“Flowers fall always amid our grudging, and weeds flourish in our chagrin.” ~Dogen

I am amazed, sometimes, at the synchronicity I notice in my life. The synchronicity may only be constructed by my mind’s organizing structure; but, the pattern lies there before me just the same. In particular, I mean that separate areas of my life (family, profession, etc.) demand from me similar lessons before I can move freely. Troubles stand like identical, yet prismatic gates that all require the same bloodstained key.

This post comes from several events that happened to me over the past week, including visiting my brother’s birthday and the beginning of fall teaching. The lesson has something to do with the intentions of nurturing and the ends of such actions. But to be honest, I don’t know if I’ve reached any conclusions, so far.

More after the ‘port.

Dogen, the Zen master and philosopher, put forth the title quote of this post in his seminal work, Shobogenzo Genjokoan. Dogen left these writings as lectures and lessons to Zen monks, but the entire tradition holds up his words to a higher philosophical status. This specific quotation has a metaphysic dimension. Dogen could mean that there is a real disconnect between what happens and what we want to happen, but this is both too simplistic and inconsistent with his greater work. Zen Buddhist tradition holds that the world is interconnected, albeit illusory. Still, just as external events can cause ripples in internal states, the reverse can also be true.

Another interpretation of this quote is that it attacks the notion that our desires are important or influential. Just because I love flowers, I cannot stop them from withering away, and just because I detest weeds, I cannot stop them from growing. It is likely that Dogen is lecturing his monks here on the Stoic’s project—reigning in the mind and desires to gain better control of the self. But, for those of you who know Buddhist thought, there is not a self to pseak of, but instead, no-self (anatman in Sanskrit). Control is a skill taught and fostered in Zen, but it cannot be the ultimate goal. If control were the ultimate goal, then there probably exists a controller that desires control, since control is not a neutral display of power. That being said, control is contradictory to ideas of no-self. What Zen typically strives for (and not without its own paradoxes) is a cessation of control and a fostering of no-mind. You can understand this no-mind as a sort of living in the moment, similar to the Tao, but that simplifies the matter a bit.

Right now, I take up Dogen’s words as saying something cautionary about our passions, while at the same time, pointing in the direction of the best way to nurture.

First off, I believe that Dogen is warning against teleological thinking, which roughly means focusing on the end of action. One way that we engage in teleological th

inking is to see the end as the validation of the action, with which Zen Buddhism (not to mention Kant) would disagree. If the withering of the flower invalidates our affection for it, then it is the affection that is flawed. The same for the weed: if our affections are only positive in the absence of the weed, then it is the affection that is mistaken in the reality of the world, i.e. shit happens.

Teaching is a sort of nurturing. It requires the teacher to give to the students in hopes that the students will improve in general or gain a certain skill-set to put in her metaphoric tool kit. In philosophy, I hope to mostly give my students good training in analytical reasoning, but also general instruction on some of the great thinkers in our history. If I engaged in mostly teleological thinking, I would likely feel distraught or dissatisfied to learn that many students of intro level classes never read philosophy again, and may never pick up the analytical reasoning skill-set from her or his toolboxes after the semester ends.

Dogen’s answer would be that we must shift our thinking, but a full exploration that will have to wait until another day. Before I go, I will put forth a counter-argument prior to any paradigm shift.

Without abandoning teleological reasoning, I could argue that I at least left the student with the opportunity to pick up that skill set. Indeed, it would be a sadder affair if the student reached into the toolbox in her future and couldn’t pull that dusty reasoning when she wanted

and maybe needed it. However, if we are truly focused on the ends, we would have to consider the statistics (which may or may not be possible for predictions) and probably conclude that this explanation would not be strong enough. Would teachers still teach as fervently, if they not that it may avail nothing? If we are teleological, that seems unlikely. Do we pull weeds because we one day hope that they won’t return?

Not without being foolish.

And now a word from our humorous sponsors on the topic of "best intentions."


In The Know: Should We Be Shaming Obese Children More?

"God a'mighty, if I was alone I could live so easy." ~Steinbeck, John

I’m trying to trudge my way through Mary Renault’s Persian Boy. I’m only up to page 40, and I can barely find the motivation to pick it up. My rule is this: I will read 50 pages of a book before deciding to put it down for good. I amend my rule, however, if the book comes highly recommended. This one did.

A friend of mine bought me this book because we have common interests: gay men, Greek history, tragedies, and concerns for civic problems. The idea behind the book is to tell the little known story of Alexander’s lover, Bagoas, and the triumphs and turmoils that probably affected his life in the Ancient world. Much to my disappointment, I think that Renault has failed to deliver this package in engaging or an inspired way.

Renault, a renowned lesbian living in South Africa during the early to mid 20^th century, only wrote about gay love affairs in the distant past of the Ancient Mediterranean world. My friend presented this book to me as an accurate portrayal of the ancient Greek psychology and especially how the gay mentality is different from modern gay mentality. I agree that Renault is accurate, and I know my Mediterranean history—V and I studied it together in at least six different classes (more in her case) during our undergrad years. Renault’s problem isn’t her knowledge of Ancient Mediterran (not a word, but I think it should be…which by the way, translates from the Latin into “Middle Earth”). Renault, however, doesn’t give me a flourishing description of the gay, Greek mind-set.

Renault’s main problem is that she fails to get into the head of the main character, Bagoas, our Persian, eunuch-love-slave, hero. She lists the items at the Persian bazaar with a comparable amount of words as she describes Bagoas’ bitter attitude towards the men to which his first master loans him. I don’t mean that Renault is similar to the meandering prose of Dickens and Hawthorn. No, I mean she gives a paragraph for each to suffice when explaining the emotional weight of both the mundane and the existential descriptions. The same goes for Bagoas’ crush on a fellow eunuch, his promotion to his second master’s family, and his tryst with a Persian prostitute well-versed in the kama sutra. Roughly, a paragraph each. Human psychology is much more complicated than a Persian bazaar, but I’m given very little to chew on before Renault is shooing me on to the next entry in Bagoas’ saga.

Renault makes for a decent historical fiction writer, but so far, the Persian Boy is like a brief summary of a journal written by a Persian love-slave in a foreign language he picked up from traders. To add to that, this journal has been translated through a third language by a half-blind scholastic who only has dusty fragments of the original manuscript.

But, it could just be me.

I’ve also started re-reading Of Mice and Men by John Steinbeck. Completely different reaction. I know that it is probably unfair for me to expect Renault to compare to a great literist (also not a word. Do you think that “great author” is supposed to be synonymous with literary author? I hardly think that is fair. What if I want to talk about the greatest of literary authors? Germans can fix this by creating a new word…they probably already have.) But, I believe that this is what writers strive towards; so, why shouldn’t I hold her up to it? Not to mention the rest of us, for that matter. I say “Excellent effort, Mary Renault,” with sincere praise, “many enjoy your work and still buy your books, but you did not tell me about the complex human psyche. I must know what you thought about life, love, and messed-up relationships.”

Steinbeck, on the other hand, opens his short story with two characters, the witty George, and the lumbering Lennie. Steinbeck never tells us that George is annoyed with Lennie, he never tells us the depth of emotion that the two share. He doesn’t have to. The prose and dialogue in that first chapter tells the reader not only that the two men are fighting because of Lennie’s misdeeds, but that George, despite his brusque demeanor, deeply cares for Lennie and wants to take care of him. Not to mention that the observant reader already knows the direction of the plot and how the story will end.

*shiver*

There is nothing that beats good literature. Literature moves people in a subtle way because the reader thinks that she or he thought the story up themselves. The reader doesn’t read literature, she or he lives it. And, literist would be better served by the term “storyprojector,” as opposed to “storyteller.”

Steinbeck’s work is truer to life than Renault’s. People are complicated. Bagoas hates one master and loves another. Even the Persians behave like they respect Alexander, the man who comes to conquer them. They express confusion, but not conflict. The fathoms of the human psyche are not this simple for even the simplest of people (if even they can be called “simple.” Look at Lennie.) People are messy by themselves, and they are even messier in pairs. George needs Lennie; George loves Lennie. Even when Lennie has trouble living in a world that doesn’t have a place for him, even when George says that he would be better off without Lennie, George wants Lennie’s company, and he would suffer with any burden for the sake of Lennie’s well-being. This is how relationships are—complicated.

I like to consider myself a writer, as well. What I hope to take from Mary Renault is that I can’t depend on interesting history told through bloated prose to keep my readers interested. Let alone the methods I’ve used in my typical, egocentric and self-gratifying pieces of my own portfolio. We writers should get our readers to understand the story without having to tell it to them. My friend, Kagawa, always harps on me “show-y; no tell-y!” Unfortunately, I still have not mastered it in my fiction.

Non-fiction is a whole other topic, but that is for another discussion.

Speaking of inaccurate portrayals of Mediterranean History. I direct you to something fun: