THE SOLITARY PANDA

Disillusionment

May 29th marked the two month halfway point of my stay at the Zen monastery. It’s safe to say that I’m past the disillusionment stage, you know, if I were in a relationship. But why can’t the “5 stages of committed relationships” apply to experiences, instead of people, as well? Two months and I can already sense the impending break-up.

At first, everything was new and exciting! Look at how we get to eat yummy vegetarian meals with chopsticks everyday in silence! How about this cool chanting in Chinese thing for half an hour every morning?? You mean mopping the floor is meditation!? I finally understand why cleanliness is next to Godliness! My boobs are really sweating out toxins while I’m meditating, holy shit! What the heck are they trying to tell me in class today? Wow, I have zero concentration skills, let me doodle on my notebook and write in my journal instead.

That kind of thing.

Now it’s more like, what’s the point of all this!?

What’s the point of any of this? This whole life thing. I didn’t actually think I was going to find answers like the Meaning of Life here, did I?

When evaluating and making decisions in my life, I try to answer the question: does this add value to my life? Of course, I answered “yes” when I decided to sign myself up for this but now, I’m not so sure. While I have no doubt this experience will help me in the hectic day-to-day of society, calm me while I try to stay positive, and even help me professionally, I no longer see value in the constant rinse, repeat lifestyle. A third of the people have already quit early, and I have to admit, I’m wondering about the same. In reality, I know I’ll stick it out because I’m not one for quitting when I’ve made a commitment towards something (a quick dodge in my mind makes me think otherwise, but in this situation, lets just pretend it’s a true blanket statement OK?), but my mind has grown increasingly less present now that it’s halfway through the program. That sense of wonder and bliss and true presence is starting to escape me. I’m worrying about what’s next and trying to secure my next adventure. Once again, I’m living in the future.

Anxieties build up again about my “career”. While it’s obvious I’m on a career break/sabbatical and I should learn to own it and enjoy it, I’m still worrying about how to get a job, or design my own job entrepreneur style. I start to think if this whole monastery stint was truly a way to experience something worthwhile, or just an excuse to put off the “real world”. Shudder.

The real world. As if this life now isn’t reality?

In Real Life

“This isn’t me in real life,” one girl kept pointing out during our stay. It struck me as a funny thing to say since our life, now, is in the monastery. How real can you get? I get what she was trying to say, though. In “real life” she’s louder, more flamboyant. Wearing uniforms that remind me of really crappy made in China workout pants and polos doesn’t exactly give much room for self expression. Her life back in Manila is so vastly different from our current experience that she equates a sort of Zen detachment towards it, boldly claiming it’s “not me”. It got me thinking. Who am I in real life anyway? I’m constantly adjusting myself to new situations and surroundings that I no longer have a stable life to base my “reality” on. The only real life I’ve got is here in the present. And the real world? It’s just an imaginary concept existing in our minds to keep the status-quo going. I don’t like the “real world” and I suspect I won’t enter it again.

In real life, I am discovering I thrive in situations I never thought I could, in the unknown. I’m realizing I am an adventurer that hates complacency, and in turn, status-quo. I’m learning how to accept that and live life more freely, without borders and on the edges. The hardest part of it all is learning how to take the responsibility of leading my own life, in my own hands, and trying to figure out my own path to carve. The meaning of life IS what you make out of it. It’s that simple, but infinitely and in turn, that much harder.

This Is Not The End

It was a brisk, autumn night, and the sky was clear. The soft rustle of autumn leaves dragging across cement like gentle whispers reminded me that things change. Jen and I walked past bars and a late night middle eastern restaurant before deciding on a place to eat. From a distance, straight ahead of us, I saw him. He was alone and walked slowly. He seemed to blend in the autumn air; a mirage. I wondered if he sensed my presence behind him or heard my voice speaking about who knows what, but speaking about Not Him.

That night, we were at a show. He had a way of deciding what to do that was exactly what I’d want to do as well. Having the same music tastes means you’re soul mates, after all. If, by soul mates you mean broken and if by broken you mean fragile. He wanted to go alone, he said. So I decided to go with Jen.

I crunched on an autumn leaf. It was my favorite childhood quirk; stomping on autumn leaves just to hear the crisp sound like a seasonal fanfare, announcing my presence. How could something so fun and enjoyable remind me of something so heartbreaking? I thought of the eggshells I walked on, remembering how I got to this point.

Maybe I was overextending my stay; crowding his space bubble. Maybe I shouldn’t have even been there. That night, there were no fanfares, and my presence seemed uninvited. So close yet so far away. Was he trying to avoid me? Was I trying to avoid him? Not one of us said a word. I tried not to look at him, let alone make eye contact. The proximity of the intimate venue was almost unbearable. Unbearably awkward. From my periphery, I could see him sitting to my left. Up on stage was Laura Gibson, an indie artist from Portland, Oregon.

She lit up the small crowd with her voice. Told us this was a participatory song and that we needed to sing the lines with her at the end. Her voice, as tentative and soft as my heart, carried me, lifting me out of my depression.

“This is not the end,” she sang.
“This is not the end.”
“This is not the end,” I joined in with a faint smile and dulled senses. If my life were a movie, this is the point where I’d cry, but I did not. All I could do was sing. And through this singing, the night didn’t seem so bad. As the crowd joined, gathering strength and energy, life didn’t seem so bad. The once tentative-sounding voice now sounded like a quiet strength.

I thought about the significance of these simple words at that exact moment in time. It was as if she was singing directly to me; reading my mind. My emotions were numb, unsure how to take it. The experience, shared with my ex yet so far removed, was completely surreal. I bought her album, waiting in line while he walked right beside me. The air between us shifted a light breeze. We were two strangers.

I listened to that song on repeat for days, weeks, months. It became my break-up mantra which encouraged me, carried me, and covered me with hope; giving me warmth from the cold of my loneliness.

This year, there will be no autumn leaves to crunch in my tropical paradise. Things change and seasons roll on. My heart has mended now, and my spirit stronger than ever. But I am indebted for this song that got me through. This is not the end, and it was the start of my beautiful beginning and becoming.

What was your break-up mantra?