The first date was a dinner date! When the waitress came, the inquisitive one ordered the Sloppy Spaghetti With Corn on the Cob.

The waitress’s face acquired a look of uncertainty. She said, “Are you sure you would like to order the Sloppy Spaghetti With Corn on the Cob?”

The inquisitive one proclaimed, “Yes!”

Soon, the food arrived. The inquisitive one and the date started eating.

“What do you like to do for fun?” asked the date.

“I like gardening,” said the inquisitive one, while splashing Sloppy Spaghetti sauce on the white tablecloth. And they talked about gardening for a bit.

At a lull in the conversation, the date asked, “Do you like to exercise?”

“Yes, I like running,” said the inquisitive one, between two massive bites of the corn on the cob. And they talked about exercise for a bit.

At a lull in the conversation, the date said, “I really like to sail. Sailing is my favorite hobby. I enjoy it very much! Do you like boats and being on the water?”

“I know a lot about sailing!” the inquisitive one cried out, slamming a fist on the table for emphasis, hitting the spoon at a perfect angle to fly up and land—plop!—in the half-full glass of red wine.

Together—for they were on the same wavelength!—the date and the inquisitive one watched the glass totter, and tip, and topple down toward the inquisitive one. The red wine splashed all over the Sloppy Spaghetti dots on the white tablecloth, and started dripping into the inquisitive one’s lap.

The conversation seemed to have come to another lull. So the inquisitive one said, “What do you do for a living?”

“I’m a writer,” said the date.

“Oh! What do you write?”

“Articles for the Washington Post.”

“What do you write about?”

“Dating and relationships.”

“Very cool!” The inquisitive one grinned widely at the date, revealing chunks of corn between every tooth. “Pardon me, I need to use the restroom. Be right back!”

The inquisitive one, who was nothing if not prepared, changed into an extra set of clothes. This extra set of clothes was in the bag the inquisitive one had brought, just in case—along with the passport and life vest, naturally. Then the inquisitive one used a paper towel to remove all the visible corn from the teeth.

The inquisitive one, upon returning, smiled brightly at the date, looking clean, tidy, and ready for a boating expedition.

The date stared at the inquisitive one in surprise, disbelief, and—one might even say—love.

Meditation really does work. It really is a game changer. The things you see and read in the news about mindfulness are not all hype. I titled this post Meditation 101 because I’d like to share some insights that get to the foundation of the practice. These insights are important for beginners to understand, and nonbeginners can benefit from reminders that keep us inspired, motivated, and engaged.

There are many amazing resources out there for learning how to meditate. I learned through the Ten Percent Happier books and app, which I cannot recommend highly enough. I also did 15 or 20 neurofeedback sessions, which helped me understand what calm brainwaves feel like. I’m not sure I could have figured that out on my own. If you think neurofeedback might help you, look around—your local therapist or counseling center might offer it.

But this post is not about how to meditate. Today, I’d like to focus on the deeper question of why to meditate. After all, you’re not likely to make time to do something, if you don’t know why anyone would do such a thing in the first place.

Eastern Medicine vs Western Medicine

A few years ago, in a strange and quirky book, I encountered a succinct description of Eastern medicine vs Western medicine. The author of the book traveled to Hainan Island, in China. He asked his guide and interpreter what he thought about Eastern medicine vs Western medicine. The guide and interpreter offered the following analysis:

“If I have some disease or any headache I will come to the hospital for urgent things. But in daily life, I would like to have some Chinese medicine for my best health. Chinese medicine can help with good health, and in daily life. But it cannot cure a disease. . . . You know Western medicine can do a little harm to the body. Chinese medicine seems to have less harm. But Chinese medicine takes a long time to cure.”

These words stuck with me for years. What the guide seems to be saying is that the two types of medicine work in different ways, and for different purposes. Both are important in his life. Western medicine is great at curing a disease or ailment that’s already present, but isn’t as good at preventive maintenance. Eastern medicine is great at preventive maintenance and general health and well-being, but isn’t as good at quickly fixing a major problem.

(The strange and quirky book in which I discovered this gem is called The Geography of Madness by Frank Bures.)

If you own a car, you probably get regular oil changes, tire rotations, wiper fluid refills, and other tune-ups. These are minor procedures that you get done even when nothing is wrong or broken. You do this to keep the car in good working condition: to prevent larger problems. If something does go wrong with the car, you get diagnostic tests, and once the problem is pinpointed, you get repairs or replacements in a more major procedure. But it’s better to avoid problems through preventive maintenance, because it’s annoying, time consuming, and expensive to have a broken car.

This is common knowledge among vehicle owners. But while the same principles apply to our bodies, the knowledge is not as common—at least not here in the West, or at least not for all parts of the body. In the past few decades, we have seen great awareness arise around the importance of preventive maintenance when it comes to exercise and eating healthy food. Most people know that regularly exercising and eating well can prevent future diseases, even if they haven’t yet implemented these findings. But preventive maintenance for the mind is, I believe, behind in this, and only recently starting to catch up in the public understanding and imagination.

Why Meditate? My Story

I have a history of struggling with anxiety, plus physical ailments related to anxiety. I realized a while back that I needed some kind of preventive maintenance—something that Western medicine was seemingly unable to provide. If I had an anxiety attack, there were all sorts of pills I could pop and psychotherapists I could consult. But my doctors were generally silent about how I might manage my health so that that the anxiety attacks didn’t happen in the first place.

From my reading, I knew that Eastern thought held amazing promise. So I tried meditation. But it was hard. One year ago, I wrote a blog post about how difficult I found it. I wrote: “It seems that my anxieties are preventing me from using meditation as an anti-anxiety technique.”

However, over the long term, I have found that this type of Eastern medicine works just as the guide implied it would. Meditation does help “with good health, and in daily life.” In other words, it helps keep me healthy and well in the first place. Also, meditation “takes a long time to cure.” Yes. A long time. But it “seems to have less harm” than prescription drugs. Yes. Less harm.

I am happy to report that I have made astonishing progress in meditation in the past year. Whereas, a year ago, I struggled to sit for 5 minutes, I can now do 10 or 15 minutes easily. I no longer experience weird muscle tension while I meditate. But the most profound change I’ve noticed is that my daily practice does, truly, ground me. It does, truly, leave me feeling refreshed afterward and prevent the worst of the anxiety beasts from appearing.

I still find meditation supremely difficult. But I also find it supremely worthwhile. It’s a long road, this meditation journey. Yes, it’s the long game. It doesn’t cure instantly, like pills. But it does cure. And it cures in ways that are not also harmful.

So, why meditate? Here’s the Meditation 101 answer: meditation works in preventing problems of the mind, and there are no side effects. I’ll take it!

A Poem That Offers Insight on Why to Meditate

Today’s blog post arose out of me discovering the following poem by Hafiz (from the book The Gift, translated by Daniel Ladinsky). Check this out, friends.

FIND A BETTER JOB

Now
That
All your worry
Has proved such an
Unlucrative
Business,
Why
Not
Find a better
Job.

What a lovely metaphor. Yes, if you have a job that’s not earning you sufficient money, it makes sense to get a different one: one that pays better. That’s a concept we Westerners can easily understand. But the same applies to worry. Thinking in this way is less familiar to us. Is worry helpful? Is worry personally lucrative? It’s important, of course, to plan for the future. However, all the excess worry that many of us do, above and beyond mere planning, is unhelpful and often detrimental. And yet, still we worry.

We worry and we worry. We get into bad patterns that we don’t know how to break free from. We don’t give our brains an oil change, we don’t give our neurons the exercise that keeps them firing smoothly. And so we trap ourselves in greater and greater worry, until some major part breaks, and the entire thing needs to be taken into the shop for some astronomically expensive repair service. For, keep in mind that, in contrast to your vehicle’s parts, your body parts are not so easily replaced. Especially not your brain parts. Any broken brain parts must be painstakingly repaired.

Why not find a better job?

I recently met, through a dating app, a man with an interesting philosophy about text messaging. In his view—if I may presume to attempt to state it correctly here—texting should be purely transactional. The purpose of texts is to set up a time and place to meet in person. To try to convey emotion or wit through a text is to set yourself up to be misinterpreted on the other end. It also puts you at risk of descending into kitschy sentimentality, as genuine emotions are best expressed in person.

I agree that kitschy sentimentality is something to be avoided (while acknowledging that beauty is in the eye of the beholder). And, as you know, I concur that language is a blunt instrument. Indeed, texting is one of the bluntest language tools ever invented, since it demands a severe economy of words, while still promising real human connection. It’s hard work to convey what you want to convey through a text. And there is, I agree, a risk that you will be misunderstood, which would necessitate even more time spent crafting even more refined text messages to correct the misperception.

Is it worth it? Which path is wiser—to use texting for transactional purposes only, or to also attempt to convey emotion and wit through this blunt tool?

Let’s ask our friend and guru Hafiz, why don’t we? Surely he can offer us some good advice on how to text a girl, woman, boy, man, or other divine spirit.

What—you don’t think a 14th-century poet can have anything relevant to say about text messaging? I say he just might. Here’s Daniel Ladinsky’s translation of the first two stanzas of the poem “Why Just Ask the Donkey,” from the book The Gift:

Why
Just ask the donkey in me
To speak to the donkey in you,
 
When I have so many other beautiful animals
And brilliant colored birds inside
That are all longing to say something wonderful
And exciting to your heart?

Yes! I am with you, Hafiz! I, too, have so many lovely animals and colorful birds inside of me, longing to speak out! Why, indeed, just speak the donkey-like transactional language of setting a time and place to meet?

In this poem, of course, Hafiz refers not to texting but to speaking in person. In other words, although people met in person in the 14th century more often than they texted (understatement alert!), they still, according to Hafiz, at least sometimes failed to express emotion and wit. Maybe people talked about how much merchandise they sold that day or week. Maybe they talked about their home improvement projects. Who knows what they talked about back then? But it’s clear from this poem that Hafiz thinks people often held back.

People do often hold back. I don’t think this has anything to do with technology. People hold back in person, they hold back while talking on the phone, and they hold back while texting. Sometimes people use digital technology as a means of holding back, as a screen to hide their true selves. But no matter what medium they use to convey information, they do hold back.

I, myself, wanted to hold back in writing about Hafiz. If you don’t mind me quoting myself, here’s why I felt this way: “It’s one thing to enjoy your personal reactions to what you encounter in life. It’s another to muck it all up by trying to communicate something uncommunicable.” In other words, I was afraid I would not succeed in communicating what I wanted to communicate.

This sounds suspiciously similar to my date’s reasons for not attempting to convey emotion or wit by text. He doesn’t want to be misinterpreted; and he doesn’t want to come across as sentimental (read: misinterpreted as fake). In other words, he’s afraid he will not succeed in communicating what he wants to communicate.

If I have not learned, from three years of therapy, that fear is the #1 enemy of self-actualization, I have learned nothing. When you communicate with another human being—whether in person or through technology—you inherently risk being misunderstood.

But no risk, no reward! And the more you work at communication, the better you get at it. Traveling by car, bus, train, and plane is risky; but we do it because we want to get places and have experiences. Similarly, using language, orally or in writing, to express emotion or wit is risky; but it’s one of the best ways to experience real human connection on those levels.

I’m not advocating replacing in-person meetings with texting. What I’m saying is, sometimes I am here, while you, dear date, are way over someplace else. Sometimes I have a miraculously amazing animal inside of me, who’s jumping up and down and snorting while thinking of you. And sometimes (okay, pretty much all the time), I have this amazing piece of technology within arm’s reach, whereby that incredible animal can totally leap up and slobber all over you! That is, if I don’t force it down through domination and fear tactics.

Yes, there’s a risk here. You might not want to be slobbered all over. Or maybe you’re not fond of that particular kind of slobber. And you might misinterpret the slobber as green slime. But there’s also a chance that you’ll love it and reciprocate with your own weird animal fun!

And that would be—IMHO—divine.

What are all your colorful birds longing to say today?

Hafiz, oh, my love, Hafiz! Last month, I wrote about stories that were so beautiful that I could not bear to write in the margins of my book. Today, I hesitate to write anything at all—in the margins, on this blog, anywhere!—about such wondrous poems as I have found.

In the Islamic tradition, I understand, there is a centuries-long idea called aniconism. Icons—that is, pictorial representations of anything living or holy—are avoided. This, as I understand it, is to avoid dishonoring the sacred creations of God.

My reluctance to write in, or about, my copy of The Gift by Hafiz (translated by Daniel Ladinsky) feels similar to the impulse not to draw God’s creations. Sometimes it’s better to let things be. It’s one thing to enjoy your personal reactions to what you encounter in life. It’s another to muck it all up by trying to communicate something uncommunicable. Art and language are, as a friend of mine recently proclaimed to me, blunt instruments.

But, in fact, my impulse not to write represents the antithesis of Islamic culture. Due partly to the tendency toward aniconism, poetry and language are very highly regarded in the Muslim world.

And one of the most highly regarded poets, by Persians of the past and today, is Hafiz. Hafiz lived in Shiraz (in today’s Iran) in the 14th century. In his lifetime, he became known as a great poet and Sufi master.

Sufism is Islamic mysticism. The word mysticism, no matter what religion it is attached to, refers to the search for direct experience with holiness and spirituality. Historically, mystics have been sometimes embraced by other religious practitioners for their insights, while at other times shunned for bucking traditions. Hafiz himself experienced both of these responses to him and his poetry.

I would like to share with you one of Hafiz’s poems. Notice how mystical the poem is—how uncommonly direct in spirituality.

GOD JUST CAME NEAR

No
One
In need of love
Can sit with my verse for
An hour
And then walk away without carrying
Golden tools,
And feeling that God
Just came
Near.

Oh, I cannot write about this! But I will try. Since I always read introductions last, I entered into Hafiz’s poems without prior knowledge or expectations. And what I kept thinking, over and over, as I read more and more of his poems, was, “He’s copying off Walt Whitman! Whitman is the poet who claims to be everything and everyone—in a spiritual sense—and who stakes out his poetry for all to glory in!”

Of course, it was Whitman who was the copycat. When I finally read the introductory sections, I learned that Ralph Waldo Emerson (a contemporary of Whitman) was a fan of Hafiz, and in fact translated his poetry into English. Whitman surely had access to Hafiz, then, . . . and, yes—I just did a Google search—this is confirmed. Also confirmed: people have documented many similarities between the two poets’ works.

And with that, good day, God has come near. Hafiz, oh, my love, Hafiz! I can write no more.

This is a true story. I have an amazing handyman. He’s the best handyman in the Rockville, Maryland, area. I’d even venture to say he’s the best handyman in the Washington, DC, area. In fact, heck—I’d choose him over anyone on earth, for building and fixing shit on my property, ’cause I trust him.

He built me a chicken coop. He built the cool wall and railing in my entryway. He built the cool wall and railing in my next-door neighbor’s entryway. He installed my new curtains and fixed my broken faucet. He installed a fan in not one but two of my bathrooms. True, the chicken coop ended up being a mirror image of the plans I gave him. But this is my fault, for making him work with plans.

‘Cause he’s a creative architectural genius. He don’t need no plans. He don’t want no plans. He just drives up, wishes me a good morning, and smokes a cigarette while planning the project in his head. Then he vanishes into Home Depot for a good stretch, drives back, and works like a total machine for hours upon hours. Sometimes he listens to the kind of edgy, hip, raw pop music that I also like. Other times, he works in silence. That is, if you consider hammering and power tool using silent.

But he’s always up for talking—that is, when he’s not in the middle of something. Which usually only happens in the early morning, or when he breaks to smoke or ask me a question. At those times, he’s an amazing conversationalist. He likes to talk about country living, chickens, foxes, his ideas for someone else’s basement, strange scenarios involving the county judicial system, and bizarre natural disasters that seem to regularly hit his patch of rural Maryland.

I always look forward to having something in my house break, because his stories never disappoint. One of my favorite stories of his isn’t even a story—it’s just a fact. He doesn’t use the Internet. He’ll probably never see this post, because he doesn’t truck with blogs. He doesn’t even have an email address. Not even one. (I mean, geez—I have eight! Though, on second thought, that probably makes me the weird one.) He recently took a huge leap into modernity—one day I was astonished to receive a text message from him. He got a new phone! Though he has never been hard to get ahold of, even before this breakthrough.

“But, wait!!” you gasp in horror. “If he’s not on the Internet, how does he get business?? You mean, he doesn’t have a website?!! He’s not on social media??! Don’t you pretty much have to be online to make money nowadays?!!”

Well, my friends, Aunt Liza is here to tell you that that just ain’t true. That’s all them corporate Silicon Valley snobs up there in Californey tryin’ to steal you’s money. ‘Cause, my amazing handyman? He’s booked solid. In fact, the last time I called him with a big job, he told me he couldn’t do it this month. I says, how about in three months? He says, nope. I says, next year? He says, maybe, I dunno. Maybe not. I got this good project goin’.

So Aunt Liza is just here now out of luck.

Do you know of an amazing local handyman?

(Usually, the questions I write to end blog posts are rhetorical. But this one’s also dead serious. . . .)