I've always been intrigued by the ways in which enlightened beings lived. I've been told that samurais would sleep only a few hours a day, monks could go long periods without food, something in their spirit carried them beyond the luxuries in which we deem physical necessities nowadays.
I haven't eaten for 10 days now, meaning I haven't physically chewed a piece of food in more than a week. I've been on a 7-day master cleanse, the diet popularized by Beyoncé for her quick weight-loss to fulfill her role in the movie "Dream Girls". But the Master Cleanse isn't meant for weight-loss, for me it's not even that much about physical cleansing of the body (though that seems to be a byproduct of taking such an insane regiment). But rather, the master cleanse is a cleanse of our triangular relationship to life: the physical, emotional, and spiritual parts of our being.
Not once have I been physically hungry throughout this fast and I've learned the difference between "hunger" and "cravings". Instead what I've found is that gastronomic indulgences are really just distractions to disconnect us from our understanding of self, and in their absence you're forced to confront a number of internal emotions that brew to the surface; without things like "food" to latch onto, they really have nowhere else to go.
During this fast, I decided to learn about the food industry to essentially rebuild my diet after I had "reset" the digestive system, yet despite all the troubling and horrifying facts I've learned about the profit-driven trade, the only thing I could think about was eating the food being described. But what I missed most was participating in the festivities that involved food. The sharing, the laughing, the comradery in the breaking of bread amongst friends and family. Yet at the same time, I couldn't ignore the troubling disturbances that I had read about. Sadly, it made me feel that I could never successfully reintegrate myself back into the lifestyle I once enjoyed.
Ironically enough, the day in which I can finally eat (at least liquefied foods) is actually the first day I don't feel like eating. Something changed along the way. Somewhere I started feeling more and more detached from society and despite all the isolation from others, I was onto something. Maybe that's why the cleanse is commonly promoted for 10 days rather than 7.
Perhaps most troubling was I became more and more comfortable with being alone. Books, writing and work satisfied my needs of companionship. But I think the other component to finding inner peace is learning how to be peaceful with others. Inevitably we learn that as humans, we need each other. You have to learn to accept others for being human just as they have to learn to accept you.
Friday, March 26, 2010
Friday, March 5, 2010
The Power of Pain
We, as humans, are taught two types of thinking: Boast your accomplishments, be proud of who you are. The world is out there for the taking, so make it happen. On the other side of the spectrum we are taught to be humble, to belittle our ego. The world is a place we must share and sometimes we must concede to the ideas of others to make it work. The problem is not that these two views exist simultaneously in the world; the problem is the false belief that the two cannot coexist.
As human beings we are conditioned to avoid pain, both physical and emotional. But there is something magical about pain. It is the loudest and clearest voice we have. It tells our bodies and minds when we are progressively growing, or conversely, when we are overexerting ourselves. In the end, to fully realize both there is really only one requirement: You must know pain. You must go out fearlessly to confront it, and eventually, befriend it.
The reason there is such a polarization between the arrogant and the timid is a direct result to this avoidance of pain. We adhere to the type of thinking that already validates our way of life because that is what is comfortable. If we are arrogant, we will justify our actions with one belief. If we are timid, we will justify our actions with the other. In reality, those two need to be reversed. We need to actively seek out the uncomfortable and the painful, because they are what make us grow. They are what make us balanced.
All the answers lie within our own minds and bodies. Sometimes it’s not a matter of searching, but rather, a matter of listening.
As human beings we are conditioned to avoid pain, both physical and emotional. But there is something magical about pain. It is the loudest and clearest voice we have. It tells our bodies and minds when we are progressively growing, or conversely, when we are overexerting ourselves. In the end, to fully realize both there is really only one requirement: You must know pain. You must go out fearlessly to confront it, and eventually, befriend it.
The reason there is such a polarization between the arrogant and the timid is a direct result to this avoidance of pain. We adhere to the type of thinking that already validates our way of life because that is what is comfortable. If we are arrogant, we will justify our actions with one belief. If we are timid, we will justify our actions with the other. In reality, those two need to be reversed. We need to actively seek out the uncomfortable and the painful, because they are what make us grow. They are what make us balanced.
All the answers lie within our own minds and bodies. Sometimes it’s not a matter of searching, but rather, a matter of listening.
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Monday, March 1, 2010
Timing
There's a saying in boxing, or well, not really a saying, but more of a cardinal ranking that says "speed" beats "power", but "timing" beats "speed". In physics the equation of kinetic energy is "1/2 mass times velocity squared". I remember my physics teacher pointing out how speed was always more important than mass in the development of energy; a bit counter intuitive for a Western perspective I think. Here "big" and "massive" are heralded over "small" and "mobile", like how Bruce Lee compares the philosophies to a stationary tree trunk to the swaying branches of bamboo. For him, bamboo always won out, because in the winds of a storm, bamboo would sway with the forces, rather than stubbornly pushing against it. After learning that perspective, I began respecting adaptability and flexibility over strength and power.
But in boxing, people commonly look at two things: speed and power. A fighter either hit really hard or punched really fast, and like ranking says, the faster fighter usually had the advantage. But the overlooked aspect which apparently outranks them all is the element of timing. WHEN you land the punch dictates everything. The biggest reason is because landing that a punch disrupts the momentum of the other fighter. Most boxers function on a rhythm, a cadence, and when that pattern is disrupted by a perfectly timed shot, they're forced to start over. Very few fighters can overcome a good timing with sheer force, and the few that do, don't last long as prizefighters.
But timing makes me think about life. How things come into your path and how sometimes good ideas aren't necessarily meant to be adopted when they initially dawn upon you. Sometimes they're meant to be held for later. The same principle applies in business: A good idea can go to shit if the moment isn't right.
But in boxing, people commonly look at two things: speed and power. A fighter either hit really hard or punched really fast, and like ranking says, the faster fighter usually had the advantage. But the overlooked aspect which apparently outranks them all is the element of timing. WHEN you land the punch dictates everything. The biggest reason is because landing that a punch disrupts the momentum of the other fighter. Most boxers function on a rhythm, a cadence, and when that pattern is disrupted by a perfectly timed shot, they're forced to start over. Very few fighters can overcome a good timing with sheer force, and the few that do, don't last long as prizefighters.
But timing makes me think about life. How things come into your path and how sometimes good ideas aren't necessarily meant to be adopted when they initially dawn upon you. Sometimes they're meant to be held for later. The same principle applies in business: A good idea can go to shit if the moment isn't right.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Sunday strolls through Seattle
It's amazing how a visitor can open your eyes to a city that you've lived in half your life. If you let the inexplicable forces of nature and destiny guide you, you'll never be disappointed. We waited 30 mins for some doughnuts holes in a place I never knew existed. Had a variety of teas from a Chinese guy that operates a tea shop in downtown Seattle, but lives three blocks away from my parents in Bellevue. Explored a new world of literature and connected with what I would call, a "book expert." It put my book reading skills to shame, but only forced me to work harder. Discovered that you can carry 4lbs of king crab and oysters onto the plane as long as you use dry ice. Topped it all off with a hum bao and "The Story of Stuff". Goddamn it was a good day in Seattle. Good day to be alive.
Thursday, January 7, 2010
Conversations with my Father
Over the past few weeks, my father and I have been meeting for random lunches, and during these meetings we would chat mostly about the logistics of business; the specific things I have to learn in the property management world. Like most discussions, what arbitrarily develops are side conversations, things that are related, but not directly. I discovered a lot about my father within these small conversational tangents. There's something about youth that makes us stupid enough to think our parents were never once like us, or that we are somehow existing apart from their own story. I think at some point, we are eventually able to place our own lives in the context of theirs, which in turn, make us more appreciative of all they've sacrificed for us.
My father came to this country when he was 24 with nothing more than $50 and a Ford Pinto. Comparatively, that is much more than other immigrants, but to most US Americans, it's nothing. From that he built what we have today. A tax firm, multiple properties and a damn nice house. Given the humble beginnings of his own family, it's quite a feat. I never knew this but my father came from a once wealthy family until the government came in and seized all the family's possessions. They were completely bankrupt. He would tell me how in the following years the question of their next meal would be a daily concern. He was five at the time.
That story is the driving fuel of my father's ambition. He never wanted to go back. He never wanted any us to go through that. Growing up, I've never questioned our standard of living. I just thought that was how it was. We actually grew up quite poor; my parents just never let me know. After working with my father and witnessing his day-to-day life, I realize how damn hard he works, and well, in reality, the relative luxury that I enjoy is nothing guaranteed. My father wasn't born into wealth, and apparently, neither was I. Instead, our livelihood is constantly upheld by years and years of toil. Never once has my father gotten lazy. In fact he still wakes up at 6am every morning.
The one thing I respect about my father compared to other Chinese/Taiwanese entrepreneurs is that he doesn't keep it within the culture. Don't get me wrong, he is still VERY Taiwanese, but in a business sense, he works with everyone, treats everyone equally and I've yet to hear him say something racially prejudice about any of his clients, business partners or tenants. My friend Mike said he really liked my father. He said my father never talked down to him for his dark complexion like other Asian parents have and that he always felt welcomed in my parents' home. For years I've studied ethnic studies and all the little nuances of race, yet somehow these small instances of change still go overlooked when they occur in my own household. I guess youth and aimless rebellion makes us ignorant our own lives.
These conversations with my father have garnered a higher respect for the code of life that he lives by. I've always been awed at the accomplishments of my father, like a kid would be to his favorite comic-book hero, but at the same time, hearing about his own struggles have made him more human in my eyes. He tells me of his failures, his foolish decisions and, to my discomfort, his fears. I've always viewed my father as an invincible and indestructible force. But I suppose everyone has their own fears, even super-heroes.
I guess you could say I've grown up in these conversations with my father. I can say I understand, just a bit better, of what my family has done to be here, and finally appreciate all the blessing I have in my life. Sometimes it's a bit saddening that I can't hold the same innocent and juvenile awe that I once had, but at the same time, who said humans can't be heroes too?
My father came to this country when he was 24 with nothing more than $50 and a Ford Pinto. Comparatively, that is much more than other immigrants, but to most US Americans, it's nothing. From that he built what we have today. A tax firm, multiple properties and a damn nice house. Given the humble beginnings of his own family, it's quite a feat. I never knew this but my father came from a once wealthy family until the government came in and seized all the family's possessions. They were completely bankrupt. He would tell me how in the following years the question of their next meal would be a daily concern. He was five at the time.
That story is the driving fuel of my father's ambition. He never wanted to go back. He never wanted any us to go through that. Growing up, I've never questioned our standard of living. I just thought that was how it was. We actually grew up quite poor; my parents just never let me know. After working with my father and witnessing his day-to-day life, I realize how damn hard he works, and well, in reality, the relative luxury that I enjoy is nothing guaranteed. My father wasn't born into wealth, and apparently, neither was I. Instead, our livelihood is constantly upheld by years and years of toil. Never once has my father gotten lazy. In fact he still wakes up at 6am every morning.
The one thing I respect about my father compared to other Chinese/Taiwanese entrepreneurs is that he doesn't keep it within the culture. Don't get me wrong, he is still VERY Taiwanese, but in a business sense, he works with everyone, treats everyone equally and I've yet to hear him say something racially prejudice about any of his clients, business partners or tenants. My friend Mike said he really liked my father. He said my father never talked down to him for his dark complexion like other Asian parents have and that he always felt welcomed in my parents' home. For years I've studied ethnic studies and all the little nuances of race, yet somehow these small instances of change still go overlooked when they occur in my own household. I guess youth and aimless rebellion makes us ignorant our own lives.
These conversations with my father have garnered a higher respect for the code of life that he lives by. I've always been awed at the accomplishments of my father, like a kid would be to his favorite comic-book hero, but at the same time, hearing about his own struggles have made him more human in my eyes. He tells me of his failures, his foolish decisions and, to my discomfort, his fears. I've always viewed my father as an invincible and indestructible force. But I suppose everyone has their own fears, even super-heroes.
I guess you could say I've grown up in these conversations with my father. I can say I understand, just a bit better, of what my family has done to be here, and finally appreciate all the blessing I have in my life. Sometimes it's a bit saddening that I can't hold the same innocent and juvenile awe that I once had, but at the same time, who said humans can't be heroes too?
Monday, December 21, 2009
A lesson in destruction
Before I walked out the door of the final day of my accounting course, I went to go shake hands with my professor. To be completely honest, he wasn't the best instructor. Sure he knew the material, he just wasn't motivated. But throughout the course, he'd drop subtle hints about his ailing wife who had just been diagnosed with brain cancer, or some other terminal disease that had numbered her days. At times he would merely ask rhetorical questions to the class as to why God let things like this happen. We really had no answer, so instead we just awkwardly glanced at each other.
I couldn't help but feel for the guy, so each time we left class, I went up to him and wished him a good weekend, a better tomorrow, something to show that at least I was listening. I never really knew what to say to someone who I didn't really know, yet at the same time was pouring his heart out to us. I simply smiled frequently and took all the condensation from his pent up frustration with life. I still remember the one time he scolded me in front of the class for paradoxically following the exact guidelines he had given us, but instead of getting defensive, I simply smiled and said, "Ok. I'll try harder next time."
Before I walked through those doors for the final time, he said to me, "Thanks for the positive attitude." I was taken aback by this remark. I have never considered myself to be "positive". For those of you who know me, either in person or loosely through this mess of a blog, I think "positive" is one of the last words to describe me.
For the longest time I've found any reason to be unhappy. I used to blame it on people, on living amidst the lack of cultural competence in this country, and my one saving grace was to leave again - yet when I did, I only found another reason to be unsatisfied. I was running from something.
I think for the first time I've stopped running and I'm just now actively confronting everything that has frightened me; everything that has forced me to impose this unrelenting self-destruction. And for the first time I'm not cowering to their demands. I'm fighting back. The irony is that in destroying a part of myself, I am also creating. Creating an acceptance of where I am, what I am doing, and most importantly, who I am supposed to be.
I couldn't help but feel for the guy, so each time we left class, I went up to him and wished him a good weekend, a better tomorrow, something to show that at least I was listening. I never really knew what to say to someone who I didn't really know, yet at the same time was pouring his heart out to us. I simply smiled frequently and took all the condensation from his pent up frustration with life. I still remember the one time he scolded me in front of the class for paradoxically following the exact guidelines he had given us, but instead of getting defensive, I simply smiled and said, "Ok. I'll try harder next time."
Before I walked through those doors for the final time, he said to me, "Thanks for the positive attitude." I was taken aback by this remark. I have never considered myself to be "positive". For those of you who know me, either in person or loosely through this mess of a blog, I think "positive" is one of the last words to describe me.
For the longest time I've found any reason to be unhappy. I used to blame it on people, on living amidst the lack of cultural competence in this country, and my one saving grace was to leave again - yet when I did, I only found another reason to be unsatisfied. I was running from something.
I think for the first time I've stopped running and I'm just now actively confronting everything that has frightened me; everything that has forced me to impose this unrelenting self-destruction. And for the first time I'm not cowering to their demands. I'm fighting back. The irony is that in destroying a part of myself, I am also creating. Creating an acceptance of where I am, what I am doing, and most importantly, who I am supposed to be.
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