I grew up in a household where impulse and drama ruled the day. My parents hollered and swore with abandon and I rarely understood the reasons behind the hullaballoo. Mom had a BA in art and she venerated artists as the most superior humans on earth. By the time I got to college, I believed that the more melodramatic my life, the more successful I would be. I studied art. Many celebrated artists traveled to the South Seas or lived on the brink like Picasso or Modigliani. If I could be like them, I would have a grand life. And I would be a success in Mom’s eyes.
However, other aspects of my life quietly influenced me in another direction. My father had lived in China for 3 years before I was born. Our home was filled with Asian furniture; the smell of camphor in the ornately carved chests fascinated me. Intricate Chinese tapestries adorned our walls. My favorite toys were carved dolls and puzzles from China, along with a child’s version of the I Ching (The Book of Changes), a book of Chinese philosophy and fortune telling. I often threw the numbered bamboo sticks, observed the shapes they made and which numbers showed, which led me to a specific reading. From this page, I read my fortune along with moral guidance, greatly simplified for a kid’s use. I loved it. The basic philosophy of this classic tome told me that life constantly changed, like the seasons. I watched the truth of continual change in the giant maple and the numerous fruit trees in my yard: lush with delicious summer bounty, flaming color accompanied by the maple’s sweet sap in the fall, bare in winter and lit with airy blossoms in spring. Through the Book of Changes, I learned to perceive an overview, the Way of the Dao: to appreciate, to feel close to, and learn lessons from ever-evolving nature.
Another bond to Asia came via my cousin by marriage, Kenji, my parents’ age, who was Japanese American. We were very close to this side of the family, so I grew up attending Buddhist weddings and funerals. I wondered what the mysterious chanting meant while I savored exotic incense.
Two of my aunts worked in Japan after the war and they brought me geisha dolls, tea sets and kimono fabrics of luscious silks. In my childhood, there were strong Asian influences. By college, I wanted to study more about these tantalizing viewpoints, what the chanting of the sutras meant and where imagery of pagodas came from. All these had been a normal part of my life growing up, but I understood very little about them.
In my freshman year of college, I took a class in Buddhism. At the same time, I worked in the Art Department of my University and became entranced by the flamboyant students and professors and their captivating art. But when I studied Buddhism, a radically different philosophy of life presented itself. Core to Buddhist thought was veneration of “The Middle Way,” a system of emotional and physical balance and stability. When I compared this idea to the extreme emotions and bright colors encouraged in the art world, that I loved and that Mom venerated, I thought this Buddhist ideal was boring. How could life be interesting if emotions were always balanced?
At the same time, through my Buddhist studies, I learned to value the inner calm of meditation, which became a lifelong practice. As a visual person, in meditation I saw colors, designs and shapes in my mind’s eye, that I later painted and drew. For example, in my ink drawing, “Buddha Floating”, I illustrated how meditation gave me a larger view beyond everyday worries, a space where I floated above the regular world and could intuit other possibilities. I needed art and meditation nurturing each other and both became a lifelong passion.
Now in my older years, still meditating daily, I have finally come to understand and highly esteem The Middle Way. I laugh now, remembering my youth, when a life of extremes usually created a hot mess and didn’t lead to Mom’s approval. But the peace and insight of meditation never let me down; it allowed me to grow and to learn how to give my body, mind and spirit the right amount of exercise, food, positive thoughts, deliberate problem-solving and creative exploration. When tempted by impulse, I’ve learned to pause to consider what a Tibetan meditation teacher once taught me: can the 180-degree opposite of any situation be equally true?
Within that deliberation, I experience The Middle Way, an exciting space where I calibrate the opposites to find a central ground. Balance has become my lifestyle in both aesthetic and practical ways. Surprisingly, calm allows great joy and laughter to bubble up. Over the years, I’ve let go of my parents’ raucous lifestyle in favor of a quieter, more fun, and meaningful experience.
