Just So

Narratives of chaos, a reservoir of peace and the revelation of sublime simplicity

The stifling humidity of the day was relieved by a cool breeze that snaked through the winding stone alleyways of the historic quarters of Old Kyoto. As dusk descended, paper lanterns came aglow outside myriad establishments - restaurants, snack bars, shops and teahouses - that lined the Gion district. Young Maikos (apprentice Geishas) dressed in their traditional finery, glided past with giggles and coy looks of feigned embarrassment at the salarymen, both young and old, who gazed upon them with a mixture of admiration and desire.

Our pace quickened. As compelling as this evening scene in one of Japan’s most famous tourist districts was, our destination was a temple we had spied atop a hill in the distance - a few miles away from where we were currently situated. We had visited many temples that day, yet this one had not been on our list. There had been something compelling about how quietly it sat, away from the hustle bustle of the city, nestled in the hills, that called to us. My wife, my cousin and I simply knew it was a call that had to be answered.

The darkness of the night had fully enveloped the sky when finally, we arrived at the doorstep of the Kodaiji temple. As we stepped through the threshold into the temple grounds, we were immediately struck by the silence and emptiness of the premises. There was not a soul in sight. After a whole day spent visiting temples that were thronged with tourists - we wondered if we had not mistakenly trespassed and if the temple were not perhaps closed to visitors for the evening as many others in the city were.

Our momentary confusion was dispelled by the appearance of an old woman who beckoned us in. I asked her in Japanese if there was a cost for entering to which she nodded and quoted the nominal entrance fee. We paid her gladly and made our way through the temple grounds which were splendidly illuminated by various colored spotlights scattered across the property.

We held our breaths, hardly believing that we had exclusive access to the sprawling premises, artfully landscaped with zen gardens, lakes, bridges, temples, paths and a dense bamboo forest that whispered and clattered enigmatically in the distance. Yet, the sight that held us transfixed was a large pond that was situated in the center of the premises surrounded by trees, and across which arced an old wooden bridge.

What was so fascinating about this pond was the pristine flawlessness of its reflection. The longer we gazed at it the more we began to wonder that the reflection might not be a reflection at all but the revelation of another complementary world right beneath this one. At first, we all laughed nervously and remarked loudly to one another about how unreal and flawless the reflection seemed. After a while, we fell silent, growing increasingly uncomfortable as we had each begun to privately question our own sanity.

Was it really a reflection? Reason seemed to say it was, but the visceral experience of our senses was telling us it was not.

The more we gazed the more we found it impossible to look away. Until there came a point when the cognitive dissonance we were experiencing became unbearable.

“I need to toss a stone into that pond…”, my cousin suddenly blurted, breaking the silence.

“You can’t.” I replied.

“Dude, its tripping me out!” he laughed uncomfortably.

“I know, but we’re not supposed to be chucking rocks into the pond! It’s cordoned off for a reason!”

“Just a tiny pebble - no one will notice…” he said and, without waiting for a response, tossed a small stone no smaller than an inch in diameter casually into the pond.

We barely heard the plop! and yet that small impact set off a series of subtle ripples across the entire surface of the pond. And I must admit, rather than frustration at my cousin for having tossed that stone, both my wife and I experienced a feeling of immediate relief.

For now, it was clear that the world below was a mirage - a mere reflection of what was real. Our minds could now, through that small action, clearly differentiate between reality and illusion. And in that distinction, the spell we had been under was broken…

*

This past month has been a period of significant challenge for me. (Some of you may have noticed that the frequency with which I typically post articles has decreased.) A life-threatening health situation for a loved one, a period of prolonged illness for myself, a chronic pain situation that saw my wife being rushed to the ER, as well as certain other personal circumstances, added to the chaos and confusion. And when chaos begins to swirl like a maelstrom on the outside, it is easy for the mind to become carried away by that momentum and to begin to echo that same chaos within.

It is easy to get pulled in by the gravity of the story of what is happening. Stories are how we process the events of our lives. Stories are how we attempt to establish a modicum of certainty in a predominantly uncertain reality. Our narrative arcs are the outcomes of our pattern-seeking minds. We believe that if we can see the pattern, we can safely predict where that pattern is heading and thereby prepare ourselves to anticipate it.

And so, we become caught up in the whirlwind of “what-ifs” that supplies the energy of anxiety upon which our brains thrive. Our brains are built for scenario-planning and risk mitigation. And the more risks we can project out there, the more scenarios we have to envision for mitigating those risks.

As my mind became drawn in by the centripetal force this whirlwind of chaos was imposing upon it, there was an aspect of my consciousness, somewhere on the periphery of all the drama and action, that remained witnessing all the small joys and seemingly insignificant moments that were being overlooked - the warm cup of tea that was going unappreciated, the swaying pine trees that were being blurred out of significance, the cat who wanted to be held but did not appear to be a priority, the hills in the distance that awaited silent acknowledgement.

Such things had no place of significance in the narrative of chaos that was unfolding. Of what significance was the warmth of a cup of tea in the midst of a mother going through respiratory distress? Of what importance were the cat’s needs when I was burning up with a 108 F fever? Who cared about the swaying pine trees when my wife’s six-day migraine attack had reached such a pinnacle that even the doctors appeared helpless to be able to do anything for her? And of what priority were the sleeping mountains, when I was using my last ounce of energy to cook meals to make sure my sick kids were fed?

That was the story I was living, you see. Yet, there remained that aspect of my consciousness that merely watched and witnessed. For although the facts of the events that I have mentioned were true, the various interpretations, the resistances, the struggles, the feelings of overwhelm at times, the sudden bursts of inspiration and so on - these were less related to the facts and more closely linked to how my mind was interpreting the events.

Is a 108 F fever more significant than the swaying of pine trees?

To me, in that exhausted and sick state, the answer would have been - certainly, yes. And yet…that witness aspect that was silently recording all that it observed would not have been so sure.

Significance is what we attribute to events. They are not inherent to events. And so, the only fact this witnessing consciousness could see was:

The fever is 108 F. The pine trees are swaying in the wind.

Both manifestations of the suchness of this moment. And in that respect, both equally significant and thereby equally worthy of attention.

There came a point around Day-three of my illness when the feeling of overwhelm had reached its zenith. My kids were sick. My wife’s migraine had gotten so bad, she could barely stand up or walk due to the severe vertigo she was experiencing. And we had run out of food in the fridge. I had been popping double doses of extra-strength Tylenol every four hours just to keep my fever manageable so as to be functional enough to do things like drive or cook. Yet, by Day 3 the fatigue had really set in and the thought of getting out of bed seemed like an insurmountable task.

As I sat up in bed with much effort, coughing up my lungs and feeling more miserable than I have felt in recent memory - some instinct within me steered my head to my right to gaze out the bedroom window at the mountains resting in the distance and the pine trees swaying in the breeze just beyond the window.

“Just so.”

These were the words that quietly appeared in my mind.

A beautiful calm descended upon me and I could suddenly see, quite clearly and matter-of-factly, how personally I had been taking everything - my illness, my children’s illnesses, my wife’s migraine attacks, my mother’s hospitalization - it had all felt so deeply personal that I had become buried by feelings of overwhelm and responsibility to fix the circumstance for everyone and to alleviate their pain.

Yet, in that moment I saw that it was all just so.

I was not responsible for my illness, my wife’s pain, my children’s sickness, my mother’s condition, the emptiness of the fridge, the mess in the house - it was all simply happening just as the mountains were sleeping and the trees were swaying.

A single impersonal happening.

And I saw that I could act responsibly without assuming responsibility. I could still take action without taking it personally. I could spend a few moments appreciating the swaying pines. I could spend a few moments resting my eyes. I could spend a few moments comforting my wife. I could spend a few moments reassuring my children. I could spend a few moments slowly making my way down to the market to buy a few things. I could spend a few moments cooking a stew. It could all be done without much fuss. At whatever pace I could manage. Without inserting a narrative that then required so much of my energy to maintain and manage.

And as I began engaging with the chaos in this way, one subtle moment at a time, not taking it personally, simply witnessing with matter-of-factness that everything is simply the way it is for no other reason than because it is - that witnessing aspect of consciousness that had been relegated to the periphery began occupying front and center of my awareness. And that small reservoir of peace that had been quietly simmering at the base of my being began percolating into my body, my mind and my nervous system. Until I found myself bathing in a pool of endorphins marveling at the sublime simplicity of existence even in the midst of chaos…

‘Just so’ was the tiny pebble that landed into the pristine reflection of my mind that had had me so hypnotized in the story of this ‘other reality’ that was unfolding in tandem with the factual one I was in.

‘Just so’ was the subtle plop! that broke the trance that had mesmerized me, revealing to me:

That which ripples is but a reflection and that which is real cannot be perturbed.