31 Fundamental Teachings of Zen

While looking for something else, I came across several pages of notes I had jotted down ten years ago. The notes are in the form a 31 bullet points followed by a short passage from the medieval Chinese Zen teacher Hongzhi. The title of my notes is ‘The Single Flower Way’. Single Flower Sangha is the name my teacher gave to the group he gathered around himself after he left the organization his teacher had gathered around himself (the Kwan Um School). His teacher had left a prestigious position in the hierarchy of Korean Zen (Son in Korean) to come to America and teach a group of hippies and intellectuals in the mid-1970’s. My teacher followed his teacher’s footsteps in the 1990’s and stepped away from a senior position in the world-wide organization based in Providence, Rhode Island that his teacher had created.

The Single Flower Sangha had no fixed geographic location. The only property it accumulated were the two-dozen pamphlet-style chant books that one of his students had made. My teacher carried these chant books and a few bells around in his suitcase as he led silent Zen retreats in people’s homes around the country, including here in the Boston area. There would be anywhere from six to twelve people who would come together for a weekend or week of intensive Zen training. Lots of sitting and silence. Simple food eaten in an informal style. One meeting with the teacher per day in the afternoon and one long Dharma talk in the morning. (Those were the good old days.) My teacher was uncomfortable with large crowds and suspicious of ongoing institutions, so this small and constantly vanishing community of students worked pretty well for him.

From the beginning my teacher encouraged Melissa and me to lead the group we were already leading. At first it was just four of us who gathered weekly in the back room of our house to sit quietly together. After a few years, with his permission and with the permission of the teacher Melissa was then studying with, we turned our weekly gathering into a Zen group and began giving short talks.

My teacher’s permission to me went like this: Me: ‘Would it be OK for Melissa and I to turn our meditation group into a Zen group and begin giving short talks about Zen?’ My Teacher: (after a short pause to look at the floor) ‘Well, I guess if you make sure to only speak from your own experience, you probably won’t do too much damage.’ So began my career as a Zen teacher, first with this informal and cautionary approval, and then, ten or so years later, with his formal (and still cautionary) approval.

My teacher was suspicious of all teachers and all organizations, including himself. He was right to be so. Even his small organization was subject to the conflict and blindness that run through all human affairs—just as we have been here at Boundless Way Temple—just as the Buddha’s first community was.

But my recently rediscovered notes on ‘The Single Flower Way’ are a series of 31 bullet points about the Zen way as I understood my teacher taught it. Most, but not all, the points have some phrases or sentences bolded for emphasis. I remember mentioning to my teacher that I was working on a list like this. He was utterly uninterested and even actively skeptical that there would be any value is a list of his particular Zen teachings.

As I look over the list, what I see in those bullet points this morning are the topics I come back to again and again in hundreds of Dharma talks I have now given. Reading each point, I smile and nod in recognition. I don’t know whether these are indeed my teacher’s teaching or my teachings. Perhaps it might be more accurate to say that they are simply the teachings of the Zen tradition that have come down to and through me.

The one that catches my attention this morning is this:

• There is no road-map. There is no system – only the trackless love of the universe. Burn your rulebook. Beyond form and emptiness, beyond koan practice, beyond Zen. The point of our practice is not Zen – it is aliveness.

I love this! (Of course I wrote it, so I may be biased.) Maybe tomorrow I’ll explore what it might mean. Maybe these 31 points are something that might be useful to share in some manner.

P.S. – I was taken by the idea that there were 31 of these bullet points (I counted carefully) but did not make the association, until I went to post this on my blog, to the 31 Prayers for January 2021 which I posted on the first day of this year. Hmmmmm….

Or Both

I wake up

this morning

in vast space

without knowing

I lie still

and wait.

It’s not so bad

right here.

What if

this is

the blessed spaciousness

I have

been longing for

and not

the fearsome darkness

I have

been avoiding?

Or both.

What to Remember When Writing Poetry

I’ve always wanted to be a poet and I suppose I am, because sometimes I write broken lines on the page and I find myself continually willing to step through the barrier of ‘Who do you think you are?’ to see what happens.

Words sometimes cohere like strange attractors to reveal patterns that bring me deeper. Finding some shape of sound and meaning that pleases me, I am send it off—post it as my gift to the universe. I suppose I should be more careful with creations. I should work longer to ensure only the highest quality. But I refuse to work that hard, so when there’s a spark, I trust that to be enough. (Even when there’s not a spark, I try to trust that too.)

For me, this trusting is the key to creating anything—remembering that there is nothing to prove, we are already OK. Since whatever we do will never be good enough to earn our keep, we don’t have to try so hard. It’s not not caring. It’s just remembering the beating heart has been given and already fills our entire body with the red elixir of life – the energy that sustains us – the life that is us. Whatever our considered opinion on the matter, we are always and nothing but the universe universing—the incarnation of God’s love.

The key to dancing (or writing poetry) in this life is to know that nothing could ever be good enough to earn this love that has already been given. As we consciously receive this unmerited gift of life, then we are free to take chances–to twirl and hop, to leap and stomp or to move so slow that everything appears to be still.  Words come together (or not) and express some fraction of life. And that minuscule fraction manifests the fullness of the universe.  Everything we do, every word we write, every move we make is our perfect love song to the mystery—a deep bow to all that is already.

So, under the cover of the darkness of January, take a chance!  Write a poem, compose a song, draw a picture, make a collage of whatever images and words strike your fancy, glue a few random things together and call it a sculpture. Make something and see what it has to say to you.

Allow yourself to sing the song of your life out loud.

(Over the next two weeks, I will be interspersing some pieces from my archives as I devote part of my mornings to considering how (or whether) to manage everything I have written over the past year.  The original version of this piece appeared 2/7/2017)

31 Prayers for January 2021

1. 1. 1. 1. May my thoughts, words and actions
            align with the deeper love
            that always sustains me.
            
            
         2. May I freely offer all I have
            in each moment
            with no expectation of return.
            
            
         3. May my feet be guided
            by the immeasurable love
            that fills universe.
            
            
         4. May I dance freely
            wherever I find myself.
            
            
         5. May I laugh and cry
            without restraint.
            
            
         6. May I give myself away
            in service of love,
            again and again.
            
            
         7. May I find
            the courage to ask
            for what I really want.
            
            
         8. May I follow whatever is alive
            with curiosity and irreverence.
            
            
         9. May I be willing to be ridiculous
            in service of awakening
            all beings (including myself).
            
            
         10. May I be
             an instrument
             of Peace.
             
             
         11. May I delight in
             small things.
             
             
         12. May I be comfortable
             being uncomfortable.
             
             
         13. May I allow each person I encounter
             to be who they already are and
             may I learn what they have to teach me.
             
             
         14. May I freely give
             and freely receive.
             
             
         15. May I treasure the rising
             and the falling
             of each moment.
             
             
         16. May I fall down
             to the earth
             again and again.
             
             
         17. May I be a comfort
             to those around me.
             
             
         18. May I be willing to disturb
             those around me
             in service of
             awakening truth.
             
             
         19. May I joyfully admit my mistakes
             (even the small ones)
             with embarrassment and humility.
             
             
         20. May I delight in my accomplishments,
             knowing they do not belong to me.
             
             
         21. May I wander widely
             and smile often.
             
             
         22. May I never forget
             how briefly
             we are all here.
             
             
         23. May I remember that
             these are
             ‘the good old days’.
             
             
         24. May I be foolish often
             and apologize rarely.
             
             
         25. May I learn
             from all
             my mistakes.
             
             
         26. May I be ever braver and bolder.
             
             
         27. May my wisdom
             and my blindness
             lead others
             to awakening.
             
             
         28. May I continually abandon
             all that comes
             between me and Life.
             
             
         29. May I serve Life
             with joy and delight.
             
             
         30. May I ask for help
             and really mean it.
             
             
         31. May the ten thousand
             joys and sorrows of life
             course through me
             like a river in full flood.

All The Help I Can Get

Last morning of the year. Cold rain falls outside in the darkness. Inside where I write from the warm comfort of my antique barkalounger, the Buddha and Bodhisattva statues gather in their usual silence on the bookcase next to me. They’ve been there so long, I rarely see them. It’s a cluttered arrangement with an old damaged enamel bowl, a small orange porcelain koi and a brass turtle spread throughout the convocation.

One of Bodhisattvas, Jizo, resides in a cup. Jizo is the guardian of travelers and the unborn. I wonder if his job has been easier this year with so few of us willing to travel? In his cup, he’s tilted a little, leaning against the side. He’s standing on some ashes. I like to think he’s watching over them. I’m not sure whether he’s protecting the ashes or me. His small stylized hands are in the prayer position and with his particularly round bald head he seems very serene. Just now, I straighten him up and I think he appreciates that.

Just next to him is a slightly smaller and much more delicate white porcelain statue of Kannon, the Bodhisattva of compassion. She is the one who hears the cries of the world. It is said that she responds immediately to each cry, though depending on the day, I might or might not be willing (or able) to stand by that statement.

As long as I can remember, calling out and hoping/waiting for a response has been a theme in my life. For some reason, calling out to something beyond has always made sense to me. I don’t remember ever struggling with the existence of God. I’m sure there is a God—some inconceivable source that goes by many names. My question has always been as to the nature of this being/force/principle that is beyond comprehension. I like the Jewish tradition of honoring the unimaginable quality of God by writing G-d instead of the full word.

And I have always loved the Psalms—these ancient songs of calling out. Calling out in both praise and lament. These human voices from so long ago have been companions and guides for me along my journey. They have made me feel less alone—have given me hope in dark places. Maybe, if we mush the traditions together for a moment, we could say that the Psalms are one of the voices of Jizo to the traveler. Of course, we are all travelers through this world of joy and sorrow. And we all need comfort.

Sometimes on especially dark mornings, lying in bed I put my hand on my cheek to reassure myself. ‘There, there sweetie,’ I say to myself, ‘everything will be OK.’ It’s kind of extraordinary how many days have, in fact, been OK. I might even say that since I’ve made it to this morning, the last one in 2020 that all the days since I tumbled, messy and helpless, out of my mother’s womb have been OK. And by OK I mean that all of the wonder, difficulty, dullness, excitement, anxiety, confusion and clarity that have filled them have led me to the next thing. I have not been abandoned to float through endless darkness and yet the ancient dread still arises.

And maybe even floating through endless darkness would be OK. I wonder what I might see or imagine as I floated through the dark universe. Maybe there are terrors and wonders to behold. Maybe I could just relax and enjoy the ride. Weightless and tumbling once again. I imagine myself as the astronaut in 2001: A Space Odyssey summersaulting over and over into the endless darkness. Only you can’t tumble over and over if every way is the same. With no gravity, everything is still. I would let it be still. I imagine. And Jizo and Kannon and G-d and the many other gods and Buddhas would accompany me. And they would be me. And that would be that.

But this morning—not yet. Apparently still more to come in the New Year. The good earth continues to hold and orient me with inescapable gravity. The breathing and the blood pumping and all that sustains me happens of its own, just as it has for the past sixty-eight years. And I continue to ponder the great matter—grateful for all the help I can get.

Walking With My Grandson

Having walked to the edge
of the street he pauses
as I sternly call his name.
‘Isaiah! No!’
He looks back and I
hold his gaze from a few
feet away with my best
‘I really mean this.’ face.

There is no immediate danger,
the street is empty
but there are so many
future streets to be
crossed and I must keep
my little friend alive
long enough to absorb
the calculus of urban life.

He will surely and gradually
internalize the invisible
boundaries of protection
I now cast around our
rambles around the neighborhood.

But at not yet two, his
full comprehension is still
in the future, so I quickly
walk over to grasp
his hand mittened hand
and direct his attention
elsewhere—no show-down
of authority necessary.

I explain again the dangers
of the rushing cars and trucks
he adores and offer the ancient
truism of not playing
in the street but there’s
no traffic now and I know
he’s still too young to fully believe.

So for now, I stay
close and keep careful
watch for both of us.

Year-end Completion Exercise

One useful human skill that we rarely think about is the skill of completion—that is to consciously bring some event or time in our lives to a close. We turn our attention backward over what has happened to honor, learn and grow as we move forward. It’s kind of like a memorial service for what is now over. But not one of those services where the deceased is spoken of in exaggerated and unlikely praise. To really complete something we need to honor and include the fullness of all that happened. The process of completion praises all that has happened, allowing us to begin to come to terms with both the good and the bad, both our successes and our failures. Not only can this lighten the load of unprocessed feelings we carry forward, it can also help us gather hard-earned learnings to bring with us as resources for our next adventures.

The first life-coach I ever worked with in the early 2000’s suggested I do a very simple year-end completion exercise like this that I found surprisingly useful. It takes anywhere from ten minutes to several hours to complete. I offer it here in case you are in a reflective mood during these last three days of the year. There are four parts: Joys and Accomplishments, Disappointments and Failures, Learnings to Take Forward, and Vision from One Year From Now.

If you’re interested, get a piece of paper and your favorite writing implement, or just sit down at your word-processor.

At the top of the page write 2020 Year-End Reflections. Then the heading Joys and Accomplishtments. Now make a list of all of the things you are proud of over this past year—all the things you accomplished or brought you joy. These can range from ‘I survived.’ to specific things that come to you as you scan back over the year. ‘The annual black-eye Susan vine (thunbergia) I grew from seed looked spectacular on the back railing.’ It could be about relationships that have deepened, challenges met, risks taken, adventures begun.

The point here is to remember the good stuff. Many of us have minds that so readily focus on past disappointments and future problems that we rarely find time to acknowledge the many things that go well, the many times we have successfully met the challenges of our lives. Looking back and appreciating your own resilience, ingenuity and courage is a way of claiming the skills you already have as your own.

These accomplishments and joys can be a quick list with just a few words, or it can be a long and detailed list. Follow whatever feels right. I often find when I do this that as I write, other things occur to me that I had almost forgotten. If your list begins to get embarrassingly long, take a deep breath and enjoy it.

Next is the heading Disappointments and Failures. This is the list of all the things that didn’t work out the way you wanted. They may be due to things you did or didn’t do, or they may be events far out of your control. But everything on this list is, in some way, something you didn’t want (or something you did want that didn’t happen.) Some positive-minded people might ask what the point is to going back over painful things. Why not just move on and focus on the good stuff? Much of the difficulty in our lives stays with us far beyond the time when it is ‘over’. Consciously turning to examine the things that have been disappointing or even heart-breaking gives us the opportunity to feel whatever we feel about them as well as to begin to learn what there is to learn from them.

We human beings are learning machines. If you are living a creative life (and we all are) you will sometimes, even often, fail. This is not a sign you are doing things wrong, but rather a sign you are willing to take chances, to go beyond the safety of what you know how to do. Picasso once said ‘I am always doing that which I do not know how to do in order to learn how to do it.’ This is each one of us, every day. Reflecting on our successes and failures is a way to support our natural and incessant learning.

The third heading is Learnings to Take Forward. This is where you list what you have learned over the year. These learnings may be quite specific ‘Rabbits in the Temple garden love to eat cosmos seedlings.’ to much more general ‘I am more and more drawn to wandering without purpose in order to find my way.’ Again, trust whatever comes to you, but consider what you have learned from both successes and failures.

Finally, imagine it is one year from now (12/29/21) and you are looking back on the coming year that has passed. You are amazed at how well it went—surprised by the wonderful thing you accomplished and that came to pass. You can label this section Vision from One Year From Now. Use the past tense as you write this, as if what you are imagining has already happened. Again, it can be as specific ‘Created a new terraced flower bed by the garage.’ or as general ‘I met the pressures of the continuing pandemic with equanimity and ease as the vaccine became widely available.’

That’s the exercise. You can put these lists in a safe place to take out again at some future date, or you can tear it up and burn it as an offering to the gods or even just put it on top of the pile of papers on your desk and let it fend for itself.

(If you’re really in the mood for an adventure, you could ask someone to be your ‘life-coach for an hour’ and read your reflections to them. If you do this, please instruct your temporary life-coach to just listen and appreciate. No advice is necessary or helpful. They don’t have to analyze or figure you out, they are just the witness and cheerleader as you notice what you notice.)

Appreciations

When I was 16 years old, I spent a year in Nagasaki, Japan as a Rotary Club exchange student. Four different families opened their homes to me and took care of me as if I was their own son. Looking back, I can’t believe my American parents let me go half-way around the world and stay with total strangers—strangers who had been mortal enemies of this country just 25 years previously. (Thank you Mom and Dad for letting me go. I had no idea what a big deal it is for a parent to let their children go off into the world until many years later when I myself was a parent watching my daughter go off—and she was only going to college a few hundred miles away.)

Looking back, I remember so many moments of kindness—from my host families, teachers, friends and also from complete strangers. Everyone helping me find my way in a culture that was so different from anything I had ever encountered. I had never been out of the United States, and at first I couldn’t even really believe that people didn’t understand English. I mean, of course I knew they spoke Japanese, but to my naïve American ears, English was not one language among many, but was language itself. The year in another culture opened me to the possibility and the wonder of difference. Many of my assumptions about the way life is are just one choice among many alternatives.

In 1969, when I went, westerners were still a rarity away from the city center of Nagasaki, a prosperous and hilly city of 400,000 residents. In the outskirts of the city, away from the Western-style affluence of the downtown, little children would startle at my blond hair and strange appearance and would run fearfully to their mothers calling ‘Henna gaijin! Henna gaijin!’ (weird foreigner). Their mothers would shush them and look embarrassed. I would smile and do my best to look non-threatening. (OK, this didn’t happen all the time, but even having a few young children run screaming to their mothers at the sight of you is an impressive and memorable memory.)

But what caught my mind this morning about Japan is the New Year’s Day celebration I remember from my time there. New Year’s Eve was not a big deal, it was New Year’s Day that was the real event. We dressed in our fancy kimonos and went together to the main Shinto Shrine of the city where thousands were gathered to celebrate the coming of the New Year. We ate delicious food, wished for good fortune in the coming years and remembered our ancestors—those who had come before us and made our lives possible. And then, every time for the next few days and weeks when you saw someone for the first time, you made a big deal out of your first meeting of the New Year. A new beginning.

So as the New Year bears down on us to end this weird and dangerous year, I’m thinking with gratitude of those many people who sheltered and protected me, a vulnerable and competent man-child far from home. And all of us who are here at this unsettled time have made it this far because of the kindness of so many people—most of whom we will never know.

Perhaps these next few days are a good time to remember all the acts of kindness and support that have helped us get to this point—especially the ones who have been there for us over these past twelve unprecedented months. The old friends and acquaintances we have taken socially distanced walks with, the family we have zoomed with or met with as safely as we could, and the new people who have virtually and otherwise come into our lives. And also the myriad people who have grown our food and driven it to the supermarket and worked in the supermarket on eight-hour shifts while we have run in and run out to lower our chances of infection. And the nurses and doctors and attendants. The fire fighters, the essential workers who have shouldered the risk for us all.

We are supported by a web of life that covers the whole earth. As we consider this reality of interdependence it feels appropriate to send our thanks out to everyone we know and everyone we don’t know, in appreciation of their role in our ongoing life of wonder, weirdness and difficulty.

Dream, Movie, Memory

A Dream: I was applying for the job of leading a private school. I had been the Head of the school previously but was not currently. I wasn’t totally sure I wanted to do it, but applied because I thought it made sense to offer my skills once more to guide the school. There were a number of other candidates. The trustees called a meeting in a large auditorium with hundreds of people. Three men in suits spoke at some length and then announced they had chosen someone else to be the Head of the school. I was sitting in the back with a friend, she looked over at me to see if I was OK. I was shocked and unsure what to do.

I decided to quit my job then and there—to empty my desk and leave the school by the end of the week. I was angry and disappointed. While I was gathering my things, the new Head came by before a meeting to ask me some obvious questions about the budget. I was amazed he didn’t know what was plainly evident and was sure he was incompetent to run the school.

I was also relieved to be leaving. I spent the rest of the dream coming to terms with both the loss and the freedom that would now be possible once I left. There was one scene where Wonder Woman (in her street clothes) and two other women were comforting me and gently expressing their confidence in my abilities to find my own path and flourish on my own.

A Movie: We watched Wonder Woman 1984 last night. I wouldn’t call it a great movie, but it was good fun and (spoiler alert) ultimately sweet and positive though not everyone gets everything they want at the end. That, in fact, is the subject of the movie—our wants and desires and what happens when we get what we think we want. Turns out (surprise) that it’s not purely good for us to get what we want.

A Memory: When I was in high school, my father, who was the minister of the local Presbyterian church, was also the assistant coach of my wrestling team. I had been wrestling since 7^th grade and had gotten quite good by a combination of determination, innate capacity and hating to lose. Before each wrestling meet, my Dad would gather us together in the locker room to pray before we went out to wrestle. He always prayed that we might stay safe and that we would do our best.

Secretly, I always prayed to win. At that age, staying safe and doing my best seemed like getting sox for Christmas—nothing worth wishing for. Looking back, I see it differently. I think of the sweet gaggle of tough and vulnerable high school boys trying to prove themselves—and, in retrospect, I see that my father’s prayer was sincere and true. But at the moment, winning seemed like the only thing worth wanting.

One day (and here’s the point of the story that ties it in to the movie and maybe even the dream) I confessed to my father that my prayer was to win. I pressed my theological point by saying ‘You say that God always answers our prayers. How come I don’t always win?’ Without missing a beat, as I recall, he responded ‘Sometimes the answer is no.’ His response was surprisingly satisfying to me. I didn’t really like it, but it made sense.

So What?: We don’t always get what we want. And when we get what we want—the victory, the job, the relationship—it turns out to be different that we had imagined—more complicated, fluid and short-lived. This is one of the teachings of life-coaching I most appreciate—that fulfillment is not a destination but a process. Fulfillment is what happens when we act in alignment with what we love.

Success and failure, gain and loss, praise and blame are pairs of human experience that are neither good nor bad. In not being chosen to lead the school in my dreams, I was disappointed. But who were the three beautiful women offering me comfort and encouragement? The three Muses? Three parts of me with hidden powers, one of whom can fly through the air with her ‘lasso of truth’ tangling up bad guys and making sure children are saved from harm (even in the middle of a chase scene when she is fighting for her life).

Personal Practice: What if what you have is what you need? Can we choose this life—even with it’s impossible difficulties and disappointments? What if what you have is what you really want? I pose these questions not as theological positions, but rather as lines of inquiry and investigation.

Take a moment as you read this and look around. Take a breath. Listen to the sounds. See what is around you. It could be otherwise. It will be otherwise.

Getting Over It

The day after Christmas is always an anti-climax. In fact, Christmas itself is usually an anti-climax—even before this weird year of social and familial distancing. What can live up to all the hype—the gloss and glitter that comes before this magical day? If your spouse doesn’t pull back the curtains to reveal the black muscular jeep you’ve been longing for or doesn’t produce the diamond necklace of your dreams—whatever else comes is a letdown that one tries to bravely meet with a smile and positive attitude. I suppose that even the Jeeps and Jaguars, diamond necklaces and tiaras that are given are not enough either. Or they are enough for a brief moment, then the brief flood of serotonin recedes and we’re left once again on the arid beaches of everyday life.

For a wonderful illustration of this, I’ve especially enjoyed watching ‘The Crown’, a ‘based-on-real-life’ Netflix drama about England’s royal family through the long reign of the current Queen. Beautifully filmed in sumptuous interiors and casually fantastic cars and castles the series gives a palpable sense of the fantastic pressures of public scrutiny and the hollowness of the consequent human relationships. (Spoiler alert) The Royal family is not a happy family. Apparently even being married to a beautiful princess and having scores of gardeners at your beck and call is not enough to satisfy.

I turns out that all the things we think will make us happy, don’t really work. The possessions, the positions, even the relationships don’t save us from the ten thousand joys and sorrows of everyday life. This is ultimately good news. Because it means we can give up our grand dreams of how it, or we, or someone else should be and begin to work with and appreciate what is already here.

The ancient Greek Stoic philosophers clearly understood these issues and preached a brand of practical acceptance and enjoyment of life. One modern day adherent recently summarized this philosophy as ‘Do what you can, where you are, with what you’ve got.’ Sound advice for us all as it is pretty much our only option. Our sense of ease and freedom doesn’t come from having superpowers to control the kingdom (which even the Queen doesn’t have), but the gradual acceptance of how little is actually within our control.

One Stoic story that got passed down is about the philosopher who got in political trouble and was banished to a small barren island off the coast of Greece. The weather was good, but apparently the Internet was terrible and the local cuisine even worse. His devoted disciples would occasionally visit him to comfort him in his lonely exile. But he, in fact practices what he had taught and did what he could, with what he had, were he was and was quite content. He, the one who had lost everything, ended up being the one that comforted the students who had come to comfort him.

So here we are, back to sea level once again after the Christmas boondoggle or the Christmas non-event or whatever it was or wasn’t for you—back to everyday life. I find myself kind of relieved and curious about what comes next. I’m looking forward to this one weird week between Christmas and New Years. My goal for these days ahead is to be reasonably non-productive, to do some reflecting and writing. To do what I can, when I can, with what I’ve got.