Into your discomfort zone

The Dalai Lama had a warm and contagious laugh that spliced all 10,000
of us that attended his talk at the beginning of Louisville’s
Kentucky-fried summer. He was cloaked in eloquence and was
effortlessly collected, humorous, and brilliant. The ceremony was held
to celebrate the inauguration of a Buddhist temple in town by
convocating religious leaders from Islamic, Christian, Jewish and
Hindu affiliations to speak about compassion through the lenses of
their respective faiths. As if the Dalai Lama had scripted it all
himself, one-by-one, each leader stood up and spoke with the same
grace that I’m sure they convey when hosting temple, mass, or any
call to prayer in their own communities about a singular commonality
that transcends religion. Compassion is how it’s referred to in
English, though as an aside, I would have loved to be able to
understand the Dalai Lama and all of the guest presenters in their
mother tongues. We’re all just interpreting everything anyways, mostly
falling short. Compasión. That port inside all of us that harbors
empathy and a general concern for the well-being of others; the
maternal instinct to provide care, the shoulder, forgiveness. Not just
human well-being, but that of all those who share ‘being’ with us.
Well-being’s well-being, too.

We care, or at least we did. We were born and raised with it and then,
as with creativity, we are prone to losing it as an adult. Maybe we
don’t lose it. Maybe it just gets burried under our own agendas and
self-fulfillment strategies that we care more about. We knock off the
first three letters of the word as we enter adulthood and squeeze in the walls of
our communities snugly so we feel comfortable. Then we find these
magnanimous ways to compensate for our selfishness and refute our
guilt, like joining the Peace Corps, running a marathon or donating a
million dollars.

The truth is that we don’t have to reach very far. Even introducing ourselves to everyone in arms-reach at the auditorium (as per his Holiness’ request) was discomforting and challenging for some of us (adults). What’s happened? I can imagine that His Holiness felt a bit out of his comfort zone in Louisville, with all due respect. It’s not about getting out of your comfort zone, it’s about getting into you discomfort zone and finding comfort there. We all know where that place is. Get into it…

Peppered with a sprinkle or two of placebo, by the end of the program
you could sense that something had changed. The messages about
compassion resonated and were resounding. People walked out of their
sections in the upper bleachers or from the lower level glowing. There
was something very noninvasive about the whole experience. You couldn’t deny that. Enjoying eye-contact with nearly everyone I passed as I
walked towards the exit, I wondered how long it would take for me and
everyone else to let our ears pop. How long would we surf this buzz
before we got back to paddling out to sea? I tried to share that
sensation and some of the message with family and some friends,
however I ended up having to keep the best part for myself. You know
which part I’m talking about. We all do.

Porch Talks

It was snowing in West Virginia when I pulled off I-64 onto the historic route 219 that extends north all the way to Rochester, NY. I was freezing despite having fully layered-up at the Chinese buffet after filling my thermal bottle with hot tea and by belly with rubbery dumplings. Phone service cut out (my GPS) shortly after entering the new river mountain range, but I knew I was close to Hillsboro – a 250 person farm town where a friend of a friend had agreed to put me up for the night. Right in the belly of the bluegrass birthplace, Hillsboro was a pleasantly underwhelming town to roll into after having scooted out of NYC and DC where I had spent the last week or so. I was looking forward to the change of pace and to seeing something totally new.

Weathered country stores with squeaky screen doors and expired Cambell’s soup on the shelves (which I bought), cattle crossing signs, and rusty mailboxes broke up the otherwise quintessential, pastoral landscape. I could sense that it was a poorer region of the state, but it had a nice-little-farm-town feel to it (it also had an eerie Steven King/Deliverance feel to it, come to think of it). In all seriousness, I later came to find out that 68% of all employed youth lived below the poverty line (earning less than minimum wage, or unemployed) as did 38% of all folks from Pocahauntus county. Cattle farming was the main source of income for most families. The nation’s capital was 4 hours behind me, which alludes to a pretty well-stretched grain irony but something to think about nonetheless.

My gracious hosts were two Americore Vista fellows who were working on
different community projects up and down 219. Chris was a really bright guy who was incorporating some experiential education programs at the middle school and organizing community events and fundraisers. He was also a big weather geek and explained the unseasonal snow to me within the first 20 minutes of meeting him – referencing all sorts of geographical factors in the area. Dan was working out of the town library developing a series of radio broadcasts that captured stories of local folks; their lifestyle, music, trials, and traditions. They both had tremendous respect for the folks from Hillsboro and you could tell that they were proud of the work they were doing and that the respect was reciprocated. Apparently, the recent sequester has paid its tole on Americore program funds as well and it was unclear if they would be extending their posts after the summer. It was clear to me that they were working on something truly valuable. The education programs, the radio programs that broadcast local stories, and the general advocacy for the town’s well being, for starters, but I think it was their approach that was most agreeable.

These guys were learning as much as they could about the folks from Hillsboro; kicking off their boots on the porch with them and talking about the snow that probably killed some crops the night before. I knew nothing about the folks from Hillsboro, and quite frankly, I still don’t know much. Imagine how long it takes to truly begin to empathize with these folks? How many hours of transcribing interviews and how many town meetings do you need to go to in order to hold a general sense of what Hillsboro’s all about? Now imagine how long it takes for someone to do the same in a “non-American” culture? I got to give it to Americore for keeping it local, at least.

I actually believe that the responsibility that we have to one another, as fellow humans, is more relevant here. Dan and Chris (and the rest of the world) are juggling with cutbacks, which I don’t
underestimate, but very little is stopping them from just sitting on the porch and hearing out some stories. Very little is stopping us, at least in theory, from doing the same all over the US and all all over the world. I actually think that too many attempts are made to alleviate poverty, improve general living standards or strengthen a particular sector or community without having a good porch talk. That’s in part why I’m doing his trip. I want to sit on the porch of a many different folks as I can…

I will admit that I didn’t do a great job in West Virginia. I couldn’t help but feel like a pampered city boy but my bones were still chilled from the ride and the below freezing sleep. I was anxious to get to lower elevation as I felt a bad cold coming on. In retrospect, I wish
I had stayed another day or two and listened to more of those stories. We didn’t even get a jam session in and I heard that the bluegrass in the school house on Saturdays was as good as it comes.

The ride to Lousville, KY was warm and beautiful.

Some great porch time was had with my great friend Cutter, who I know from UNH and years after from Portland, OR. He and I tried our hand at Churchill Downs (where they hold the Kentucky Derby) to no avail, but I got a kick out of watching Cutter, who’s from Lousiville, yell at his horse Pajama Bottom (lucky number 4!) as it crossed the finish
line in fourth place. In all seriousness, I don’t much enjoy gambling when I have no idea how to even read the odds, let alone make anything out of it. I guess I can’t help but think that the whole thing, while vastly followed and basted in tradition, has probably afforded the
demise of many-a-household. How many people have walked out of that
place pale in the face? Many more than those that have come out of there skipping, I imagine. But what the hell, at least they played their hand! That’s another reason why I am on this motorcycle trip.

I can’t really explain how nice it was to see such a good friend, who I’ve know for years, stomping the grounds of his hometown. In his natural habitat, if you will. He and his family are so beautifully
rooted and in Lousville and in the few days that I was there it was clear that they are widely respected all over town. If you’ve met any of them, it’s not hard to see why.

My cold had subsided somewhat after some spicy wings and a few bourbons. Speaking of wings, the last day I was in Lousiville the most unexpected guest flew into town and gave a talk at the Yum-KFC Center. I’ll have to save it for the next post, but the Dalai Lama had a
little porch talk of his own with the fine folks of Lousville. I stuck around for those stories. No regrets there…

objects are closer than they appear