Last Friday, I woke up at my usual time, around 6:15 or so. I had gotten up a couple of times during the night, an affliction shared by most aging males. Like every morning, I walked around my bed and sat on my cushion for a 25 minute Zen sit. I am not even sure what makes it Zen, but that discipline is intended to be confusing, which is why I like it so much.
After the sit, I said a couple of prayers in Japanese, followed by the Four Vows in English, which kind of sets my intention for the day. Without a lengthy explanation, the vows sound terribly challenging, like saving all sentient beings and vowing to avoid the temptations of greed, hatred and ignorance. I have been saying these exact same words for around 25 years now and they don’t feel like a gun to my head, rather a completely comfortable way of looking at the day ahead, absent any pressure at all.
I cap this sitting ritual with three bows, each one bookended by bringing my palms together in a prayerful manner. Bowing is something you have to experience and trying to describe the feeling is a waste of words. It’s a perfect dose of humility. When your forehead gently rests on the ground and you raise your palms above your head, it’s a beautiful, peaceful moment.
Like every other morning since I can remember, a cup of black coffee is next on the agenda. It represents my formal entry into the world, when I think about the rest of the day. Friday is one of several days during the week when I have absolutely nothing to do. When I say nothing, I mean absolutely nothing. It’s been like this for at least a year.
There are still some indelible pieces of my morning routine, regardless of agenda or its complete absence. While waiting for the coffee water to boil, I open the side door, as I walk over to my desk and turn on the erector set, looking lamp. Then, I open the little container with Betta fish food and almost always pick out exactly four morsels, tucked between my thumb and forefinger. I perch these tidbits just above the water and wait for Ace to come and bump the surface and then release them. I still wonder if it is a daily coincidence or if it has to do with his fish IQ. I always smile at him and say something encouraging, just in case he knows.
When the water has finished its boil, I pour it over the coffee grinds until the cup is full. Cup in hand, I head back over to the desk and bring my computer to life. On these days, when I have nothing to do, I can stay there for an hour or more. After checking on a handful of mostly predictable emails, I see what has happened in the world, while I slept. There is always news regarding what the idiot has done, because of the Hawaii time difference, he has had the entire morning to continue his shit show. There are usually a couple of interesting stories, before the rest of the headlines deal with things like what some actresses look like without make up or other pieces competing for the most trivial stories of this day or any other.
There is a wonderfully casual feel to mornings like this and I am in no hurry to do the remainder of my obsessive compulsive disciplines. I crank up Pandora to begin my musical serenade of the day, which initially accompanies my yoga practice. I do the exact same 25 poses I’ve been doing for decades. It is kind of an orchestrated ballet, done by rote, reintroducing me to my body.
Without wasting much time, I roll up the blankets and mat, inhale a glass of water and head out to my stationary bike, standing at the ready on my lanai. I have taken my phone, tuned to Pandora, insert my headphones and place them on my head. I always start my music with something that fits my mood and then just let one song segue into the next, while I pedal off to nowhere at all. After around 30 minutes, I unplug and dismount. The final piece of the morning mosaic involves walking over to the garage and unhooking the sling that allows me to hang upside down just long enough to feel several vertebrae go back to where they belong.
Several days each week, this is exactly where I get to having absolutely nothing to do. Until this point in my life, nudging 75, this would have been an awful place to be, feeling the need to do something, uncomfortable at the prospect of wasting time. It is easy to think backwards, remembering how things used to be. However, it is impossible to imagine where you haven’t been yet. Don’t ask me why, but hanging out with myself has become wonderfully relaxing. I am not fidgeting, nor am I guilt ridden. I’ll kind of take it easy and may eventually get on the motorcycle, buy a beer and ride over to the Nawiliwili Harbor, draping myself over the sole picnic table, gazing out at the ocean. I don’t know, maybe it’s the energy of being at a place that inhales and exhales with activity, relaxing into that natural rhythm.
Unless you’re up here where I am, it is so hard to explain. My internal vocabulary has changed and it feels difficult to translate. There is this kind of ease just hanging out with myself. I dunno, maybe it’s a way of getting comfortable for the ride ahead, because only a moron would have trouble internalizing the transient nature of time remaining.
In its own way, it’s my way of cherishing time, if you know what I mean.
