Relentless Expansion

There is a college entrance exam in China that has been demonized. Many people would describe it as the most intense and painful period in their lives.

But for me, it was the beginning of a monotonic climb in intensity and in the degree of challenge …

And at some point, I simply dropped the expectation that it would ever fall.

One might wonder: it is helpful to remember that there are other options; it is not required to keep climbing!

I guess there was an unclarified vagueness in my speech about what was being climbed.

The unending climb is not unending grinding, though grinding can be an inevitable part of it.

Indeed, the situation I described feels pressuring, and it can sound as if I'm addicted to beating myself up. But it feels this way only when “forward” is interpreted as something contrary to “other options”, especially as something contrary to “backward”. Under such an interpretation, “forward” must entail a differentiated direction.

But I do not go with this interpretation, because virtually every direction is forward.

So let's replace the term “moving forward” with “relentless expansion”

When I say, “I dropped the expectation that this will ever fall”, what I actually mean is: “I have committed to relentless expansion”.

Quality of Pain

The amount of pain on any path is more or less the same for me. Note that it is the amount that stays more or less the same. In sheer quantity, every path is more or less equal. But there is ample room for intentional choosing, once we begin to differentiate and develop preferences for the quality of pain.

I stopped trying to reduce the quantity of pain, and began to focus on choosing which kind of pain I was willing to endure.

For example,

I would rather endure the pain of being confused than the pain of being confined.

I would rather endure the pain of being intimidated than the pain of being scattered.

I would rather endure the pain of helplessness than the pain of directionlessness.

I would rather endure the pain of unsettledness than the pain of lacking fascination.

I would rather endure the pain of fear and doubt than the pain of blockage .

I would rather endure the pain of hurt, loneliness, and even shame, than the pain of numbness.

I would rather endure the pain of insecurity and uncertainty, than the pain of smoldering.

I would rather endure the pain of groundlessness, than the pain of skylessness, moonlessness, or lifelessness.

Remembering and Returning

Tonight's discussion at Community Meditation touched upon the idea that “awakening is never a line; it's a circle”.

The Journey has the quality of a circle, and is better described as remembering, or recollection.

I have been struck, multiple times, by a particular theme in story-telling: the end is the same as the beginning. One example is The Alchemist, where the treasure is buried beneath a tree in the protagonist's home village. Another example is Circle of Iron, where the protagonist goes on a pilgrimage until he finally finds the “book” guarded by a master. He opens the book only to see himself, with every page embedded with a mirror reflecting back himself.

So the point isn't about reaching any point. The point is that, in traveling along the circle, one comes to appreciate the profound beauty of seeing that the end is the same as the beginning.

I often covertly smile at questions about my future goals or next steps. These questions make perfect sense literally. And if I were to answer, “I have no goal, no plan, no idea about next steps”, I would give the impression of not being serious. I do have ambitions; I do look forward to the future; I do have goals to pursue.

But in one way or another, they all boil down to walking, moving, traveling, seeing, and returning — while picking up beauty along the way.

Beginning is a form of ending. Setting out is a form of returning.

I want to read more Ralph Waldo Emerson and Henry David Thoreau, so that some of my self-doubt might be met by self-love.

More and more things are helping me.

I ran out of Daniel Dennett's talks to watch, which had been my major supply of comfort in March. Then, in April, I ran into the Three Percent Podcast with perfect timing.

I was trying to sit with my bewilderment while unpacking my internalized-critic, contempt, shame and superiority. Then I encountered the term Golden Shadow.

I was puzzled by the elusiveness of my sovereign archetypal figure. Then I heard the term Psychological Sovereignty.

I accepted an offer at Amsterdam. I figured out the one thing I want to make sure comes true before I leave the US: visiting Walden Pond. Concord somehow stands out among many other fantasy travel plans — Hawaii, Alaska, cross-country Amtrak — which are impractical for me to accomplish in the near future.

I noticed my special anticipation of visiting Walden Pond. A quote from Henry David Thoreau's Walking found me. A lecture about the American transcendentalist literature reached me.

I finished reading This Is It. I found the perfect next book to read: Nature & Walking.

When a wall bottlenecks the way, perhaps one is not bottlenecked by one's intelligence — intelligence in the narrow sense. Perhaps one is bottlenecked by one's humanity, or more precisely, by the amount of one's owned humanity. That is, intelligence in the broad sense. At such moments, it's not a bad choice to refocus on advancing one's owned humanity, until the wall disappears, and then go ahead.

Let us keep traveling and returning.

To Kill, and To Be Killed (translated)

I occasionally write poems in Chinese. I do not yet know how to write poems in English. I randomly chose one of my recent pieces and fed it to Google Translate. I found it to surprisingly meaning-preserving!

Sometimes, leaving is a form of coming home—not an escape.
Sometimes, staying is a form of moving forward—not hesitation.

Once, she decided to stay:
to let whatever wished to drift away, drift away.
Perhaps only after those things had departed
could she return to their true home.
She did not move forward.
Ahead lay many things that beckoned to her, urging her onward.

Yet this time, she realized
that staying right here, in this very moment,
could unlock just as much novelty
just as much of the unknown.

The freshness and mystery held within this moment
were no less compelling
than the pull of what lay ahead.

The longer she lingered in the present,
the more directly she could perceive the future from within it.
The path toward what lies ahead
need not be a path of walking,
but one of drifting.

Sometimes she wished to kill the present moment,
so that she might be compelled to move forward.
Sometimes she wished to kill the future,
so that she might no longer be in a hurry.

Sometimes she wished to kill the concept of "home",
so that she might set out —
without a single backward glance —
toward the place where her heart finds peace.

Sometimes she wished to kill
that very "place where her heart finds peace",
so that she might make her home
within the eternal act of seeking itself.

Making a home is a process —
not a result, not a conclusion, not an achievement.
Seeking is a purpose —
not merely an attempt,
not a condition of "not-yet",
not a novice state.