Aparigraha

"Polymers are forever" - that is a chapter title in Alan Weisman's new book The World Without Us. The book is a grand thought experiment exploring what would happen to the Earth if humans just disappeared one day. Surprisingly, New York City would be gone quickly, turned back into a swampy marsh once the electricity quits running its 753 pumps that relieve the city of the more than 650 gallons/minute of groundwater. However, the ancient underground cavernous complexes in Cappacocia, Turkey would last for millennia. But that's not quite as long as our plastic bottles, bags, and coffee lids made up of synthetic polymer chains. Currently, they would last forever.

In the middle of the Pacific Ocean is a place called the North Pacific Subtropical Gyre. It's a mass of mostly plastic refuse washed out to sea that spirals around a water vortex. Oceanographers call it the Great Pacific Garbage Patch. It's the size of Texas.

For several weeks when I would walk in to the studio's back door I saw a plastic six-pack can holder lying on the ground. I thought every time, I'm going to pick that up when I come out. And then I'd walk out thinking about class and pass it by. Eventually, with a heavy rain, it would make it's way into our sewer system, maybe even into one of our Clintonville streams, perhaps settle on the bottom of the stream bed and stay there until several ice ages from now evolution would finally produced a species that could digest plastic polymers. But last night I picked it up and put it in my recycling bin. Perhaps that small act will offset my greed of all things convenient in some tiny way. Like "Bob" said, "Baby steps. Baby steps."

*****

Aparigraha to me is Freedom within our minds. Not
attaching or grasping onto things. Sometimes when we
are attached, grasp, or even crave to things we can
eventually be disappointed, as for one day it may not
be there. Then what would you do?

*****

When first contemplating the idea of Aparigraha, I don't think it applies much to me. I have few possessions that I care about. I love to read, but I'm just as happy with a book from the library that I can return for someone else's use. Clothing and shoes are a necessary evil, and while I can take pleasure in them, I wouldn't mind giving these things away. There are, however, many ideas—mostly ones I hold about myself—that I hoard greedily. About a year ago, a friend with whom I work at the coffee shop told me that he felt I was always qualifying and justifying myself. He said that I feel an obsessive urge to have myself understood, rather than allowing others to see me from their own perspectives. Basically, he told me that I constantly try to control others and the view they may have of me. I was completely taken aback and for a few moments I tried to argue with him. He shut the conversation down with a few familiar words: "You're right. You're right."

The coffee shop is a dangerous place to work, one that needs to be negotiated with finesse, knowledge and grace. First of all, the shop is very small. In this tight space, elbows seem to elongate to deadly dimensions and counter tops can provide a blow to the hip that stays with me the rest of the week. Mild to serious injuries can occur if the partners of the coffee shop are not aware at all times of the space around their bodies. Second, there is hot coffee everywhere and, like the warning at the bottom of the cup tells you, it's very hot. Hot coffee grounds are especially dangerous. One needs to know the movement habits of each partner to navigate a 4-8 hour shift safely. In the beginning, I burned myself, spilled hot milk everywhere, exploded not quite empty whipped cream bottles, and once elbowed a partner in her head. The lesser dangers of the store are angry customers, impatient customers, and miserable customers who have been waiting a tenth of a second longer than usual.

When a mishap occurs, whether it is a mixed up order, grounds in the coffee or burning mocha spattered on legs, we have a game that we play. It's called the "I'm right" game. All partners take part, though some may be unaware of their participation. This game operates on a point system. When a mistake is made, all partners chirp the rationale for why what happened has happened. Then I take it upon myself to look at the evidence and proclaim one person right. That person gets a point. Partners accumulate points and whoever has the most points at the end of my shift wins the "I'm right" game. It's not so much that we partners are unable to own up to our mistakes squarely. It's not so much that we want to be right all the time. What we don't want is to be seen as wrong. Being wrong has got to be the scariest, most awful thing. Right? Most mistakes that occur at the store occur through joint effort. When we are busy, we operate as one whole organism, not separate entities. The mistake I make one moment will be made a few customers down the line by a different partner. So all the mistakes become the same mistake and they are one. The "I'm right" game, if taken seriously, can slow our progress and frustrate our efforts. Animosity forms and before you know it, fun storms out with compassion and objectivity. It's a sad, sad state to be in. We are, after all, only serving coffee and defrosted pastries.

Unfortunately, as the points accumulate, no prize is distributed. There is nothing productive or useful or joyful to be gained from the "I'm right" game. It is easy to indulge ourselves by playing this game. It is easy to quip, to make excuses and to deny responsibility, but in the end all it does is waste time. So, for just a few seconds, one person is awarded the preservation of the idea he or she has about themselves, but this security does not last. In fact, as points accumulate, and we each take our share of rightness, other things go wrong. The shop becomes more vulnerable to mistakes, elbows, and angry customers. A fractured coffee shop disorganized by finger pointing is a dangerous place. So what do I do when a partner tells me I haven't put enough coffee in Carolyn's cup? What do I do when I'm told that the correct abbreviation for the strawberries and cream frappucino is STCF and not STCRF? (I'm not sure which one is right, actually.) What do I do when I put non-fat milk in Gary's Venti Mocha instead of 2%? I practice. I practice Aparigraha, the act of non-greediness and non-hoarding. Each day I work to let go of the explanations, the excuses, and the "I'm right" points. I smile and I re-pour, re-write, and re-make. Sometimes I have to let go a few times. These things tend to grow back like weeds. Each instance of discarding my rightness, my "I already know that," my "well, if you hadn't done this, then this wouldn't have happened" is a painful moment. Afterwards, though, my mind feels clear and open.