Freakonomics- A Rogue Economist Explores the Hidden Side of Everything
- Steven D Levitt & Stephen J. Dubner
1) Incentives are the cornerstone of modern life.
There are basically three types: economic, social and moral. Understanding them allows us to know how the world work.
2) The conventional wisdom is often wrong
Even when it sound plausible with data doesn't make it true. Events in the past may only muscle in the effects some time much later in the future. take a step back and consider.
3) Information is valuable commodity but less so in modern world. Any expert use that as his/her advantage to serve their own agenda.
---it is hell of a book to read :)
Random :)
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
0
As seen in a dog's diary:
>
> 8am - Oh Boy! Dog food! My favorite!
> 9am - Oh Boy! A car ride! My favorite!
> 10am - Oh Boy! A walk! My favorite!
> 11am - Oh Boy! A car ride! My favorite!
> Noon - Oh Boy! The kids! My favorite!
> 1pm - Oh Boy! The yard! My favorite!
> 3pm - Oh Boy! The kids! My favorite!
> 4pm - Oh Boy! Dog food! My favorite!
> 5pm - Oh Boy! Mom! My favorite!
> 7pm - Oh Boy! Playing ball! My favorite!
> 9pm - Oh Boy! Sleeping in master's bed! My favorite!
>
>
> As seen in a cat's diary:
>
> Day 183 of my captivity... My captors continue to taunt me with bizarre little dangling objects. They dine lavishly on fresh meat,while I am forced to eat dry cereal. The only thing that keeps me going is the hope of escape, and the mild satisfaction I get from ruining the occasional piece of furniture.
> Tomorrow I may eat another house plant. Today my attempt to kill my captors by weaving around their feet while they were walking almost succeeded and must try this at the top of the stairs. In an attempt to disgust and repulse these vile oppressors, I once again induced myself to vomit on their favorite chair -- must try this on their bed.
>Decapitated a mouse and brought them the headless body, in an attempt to make them aware of what I am capable of, and to try to strike fear into their hearts. They only cooed and condescended about what a good little cat I was. Hmmm, not working according to plan.
> There was some sort of gathering of their accomplices. I was placed in solitary throughout the event. However, I could hear the noise and smell the food. More importantly I overheard that my confinement was due to MY power of "allergies." Must learn what this is and how to use it to my advantage.
> I am convinced the other captives are flunkies and maybe snitches. The dog is routinely released and seems more than happy to return.He is obviously a half-wit. The bird on the other hand has got to be an informant, and speaks with them regularly. I am certain he reports my every move. Due to his current placement in the metal room, his safety is assured.
> But I can wait; it is only a matter of time...
>
> 8am - Oh Boy! Dog food! My favorite!
> 9am - Oh Boy! A car ride! My favorite!
> 10am - Oh Boy! A walk! My favorite!
> 11am - Oh Boy! A car ride! My favorite!
> Noon - Oh Boy! The kids! My favorite!
> 1pm - Oh Boy! The yard! My favorite!
> 3pm - Oh Boy! The kids! My favorite!
> 4pm - Oh Boy! Dog food! My favorite!
> 5pm - Oh Boy! Mom! My favorite!
> 7pm - Oh Boy! Playing ball! My favorite!
> 9pm - Oh Boy! Sleeping in master's bed! My favorite!
>
>
> As seen in a cat's diary:
>
> Day 183 of my captivity... My captors continue to taunt me with bizarre little dangling objects. They dine lavishly on fresh meat,while I am forced to eat dry cereal. The only thing that keeps me going is the hope of escape, and the mild satisfaction I get from ruining the occasional piece of furniture.
> Tomorrow I may eat another house plant. Today my attempt to kill my captors by weaving around their feet while they were walking almost succeeded and must try this at the top of the stairs. In an attempt to disgust and repulse these vile oppressors, I once again induced myself to vomit on their favorite chair -- must try this on their bed.
>Decapitated a mouse and brought them the headless body, in an attempt to make them aware of what I am capable of, and to try to strike fear into their hearts. They only cooed and condescended about what a good little cat I was. Hmmm, not working according to plan.
> There was some sort of gathering of their accomplices. I was placed in solitary throughout the event. However, I could hear the noise and smell the food. More importantly I overheard that my confinement was due to MY power of "allergies." Must learn what this is and how to use it to my advantage.
> I am convinced the other captives are flunkies and maybe snitches. The dog is routinely released and seems more than happy to return.He is obviously a half-wit. The bird on the other hand has got to be an informant, and speaks with them regularly. I am certain he reports my every move. Due to his current placement in the metal room, his safety is assured.
> But I can wait; it is only a matter of time...
Work with Unpredictability
fr Speed of Dark
(Elizabeth Moon)
I remember being afraid of water, the unstable unpredictable shifts and wobbles in it as it touched me. I remember the explosive joy of finally swimming, the realization that even though it was unstable, even though I could not predict the changing pressure in the pool, I could still stay afloat, and move in the direction I chose to go. I remember being afraid of the bicycle, of its wobbly unpredictability, and the same joy when I figured out how to ride out that unpredictability, how to use my will to overcome its innate chaos. Again I am afraid, more afraid because I understand more - I could lose all the adaptations I have made and have nothing - but if I can ride this wave, this biological bicycle, then I will have incomparably more.
(Elizabeth Moon)
I remember being afraid of water, the unstable unpredictable shifts and wobbles in it as it touched me. I remember the explosive joy of finally swimming, the realization that even though it was unstable, even though I could not predict the changing pressure in the pool, I could still stay afloat, and move in the direction I chose to go. I remember being afraid of the bicycle, of its wobbly unpredictability, and the same joy when I figured out how to ride out that unpredictability, how to use my will to overcome its innate chaos. Again I am afraid, more afraid because I understand more - I could lose all the adaptations I have made and have nothing - but if I can ride this wave, this biological bicycle, then I will have incomparably more.
The Heart Suffers
The Alchemist
(Paulo Coelho)
During one of these conversation, the driver told of his own life.
"I used to live near El Cairum, " he said. "I had my orchard, my children and a life that would change not at all until I died. One year, when the crop was the best ever, we went to Mecca, and I satisfied the only unmet obligation of my life. I could die happily and that made me felt good.
"One day, the earth began to tremble, and the Nile overflowed its bank. I was something that I thought could only happen to others, never to me. My neighbors feared that they would lose all their olive trees in the flood, and my wife was afraid that we would lose our children. I thought that everything I owned would be destroyed.
"The land was ruined and I had to find some other way to earn a living. So now I'm a camel driver. But that disaster taught me to understand the word of Allah: people need not fear the unknown if they are capable of achieving what they need and want.
"We are afraid of losing what we have, whether it's our lives or our possessions and property. But this fear evaporates when we understand that our life stories and the history of the world were written by the same hand."
..one afternoon, his heart told him that it was happy. "Even though I complain sometimes," it said, "it's because I'm the heart of a person and people's heart are that way. People are afraid to pursue their most important dreams, because they feel that they don't deserve them, or that they'll be unable to achieve them. We, their hearts, become fearful just thinking of loved ones who go away forever, or of moments that could have been good but weren't, or of treasure that might been found but were forever hidden in the sands. Because when these things happen, we suffer terribly."
"My heart is afraid that it will have to suffer," the boy told the alchemist one night as they looked up at the moonless night.
"Tell your heart that the fear of suffering is worse that the suffering itself. And that no heart had ever suffered when it goes in search of its dreams, because every second of that search is a second's encounter with God and with eternity."
"Every second of the search is an encounter with God," the boy told his heart. "When I have been truly searching for my treasure, every day had been luminous, because I've known that every hour was a part of the dream that I would find it. When I have been truly searching for my treasure, I've discovered things along the way that I never would have seen had I not had the courage to try things that seemed impossible for a shepherd to achieve."
..." Everyone on earth has a treasure that awaits him," his heart said. "We, people's heart, seldom say much about those treasures, because people no longer want to go in search of them. We speak of them only to children. Later, we simply let life proceed, in its own direction, towards its own fate. But, unfortunately, very few follow the path laid out for them - the path to their destinies, and to happiness. Most people see the world as a threatening place, and, because they do, the world turns out, indeed, to be a threatening place.
"So, we, their hearts, speak more and more softly. We never stop speaking out, but we begin to hope that our words won't be heard: we don't want people to suffer because they don't follow their hearts."
"Why don't people's hearts tell them to continue to follow their dreams?" the boy asked the alchemist.
"Because that's what makes a heart suffer most, and hearts don't like to suffer."
(Paulo Coelho)
During one of these conversation, the driver told of his own life.
"I used to live near El Cairum, " he said. "I had my orchard, my children and a life that would change not at all until I died. One year, when the crop was the best ever, we went to Mecca, and I satisfied the only unmet obligation of my life. I could die happily and that made me felt good.
"One day, the earth began to tremble, and the Nile overflowed its bank. I was something that I thought could only happen to others, never to me. My neighbors feared that they would lose all their olive trees in the flood, and my wife was afraid that we would lose our children. I thought that everything I owned would be destroyed.
"The land was ruined and I had to find some other way to earn a living. So now I'm a camel driver. But that disaster taught me to understand the word of Allah: people need not fear the unknown if they are capable of achieving what they need and want.
"We are afraid of losing what we have, whether it's our lives or our possessions and property. But this fear evaporates when we understand that our life stories and the history of the world were written by the same hand."
..one afternoon, his heart told him that it was happy. "Even though I complain sometimes," it said, "it's because I'm the heart of a person and people's heart are that way. People are afraid to pursue their most important dreams, because they feel that they don't deserve them, or that they'll be unable to achieve them. We, their hearts, become fearful just thinking of loved ones who go away forever, or of moments that could have been good but weren't, or of treasure that might been found but were forever hidden in the sands. Because when these things happen, we suffer terribly."
"My heart is afraid that it will have to suffer," the boy told the alchemist one night as they looked up at the moonless night.
"Tell your heart that the fear of suffering is worse that the suffering itself. And that no heart had ever suffered when it goes in search of its dreams, because every second of that search is a second's encounter with God and with eternity."
"Every second of the search is an encounter with God," the boy told his heart. "When I have been truly searching for my treasure, every day had been luminous, because I've known that every hour was a part of the dream that I would find it. When I have been truly searching for my treasure, I've discovered things along the way that I never would have seen had I not had the courage to try things that seemed impossible for a shepherd to achieve."
..." Everyone on earth has a treasure that awaits him," his heart said. "We, people's heart, seldom say much about those treasures, because people no longer want to go in search of them. We speak of them only to children. Later, we simply let life proceed, in its own direction, towards its own fate. But, unfortunately, very few follow the path laid out for them - the path to their destinies, and to happiness. Most people see the world as a threatening place, and, because they do, the world turns out, indeed, to be a threatening place.
"So, we, their hearts, speak more and more softly. We never stop speaking out, but we begin to hope that our words won't be heard: we don't want people to suffer because they don't follow their hearts."
"Why don't people's hearts tell them to continue to follow their dreams?" the boy asked the alchemist.
"Because that's what makes a heart suffer most, and hearts don't like to suffer."
The Adventure Of The Married Couple
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
0
The Adventure Of The Married Couple
(1958) Italo Calvin
THE FACTORY-WORKER Arturo Massolari was on the night shift, the one that ends at six. To reach home he had to go along way, which he covered on his bicycle in fine weather, and on the tram during the rainy, winter months. He got home between six-forty-five and seven; in other words, sometimes before and sometimes after the alarm clock rang to wake Elide, his wife.
Often the two noises - the sound of the clock and his tread as he came in - merged in Elide's mind, reaching her in the depths of her sleep, the compact early-morning sleep that she tried to squeeze out for a few more seconds, her face buried in the pillow. Then she pulled herself from the bed with a yank and was already blindly slipping her arms into her robe, her hair over her eyes. She appeared to him like that, in the kitchen, where Arturo was taking the empty receptacles from the bag that he carried with him to work: the lunch box, the thermos. He set them in the sink. He had already lighted the stove and started the coffee. As soon as he looked at her, Elide instinctively ran one hand through her hair, forced her eyes wide open, as if every time she were ashamed of that first sight her husband had of her on coming home, always such a mess, her face half-asleep. When two people have slept together it's different, in the morning both are surfacing from the same sleep, and they're on a par.
Sometimes, on the other hand, it was he who came into the bedroom to wake her, with the little cup of coffee, a moment before the alarm rang; then everything was more natural, the grimace on emerging from sleep took on a kind of lazy sweetness, the arms that were lifted to stretch, naked, ended by clasping his neck. They embraced. Arturo was wearing his rainproof wind-cheater; feeling him close, she could understand what the weather was like: whether it was raining or foggy or if it had snowed, according to how damp and cold he was. But she would ask him anyway: "What's the weather like?", and he would start his usual grumbling, half-ironic, reviewing all the troubles he had encountered, beginning at the end: the trip on his bike, the weather he had found on coming out of the factory, different from when he had entered it the previous evening, and the problems on the job, the rumors going around his section, and so on.
At that hour, the house was always scantily heated, but Elide had completely undressed, and was washing in the little bathroom. Afterwards he came in, more calmly, and also undressed and washed, slowly, removing the dust and grease of the shop. And so, as both of them stood at the same basin, half-naked, a bit numbed, shoving each other now and then, taking the soap from each other, the toothpaste, and continuing to tell each other the things they had to tell, the moment of intimacy came, and at times, maybe when they were helpfully taking turns scrubbing each other's back, a caress slipped in, and they found themselves embracing.
But all of a sudden Elide would cry: "My God! Look at the time!" and she would run to pull on her garter-belt, skirt, all in haste', on her feet, still brushing her hair, and stretching her face to the mirror over the dresser, hairpins held between her lips. Arturo would come in after her; he had a cigarette going, and would look at her, standing, smoking, and every time he seemed a bit embarrassed, having to stay there 'unable to do anything. Elide was ready, she slipped her coat on in the corridor, they exchanged a kiss, she opened the door, and could already be heard running down the stairs.
Arturo remained alone. He followed the sound of Elide's heels down the steps, and when he couldn't hear her any more he still followed her in his thoughts, that quick little trot through the courtyard, out of the door of the building, the sidewalk, as far as the tram stop. The tram, on the contrary, could be heard clearly: shrieking, stopping, the slam of the step as each passenger boarded. There, she's caught it, he thought, and could see his wife clinging in the midst of the crowd of workers, men and women on the number eleven that took her to the factory as it did every day. He stubbed out the butt, closed the shutters at the window, darkening the room, and got into bed.
The bed was as Elide had left it on getting up, but on his side, Arturo's, it was almost intact, as if it had just been made. He lay on his own half, properly, but later he stretched a leg over there, where his wife's warmth had remained, then he also stretched out the other leg, and so little by little he moved entirely over to Elide's siGe,into that niche of warmth that still retained the form of her body, and he dug his face into her pillow, into her perfume, and he fell asleep.
When Elide came back, in the evening, Arturo had been stirring around the rooms for a while already: he had lighted the stove, put something on to cook. There were certain jobs he did in those hours before supper, like making the bed, sweeping a little, even soaking the dirty laundry. Elide criticized everything, but to tell the truth he didn't then go to greater pains: what he did was only a kind of ritual in order to wait for her, like meeting her halfway while still remaining within the walls of the house, as outside the lights were coming on and she was going past the shops in the midst of the belated bustle of those neighborhoods where many of the women have to do their shopping in the evening.
Finally he heard her footstep on the stairs, quite different from the morning, heavier now, because Elide was climbing up, tired from the day of work and loaded down with the shopping. Arturo went out on the landing, took the shopping bag from her hands, and they went inside, talking. She sank down on a chair in the kitchen, without taking off her coat, while he removed the things from the bag. Then she would say: "Well, let's pull ourselves together", and would stand up, take off her coat, put on her house-coat. They would begin to prepare the food: supper for both of them, plus the lunch he would take to the factory for his one a.m. break, and the snack to be left ready for when he would wake up the next day.
She would potter a bit, then sit for a bit on the straw chair and tell him what he should do. For him, on the contrary, this was the time when he was rested, he worked with a will, indeed he wanted to do everything, but always a bit absently, his mind already on other things. At those moments, there were occasions when they got on each other's nerves, said nasty things, because she would like him to pay more attention to what he was doing, take it more seriously, or else to be more attached to her, to be closer, comfort her more. But after the first enthusiasm when she came home, his mind was already out of the house, obsessed with the idea that he should hurry because he would soon have to be going.
When the table was set, when everything that had been prepared was placed within reach so they wouldn't have to get up afterwards, then came the moment of yearning that overwhelmed them both, the thought that they had so little time to be together, and they could hardly raise the spoon to their mouth, in their longing just to sit there and hold hands.
But even before the coffee had finished rising in the pot, he was already at his bike, to make sure everything was in order. They hugged. Arturo seemed only then to realize how soft and warm his wife was. But he hoisted the bike to his shoulder and carefully went down the stairs.
Elide washed the dishes, went over the house thoroughly, redoing the things her husband had done, shaking her head. Now he was speeding through the dark streets, among the sparse lamps, perhaps he had already passed the gasometer. Elide went to bed, turned off the light. From her own half, lying there, she would slide one foot towards her husband's place, looking for his warmth, but each time she realized it was warmer where she slept, a sign that Arturo had slept there too, and she would feel a great tenderness.
(1958) Italo Calvin
THE FACTORY-WORKER Arturo Massolari was on the night shift, the one that ends at six. To reach home he had to go along way, which he covered on his bicycle in fine weather, and on the tram during the rainy, winter months. He got home between six-forty-five and seven; in other words, sometimes before and sometimes after the alarm clock rang to wake Elide, his wife.
Often the two noises - the sound of the clock and his tread as he came in - merged in Elide's mind, reaching her in the depths of her sleep, the compact early-morning sleep that she tried to squeeze out for a few more seconds, her face buried in the pillow. Then she pulled herself from the bed with a yank and was already blindly slipping her arms into her robe, her hair over her eyes. She appeared to him like that, in the kitchen, where Arturo was taking the empty receptacles from the bag that he carried with him to work: the lunch box, the thermos. He set them in the sink. He had already lighted the stove and started the coffee. As soon as he looked at her, Elide instinctively ran one hand through her hair, forced her eyes wide open, as if every time she were ashamed of that first sight her husband had of her on coming home, always such a mess, her face half-asleep. When two people have slept together it's different, in the morning both are surfacing from the same sleep, and they're on a par.
Sometimes, on the other hand, it was he who came into the bedroom to wake her, with the little cup of coffee, a moment before the alarm rang; then everything was more natural, the grimace on emerging from sleep took on a kind of lazy sweetness, the arms that were lifted to stretch, naked, ended by clasping his neck. They embraced. Arturo was wearing his rainproof wind-cheater; feeling him close, she could understand what the weather was like: whether it was raining or foggy or if it had snowed, according to how damp and cold he was. But she would ask him anyway: "What's the weather like?", and he would start his usual grumbling, half-ironic, reviewing all the troubles he had encountered, beginning at the end: the trip on his bike, the weather he had found on coming out of the factory, different from when he had entered it the previous evening, and the problems on the job, the rumors going around his section, and so on.
At that hour, the house was always scantily heated, but Elide had completely undressed, and was washing in the little bathroom. Afterwards he came in, more calmly, and also undressed and washed, slowly, removing the dust and grease of the shop. And so, as both of them stood at the same basin, half-naked, a bit numbed, shoving each other now and then, taking the soap from each other, the toothpaste, and continuing to tell each other the things they had to tell, the moment of intimacy came, and at times, maybe when they were helpfully taking turns scrubbing each other's back, a caress slipped in, and they found themselves embracing.
But all of a sudden Elide would cry: "My God! Look at the time!" and she would run to pull on her garter-belt, skirt, all in haste', on her feet, still brushing her hair, and stretching her face to the mirror over the dresser, hairpins held between her lips. Arturo would come in after her; he had a cigarette going, and would look at her, standing, smoking, and every time he seemed a bit embarrassed, having to stay there 'unable to do anything. Elide was ready, she slipped her coat on in the corridor, they exchanged a kiss, she opened the door, and could already be heard running down the stairs.
Arturo remained alone. He followed the sound of Elide's heels down the steps, and when he couldn't hear her any more he still followed her in his thoughts, that quick little trot through the courtyard, out of the door of the building, the sidewalk, as far as the tram stop. The tram, on the contrary, could be heard clearly: shrieking, stopping, the slam of the step as each passenger boarded. There, she's caught it, he thought, and could see his wife clinging in the midst of the crowd of workers, men and women on the number eleven that took her to the factory as it did every day. He stubbed out the butt, closed the shutters at the window, darkening the room, and got into bed.
The bed was as Elide had left it on getting up, but on his side, Arturo's, it was almost intact, as if it had just been made. He lay on his own half, properly, but later he stretched a leg over there, where his wife's warmth had remained, then he also stretched out the other leg, and so little by little he moved entirely over to Elide's siGe,into that niche of warmth that still retained the form of her body, and he dug his face into her pillow, into her perfume, and he fell asleep.
When Elide came back, in the evening, Arturo had been stirring around the rooms for a while already: he had lighted the stove, put something on to cook. There were certain jobs he did in those hours before supper, like making the bed, sweeping a little, even soaking the dirty laundry. Elide criticized everything, but to tell the truth he didn't then go to greater pains: what he did was only a kind of ritual in order to wait for her, like meeting her halfway while still remaining within the walls of the house, as outside the lights were coming on and she was going past the shops in the midst of the belated bustle of those neighborhoods where many of the women have to do their shopping in the evening.
Finally he heard her footstep on the stairs, quite different from the morning, heavier now, because Elide was climbing up, tired from the day of work and loaded down with the shopping. Arturo went out on the landing, took the shopping bag from her hands, and they went inside, talking. She sank down on a chair in the kitchen, without taking off her coat, while he removed the things from the bag. Then she would say: "Well, let's pull ourselves together", and would stand up, take off her coat, put on her house-coat. They would begin to prepare the food: supper for both of them, plus the lunch he would take to the factory for his one a.m. break, and the snack to be left ready for when he would wake up the next day.
She would potter a bit, then sit for a bit on the straw chair and tell him what he should do. For him, on the contrary, this was the time when he was rested, he worked with a will, indeed he wanted to do everything, but always a bit absently, his mind already on other things. At those moments, there were occasions when they got on each other's nerves, said nasty things, because she would like him to pay more attention to what he was doing, take it more seriously, or else to be more attached to her, to be closer, comfort her more. But after the first enthusiasm when she came home, his mind was already out of the house, obsessed with the idea that he should hurry because he would soon have to be going.
When the table was set, when everything that had been prepared was placed within reach so they wouldn't have to get up afterwards, then came the moment of yearning that overwhelmed them both, the thought that they had so little time to be together, and they could hardly raise the spoon to their mouth, in their longing just to sit there and hold hands.
But even before the coffee had finished rising in the pot, he was already at his bike, to make sure everything was in order. They hugged. Arturo seemed only then to realize how soft and warm his wife was. But he hoisted the bike to his shoulder and carefully went down the stairs.
Elide washed the dishes, went over the house thoroughly, redoing the things her husband had done, shaking her head. Now he was speeding through the dark streets, among the sparse lamps, perhaps he had already passed the gasometer. Elide went to bed, turned off the light. From her own half, lying there, she would slide one foot towards her husband's place, looking for his warmth, but each time she realized it was warmer where she slept, a sign that Arturo had slept there too, and she would feel a great tenderness.
Joyful Wisdom
Joyful Wisdom
Yongey Mingyur Rinpoche
Left to its own, the mind is like a resless bird, always flitting from branch to branch or sweeping down from a tree to the ground and then flitting up into another tree. In this analogy, the branches, the ground, and the other represent the demands we receive from our five senses, as well as thoughts asnd emotions. They all seem very interesting and powerfully attractive. And since there’s always something going on in and around us, it’s very hard for the poor restless bird to settle. N owonder so many of the people I meet complain of being stressed most of the time! This kind of flitting about while our senses are overloaded and our thoughts and emotions are demanding recognition makes it very hard to stay relaxed and rested.
Most of us, when we look at something, hear something, or watch a thought or emotion, have some sort of judgement about the experience. This judgement can be understood in terms of three basics “branches”: the “I like it” branch, the “I don’t like it” branch, or the “I don’t know” branch. Each of these branches spreads out into smaller branches : pleasant, not pleasant or I like it because…. Could be good or bad branch…..the possibilities represented by all these branches tempt the little bird to flutter between them, investigating each one.
Practice letting go of our judgements and opinions and just looking at, or paying attention to, what we see from whatever branch we’re sitting on. Attending to our experience this way allows us to distingusih our judgements and opionions from the simple experience of seeing.
In most cases, our experiences are conditioned by the branch we’re sitting on and the screen of branches before us. In that momemnt of pausing to just be aware, we open ourselve not only to the possibility of bypassing habitual ideas, emotions, and responses to physical sensation, but also to responding freshly to each experience as it occurs.
Yongey Mingyur Rinpoche
Left to its own, the mind is like a resless bird, always flitting from branch to branch or sweeping down from a tree to the ground and then flitting up into another tree. In this analogy, the branches, the ground, and the other represent the demands we receive from our five senses, as well as thoughts asnd emotions. They all seem very interesting and powerfully attractive. And since there’s always something going on in and around us, it’s very hard for the poor restless bird to settle. N owonder so many of the people I meet complain of being stressed most of the time! This kind of flitting about while our senses are overloaded and our thoughts and emotions are demanding recognition makes it very hard to stay relaxed and rested.
Most of us, when we look at something, hear something, or watch a thought or emotion, have some sort of judgement about the experience. This judgement can be understood in terms of three basics “branches”: the “I like it” branch, the “I don’t like it” branch, or the “I don’t know” branch. Each of these branches spreads out into smaller branches : pleasant, not pleasant or I like it because…. Could be good or bad branch…..the possibilities represented by all these branches tempt the little bird to flutter between them, investigating each one.
Practice letting go of our judgements and opinions and just looking at, or paying attention to, what we see from whatever branch we’re sitting on. Attending to our experience this way allows us to distingusih our judgements and opionions from the simple experience of seeing.
In most cases, our experiences are conditioned by the branch we’re sitting on and the screen of branches before us. In that momemnt of pausing to just be aware, we open ourselve not only to the possibility of bypassing habitual ideas, emotions, and responses to physical sensation, but also to responding freshly to each experience as it occurs.
