The Frog

Once, a slightly younger version of me sat on a bench in Bangkok. It was night, I’d been out walking, letting my calve muscles expand and contract, allowing myself to be drawn along the straight black line of the highway.

She called, as she often did when I was out walking. You might sense some annoyance in the way I said that. When my phone rang, I stopped beside a small Buddhist altar set off to the side of the highway. Next to that was a public sitting area.

There, away from the roar of the bikes and tuk-tuks and cars, I sat on a bench to talk to her. I can barely remember the conversation, except telling her I was going to visit a place just outside of Bangkok, and her becoming distraught because I hadn’t asked her to go.

And this slightly younger version of me, couldn’t see how much I was hurting her. He, or rather I, thought she was childishly and jealously trying to control me. So I stood my ground, and resisted.

You may be wondering where the frog comes into all of this. Well, as I was in the midst of destroying the only good relationship I’d ever had, a small frog hopped out of the grass onto the ground near my feet. It was just a frog, nothing too unusual, except it wouldn’t leave. I expected it to hop off again after a minute or two, but it just sat there, its ovoid eyes, black as the highway, staring blankly up at me. Once or twice I moved my foot towards the frog, to see if it would budge, yet it remained fixed to the spot.

Yes, yes. I’m aware of the symbolism of frogs. I know they appear at times of decision and figuring out right from wrong. I know they signify the need to control ourselves, and communicate in a kind and gentle manner. But that slightly younger version of me, was far too mesmerized by those gaping, limpid eyes to have joined the dots and put two and two together.

Before long, I was again being drawn along the straight black line of the highway, letting my calf muscles expand and contract, deep in my meditation, a spark of energy gliding like a comet through Bangkok’s concrete dream world. It was a clear path all the way, through gigantic, galactic dust storms and flocks of migrating starbirds, and planets that collapsed and crumbled behind me, sucking all light and all life down into their dark, placid hearts.

For all I know, the frog is still there.

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Enough

I’m sitting here, in Tokyo, in Kamishakujii, in a supermarket, in a little cafe inside the supermarket, having my tea-time, cafe au lait and chocolate biscuits, surrounded by bleeps, shouts, kids, muzak, clattering, and I’m totally content. Is that right, I mean, to not need any more than this?

Money, fame, power, success, seem completely unimportant, it feels enough just to be in this moment, absolutely ecstatic, actually here, alive, heart pounding, surrounded by Japan, right in the middle of it, next to the potted plants, sipping coffee, listening, sensing everything, being. Is it right to be content with this? To never want more than this?

Shouldn’t I be building businesses or learning public speaking, taking my kids to the beach or saving the world? Instead of ‘this’, this beaming inside simply because I’m here, basking in every minute detail, radiating the mountain of joy that’s inside me? Have I accomplished enough already to just sit here and sing my appreciation for so, so much? Like the luck which brought me to Wataru’s house, and the opportunity to revive myself in his Mount Fuji decorated, tatami floored room? The chance to reunite with my old friend Masa, the drinks he bought us that night, his welcome, conversation and advice, helping me remember my art and that creativity is the key to my satisfaction and flow. The lady who served my coffee just now, and the lovely way she replied, “Anytime” when I said thank you. For this universe and its mysteries, this life that keeps unfolding and giving, the uncertainties which I know are the very freedom and excitement I desire.

Yes! This is why I’m alive, this is why I’m shaking with excitement, because I thrive on uncertainty and the vague anxiety bubbling inside – this is LIFE, this is being ALIVE, this is what I embrace, THANK YOU! I don’t ever want this to stop, I don’t ever want to get it done, to solve life, to fix things. All I have to do is be, be myself, and true to what I believe, connected to who I really am, and what I really want. To help others, smile, give, bask, create, sketch, write, love, appreciate.

The rain begins to fall and I’ve never been more sure about anything, that this tiny moment, this slice of heart beat and blood through veins, this explosion of bento box and packaged clam, this dream of twenty thousand lifetimes is, and always will be, much much more than enough.

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The Bicycle

Another puncture. His third flat tire in three weeks. Is someone trying to tell him something?

He locks his bike outside the shopping center as it begins to rain. It stands there in disgrace, he thinks about abandoning the damn thing. Now what? He was going to ride across town to a co-working space. There’s a cafe close by, but it doesn’t have wifi. He takes off his sunglasses and looks in his bag for his normal glasses. They aren’t there. Shit. Has he actually left them at home? What IS going on today? Without his glasses he can’t do his client work, and he can’t be bothered to go home and get them. He calms himself and decides to go to the cafe without wifi; the coffee’s good and at least he can write there.

Now he’s at the cafe, writing on his laptop. Without his glasses he has to type in 37pt. He feels rattled. Something needs to change. He wants to change this life he’s living. It’s not the puncture or the glasses but living alone. It’s wearing him down. He has friends, but no intimacy. Not even his bonsai can give him the kind of intimate connection he needs. He needs to change something about himself, but doesn’t know what. 

The key is stillness, courage and equanimity.

As he types these words, the woman beside him asks if he can watch her stuff while she goes to the washroom. Her smile is big and bright. When she’s gone he looks at the books on her table. One has a cover with black text on a cork textured background. The other shows a white heart floating in a blue sky. A voice tells him to ask her about the books.

When she comes back he pretends to be looking at his screen. “Sure no problem,” he replies when she thanks him for watching her stuff. As planned, he asks about her books. They are soon deep in conversation, as if they’ve known each other for years. Her name is Kuni. She listens intently when he talks about his writing, her searching questions rouse his ego. As she talks, he observes her eyes, glasses, mouth and hair. He’s shyly aware of the top of her bosom through her open collar.

This is going well, he thinks. There seems no end to the things they can talk about. He wonders if Kuni notices how tired his eyes are from trying to focus on her without his glasses. Could she be interested in him? He catches himself daydreaming about kissing her, and feels ashamed. So he doubles down on being a good listener, and asking thoughtful questions.

When they are saying goodbye outside the cafe, she makes a move to hug him, but he puts out his hand first. “Can we hug?” she asks. He closes his eyes and notices how warm and soft her body feels.

He walks in the dark to the Turkish restaurant to have dinner. As usual, the owner slides his change across the counter without a word of thanks, and he wonders what made the owner stop caring about his customers. He squeezes the slice of lemon into his orange lentil soup and decides not to eat there again.

His bike. It’s still outside the shopping center. Back at the cafe he decided to dump it there. It was always causing him trouble. The idea of being rid of it had excited him. But now, he’s having second thoughts. Maybe what happened at the cafe has changed him. He imagines his bike standing out in the rain all night, or being vandalized. He can’t do it, and walks back to the shopping center.

At home, he writes about meeting Kuni. He realizes if he hadn’t had the puncture, he would have cycled to the other side of town. And if he hadn’t forgotten his glasses, he would have looked for a different cafe with wifi to do his client work, instead of just writing. When he gets to the part where they say goodbye, he squeezes his eyes shut and remembers her blue coat against the grey street, and the sensation of her body pressed against his.

He turns to look at his bonsai, and then at his bike leaning against the wall.

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How to Feel Instantly Better With the High-Five Challenge

I’ve become addicted to high-fiving complete strangers. It started when my sister visited me in Budapest recently, and I took her to a well-known bar. We were sitting with our drinks, I wasn’t drunk, but at some point I felt the urge to high-five someone walking past. It felt great. More than great. Soon I was high-fiving every other person walking by. I didn’t want to stop.

A couple of days later, I wondered what it would be like to high-five a stranger in the street. In the bar there had been a party atmosphere that made high-fiving strangers seem ok. But on the street, in broad daylight, that was different, and pretty scary. But I couldn’t get the idea out of my head. I had to try it. But how? With whom? In the end I had to engineer a situation to make the initial contact. So I asked a woman walking by for the time, pretending my phone battery had died. She actually thought I asked, “Do you have time?” and replied, “For what?” Quickly recovering myself, I repeated my question and in appreciation of her help said a big thank you. Then, somehow, as she was about to walk off, I asked for a high five, and to my complete surprise she complied. We both smiled, and like in the bar, it felt great, no actually better. To make contact with a complete stranger, without the aid of alcohol, and feel that shared buzz of dopamine was incredible.

That evening on my way home, I met the lady who works in the local twenty-four hour supermarket. She was having a coffee break outside the shop. I’m on a roll, I thought, why not get another high-five in to end the day?  She had served me a few times in the past, so wasn’t a complete stranger, but our exchanges had been along those timid, scripted social lines most of us adhere to. As I approached, I began to have doubts. What if she freaks out or refuses? I’ll never be able to shop here again! But I pushed on, and asked how she was enjoying her coffee. Then, sensing my moment, I smiled and asked for a high-five. When our palms clapped there was an explosion of positive energy and we both laughed. Like with the woman earlier in the day, I had broken through some sort of layer into a place that felt free and ecstatic,

Now I was truly hooked. If high-fiving people felt this good, I wanted more. Why not make it a mission to high-five at least one person every day? And that’s what I’m doing now. Each day, when I’m going about my business, I keep an eye out for a high-five opportunity. I don’t force it, and look for signs that the person will be open to it, and I absolutely never bother anyone who isn’t in the right frame of mind. I’ve found that if I’m already having a conversation with someone, I can quickly sense if they’ll be up for it. Today I high-fived a guy at an art gallery. We were talking about our shared desire to earn money from our creative work. The high-five flowed in very naturally as a sign of mutual encouragement.

It’s day five of my high-five challenge and so far it’s making me smile more, feel more excited about life, and eagerly anticipate interacting with people. If you’re feeling low, for whatever reason, why not give it a go? The only question you’ll be asking is, “Who will I high-five today?”

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Fujisan Can Wait

An image. Not moving. Thick fields of purple and yellow flowers. Eggshell petals bent up towards a white peak in a light blue sky. He is standing among the flowers, arms at his sides, eyes closed, feeling her magnitude pulse inside him.

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Wataru’s flat is in a quiet neighborhood about thirty minutes train ride from Shinjinku. My room has tatami flooring and a balcony with a camping chair where I drink coffee in the morning. The walls are pinned with postcards and fans depicting Mount Fuji. I wonder if Wataru is trying to tell me something?

Since I arrived in Tokyo five days ago, I’ve been seeing her everywhere. The leaflets at the travel agency, the silk boxer shorts in the clothing store, the huge poster plastered along the wall of the bath house where I sat, like a potato in boiling water watching old men scrub themselves. Wataru’s room has confirmed my theory – Mount Fuji is stalking me.

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An image. Moving. A train racing through a pale green landscape, softly, silently, everything in white outline, like clouds, the carriage, the window, his hands gripping the arms of the seat. Before he even turns to look out the window, he feels her pulsing inside him. Softly, silently, she slips by.

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I was in a cafe near Wataru’s house the other afternoon, thinking about her. Dark clouds had been gathering since morning. The dreams were becoming more vivid, the last one about a train ride I took from Tokyo to Osaka twenty years ago. I must have passed close by her then, but somehow had no memory of seeing her. That night at Wataru’s place, as we sat on the balcony, I told him about my dreams. “It’s obvious,” he said. “You must go to her.”

So I did what I always do when something is on my mind. Walk. It’s easy to walk in Tokyo; the pavements are like warm air currents, they carried me along night time highways and through technicolor morning streams of commuters who were quieter than the birds in the trees. Sometimes the pavements dissolved into gravel paths that led into deserted temples at dusk, where my only company were the mosquitoes and piles of bones.

As I walked I thought and eventually came to the conclusion I was just too lazy. Too lazy to ride the one hour and fifty minute train from Tokyo to Mount Fuji. What else could it be?

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An image. More of a ripple. A beautiful antelope with long mane descends from a white peak, into the thick fields of purple and yellow flowers, kneels besides his body and whispers three words in his ear. He is asleep but can feel the antelope’s words pulsing gently inside him.

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This Morning

This morning, tremble with the joy of consciousness surging through you, guiding you towards each breath, each thought, each action.

This morning, know life is for living, that you can manifest everything you desire, all you have to do is choose, focus and believe.

This morning, accept you are valuable to others, a positive light with the ability to make the world a better place in big and tiny ways.

This morning, realize you are prosperous and looked after in so many ways, and you don’t need to struggle or force anything, for whatever you need to know will be revealed to you and whatever you need will come to you.

This morning, commit to the piece of life you call ‘yourself’, and live with adventure, service, love, compassion and appreciation.

This morning, say thank you.

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Under This Tremendous Tree

You were born. You felt the warmth of your mother’s lap and the end of your father’s belt. You had a birthday with candles and cakes, a song was sung in your name. You stood shaking in a playground small and afraid. You tasted the teacher’s praise, the humiliation of injustice. You thought your body would save you from the horror of your face. You went to war with your father, left home, partied, drank too much, traded four years of youth for a worthless piece of paper. You got a job in exchange for a plane ticket to ‘as far away as possible’. You explored new lands, sat with Buddhas, lay on beaches, watched empires sail away, lost your innocence – at last. You took a wife and learned the comfort of self-hate, the discomfort of love. You gained a taste for money, manipulation and terrible duplicity. You forgot, day by day, your childhood dreams and who you once were. One by one you lost a father , a wife, a business and a home. You fell into a pit of despair where you couldn’t wash your clothes or cut your hair. You sat in-front of a fireplace holding a knife to your chest, feeling like a cheap fraud. You wandered homeless around seaside towns, lost, confused, until an angel lifted you onto your feet and just fucking listened. You began to see a future and excitement flickered in your belly for the first time in years. You flew to a place beginning with B where other lost souls taught you it was really OK to be yourself, and not care how you looked or what others thought about you. You realized this was a much bigger, brighter path of adventure than you first intended, a yellow brick road of beautiful brilliant B’s all budding forth with signs from the Universe. You sat once again with Buddhas, found the joy of silence, appreciation and the unshakable undeniable unavoidable NOW. Your heart gave way to new love and creativity. You traveled, found yourself like some kind of freaking monk in just the right time and place to help others. You basked your way to such heights of bliss the inevitable crash came swiftly and painfully. You gasped at the perfection of a Universe in balance, where what comes will go and come again. You searched for clarity and purpose because they now seemed in reach. You spun from one experiment to another, desperate to find out WHAT YOU WERE MEANT TO DO IN THIS WORLD. You met more angels who presented you clues and kindness. You finally understood that it didn’t matter at all what you did, just being NOW was the whole point, as you saw a long time ago, just NOW on this bench in this square under this tremendous tree, sounds of a waterfall, trams, people talking, your own heart beating, the fly sitting on your leg, the incredible gorgeous uncontrollable happiness of your breath coming in, breath going out, breath coming in, breath going out.

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