you there,” he said. “Come here.”

I looked his way.

“I found these ear pieces and put them in my ear,” he said. “And voices started talking to me!”

I said nothing and kept running. He continued:

“The voices tell me to do horrible things. Things I could never imagine. Come here, buddy. Come listen with me. I want you to hear the voices too.” And he took an ear piece out of one ear and extended it toward me.

I kept running, but I’ll remember that moment for some time.

Then I looked up at a bridge crossing the river and saw a steady current of vehicles moving toward the city. From my distance it looked like a single file of ants marching from their colony.

And as I thought this I turned around and ran home, not knowing if I was running away from this terror or toward it.

Weekly Plunder: Week 22 - Snow and Ice

A winter storm hit Saint Louis this week. What started as a light rain on Tuesday soon froze the ground with a sheet of ice as the temperature dropped. Then several inches of snow and sleet piled over this icy blanket over Wednesday and Thursday.

After doing my standard rehab exercises for my right foot, I went for an outdoor run on Wednesday through the snowy downtown landscape. The foot kept stable and I found that the snow actually provided a soft layer of cushioning. Contrary to what most might think, I believe outdoor exercise is the best possible remedy for my foot. Allowing the foot’s muscles to adapt to the angles, crevices, and curvatures of nature will give it more stability, not less, provided I’m reasonable with what I put the foot through.

I largely downplayed the injury to most people, but it was severe. It was several weeks before I could move all of the foot’s toes and several months before I could bend the foot for a “squat” type pattern of movement. My podiatrist and physical therapist told me this is because the muscle damage and inflammation interfered with the bone’s natural movement pattern.

I’m doing squats now. I’m also jumping. I have minor aches, but the aches, like so many material things, are fading with time.

Most people I encounter do not prefer to exercise outside, especially not in a winter storm. Many don’t go outside at all.

In fact, adapting yourself to uncomfortable conditions is good for both the body and the mind.

Note the ana, a group of Japanese female deep sea divers. They spend up to four hours a day at sea and often plunge into freezing water that would be intolerable to a Westerner (and possibly give a Westerner hypothermia). They complete up to 150 dives each day.

“We found that Japanese pearl divers have significantly less arterial stiffening,” says Hirumi Tanaka, director of UT’s Cardiovascular Aging Research Laboratory. This means they have less risk of health issues including hypertension, stroke, and kidney disease.

The average age of the ana is now a whopping 65. 65! Compared to westerners, what I’ve read is that diseases and cancers are much less prevalent in this group of divers. How many 65-year-old Americans do you know that can dive at all?

Numerous studies show that exercising outside improves brain function and mental health (and conversely, staying inside exacerbates mental health). It makes sense. Not only does fresh air and sunshine give a natural sense of peace and quietude, but the added challenge of navigating terrain gives the brain something further to focus on (and constant focus is required). In a gym, there is nothing but screens and machines. The mind can revert to “autopilot” mode. Trail running, in contrast, gives the brain a new stimulus to consider and calculate with every step and every turn.

There is good reason why most people in gyms need headphones—their routines are dull and predictable. Nothing is learned or gained but the linear movement patterns that metal objects and their pulley systems provide. The gym is often (not always, but often) a dull and diluted mimicry of what our ancestors once did naturally.

Nature, in contrast, is a constant zigzag. I prefer the zigzag, even on park rides that make me vomit.

What I’m watching: All of Us are Dead on Netflix. A zombie show with some fun twists and turns. What is it about zombies that fascinates us enough to keep them embedded in popular culture for generations? There is a certain horror in the possibility of living without a mind, in being powerless to a simple bite or an airborne pathogen, and in being stripped of the soul so that only an animal remains.

What I’m reading: The Ruthless Elimination of Hurry. This book celebrates the slow life and enforces its principles with Christian philosophy, which is often profound and underrated in the posh modern world of TikTok, SnapShit, and trend-seeking urban yogis.

What I’m listening to: “Call Me Little Sunshine” by Ghost. I really can’t get enough of this band and I’m seeing them live in two weeks.

What I’m doing: I bought a flip phone, a Punkt MP02. I specifically bought this because it has an installable version of Signal (Pigeon), an encrypted messaging app that I’m more comfortable using than the other messaging apps out there. I still have a smartphone for some tools. They do have their uses.

And, I’m running in the snow.