Jason Collins and Joe Kennedy

Last night, I got a news notification that former NBA player Jason Collins had died. Collins played briefly with the Boston Celtics, then he made headlines in 2013 when he came out as gay.

After that announcement, Collins marched in Boston’s Pride parade with his former college roommate, then-Congressman Joe Kennedy III. That was the first Pride parade J and I attended. We dressed in Celtics garb and yelled “Celtics Pride” and “We love you, Jason,” and although Collins was too thronged with admirers to pay us much mind, Joe Kennedy looked directly at me and mouthed the words “Thank you.”

It’s easy to overemphasize the importance of groundbreaking firsts. Homophobia doesn’t end because one professional athlete comes out as gay. At the same time, representation matters. It’s important for LGBTQ+ youth to know they aren’t alone, and their futures need not be limited by popular punchlines or stereotypes. You can be gay and athletic, gay and strong, gay and successful. In the face of bigotry and small-mindedness, you can be gay and brave.

Collins fought both homophobia and Stage 4 brain cancer with courage and conviction. In the end, cancer won, but even in death, Collins served as an example of what it means to live and die with dignity. In both life and death, Jason Collins showed the world he had nothing to hide.

Kwan Yin

Whenever I grow tired from juggling the tasks on my to-do list, I think of Kwan Seum Bosal, the bodhisattva of compassion. Kwan Seum Bosal (alternately known as Kwan Yin, Kannon, or Avalokitesvara) has the unenviable job of hearing the cries of the world. When someone cries for their mama, cries uncle, or just cries, Kwan Seum Bosal is the mythical figure who hears that cry.

In some artistic depictions, Kwan Seum Bosal is depicted as a graceful woman seated in a posture called Royal Ease. In my favorite depictions, however, Kwan Seum Bosal is pictured with eleven heads and a thousand hands and eyes. Having a watchful tower of eleven heads means Kwan Seum Bosal can look in all directions at once: there is no need to have eyes at the back of your head when you have multiple heads. And having a thousand hands with an eye in each palm means the second you see a problem, you are already equipped to lend a hand.

In some versions of this eleven-headed, thousand-handed figure, Kwan Seum Bosal carries different ritual items in each hand. In my mind, however, Kwan Seum Bosal’s hands carry the equivalent of all the stuff in a mother’s enormous and well-stocked purse. One hand holds Band-Aids, one hand holds snacks, one hand holds a packet of tissues, and another holds a phone charger. Anything you need, Kwan Seum Bosal has it in one of her hands…and whenever you need a shoulder to cry on, Kwan Seum Bosal has not one but a thousand shoulders at the ready.

Whenever I mention Kwan Seum Bosal in interviews or Dharma talks, I insist that this mythical and somewhat scary-looking bodhisattva isn’t a distant being; instead, we all are Kwan Seum Bosal. Where are the bodhisattva’s eleven heads? One is on your shoulders. Where are the bodhisattva’s thousand hands and eyes? You have two hands and two eyes, and so do I.

Whenever I grow tired from juggling all the tasks on my to-do list, I think of Kwan Seum Bosal, whom I personally call the Mother of Millions. Unlike a celestial goddess, I can’t hear or tend to All The Cries of All The World. But with my own little head, my own two eyes, and my own helping hands, I can do what I can.

Allium flowers emerging

I recently read a New York Times article by Jancee Dunn on the “Gift of Getting Weirder With Age.” As someone who was always a Weird Kid, I love settling into life as a Weird Adult: someone who doesn’t care if I fit the mold of others’ expectations.

Japanese maple & viburnum

When you’re young, you’re supposed to be social, pretending to like going to parties and staying out late and doing all the usual mingling. Now that I’m older, I feel no shame in saying my favorite way to spend an evening is on the couch watching basketball and reading a book. If staying home makes me antisocial, then by all means call me a misanthrope.

Bridal wreath buds

Now that I’m older, I realize my time and energy are precious resources I can’t waste doing things other people enjoy. Instead, I cultivate the quirky habits that sustain me, like taking photos of random things, spending part of every day scribbling in my journal, posting occasional essays here on my blog, and reading as much as time allows. I don’t do these things to fit in with others; I do them because they give me quiet pleasure.

Viburnum in bloom

One of the benefits of getting older is you understand yourself better than you did when you were younger. Having spent lots of youthful energy trying to Find Yourself, you finally realize Your Self has been right here in front of you all along. Getting older heightens your priorities. As you realize you have more time behind you than in front of you, you realize how precious time truly is. Don’t waste a second trying to be whatever other folks say is normal; spend every possible second being You.

Red oak leaves

I had planned to grade papers tonight, after spending the day shuttling one of the dogs to a routine vet appointment, doing a load of laundry, and tending to other household chores. The hackers who targeted Canvas in a nationwide cyberattack, however, had other plans.

Red oak leaves

“Canvas is currently undergoing scheduled maintenance,” a euphemistically worded error message declares when I try to access my online gradebook. So instead of grading papers, I’ll listen to the birds sing through open windows while the trees gently unfurl their spring garb.

Found pacifier

Last week, at the end of a roundtable discussion with other English language tutors at my local library, I casually remarked that whenever I need my faith in humanity restored, I go to the library.

Lost sunglasses

Libraries are wonderful in part because of all the free things you can access there: books in print and on audio, technology such as computers and scanners, and all manner of things such as games, puzzles, and toys. I also love libraries because they are one of the few places where you can hang out in public without having to buy anything: a common good freely available to all.

What I didn’t tell that fellow tutor is this: I’m constantly on the lookout for things to restore my faith in humanity. Every day, my phone sends me alerts with news that ranges from bad to worse. There is ample evidence that people can be wretched, rotten, and corrupt beyond measure. If you want examples of people being kind and considerate, you have to have a keener eye, as these examples won’t seek you out.

Lost glasses

So, whenever I see a lost object that some anonymous passerby has placed in a prominent spot, I take note. What small kindness prompts someone to pick up dropped keys, lost glasses, or a forgotten pacifier, then put it in a place where the rightful owner might retrace their tracks to find it?

Whenever I see lost things set out to be found, I imagine an entire story of loss and hope and redemption: because of an anonymous stranger, a thing that was lost might in the future be found.

Barberry in bloom

Today has been a proper May day, with sun and temperatures in the 70s. This is how Spring in New England unfolds: after weeks of dreary cold, suddenly the sun appears whether we’re ready or not.

Almost honeysuckle

Yesterday, I heard the year’s first oriole whistling from a neighbor’s oak. And this morning, I heard the first thin lisps of a black-throated green warbler buzzing invisibly from the leafing trees.

Some signs of spring are visible, like budding lilac and honeysuckle or the unfurling wrinkles of the year’s first leaves. But other signs are audible: a whistle here and a whisper there. I can’t show these signs. You’ll have to go outside and listen for yourself.

Flowering crabapple

Today has been gray and cold: a day more March than May. This morning it was in the mid-40s and windy when I walked the dog, and it had the same heavy, leaden-skied feeling that often presages snow. The only flakes that were falling, though, were the windblown petals of flowering crabapples and Callery pears.

Maple trunk sprouting spring leaves

This morning while I was loading the dishwasher, I heard part of a Hidden Brain episode on “Designing a Life that Matters.” Since I was bustling around the kitchen doing chores, I heard only snippets of the program, but one part stood out because it reminded me of something I discovered for myself long ago.

The episode’s guest, Dave Evans, was talking about “moment making,” which he described as finding the “moments full of potential meaningful experience [that] abound in front of us.” This sounds promising enough, but it was what Evans said next about the “got to / get to shift” that stopped me in my tracks:

When you are thinking transactionally, you are in the transactional world, it’s all about getting it done. So I’ve got to get this thing done. I’ve got to get through this meeting, I’ve got to get these people to agree, I’ve got to sign this contract, I’ve got to get these tasks assigned, whatever that might be. As opposed to I get to participate in this process.

Evans illustrated this “got to / get to shift” with an example from his book editor, who was feeling frazzled one day because her young child was making noise as she was getting ready for a Zoom call. When she told herself “I got to get my kid to shut up,” she felt overwhelmed. When she reminded herself “I get to work from home and spend more time with my child,” her frustration vanished and she realized using headphones would solve her noisy-kid problem.

Evans’ explanation of the “got to / get to shift” stopped me in my tracks because years ago on a long Zen retreat, I had a much-needed moment of clarity where I realized I was driving myself crazy thinking I “had to” show up for practice. First, I had to wake up before dawn; then, I had to do prostrations; then I had to chant and sit and walk on a seemingly endless loop from morning until night. Viewed through a “got to” lens, the retreat was a big boring checklist of things I had to do whether I wanted to do them or not.

In a much-needed moment of clarity, though, I realized I could switch the way I described the retreat to myself. Instead of saying “Now I have to go meditate,” I could say “Now I get to go meditate.” Showing up for practice wasn’t a chore someone else was forcing me to do; instead, it was an opportunity and even a luxury I could choose to appreciate. Instead of checking a dreaded task off an imaginary to-do list, I could simply show up for practice and experience whatever arose.

Remembering this paradigm shift reminded me of a scene I’d witnessed years ago. Driving down the highway, I saw a young man sitting on the side of the road with his dog and a broken-down car. Judging from the young man’s expression, sitting on a grassy embankment waiting for a tow truck was the worst day ever. Judging from the dog’s expression, however, lying in the grass on a sunny day with his human was the best day ever.

Each one of us has things we got to do, but re-envisioning these tasks as things we get to experience is a small but significant attitude shift. Is my end-term grading pile something I got to do, or is it an opportunity where I get to see what my students have done in their final projects? Am I a young man fuming on the side of the road because my car broke down, or am I a dog lolling in the grass, enjoying the sunny smells of spring?

Toy blocks

Whenever I see used toys set out on the curb, free for the taking, I imagine the second life they will have with some young child. How much better it is to be put to use rather than gathering dust in a box?