Uncategorized – Page 8 – Steve Jacobsen, Ed.D

Where To Plant Your Tree

I once attended a day-long retreat at La Casa de Maria, “Introduction to Meditation,” led by a well-respected teacher in the local Buddhist community. I’ve attended quite a few similar events over the years and I’m always curious to see how the leader presents the material.

On this day, I was impressed by the leader’s ability to make the material simple, clear and practical: how to get in the best posture, why your hands can be open on your lap, how to align your spine, what to do with the mental chatter, what to expect over time, etc.

At one point in the afternoon, he spoke about why one would commit to making this an ongoing practice. He noted the personal benefits to our health, both physical and emotional. He then posed a classic question: if you think of your life like a small house with a fenced front yard, where do you plant your tree of spiritual practice? Do you locate it close to the house and away from the street so the fruits will be harvested only by you? Or do you plant it just inside your front fence, so that some of the branches grow inward and the other half outward, beyond your property line, inviting neighbors to share in your harvest?

After taking some time in silence for us to consider the question, he suggested that one of the most important measures of the value of our spiritual practice is how it impacts other people. The more calm, thoughtful, clear-minded and compassionate we are, the more we can benefit the life of others, not just ourselves.

This seems important to me. Our contemporary Western culture often focuses entirely on us as isolated individuals; many popular spiritual practices assume that our highest and sole purpose is to find personal peace and enlightenment. I think that is short-sighted. I believe spirituality can become a shiny word for narcissism. We may begin our practice with a focus on ourselves, but true spirituality draws us beyond ourselves toward serving others and the world.

When I began my ministry, I was living in a low-income area. A couple came to me wanting to get married but could not afford to pay the usual fees. I offered an option: instead of paying me or the church, they could do ten hours of community service together for a nonprofit of their choice, then report back to me. The couple chose to volunteer for Habitat for Humanity. When we next met, they told me how rewarding the “assignment” was. I encouraged them to remember that the purpose of marriage is not just to benefit the two making the commitment, but also to be of use to the broader community in which they lived. Looking back on my career, I wish I would have encouraged that practice with many other couples.

The most fruitful lives I have seen are those that include a commitment to serving others; the paradox is we can find deeper personal fulfillment doing that just endlessly focusing on ourselves.

A Portable Presence

As I was approaching 60, I wanted to do something memorable to mark my six decades on the planet. I was grateful I had “made pilgrimage” to some timeless places in the world — Jerusalem, Galilee, Buddhist and Hindu sites in India, the Guadalupe shrine in Mexico City, Ellis Island, Wrigley Field in Chicago and Fenway Park in Boston — and thought about where else I could go. But my work at the time did not allow for ambitious trips abroad. I decided to turn inward and identify six places in Southern California that had been important in my life that were within a day’s drive. My plan was to go to each spot, reflect on what I had experienced there and what it meant to me in the present. Here are the places I visited:

My childhood home in San Bernardino: the house had burned down, and a new house had been built on the lot. I drove to the street and parked. Childhood memories came back, but all the families we’d known were gone. I felt nothing.
The high school I attended: I drove by slowly; it was summer and not in session and the buildings felt lifeless.
The beach in San Clemente where our family spent many summers: the shoreline had shifted somewhat; the horizon, ocean and breaking waves were familiar. I was grateful for the joys we shared there, but also aware those times were long past.
The apartment in Isla Vista where I had lived in my junior year in college: I sat on a bench across the street thinking about how I had let myself become deeply isolated and self-absorbed that year. I remembered how lost I had been.
The chapel in San Diego where my spiritual journey had taken root: I parked at the curb, went up the stairs and found the door was locked. I went to the church office and explained to the church secretary why I had come. She let me in and left me. I looked around, breathed the air, summoned some faint memories but nothing else came to me.
The Goleta church that had brought us back to California: I parked in the lot and walked around the buildings. I was grateful for all we had experienced there, but also aware that my life had moved on as had that of many people.

I had hoped that going to those places would give me some exciting new insights into my life, but that was not the case.

Some months later I decided to trade in my Prius for a Honda CRV. On the day of the transaction, I cleaned out my personal items from the Prius and drove it to the dealer. A salesperson inspected it and gave me the keys to the new car in exchange for the Prius keys. I started to walk away, then stopped to look back at the older car. It had served me well for five years, but now I was leaving it behind and it seemed like an empty shell. I wondered, “Is this what it’s like when our spirit leaves our body?”

Maybe we look for our personal presence in particular places, but it’s not there; it’s always with us, it’s who we are.

Lead image: Pacific Coast at San Clemente; sanclementeshoreEDIT.webp

Those Days When Our Life Changes Forever

You never know when something will happen that will change your life.

The Austrian writer Stefan Zweig was 32 years old on June 29, 1914, savoring the beginning of the summer season outside of Vienna:

I had rarely experienced one more luxuriant, more beautiful and, I am tempted to say, more summery. Throughout the days and nights the heavens were a silky blue, the air soft yet not sultry, the meadows fragrant and warm, the forests dark and profuse in their tender green; even today, when I use the word summer, I think involuntarily of those radiant July days which I spent in Baden near Vienna. In order that I might concentrate on my work I had retired for the month of July to this small romantic town where Beethoven loved to spend his summer holidays…

In light summer dress, gay and carefree, the crowds moved about to the music in the park. The day was mild; a cloudless sky lay over the broad chestnut trees; it was a day made to be happy. The vacation days would soon set in for the people and children, and on this holiday they anticipated the entire summer, with its fresh air, its lush green, and the forgetting of all daily cares. I was sitting at some distance from the crowd in the park, reading a book…Nevertheless, I was simultaneously aware of the wind in the trees, the chirping of the birds, and the music which was wafted toward me from the park. I heard the melodies distinctly without being disturbed by them, for our ear is so capable of adapting itself that a continuous din, or the noise of a street, or the rippling of a brook adjusts itself completely to our consciousness, and it is only an unexpected halt in the rhythm that startles us into listening.”

“And so it was that I suddenly stopped reading when the music broke off abruptly. I did not know what piece the band was playing. I noticed only that the music had broken off. Instinctively I looked up from my book. The crowd which strolled through the trees as a single, light, moving mass, also seemed to have undergone a change; it, too, had suddenly come to a halt. Something must have happened. I got up and saw that the musicians had left their pavilion. This too was strange, for the park concert usually lasted for an hour or more. What could have caused this brusque conclusion? Coming closer I noticed that the people had crowded excitedly around the bandstand because of an announcement which had evidently just been put up. It was, as I soon learned, the text of a telegram announcing that His Imperial Majesty, the successor to the crown, Franz Ferdinand, and his wife, who had gone to the maneuvers in Bosnia, had fallen victims of a political assassination there.”

Franz Ferdinand was not popular in Austria, “and so the news of his murder aroused no profound sympathy. Two hours later signs of genuine mourning were no longer to be seen. The throngs laughed and chattered and as the evening advanced music was resumed at public resorts.” – Stefan Zweig, The World of Yesterday

But the assassination set off a tragic chain reaction of events that led to the outbreak of World War on July 28. Four years later, 8 million people had died, 7 million people were permanently disabled, and 15 million were seriously injured. The immense suffering of World War 1 led to the rise of Nazism, the Soviet Union, and World War 2. Zweig, a beloved writer across Europe, eventually saw his books banned because he was Jewish. He eventually fled to Brazil where he finished The World of Yesterday in 1940. The next day, overcome with despair, he took his own life.

There are dates that change our lives. December 7, 1941, with the attack on Pearl Harbor. The attack on the World Trade Center on September 11, 2001. The Hamas attack on Israel October 7.

My friend Father Larry once said that every year we celebrate the date of our birth. We do not know what day on the calendar will be our last, but that day will surely come; until then we pass it by unaware.

One newsflash, one phone call, one text, and our life changes forever.

Such days are not all dark days. Some days we remember because they mark turning points that lead to joy: a day when we fell in love, a day when we got a letter or a phone call offering us a great opportunity in our education or work, a day when a child is born.

I will always remember an afternoon in the spring of 2006. I was rushing to perform a memorial service and was just pulling into a parking space when my cell phone rang. It was our oldest daughter calling from Seattle. I answered and, before she spoke, asked if I could call her back in an hour. “No, dad, I’ve got something to tell you.” She paused. “You are going to have a grandson.” I remember nothing about the service that day; I will always remember her words and that moment.

A major theme of the spiritual traditions is a plea to not take our days for granted — to be aware of the goodness that surrounds us every day. If I am not rushing off to do something in the early mornings, I take time to recall seven blessings I experienced the previous day. I remember the details of each one. I want to be aware of such things while I can.

Another major theme is caring for the world beyond ourselves – doing the things that make for peace. The world we’ve created is a fragile thing; we must handle it with care.

Painting: Dance at Le Moulin de la Galette, Auguste Renoir, 1876

Practicing or Performing?

(Dear Reader: we just returned from a trip, and I’m posting this piece I wrote three years ago; I hope it is useful to you.)

As you go through your day, do you feel like you are on stage every minute, striving to give a stellar performance?

I once heard an engaging talk by a theology professor, Tom Boyd. He noted how we may hear someone is “a practicing Christian” or “a practicing Buddhist.” He then explored the difference between the words “performance” and “practice.”

Think about playing the piano. If we are performing a piece and make a mistake, we may be embarrassed and frustrated. But if we are practicing the same piece and miss a note, we don’t worry about it; “I’m just practicing,” we tell ourselves. Performing can make us tense, afraid and nervous. But if we are practicing, we are relaxed, open and curious.

He went on to say some people make their spiritual life a performance, rather than a true practice. They feel great internal pressure to always do the right thing and think the right thoughts, and to appear blameless before anyone who may be watching. That’s a lot of work, a lot of pressure.

I remember fondly a professor in seminary, Chris Becker. He grew up in Holland and had lived through World War 2. Seeing so much suffering led him to become a Biblical scholar. He was brilliant and flamboyant. He smoked a cigarette using a cigarette holder, something I’d only seen in movies. He often had a stylish scarf tossed around his neck. He was known to never turn down an invitation to have a beer with a student. He was popular not only because he was brilliant but because he was deeply passionate about life.

One day a student asked him a question about how a clergy person should live. It touched something in Chris. He took a long pause as he searched for a response. He looked at the student, then all of us earnest seminarians. “Please,” he said with heart-felt concern, “Don’t let your life become an ordeal of piety.”

I’ve been an ordained for 40 years, and I’ve never forgotten his plea: “Don’t let your life become an ordeal of piety.”

If we are living our life as an “ordeal of piety,” it may be because we see it as a performance, not a practice. Our spiritual journeys are meant to make us aware of the choices we make as we go through the day. But hopefully we are centered in a sense of gratitude for what we’ve been given and the path we are on. This should put us more at ease. From an inner awareness of blessing, we don’t have to prove anything; we don’t have to perform. We can practice responding to grace as best we can.

The same perspective can be useful in other areas of our life.

If you are in a relationship, how are you approaching it? is it a performance in which you must do everything right? Or is it a daily practice where you are always learning how to live with and love each other?

How about parenting – is it a performance you’re being graded on by someone, especially yourself? Or is it a practice in which you are constantly learning while trying to do your best in new and challenging situations?

Clearly there are times to “perform.” I know if I’m “performing” a wedding, I want to do my very best. And if you are a musician, actor or athlete, there is a special excitement in doing as well as you possibly can when you perform. But it’s helpful to remember most of the time, we can simply practice doing whatever we are doing.

I’ve been playing golf since I retired. Recently I ruptured the bicep tendon in my right arm. After tests and consultations, I began physical therapy. When I asked the therapist about playing golf, he said I could try it and see how it felt – but be careful not to try to do too much.

After a month I decided to see how it felt to play just 9 holes. In my mind I said, “Take it easy. Don’t push it. You’re just practicing.”

On the second hole, my drive took one bounce and disappeared into the hole. It was my very first hole in one. I was shocked. I played well the rest of the day.

A week later I came out again, convinced I could build on my success. My expectations were higher, and I began pressing. It was a disaster. I played poorly all day.

We can bear in mind the distinction between performing and practicing and choose which approach we want to use in different situations. Who wants life to be an “ordeal of piety?”

Checking In

This month we have been spending time in the mountains…first the Sierras and now near Mt. Shasta. I’m not doing any writing, but will share a few photos.

Our six year old grandson waiting for his turn in his dad’s kayak, Lake Mary, Mammoth.

Cloud formation at sunset over the town of McCloud (population 945) near Mt. Shasta. Fifteenth year we’ve stayed here.

I hope you are finding moments of rest and reverence.

“Pain Passes, But the Beauty Remains”

In the last years of his life, the French Impressionist painter Jean Renoir continued to paint despite intense pain and physical limitations from rheumatoid arthritis. At one point he said: “Pain passes, but the beauty remains.”[i]

His pain ended with his death, but the beauty of his work lives.

I’ve participated in many memorial services in my life. In such times we have a deep instinct to look for the best in someone’s life, which we hope will transcend whatever pain they endured. If the person has been able to live a full and meaningful life, this can be easy. But if the person’s life was marked by tragedy, the desire to focus only on the positive can feel inauthentic — perhaps a way to avoid our own pain and doubts.

This week I spoke at a memorial service for a man who died in his late 80s. He’d gone in for a heart procedure that was intended to give him several more years of vitality. But things happen, and he died at the hospital. Yet at the service, we reviewed the span of his life, the legacy of his love, and the many joys he knew; all this was far more important than the way he died.

This week I also knew a person whose life was drawing to its completion. She had a life of many adventures and much love, but this last year was marked by personal tragedy. I don’t want to look away from the tragic elements, but I see even more clearly the splendor of her life.

From the pain, I want to learn empathy and compassion.

From the beauty, I want to practice awe and reverence.

Perhaps this drive for transcending suffering is ingrained in life.

A friend who is vacationing in the Caribbean posted some photos this week and commented: “I took a walk on the beach in Barbados tonight and found four turtles coming to shore to lay eggs. I spent about an hour watching one come out of the surf, on to shore and then digging a hole to lay eggs. Incredible.”

Patience. Endurance. Hope. Don’t we all wish this for ourselves and for others: “Pain passes, but the beauty remains?”

Lead image: Pierre-Auguste Renoir, Self-portrait, 1899, Clark Art Institute, Williamstown, MA, USA.

[i] When Art Hurts”

Fred the Frog: A No-Tech Wonder

At 7:30 AM this past Wednesday, I picked up my 6- and 9-year-old grandsons to play golf at our local 9-hole course. Our custom is to rent a cart, tee up, and embark on our adventure. We celebrate our best shots but don’t keep score.

Near the green on the 5th hole, the 9-year-old said, “There’s a frog!” He pointed to the ground, but I couldn’t see what he was talking about. He knelt down, carefully picked up a wee creature, cupped it in his hand and showed us. It was an exciting discovery:

We continued to play, but the kids’ attention was focused on the frog. They decided to name it “Fred.” The six-year-old decided to not play the next two holes so he could be Fred’s primary guardian. On the last two holes, they took turns: one would be Fred’s caretaker while the other took his shot.

We finished our round and went to breakfast. Before going into the restaurant, they designed a minimum-security safe space for Fred in the cupholder of the car console, using a napkin as the roof.

After breakfast we came out and discovered Fred had escaped. I happened to see him by my right foot next to the accelerator pedal. I moved my foot aside. The 6-year-old rose from the back seat and twisted himself past me for the rescue, his feet in the air like a descending abalone diver. He gently placed Fred in the palm of his left hand and returned to his seat.

A few minutes later, we pulled into their driveway. The boys quickly got out and took Fred inside, leaving me behind to bring in the leftover French Toast and the unfinished blue Poweraide. They rushed past their mom to their bedroom, formulating plans for a suitable enclosure that would keep Fred safe until he’d be released into the nearby creek.

Fred is not a digital representation of a frog. He’s not a character in a video game. He is not an imaginary creature created by artificial intelligence that looks and acts like a frog. Fred is real. If you aren’t careful, you can hurt him. He’s a marvelous work and a wonder. He honorably represents the countless frogs, tadpoles, grasshoppers, ladybugs, Roly Poly Bugs, and other creatures that children have been discovering, learning from, and caring for as long as human beings have been inhabiting this earth.

Who was I to think that the most memorable event of the day might be some remarkable shot from grandpa?

The Remembrance of Things Past

I led many a meeting over the years. If it was a new group, I would often begin with a question for everyone to answer. The one I used most often was, “Where did you grow up, and what did you like best about it?”

I’d wait a minute or two, then offer my own response as an example. “I grew up in San Bernardino, California. What I liked best about it was our neighborhood. It was at the base of the foothills and there were lots of kids on our street. We spent countless hours getting together to play games like hide and seek, cops and robbers and whatever sport was in season.”

Then others would respond.

“Every summer we’d go back to our grandparents farm for a month.”

“We had a cabin by a lake, and we’d go there for our vacation. We had every day free to hike, fish, and play games.”

“In my neighborhood, there was a big vacant lot at the end of the street, and the neighborhood kids would meet there every day and come up with something to do.”

Over time, I saw two common themes.

Almost every treasured memory had to do with extended periods of unstructured time. Alone or with others, children were free to follow their imagination.
As people shared their stories, they became relaxed and happy; they were re-experiencing a joy they’d known unconsciously as a child.

This came to mind as I read a recent article in the New York Times, “Racing to Retake a Beloved Trip, Before Dementia Takes Everything,” by Francesca Mari.[i] It’s a personal story about her journey with her 72-year-old father who has advancing dementia. He lives alone in Half Moon Bay, and she teaches at Brown University in Rhode Island. Mari’s mother died when she was 10. Her father never remarried, and she is an only child. She describes the challenges of caring for a parent with dementia. Before it gets worse, she decides to take him to Switzerland and Italy, retracing a trip he had with his parents when he was 14 as they visited the village of his grandparents. She hoped this might be a positive experience for them both.

This is a well-told-tale, and I will not try to retell it. Suffice it to say that, despite many challenges, they find his family’s ancestral home in a small Swiss village. Along the way, listening to Beatles’ music in the car and seeing new sights, her father summons up many warm memories, many which she has never heard before. In some ways, he comes alive again. Interspersed with their adventures and discoveries, Mari shares insights about the power of nostalgia and reminiscing:

In the 1950s, the tendency of old people to reminisce was thought to be a sign of senility. The first long-term studies of healthy elderly people began at Duke University and the National Institutes of Health’s Laboratory of Clinical Science only in 1955 — and it wasn’t until the early 1960s that Robert Butler, a psychologist then at the National Institutes of Health, realized that nostalgia and reminiscence were part of a natural healing process. “The life review,” as Butler came to call it, “represents one of the underlying human capacities on which all psychotherapy depends.” The goals of life review included the righting of old wrongs, atoning for past actions or inactions, reconciling with estranged family members or friends, accepting your mortality, taking pride in accomplishment and embracing a feeling of having done your best. Interestingly, Butler noted that people often return to their birthplace for a final visit.

Butler believed life reviews weren’t the unvarnished truth but rather the reconciled one, more like the authorized biography. The edited narrative is born of psychological necessity. “People who embark on a life review are making a perilous passage,” Butler wrote, “and they need support that is caring and nonjudgmental. Some people revise their stories until the end, altering and embellishing in an attempt to make things better. Pointing out the inconsistencies serves no useful purpose and, indeed, may cut off the life-review process.”

…. memories must travel between people. Without pollination, they wither. Families collectively remember, they maintain narratives, fill them in and round them out and keep people close long after they’ve left…

I remember listening to my father reminisce in his later years. My mother died 20 years before he did. Growing up, my siblings and I remember many good times, as well as the ways in which they frustrated each other. But as time went on, dad’s retellings did not include any reference to their differences. Instead, he only saw her in the light of the love he had for her. Who were we to correct him?

I have been fortunate to spend a great deal of time listening to older peoples’ memories, stories, and lessons they’ve learned. Now that I am a Medicare-card-carrying-member of this age group, I understand the desire to try to make sense of the lives we’ve lived.

In April, I went back to my hometown to visit the cemetery where my ancestors are buried, including ones who died before I was born. There was nothing there but gravestones, but something led me to kneel, touch the marker, and thank them.

There is a famous phrase of Shakespeare’s, which, as I discovered, opens his 40^th sonnet:

When to the sessions of sweet silent thought

I summon up remembrance of things past,

I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought…

The poem continues with verses describing grieving lost friends, then ends with:

But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,

All losses are restor’d, and sorrows end.

May we be willing to honor those who reminisce and be grateful for the friends and families with whom we can “pollinate” our fleeting memories.

[i] “Racing to Retake a Beloved Trip, Before Dementia Takes Everything” (If you cannot open the article but want to read it, email me and I’ll send you a PDF copy.)

Photo: The village of Treggia, Switzerland, where the author’s grandfather was born

The Elephant and the Rider: A Tale About Our Moral Judgments

Some people love hot sauce, the spicier the better. Others like it mild. Others want none at all. Are these preferences the result of a logical thought process, or simply an honest report on what peoples’ taste buds tell them?

When we make judgments about other people, moral questions, and politics, is it our thinking mind that decides what’s true? Or is it more often a deep feeling/reaction we have, and our thinking mind comes up with reasons to support that point of view?

When a human rider is on top of an elephant, which one holds the real power to decide what direction to go?

Several years ago, I read a book which challenged my understanding of the way we make judgments: The Righteous Mind by Jonathan Haidt. Haidt draws on extensive research about moral reasoning and comes to many important conclusions. One of them employs the metaphor of an elephant and its rider. In this imaginary scenario, the rider does not ultimately decide which path the elephant takes, but, in many ways, is “along for the ride.” The rider’s job is to come up with reasons to justify which way the elephant wants to go. Haidt says our moral judgments are like taste buds — more a reflections of our instincts and intuition than a logical process. This explains why people across cultures, in religion and politics, fall into groups often labeled “liberal” and “conservative;” people may look at the same set of facts or events but draw different conclusions.

This explains why we hear people say, “How can they think like that? Why won’t they listen to reason and pay attention to the facts?

I grew up in a racist culture. I didn’t realize it at the time – I just thought this was the way life was. My view of African Americans came from all directions…comments, jokes, a biased history, commonly accepted racial slurs, and TV shows like “Amos and Andy.” I didn’t think this was point of view was right, it was just the way it was. As I got to know African Americans in school, in the workplace, and through our evolving culture, my views changed. Personal experiences and compelling stories began to challenge my inherited bias. My elephant began to go in a different direction, and my rider-mind began to understand the world differently.

I grew up in a homophobic culture which has undergone a similar evolution.

After 9/11, I became involved with community interfaith groups that included Muslim and Jewish representatives. I led a year-long project in which a dozen people from my congregation as well as a dozen from the local synagogue and mosque began meeting every other week for lunch. In the early meetings, we did not talk about our different beliefs, but focused on getting to know each other as human beings. We learned about each other’s families, life stories, hopes and dreams. In the early encounters, my elephant kept tugging at me, saying “This person is fundamentally different than you.” But over time that changed; the categories I had inherited faded, and I saw each participant as a unique individual.

Looking back, it is interesting to see how the change in my unconscious elephant came about through accumulated visual impressions and how they were tied to judgements. Before the project began, if I saw a woman wearing a hijab face covering, the only realities I could associate with that were the endless news stories about terrorists and the oppression of women; such stories were always accompanied with suspenseful, troubling music. So, when I first met some of the Muslim women, I felt tense. But over time, as I got to know them, I no longer noticed how they dressed or if they had a face covering — I knew them as friends. After the project ended, I was traveling to Ghana and had just boarded a plane at JFK airport. I saw five Muslim women coming down the aisle. My “elephant” said, “Oh, look, some Muslim women…I’d love to get to know them!” In that instant, I realized my snap judgment had totally shifted because of our project. The change came about not by rational persuasion as much as lived experience.

I currently live in a community that votes very “blue.” Before coming here, I lived in a community that was politically “red.” I have friends who hold differing perspectives in both communities, and I can tell you what life experiences has led them to see things the way they do.

As we approach the 4^th of July, we will be reminded of the words ““We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, and that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.” For decades, “all men” meant “all white males” – that was the elephant the leaders were riding at the time. But through much suffering and striving, we’ve come to realize that the more profound and inspired meaning is not “all white men” but “all people.” America at its best is not about the dominance of one ethnic group, but a shared dream for the entire human family.

Our spiritual traditions were born in cultures with their own sense of tribalism, identity, and biases. But at their best, they call us to go beyond the brute instincts and assumptions we ride on. They call us to see all people as created in the divine image, regardless of ethnicity, gender, and social status. Through powerful teachings and stories, our “riders” can sometimes convince our “elephants” to move towards higher ground. Our progress may be slow and the obstacles never ending, but the ethical summons and divine vision is nonnegotiable.

Lead image: https///usustatesman.com

Lower Image: elephant_and_rider_by_ohmygodfatherscat_d1oxikr-fullview.jpg

Are You Being Lazy? Or Just Resting?

I came across an article on the business philosophy of Jeff Bezos, founder of Amazon:

Company data showed that most employees became less eager over time, he said, and Mr. Bezos believed that people were inherently lazy. “What he would say is that our nature as humans is to expend as little energy as possible to get what we want or need,” Mr. Niekerk said. That conviction was embedded throughout the business, from the ease of instant ordering to the pervasive use of data to get the most out of employees.[i]

Apparently, Amazon is built on the conviction that we are “inherently lazy.” While sitting at my desk on a summer day, surrounded by books I’d ordered on Amazon, I decided to explore what “lazy” means.

One definition is from Dictionary.com: 1) tending to avoid work, activity, or exertion: “She was too lazy to take out the trash, so it just continued to pile up;” 2) causing or characterized by idleness or inactivity: “I’m having a lazy day today, just lounging and watching movies…”

Looking for the origin of the word, I found: The adjective lazy is thought to come from the Low German lasich, meaning “idle or languid.” Ex: “You were offended at being called lazy, but you just didn’t have the energy to defend yourself.”[ii]

Another source says that to be lazy means you just “…can’t find a reason to make any effort.[iii]

I thought about phrases that include “lazy,” like “lazy bum.” And how about “Lazy good-for-nothing?” One source says this means: “having no ambition, success, or value to society… (for example)” he refused to leave anything in his will to his good-for-nothing grandchildren.”[iv]

So, signs that we are lazy would include not taking out the trash, watching movies all day, not having the energy to dispute someone who calls you lazy, not caring if you are doing nothing, and not getting any money from grandpa.

2,500 years before Mr. Bezos started his business, the Book of Proverbs had its own perspective:

Proverbs 6: 6 “Go to the ant, you lazybones; consider its ways and be wise.”
Proverbs 10:26: “Like vinegar to the teeth and smoke to the eyes, so are the lazy to their employers.”
Proverbs 19:24 “The lazy person buries a hand in the dish and will not even bring it back to the mouth.”

So, in ancient days, signs that you are lazy include recognizing a need to look to ants for inspiration, being useless to your employer, and feeling it’s too much work to feed yourself.

It didn’t get any better in the Middle Ages: one of the Seven Deadly Sins was acedia, which means “without care.” In modern English, we call it sloth, a kind of slur on the slow moving South American mammal who spends the day hanging upside from trees.

But the more I sat in my chair and pondered all this, I discovered being lazy isn’t all bad.

In the 1920s, some businessmen in Monroe, Michigan designed an ideal chair in which people could relax. They held a contest to come up with a good name. The result was the “La-Z-Boy” chair.[v] We have two in our living room.

Who, sitting at a table and desiring a condiment, wants to stand up and reach for it? The solution is a Lazy Susan – just give Susan a spin and she brings the olives right to you. (This is not meant as a slight on anyone named Susan.)

Here’s a positive perspective: “Former President of Poland Lech Walesa once considered the benefits of being lazy when he said, “It’s the lazy people who invented the wheel and the bicycle because they didn’t like walking or carrying things.”[vi]

So, clearly, being lazy is good for Amazon, furniture manufacturers, listless dinner guests, and people who design bicycles.

But most sources would say being lazy is not a virtue to cultivate or encourage. One should instead pursue the art of “resting.”

Going back to the Bible, the fourth Commandment says: “Remember the Sabbath day and keep it holy. Six days you shall labor and do all your work. But the seventh day is a Sabbath to the Lord your God; you shall not do any work… (Exodus 20:8-10) Taking at least one day off every week becomes one of the blessings humanity is encouraged to claim. Doing so is not a waste of time, but instead helps us replenish our energy and cultivate a reverence for the gift of life.

Why exactly is resting a good thing and being lazy is not?

The distinction seems to lie in what our motivation is. Have we fulfilled our responsibilities and would benefit from taking a break to find fresh energy before returning to them? That’s called “rest.” But if we are lying around to avoid what needs to be done, that’s being “lazy.”

I thought about developing this idea further, seeking a more profound perspective, but decided not to. Instead, I’m going to go outside – beyond the reach of Amazon — put my lounge chair in the shade and relax. I won’t be idle, though; I plan to think about ants.