a buddhist perspective

In the US when I wanted to buy something online, I conveniently charged it. (Don't worry; I'm a compulsive payer who pays even before the statement comes out.) Living in Australia now, I just ordered a solar oven from an online store, but there was no charge option.  Instead, the company's bank account was given so I could transfer the amount due from my bank account to theirs. Not quite as convenient.

But infinitely better. Because with this system, if you don't have the money, you can't spend it.

Unlike in the US, where if you don't have the money, you just borrow it from your friendly bank that's happy to send you a little piece of plastic. Dangerous plastic. When the statement comes in, you realize that you can't pay it off because, as you suddenly remember, you don't have the money. So you make a partial payment. And are charged an excessive rate of interest on the remaining balance.

As the interest and balance start to go up, you begin making minimum payments. And use your charge card more often. Then all the time. Then you start missing payments.

And you know the rest.

In a culture that scoffs at the idea of "living within one's means" as something one’s grandparents did, where an advertising industry spends millions of dollars a year to learn the subtleties of how to addict people to shopping, buying for cash has become an a rarity.  

Why is this on a Buddhist blog?

Because the Buddha lived a balanced life, a simple life. A life of contentment. A life without worry or fear. A life focused on selflessness and giving, not self-indulgence and instant gratification.  

From what I’ve seen, overall, life in Australia isn’t as convenient as life in the US. And that’s probably a very good thing. 

I’m typing this entry on a computer to be read on other computers. So the topic of this entry will likely seem a bit strange. It’s about reducing our dependency on computers.

I’m not saying this from the perspective of one who is uncomfortable with computers or who rarely uses them. I’ve used computers since the 1980’s. The first one was a 286. When you turned on the computer, you would be directed to the DOS prompt. There you typed in the name of the software program you wanted to use, hit enter, and watched as the black screen with the orange lettering slowly changed to the next screen.

My next computer was a 386, then a few years later, a 486. Over the years, the numbers went up dramatically and the computers were named. With each computer, I learned by trial and error how to use the upgraded or new programs. So it's safe to say that I’ve used computers for tens of thousands of hours.

Currently I have two computers. That started a few years ago in Indiana. Living with my mother, who in her nineties still used her computer, if I had a computer problem there wasn’t a helpful (and free ;-)) person around to figure it out. Having two computers enabled me to keep working on one while I figured out what was the problem on the other.

I mentioned at the beginning of this post that I’m typing this entry on a computer. There was a writing step before this. I wrote this entry yesterday with paper and pen, on a no-computer Sunday. It has been an interesting experience because writing is much slower on paper than on a computer. (Okay the typing has slowed down on this paragraph because one of the cats here, taken in at the death of a friend, is now on my lap and draped across my left arm with her paws elegantly crossed and covering part of the keyboard.)

I’ve been reading The Plain Reader, a collection of various essays that were previously published in Plain Magazine. The essays were written by Amish, Quaker, and other “plain folk.” The book is excellent by the way, and I strongly recommend it.

One of the essays, “deleting children” by Mary Ann Leiser eloquently put forth the view that teaching our children how to use computers at younger and younger ages is doing them a great disservice.

In a world that sings the praises of technology and competition, who we are and how we relate to our environment have largely been considered irrelevant. What matters is the economy (always growing), profit (at any cost), and globalization (even though in North America, we were already blessed with everything we needed). Now another group of victims in our mad race to the future is our very young children.

Parents, fearful their children will not be able to keep up with the neighbor’s children, enroll their children in preschools where the use of computers is taught to children only a few years old. Between television and computers, these children live in a virtual world. The real world, just outside their window goes by unnoticed. If a wise grandmother, remembering the wonders of nature from her childhood, tries to tempt her grandchildren to venture outside, they are shocked. “It’s dirty out there! And boring.”

We have allowed—and worse, encouraged—our children to become hooked into the technology machine. If you think I exaggerate, try taking a child’s cell phone away. Or wait till the television or computer goes off because of a power cut or the machine breaks. Both parents and children will be at a loss as they look at one another in the unchosen silence. Used to the flashing, constantly changing images on the screen (just look at the national evening news in the US or even the station breaks on PBS) and the barrage of computer-generated sounds, the blank screen and silent speakers make for an eerie discomfort. Hooked on technology we’re lost when we don’t have all our electronic aids.

Technology and competition are what parents with the means to do so are pushing on even their youngest children. Children are now supposed to excel at everything they do, to get the best grades, to land that choice job (and quickly), to own the biggest house on the block.

What is no longer stressed to our children? How to get along harmoniously with the environment and other people, discover what they love doing, share unconditionally with others, be caring grandchildren, do honest work that creates something of lasting value, and create a loving home.

We need to turn off our televisions and computers, take our young children by the hand, walk out the door, and look—slowly look—at the wonders of the real world around us.

Bill worked in a factory on a production line, he was a big, awkward, homely guy. He dressed oddly with ill-fitting clothes. There were several fellow workers who thought it smart to make fun of him.

One day one fellow worker noticed a small tear in his shirt and gave it a small rip. Another worker in the factory added his bit, and before long there was quite a ribbon of cloth dangling. Bill went on about his work and as he passed too near a moving belt the shirt strip was sucked into the machinery. In a split second the sleeve and Bill was in trouble. Alarms were sounded, switches pulled, and trouble was avoided.

The foreman then summoned all the workers and related this story:

In my younger days I worked in a small factory. That's when I first met Mike. He was big and witty, was always making jokes, and playing little pranks. Mike was a leader. Then there was Peter who was a follower. He always went along with Mike. And then there was a man named Murray. He was a little older than the rest of us - quiet, harmless, apart. He always ate his lunch by himself.

He wore the same patched trousers for three years straight. He never entered into the games we played at noon, wrestling, horseshoes and such. He appeared to be indifferent, always sitting quietly alone under a tree instead. Murray was a natural target for practical jokes.

He might find a live frog in his lunch box, or a dead spider in his hat. But he always took it in good humour. Then one autumn, when things were quiet in the factory, Mike took off a few days to go hunting. Peter went along, of course. And they promised all of us that if they got anything they'd bring us each a piece.

So we were all quite excited when we heard that they'd returned and that Mike had got a really big buck. We heard more than that. Peter could never keep anything to himself, and it leaked out that they had real whopper to play on Murray. Mike had cut up the buck and had made a nice package for each of us. And, for the laugh, for the joke of it, he had saved the ears, the tail, the hoofs - it would be so funny when Murray unwrapped them.

Mike distributed his packages during the lunch break. We each got a nice piece, opened it, and thanked him. The biggest package of all he saved until last. It was for Murray. Peter was all but bursting; and Mike looked very smug. Like always, Murray sat by himself; he was on the far side of the big table. Mike pushed the package over to where he could reach it; and we all sat and waited.

Murray was never one to say much. You might never know that he was around for all the talking he did. In three years he'd never said more than hundred words. So we were all quite astounded with what happened next. He took the package firmly in his grip and rose slowly to his feet. He smiled broadly at Mike - and it was then we noticed that his eyes were glistening. His Adam's apple bobbed up and down for a moment and then he got control of himself.

'I knew you wouldn't forget me,' he said gratefully, 'I knew you'd come through! You're big and you're playful, but I knew all along that you had a good heart.'

He swallowed again, and then took in the rest of us. 'I know I haven't seemed too chummy with you men; but I never meant to be rude. You see, I've got nine kids at home - and a wife that's been an invalid - bedridden now for four years. She ain't ever going to get any better. And sometimes when she's real bad off, I have to sit up all night to take care of her. And most of my wages have had to go for doctors and medicine.

The kids do all they can to help out, but at times it's been hard to keep food in their mouths. Maybe you think it's funny that I go off by myself to eat my lunch. Well, I guess I've been a little ashamed, because I don't always have anything between my sandwich. Or like today - maybe there's only a raw turnip in my lunch box. But I want you to know that this meat really means a lot to me. Maybe more than to anybody here because tonight my kids' ... as he wiped the tears from his eyes with the back of his hand ... 'tonight my kids will have a really good meal.'

He tugged at the string. We'd been watching Murray so intently we hadn't paid much notice to Mike and Peter. But we all noticed them now, because they both tried to grab the package. But they were too late. Murray had broken the wrapper and was already surveying his present. He examined each hoof, each ear, and then he held up the tail. It wiggled limply. It should have been so funny, but nobody laughed - nobody at all.

But the hardest part was when Murray looked up and said 'Thank you' while trying to smile. Silently one by one each man moved forward carrying his package and quietly placed it in front of Murray for they had suddenly realised how little their own gift had really meant to them, until now.

This was where the foreman left the story and the men. He didn't need to say any more; but it was gratifying to notice that as each man ate his lunch that day, they shared part with Bill and one fellow even took off his shirt and gave it to him.

From BTV - posted by Voyager

Okay, I'm looking out my window again. (Resting my eyes after writing for several hours. And yes, you're right. I really do seem to do this a lot.) Immediately outside my window is a lawn. Beyond that is a road just wide enough for two cars and which ends in a cul-de-sac a little past my building. Beyond the road is a four acre pond with woods on the other side. The geese and ducks are swimming with their respective families of goslings and ducklings.

The road is quiet and safe. I often see parents walking with their children or teaching them to ride a bike. But today, the little girl from the next building went by pushing a baby stroller. (I think that's what they're called. I don't have much experience in this area. ;-)) She's only a head taller than the covered stroller. It's a gloriously sunny day and the lawn and woods are a deep green. The little girl has long blonde hair, which blows in the breeze.  

As she was passing by on her third or fourth circuit of walking, I heard the baby begin to cry. The girl stopped her very professional manner of walking, went around to the front of the stroller, put both hands on the bar in front of the stroller, and leaned in, seeming to access the situation. She gazed for a second or two, and then with her very professional manner stood up again and returned to her position behind the stroller and resumed her brisk, efficient walk. Apparently this assessment also assured the baby that it was okay because when she came back into sight again, the baby was no longer crying. 

There's no great message here. Just a few minutes of old-fashioned tranquility and good mid-western values. I see a little girl looking after her baby sister or brother. I see a group of young women sitting together on lawn chairs next to the grill while one woman brings food to the others. I also see a father showing his young son how to throw a ball. Nothing exceptional. Nothing dramatic. Just family members and friends sharing and looking after each other.

Perfect. 

 

For the past several months I have been going to the farmer's market in Goshen, the town just south of here. This past Saturday I went for my bi-weekly shopping. I live in an area that is next to one of the largest Amish areas in the US. There are also small farms scattered around the area so there is enough food grown even in winter to enable the market to stay open year round.

I could buy the food cheaper at a supermarket, but it wouldn't be the same food. The salad mix I bought from Kate who runs Sustainable Greens, which is just over the state line in Michigan, was picked the day before. Her micro mix is an assortment of spicy greens that adds a wonderful bite to my salads. I also got fresh asparagus from the Amish woman who I have been buying sweet potatoes from. A few months ago, I bought some hulled black walnuts from her. She cautioned me to be careful as they had been hulled by her elderly mother. (The walnuts were perfectly hulled without a trace of a shells.) She doesn't have any more sweet potatoes now, but I got some beautiful locally grown ones at the Maple City Market, the food co-op in Goshen.

Before leaving the farmer's market, I also bought some locally made cheese and fresh radishes. The tiny baby carrots (natural ones not the machine-produced ones sold at supermarkets) were not available this time but I had bought two batches last time and delighted in their colors and sweetness. I still had some eggs from the farmer who assured me he had no roosters so his free-range, naturally raised chickens only gave infertile eggs.

At the co-op I also bought Trader's Point Creamery raspberry yogurt. Located in central Indiana, Trader's Point's cows are pasture raised and are not given artificial hormones or antibiotics. Nor does the creamery use pesticides or artificial fertilizers on their land. The yogurt is wonderful and comes in glass bottles that are ideal for storing other foods when empty or for recycling.

I can't get greens like this at the supermarket. Or asparagus. Or raspberry yogurt.

At the supermarket, I can't talk to the farmers and ask how their food was raised. I can't buy dairy products secure in the knowledge the cows and chickens were raised humanely, and the land was treated with respect and in a sustainable manner. I can't buy food that was picked the day before at the height of its taste and food value, and which traveled not 1500 or even a few thousand miles, but merely ten or thirty or a hundred miles. I can't experience the joy of seeing that a favorite food is now in season and relish the taste made all the more enjoyable by its rarity.

But at the farmer's market and co-op, I can.

I can talk to the farmers. I can buy food raised for taste, not for its ability to travel great distances. I can eat dairy products knowing the animals were raised with care and respect. I can enjoy local foods knowing the land they grew on was carefully stewarded, not plundered until it was worthless. I can chat with the people standing next to me as we wait our turn to make our purchases. I can drive home, relaxed and happy in the knowledge that I did my very best to  "do no harm."