It’s gray and rainy this morning. Yesterday it was only gray – the rain held off. The dog is stretched across my lap making it difficult to write or reach my coffee. Nick, my cat used to do this as well, but I could sometimes type over him. Last night I was talking with my friend Stacy about the differences between being a dog parent and cat parent. Cats are a lot easier and their affection seems harder won and therefore more genuine. They’re nowhere near as needy, and when they are needy, they seem less obnoxious about it. The two are, of course, completely different and comparisons aren’t terribly useful. Dogs are pack animals and need to be with their pack. Cats are… well, kinda aloof and self-reliant. I’ve never come home and felt like I needed some space away from the cat – the dog, well… we have our moments and are still getting to know each other on that level.
Of course, none of this is really about the difference between the dog and the cat or today’s rain vs. yesterday’s non-rain. What I’m really thinking about is how we use comparisons and experiences and language to make sense of the world, our place in it, and how it all fits together – or as Stephen Dobyns put it: understanding “what comes next and how to like it.”
We are trained to think in symbols and representations and, by extension, comparisons. Words, these jumbles of letters put together in a very specific order, are meant to represent objects or feelings or actions. And then we complicate the whole crazy set up of language with context and by using words to describe other things that are decidedly not those words (the literal vs. the figurative): “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?” Strong as an ox, busy as a bee, “Hills like White Elephants,” etc. etc. Is our use of language and metaphor an attempt to more fully comprehend and describe the world around us, or is it a subtle betrayal of our inability to accept things as they are?
For most of us, the qualitative (comparisons, figurative language, passing judgment) is unavoidable. When we seek out the good (in others, in life, in ourselves), we necessarily have an idea of what is bad, less good, better, and best. We have a lifetime of experiences that have taught us these things and each new experience tweaks our view of that continuum. The best risotto I’ve ever had was at a place called Tangerine. Until it’s surpassed, all other risottos will be compared to that. For a brief period in my life (before I knew anything about animal cruelty and food), I would always order the veal at a fancy-ish restaurant. My thinking was that if I wanted to judge the restaurant I’d have to have a baseline dish that I’ve had elsewhere – and being a pre-teen / teen, veal seemed both exotic and unassuming – an appropriate, non-complicated, non-palate-offending standard. While I no longer eat veal, I’ve done similar things with burgers and BBQ, pizza and beer. And it’s not just with food. We do this in our relationships, our jobs, our reading, our consuming, our travels… everything is compared to something else – written in the language of something else. It is how we develop preferences, how we cultivate taste, how we explore, how we make sense, and how we make decisions on where to place our efforts, time, and hopes.
The challenge, as I see it, is to recognize there is also value in doing less of this. The challenge is to recognize the value of appreciating things on their own merits, the value of being in the moment without comparison to other moments. There’s an iconic image of Confucius, Buddha, and Lao Tzu huddled around a pot of vinegar (representing the essence of life). Each is said to wear an expression showing how they taste the vinegar. Confucius tastes it and thinks it too sour, Buddha tastes it and thinks it too bitter, and Lao Tzu tastes it and smiles thinking it is sweet because it is exactly as it should be, both sour and bitter. While some think of the image as being more favorable to Taoism, other considerations recognize that all three are part of one – without the extremes there cannot be balance.
April 11, 2021 – it’s gray and damp and the sun is trying to break through. There are robins in the back yard singing, chickadees and wrens in the maple out front. The trees are starting to bud and bloom and the spring flowers popped about a week ago. The dog is bored and sighing. He and I have both moved from the sofa to the floor. The refrigerator clicks on once in a while. It fills the quite space with its low mechanical whir. Soon I’ll get up and make some lunch and go about the rest of my day. But for now, I’m thinking the day is exactly how it is, a little bitter, a little sour, altogether sweet and unlike any other.