How Not to Be a Hot Mess - A Survival Guide for Modern Life - Craig Hase Page 0,16

block of this semi-Buddhist survival guide for modern life.

GIVE A LITTLE

Devon

From a semi-Buddhist perspective, generosity is the very foundation of a decent life. Why? Well, for one thing, it’s very nice to live in a social world constructed of mutually enriching and well-intentioned munificence. Compare that to a bunch of unhappy creeps always trying to take each other’s stuff. Which would you choose? That’s the obvious point.

Less obvious—and maybe even more important for our purposes—is that generosity fills you up. This concept is one of those beautiful semi-Buddhist paradoxes that it pays to remember when you’re feeling bereft, discombobulated, and generally like a hot mess. Because when we give to others in wise ways, freely, of our own good wishes, that giving not only helps them; it helps us. As studies have shown, giving boosts your mood, improves your health, and makes you a generally more robust and joyful human.

But we’ll get to all that. Let’s start with the don’ts.

DON’T TAKE PEOPLE’S STUFF

The traditional Buddhist translation of this suggestion is “Don’t take what’s not freely offered.” It’s a bit clunky as a sentence, to be sure. But the clear message here is don’t steal—don’t take money out of your mom’s purse; don’t borrow the dress you know you won’t return; definitely don’t run a giant Ponzi scheme that bankrupts old ladies.

It seems obvious enough, doesn’t it? One of those universal ethical guideposts just about any reasonable school of thought might abide. But, as with a lot of what we talk about in this book, when you start to look closely at your own life, it gets a little dicey.

For instance, for two years in my midtwenties I worked at a retreat center in the Colorado mountains. Long story short: I wasn’t getting along perfectly with the founder. I thought she was a brilliant teacher, so gifted. But she was also my boss. And I was just not cool with her management style. Resentment began to build. And pretty soon I found myself doing something strange. The more annoyed I got with her, the more I started pilfering staples from the kitchen. Now, this was not exactly grand theft auto. But I knew that food wasn’t for me. In fact, every time I swiped a handful of granola or some leftover soup, I felt guilty. But I didn’t stop! I just rehearsed some silly rationalization to myself, stuffed down the guilt, and walked out with another few cups of dried lentils to cook in my cabin. The problem, of course, was that the more I did this, the more shaky I felt. Looking back, I suppose the whole misguided fixation was some attempt to take back a little agency. What I actually did, though, was undermine myself. As the weeks went by, I felt less and less clear, more doubtful, more apprehensive. This little stealing, this knowing that I was not, in fact, upright in my values, blocked my ability to have the real (and difficult) conversations I needed to have with my boss.

Ultimately, stealing, even little-bitty stealing, undermines you. It saps your power. More than that, it reinforces the subtle sense that many of us secretly (and not so secretly) harbor that we don’t have enough. We’re somehow bereft, hungry. We just need that perfect life partner, that new iPhone, that cooler job—and then, finally, then we’ll be happy.

But no. We get the life partner, the new phone, the job, but the craving mind continues. There is always another patch of very green grass over the next rolling green hill. And no matter how many hills we climb, there is always another hill, because if you look closely at your own mind, you knock up against the deeper truth that we, most of us, at least in post-capitalist, urbanized, techno-junky cultures, believe we are not enough.

Which is B.S. Total and complete bullshit.

But how do we start to deconstruct this ubiquitous tidal pull of inadequacy? Simple. We start by seeing the good.

SEE THE GOOD

When I met Craig, he’d been living at his Zen monastery in the remote mountains of southern Colorado for about five years. He had the shaved head, the black robes; he always smelled like fine Japanese incense. I loved a lot of things about him right off the bat—not least that he ran the kitchen and could throw together a meal for twelve by himself in less than an hour (hello? perk of a lifetime). But the thing that really caught my attention was the sign