Impermanence

I can count on one hand the number of times my father was ever angry with me. One instance stands out distinctly. The year was 1987 and the occasion was a brand new Chevy Cavalier station wagon. My father had just driven it home from the lot and awaited my uncle's arrival to talk about the new purchase and all its perks. My uncle worked on the assembly line in the GM plant not far from my childhood home. The station wagon was light blue.

My uncle arrived and he and my father talked car. My brother, cousin and I stood by in the garage. We were somewhat taken by the new car but did not fully grasp the impact of its purchase so we idly found other things to do. I suggested throwing rocks. For some reason throwing rocks was something we always enjoyed doing, but always got into trouble for "You will hit someone. Rocks in the front yard will mess up the lawn mower!" But that day we went for it anyway.

Somehow we were ignored. Perhaps my father and uncle were too engrossed in the new car purchase to notice us. Or perhaps it was fate so I could one day write this post, either way no one took notice. We took great care launching rock after rock, careful not to hit anyone or our neatly mowed lawn. And then it slipped, the small piece of grey granite, full speed from my hand. In slow motion I watched it hurtle directly towards the Chevy.

Ouch! The new car suffered its first and deepest chip. Impermanence.











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Last week I wrote about the serendipitous, synchronous sale of my MacBook. I met Burton last Wednesday and immediately headed to the Apple Store, cash in hand to purchase my new MacBook Pro. I raced home with my new purchase. I had deja vu as I opened yet another brand new Apple box savoring every moment of its pristine packaging. A truly climactic moment for any graphic designer.

Later that same evening I started this blog on my brand new laptop. In the excitement of the blog and other creative endeavors I called my mom. While multi-tasking I set my brilliant new MacBook Pro on the ottoman and headed into the other room to grab a cord. On my way back I heard it.

Crap! My brand new MacBook crashed to the floor. Impermanence.














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While I still worked at Kent State I was given a beautiful blue mug with Kent's logo. Something about the design of the mug and its feel led me to never use it but to place it on my shelf for one part decoration, one part safe keeping. The mug felt too special to use.

Recently the mug made it into our cup rotation at the apartment. I noticed Chris was using it quite a bit. One day I brought up how special that mug was to me. So special in fact that I never used it. We joked about this and finally I loosened up and began to use it myself. Chris and I would daily switch who would use it. He had taken a real liking to it himself. One day shortly after this started I came home and found it in the sink.

Damn! My beautiful mug had a huge chip. Impermanence




















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We have all had these instances where something unexpectedly and dramatically changes what we were expecting. Often we never realize the many ways we are attached to specific outcomes until something dramatically rocks our situation. I had an attachment to the pristine newness of my MacBook but in an instant that changed when it crashed to the floor. Suddenly its newness wore off as I noticed it did not shut smoothly and I was fearful that it suffered internal damage. I suppose it was the same that day for my father as he ran his hand over the freshly chipped paint of his new car.

When I first saw my favorite mug was chipped I felt angry. But as a practice I noticed my feelings and let them go. Because of this I was able to notice my attachment to this material object. It was a mug yet I had feelings invested in it. This became a valuable lesson to me about how many attachments I have in this life. This chipped, blue Kent State mug suddenly became my teacher. It is in these moments we can learn. They remind us of the constant change of this world.

Nothing remains the same and the more we can accept this fact the less we will suffer.

Chris returned home and apologetically explained the chip. I laughed and told him after my initial feelings of anger I was able to see the comedy in the situation—that I held such attachment to a simple household item. I kept the mug and we still use it. I drink tea from a cup that teaches me daily this lesson. Each sip I am reminded of the impermanence of this world.