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Someone once said that we sit on the (meditation) cushion, lifting light weights, so that when we are off of the cushion, in our regular lives, we will be strong enough to lift the heavy weights that life throws at us.

When I first heard that I liked it a lot. But I felt that it wasn’t quite right. I have decided that in fact it is sort of backwards. I say that when we sit on the cushion, we practice putting down light weights, so that when we are off the cushion, we know how to put down life's heavy weights.

In our lives we are handed heavy weights. These weights cause suffering. We hold onto these weights and carry them around. Often these weights are so heavy that we cannot bear them, and yet, we still don’t know how, or aren't willing, to put them down, to let them go.

In the quest for an end to suffering, we need to know how to set these weights down. On the cushion, we let go of the thoughts endlessly assaulting our minds. We are learning to put down light weights over and over again.

We need this practice because off the cushion, when we set heavy weights down, we often discover that we are somehow still holding them. We set them down over and over again, but they magically leap back into our hands, onto our shoulders, and onto our backs. Or, we don’t set them down at all. Though we can't bear to carry them, it can turn out to be harder still to let these things go, set them down, and walk away.

With practice setting down the light weights of the mind, we know how to recognize the heavy weights that we carry, and how to put them down, and put them down, and put them down again.

About a year ago I was carry a heavy weight of my own creation. This is when I began thinking about the role of meditation in letting go of the hardships that we seem to hold onto for dear life. At the time, this is what I wrote:

I'm holding a weight. It’s a very heavy weight. It's a very heavy weight, but I can’t get myself to let it go. It hurts. This weight hurts. If I just set it down, it won’t hurt so much. If I just set it down it will go away all on its own. The Buddha tells us that all things are impermanent, and this weight is impermanent, and it will go away all on its own. It will go away if I hold onto it, and it will go away if I set it down. But if I set it down, while it is going away, it won’t hurt. Or, at least, it won’t hurt so much.

I don’t have to throw it away, which is good because I’m not that strong. I'm not strong enough to throw this heavy weight, but I can put it down. I can put it down, and it will still be there; I can still look at it; I can see it and understand it and be with it; I won’t have abandoned it; but it won’t hurt as much.

I've lifted weights like this before. It was a long time ago, and the conditions and circumstances were different, and I was someone different. When I lifted this weight before, I hugged it to my chest. I hugged it to my chest, and I rocked back and forth, and it hurt. It hurt so much. It hurt so much that I couldn’t be in the world anymore. I had to leave the world for a while. I hugged that weight to my chest and I fed it. I fed it, and it bit into me, and it lasted, and it lasted, and it lasted as I protected it, as I held it in my arms, as I fed it. Ultimately it too was impermanent, as all things are impermanent. It went away, but if I had just set it down, it would have gone away much more quickly, and while it was going away it wouldn’t have hurt. It would have just been. It would have been a heavy weight that I had put down.

I am holding this heavy weight. I set it down. Now my arms are free to do other things. But then I pick it up again. I pick it up again, and it bites into me, and I hurt all over again. It’s not that I can’t stop picking it up, it’s that I don’t stop picking it up. I’m not aware of picking it up, but I find myself holding it again.

Over the years I have held many heavy weights. When my dog died, when my father died, when my mother died. These were heavy weights that I held. These were heavy weights that hurt. But I learned to put them down. Not to throw them away. Not to hate them. Not to fear them. Just to set them down and let them be. Over time they went away, because they were impermanent.

So now I know how to set down a heavy weight. I put it down, and the relief is palpable, but then, hours or days later, I pick it up again.

I'm holding a weight. It’s a very heavy weight. It's a very heavy weight, but I can’t get myself to let it go.

And then I set it down.



Suffering is the inward focused manifestation of wanting things to be other than the way they are. Anger is the outward focused manifestation of wanting things to be other than the way they are. Anxiety is the fear that things will not be the way that I want them to be. Suffering, anger, and anxiety are the same thing.

When asked what he teaches, the Buddha said, “I teach suffering and an end to suffering.” I have been learning for several years about the Buddhist conception of suffering (dukkha) and that it is caused by grasping and clinging. In Buddhist philosophy we seek an end to suffering through non-clinging.

A couple of years ago I started to feel that this didn’t quite match my view of suffering. I felt like there was a simpler way of looking at my lived experience. I concluded that, for me, suffering was caused by wanting things to be other than the way they are. Just that. Grasping is wanting that job, that spouse, that money, a child, a home, what that other person has, and so on. Clinging is wanting this person not to get sick and die, wanting not to get old and sick and die myself, wanting to keep this relationship, this job, this money, these things. But these are all, ultimately, just wanting things to be other than the way they are. That is all. This way of stating the idea works better for me.

Recently I had been faced with grasping and clinging in my life, causing suffering. I had also been experiencing a lot of anger. I took a trip to a place to relax. Upon arriving, I was faced with a series of annoyances. There was no mystery to this - I was primed to be annoyed and ready to be bothered by the slightest thing. I found myself so upset and angry that I wanted to just grab my bags, turn around, and leave. On the grounds there was a peaceful grove with a labyrinth. Instead of leaving, I went there and used the labyrinth for a walking meditation.

I had an extraordinary insight. I realized that suffering, and its shadow, sadness, are inward focused manifestations of wanting things to be other than the way they are. Anger is the outward focused manifestation of wanting things to be other than the way they are. This stopped me in my tracks. It was that simple. Suffering and anger are the same thing, it is only the direction in which they are focused that changes the experience. I stood there for some time, then continued my walk.

Later I was pulled up short by a third realization: anxiety is the fear that things will cease to be the way they are now (clinging), or that things will not become the way that I want them to be (grasping.) Suffering and anxiety are the same thing. They differ only in their time frame. Suffering is wanting things to be different than the way they are right now, while anxiety is the fear that things will be different than the way I want them to be in the future.

Suffering, anger, and anxiety are the same thing.

I have a friend who is dying. I am suffering now because I want her to not be old, sick, in pain, and in the process of dying. I am angry because I cannot change this. I am experiencing anxiety because I want her to not be dead in the future.

It is said that pain is inevitable, but suffering is optional. Now I see that it is also true that hurt is inevitable, but anger is optional, and that fear is inevitable, but anxiety is optional.
Suffering is the inward focused manifestation of wanting things to be other than the way they are.

Anger is the outward focused manifestation of wanting things to be other than the way they are.

Anxiety is the fear that things will not be the way that I want them to be.

Suffering, anger, and anxiety are the same thing.

 


I have been growing Australian finger limes (Citrus australasica) for a dozen years now. The thing that is cool about finger limes is that when you cut them open, little balls of lime juice spill out. They are about the size of flying fish row (aka tobiko) and are sometimes referred to as “lime caviar”. Unfortunately, there aren’t many applications for them. Back in 2021 I concluded that marmalade could take advantage of the special characteristics of finger limes. The result was not great. Primarily, the flavor was too bitter for most uses. Three years later I still haven’t used up all of that marmalade. Moreover, it took much too much effort to make. You can read all about that experiment here if you are interested. Note that I have left out many details here, since much of it would be redundant with that original posting.

I have been harvesting, collecting, and freezing finger limes ever since, intending to try again and see if I could get a better result. Finally this fall I made a batch, changing a number of critical steps in the process.

The verdict? The new batch is much sweeter, less bitter, and easier to prepare. However, I still wouldn’t say it was great, and it is still a lot of work. Nonetheless, here is the recipe from my recent attempt. Perhaps with yet more work it could be turned into a useful recipe. Your mileage may vary.

Note: for the purpose of incorporation into a cooked product like marmalade, these limes freeze well. In fact, they freeze surprisingly well to store for almost any application. This batch included 100% frozen fruit collected over the course of 2024.


Australian Finger Lime Marmalade Recipe v2.0
Yield: 9.5 cups

Ingredients:
3.5lbs Finger limes
2.25lbs Sugar for macerating limes (equal to the weight of processed limes)
Additional 12oz sugar (added during cooking)
¼ C Karo syrup (to reduce sugaring off)
1 pkg liquid pectin (3oz)
1 tsp Kosher salt

Note that last time I added baking soda, which can be helpful with marmalade to soften the skins. However, finger lime skins are already thin, and baking soda is bitter, so I left it out this time. There was no issue with the skins being tough.

Method:
Processing the limes took a huge amount of time and effort, so as before, I did it in two batches over two days, then cooked them on the third day. I don’t think it is necessary, though when making marmalade, macerating the fruit in sugar is generally a good idea to get it to release liquid and pre-absorb sugar. On the first day I processed about 1.5 pounds and macerated the “pearls” in the refrigerator with an equal amount of sugar. On the second day I processed the rest, adding them to the same container, again with an equal amount of sugar. I stored the skins separately. On the third day I assembled and cooked the marmalade.

Processing the limes:
(1) Wash and dry the limes.

(2) Slice the stem end from each lime. Squeeze the fruit from the skins with a small rolling pin. A wooden “cocktail muddler” with a straight handle worked well for this.


(3) Previously I had removed the seeds at this point. It was an unbelievable pain in the ass and took a ridiculous amount of time. For this version I left the seeds in with the fruit, since they float to the top during cooking. However, it turned out that skimming them from the surface during cooking was a huge pain in the ass and took a ridiculous amount of time!!! Oh well. [A reader suggested scraping the lime pearls from the skin under water, and then skimming the seeds as they float to the top of the water. If I do this again, I will try it – though I have to wonder about the amount of lime juice from popped pearls that will be lost.]

(4) I discarded ½ of the skins (by weight.) The remainder I blanched once in water for 3 minutes to reduce the bitterness. [The same reader noted that they retain all of the skins, but simmer them in water for 1 hour - twice! I am sure that would eliminate all bitterness but might lose a lot of the flavor, texture, and interest of the skin as well.]

(5) Chop the skins into pieces of a size that is pleasing to you. This time I chopped them more thoroughly than I wish I had. They lost a lot of toothsome character. I need to try to find some reasonable way to cut them into disks or strips.

Cooking the marmalade:
I recommend investing in a copper jam pot if you do a lot of preserving. They are quite expensive (generally US$200 and up), however, using one makes preserving easier and produces a better product.

Before starting, put a plate in the freezer with some spoons to use in testing for setting.

Put the macerated limes into the pot along with 12 oz additional sugar and 1 tsp Kosher salt.

Bring to a full boil over medium-high heat. Reduce the heat and simmer for about 20 minutes, stirring occasionally. Assuming you have not removed the seeds previously, attempt to skim off the seeds from the surface. I started using a spoon, but that was insanely inefficient. I then switched to skimming with a very small sieve. There was a fair bit of lost fruit using this method, it was a long, slow process, and I ultimately only got about 90% of the seeds out. Oh well.

Return the mixture to a full rolling boil over medium-high heat, stirring constantly. Stir in the liquid pectin. Return the mixture to a full rolling boil, stirring constantly. Boil for one minute or so. Note that using liquid pectin the marmalade gels very quickly.

Test for setting using a spoon from the freezer (or any other method you prefer.) When the marmalade has set to your satisfaction, remove it from the heat. Allow it to cool for a few minutes to minimize separation of the fruit, skins, and juice. However, don’t let it cool too much or it will be impossible to fill your jars.

Ladle into sterilized jars and process by whichever safe preserving method you prefer.
Ragnar Kjartansson - the visitors

Some weeks ago, I was at the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art (SFMoMA) with friends. Among other things we stumbled into a video installation by Icelandic artist Ragnar Kjartansson entitled "The Visitors". I was blown away. It is a large space with nine screens, showing views into eight different rooms in a house, plus the front porch. There is a musician in each room. They are playing a song together, but also apart, in their separate rooms. Each display has its own speaker. Walking around the space you hear the music changing as though you were moving through the house. From the center you hear all of the performers in balance.

Viewing it in its entirety is problematic. It is 64 minutes long, so unless you have planned this into your day, it is a challenge. When we first went in, we only caught the last few minutes. Later we came back and saw another portion (the video runs continuously in a loop.) I felt that I had to return another time to see it all the way through.

Last week I got my chance. I was in San Francisco for an appointment, so afterwards I went to SFMoMA. I asked at the ticket counter what the schedule was for The Visitors. It turned out that there was about 45 minutes before the loop was scheduled to restart. I wandered through exhibits until the next start-time, then returned to the installation.

I experienced The Visitors from the beginning, with all the screens blank, through to the end when they each return to darkness. It was spectacular. I am sure it is not for everyone, but for me it was magic. I felt an indescribable sense of peace after I left the room. I was just happy in a remarkably simple, inexplicable, unadorned way. 

The song that they are playing has a short lyric that is repeated in various ways throughout the "performance", mostly repeating the line, "Once again I fall into my feminine ways." Over time, the music is played on different instruments, usually rather softly but sometimes with a loud intensity. The lyrics are somewhat somber, but it isn't saddening - it is mesmerizing and compelling. I would say that none of the musicians are great singers, but their song and music feel heartfelt and genuine, made all the more so by our being invited into a seemingly intimate performance. There are also touching moments when one musician leaves their room, walking to another space to join another performer, expressing a connection physically that hints at the musical interaction, then returns to their own room and their own instruments.
 
Unfortunately, try as I might, it is one of those things that really can’t be described in words. Even if one were to view it online - there are versions on YouTube - you still wouldn’t be able to really get it. I took a brief video to try to capture at least a vague sense of being in the space: 


It is probably not everyone's cup of tea. But, if you want to see it, it is at SFMoMA through 11/13/24. They start the loop 15 minutes after the museum opens, repeating every 64 minutes throughout the day. The installation can be found on the sixth floor. Paid admission to the museum is required, but there is no additional ticket needed for The Visitors.

It is also possible that you might see it elsewhere; apparently it has been shown in various museums on and off for over a decade. However, I have not been able to find any kind of calendar indicating where the installation might be going in the future.

If you've seen it, or you go to see it, I'd love to hear what you thought.

[FYI, the man playing acoustic guitar in the bathtub is Ragnar Kjartansson.]
[FYI2, caution: the song that is performed can become quite an earworm.]
[FYI3, after The Visitors, I went down to the front lobby of the museum on the first floor, lay in a huge memory-foam bean-bag chair, and watched the giant display showing slowly moving graphics of oceanic things floating around. A lovely re-entry into the world before leaving the building.]

Shakespeare famously wrote in As You Like It, "All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players..." So famously, in fact, that to quote it can often seem trite. All the world may well be a stage, but in As You Like It, Shakespeare makes no mention of the viewers of our performance.

I often wonder about an imaginary audience for my life. I wonder what my audience knows that I don't know. When watching a movie or play, we might see the protagonist about to make a blunder, or after making a mistake that they don't even realize, or looking under the bed when they really should have walked away. We, the audience, often know things that Shakespeare's players don't.

Sometimes we wince as we watch, because the awful scene that is unfolding wouldn't have happened if only the characters were aware of some hidden fact that the author has clued us into. Oh, if only she knew that he secretly loves her; if only the platoon knew that the seemingly peaceful field is a trap; if only the ensign wearing the red shirt knew that it is always the red shirt crewperson that dies a horrible death right after transporting down to the planet from the Starship Enterprise.

What does my audience know? If I could ask them, what would they tell me? What blunders am I making? What should I realize that I don't. What am I missing? What am I forgetting? What do I think is important, but is actually irrelevant? What critical detail did I miss?

Is my audience wincing as they watch me go through my life? Do they wish that they could reach through the screen, grab my collar and yell... something. Something vital. Something that would make my life right now so much better; something that could save me, or a friend, or a loved-one from a terrible future. Or, if not a terrible future, possibly just a disappointing one. When the play is over will my audience leave the theater thinking, "that Andrew character made some pretty bonehead mistakes", or perhaps, "what a pity, I expected so much more."

I often find lessons in the Dhamma (better known to Americans as the Sanskrit word pronounced “Dharma”) while driving. The other day I found Dhamma as a pedestrian crossing the street.

Last week Richard Shankman, the leader of my meditation group, gave a talk on the Buddhist ideal of metta, usually translated as “Loving Kindness”. He said that it is his goal to always have an open heart; to never close off his heart to anyone.

The next day I was walking in downtown Oakland, CA, when I came to an intersection. The light was against me so I had to wait to cross. Just as the light changed and I stepped off the curb, a large van at the far side of the street attempted to make a right turn on red, but was stopped by oncoming traffic. This left the unusually long van blocking the crosswalk.

I felt annoyed that I was going to have to go around this obstacle. My first thought was “what a jerk.” But almost immediately I stopped myself. I thought, “I’ve done that.” I never try to end up blocking a crosswalk while driving, but sometimes it happens anyway, through error or misjudging the traffic conditions. As I was walking around the van, a trivial extra effort, I thought, "I don’t know anything about this driver." Perhaps they strive to always be as courteous as possible. Perhaps blocking the crosswalk this afternoon was something they virtually never do. Maybe they were sitting in the van feeling incredibly embarrassed at having screwed up and blocked my way.

I realized I had no way of knowing if the driver even owned that vehicle. Maybe they had just gotten it, or rented it, or had been directed to drive it by an employer. Maybe unfamiliarity with the van caused them to drive it poorly. 

Maybe they tried to make that right turn on red because they were in a genuine hurry for some reason. I was near the hospital district, so possibly the van was full of medicines or medical equipment needed quickly at a doctor’s office. Perhaps they had learned that a friend had been hurt and so they were rushing to get to the hospital to be with someone that needed them.

Or maybe the driver was a jerk. Maybe they did this all the time. Maybe they really didn’t care about pedestrians or other drivers. 

Either way, I didn’t know. I couldn’t know. So instead of feeling anger or annoyance, instead of judging this person, I opened my heart to them.

I am no saint and I'm certainly not a Buddha. I am a work in progress. I can only hope to be as I was that afternoon, opening my heart more often in more situations, and finding the Dhamma everywhere.
"Shower" by Kevin Dooley is licensed under CC BY 2.0.

When I am in my shower, I try to be aware of gratitude. I love showering. I love the sound of the water and the way it blocks out other sounds, the feeling as it hits my skin, the temperature, the humidity, the feeling of being cocooned in this space. When I was fortunate enough to be able to design and build my house, I created a beautiful bathroom with a great shower. I am grateful for my shower.

I try to remember that what I have is extraordinary. I am able to shower every day. I can take a nice, long, hot shower. I can shower simply because I want to even if I don’t really “need” to. These facts are incredible. This is an amazing gift I give to myself. This is an astonishing opportunity that I have. And this is something that I always remember is rare indeed.

I live in a time and place where the municipality provides clean, safe water directly to my house, and utility companies deliver the energy needed to warm that water to whatever temperature I desire. A thousand years ago only a few hundred people in the world would have been able to access an effectively unlimited supply of hot, fresh water, and fewer still would have been able to indulge themselves in this way with any frequency. But even today, in most parts of the world, it is only the wealthiest individuals that can indulge such pleasures. For most people in most places around the world and across all of time, enjoying a shower would be unimaginable decadence.

Indeed, the access to clean, safe, reliable water in any form for most of humanity is something to be prayed for – I flush such water down the toilet. It is not lost on me that someday the drought in the western United States, exacerbated by climate change, will cause the water to run out, or my health will run out, or this space will be gone… someday this will be just a memory of a sweet, long-lost time. This is something that I appreciate when I am in the shower.

It is not lost on me that I have such wealth that I was able to create this space, and to purchase water and fuel. It is not lost on me that I have the freedom to choose to live in a place where clean water is delivered to my home. It is not lost on me that California is in a drought and that should the water stop, I can choose to move. It is not lost on me that I have the time to enjoy this.

I also do not take for granted the fact that I am able to shower without assistance. In her later days, my mother loved Thursday, because that was the day that her caregiver helped her to take a shower. She couldn’t undress herself alone, nor safely get into or out of the shower. She certainly couldn’t control her body sufficiently to wash her hair. I think of Senator John McCain, who, due to torture in Viet Nam, could not lift his arms over his head. Did he have to rely on others to wash his hair for him? I am aware of those in wheelchairs, paraplegics, and quadriplegics, for whom showering is likely a lengthy and involved process and may be impossible without assistance.

For myself, there was a time, not long ago, when due to medical devices attached to my body, I had to prepare myself for a shower. I had to wrap my arm in plastic wrap and tape it in place to keep my arm dry, and I had to keep my showering brief to reduce the risk of water getting under the wrapping. For a while I needed someone to help me wrap my arm, and then to unwrap it afterwards. Washing my hair alone was challenging because of limited mobility. If I could wash my hair at all, it was only with one arm. What a gift that taking a shower no longer requires any preparation beyond disrobing, and I need to do nothing more than dry off and dress afterwards.

I indulge myself in these moments of peace and beauty, knowing that just a few miles from my shower there are people living in tent camps. I don’t know how they bathe themselves. I don’t know how far they must travel, nor what they have to do to get to any kind of washing facilities at all. I indulge myself, well aware of the fact that there are uncounted millions around the world without access to safe drinking water, let alone a shower.

Sometimes these thoughts make me sad, so I cut my showering short. But more often I just try to appreciate this amazing experience, this incredible experience, this rare, unique, gift of an experience.

Forgive me for waxing poetical about the joys of showering. But I encourage all to find something in your life that you are taking for granted and to instead give it the attention that it deserves.

Afterword:

When I was a child, Thanksgiving meant a day off from school and a big, delicious meal prepared by my mother. Later on, living on my own, invited to friends’ houses for Thanksgiving, I was introduced to the ritual of each person at the table saying what they were thankful for. We had never done that in my family so I thought it was silly, but being a good guest, I went along with it, coming up with some statement of thankfulness. Now that I am older, with the perspective provided by time, and experience, and loss, and pain, I try to be thankful every day for all the great gifts that I have received. I am so very grateful for friends, and health, and food, and freedom, and among the many, many fortunes that I have, I am grateful for my shower.

I wonder if caterpillars know that they will become butterflies. When a caterpillar on a leaf sees a butterfly flying around, does it think, “that will be me some day”? Or perhaps, “I hope I become a butterfly like that one.” Or does it just see butterflies as another of the many things in its universe? Can a caterpillar, in its limited capacity, even conceive of a relationship between itself and a butterfly?

I wonder if butterflies know that they were caterpillars. When they are drinking nectar from a flower and notice a caterpillar on a leaf, do they reminisce about those bygone days? Do they think caterpillars are cute? Do they look forward to laying eggs, or fertilizing eggs, that will become caterpillars?

I wonder if we are the larval form of something else… some next existence of which we cannot conceive. Butterflies aren’t just caterpillars with wings glued on. So, rather than floating around on clouds in heaven in humanesque bodies with wings, perhaps we become something inconceivable. In our extraordinary capacities, we can imagine quite a lot. But I wonder if there might be an afterlife after all – merely one that even we cannot conceive.

What do caterpillars think of their lives? I doubt that caterpillars have existential crises in which they wonder about the meaning of their existence. But if they did, would knowing that they are larval butterflies make them feel any better? Would that give them a sense of purpose? Meanwhile, who is to say that being a butterfly is any better than being a caterpillar. From our human aesthetic, butterflies are pretty, and airborne, and visit flowers, while caterpillars are usually more drab, climb on plants, and eat leaves. But perhaps being a caterpillar is an idyllic carefree childhood, while being a butterfly is an anxiety-filled adulthood, desperately trying to reproduce.

This human life seems rather pointless, but maybe we are larval stages of something else. Would knowing that make this life feel more purposeful? Do metamorphosized “people” look at humans with any recognition of a connection? And if there is some next existence, who’s to say if this life is idyllic childhood, or if that next life is beatific flitting from flower to flower.


I have heard it said that to name something is to destroy it. Once it is named, the thing that is right in front of you is then just an example of “one of those”, and you no longer see the thing itself.

I was reminded of this idea this morning. There was a rainbow over Oakland. I counted off the colors: ROYGBIV - Red, Orange, Yellow, Green, Blue, Indigo, Violet. Then I looked to see where the sun was. I noted that it was in the east and the rainbow was to the west, just the way the science of physics tells us it will be.

In looking at the rainbow, I realized that I wasn’t seeing it as a beautiful phenomenon. I was seeing it as an artifact of atmospheric conditions and the mechanics of light. Like knowing how a trick is done, or the answer to a riddle, or that at the end of the movie the universe is saved but the hero dies, knowing how a rainbow works takes away the magic.

Perhaps physics classes should come with a warning: “Spoiler alert.” Now it is up to me to put knowledge aside and see the rainbow as beautiful again.


Riding home on the Bay Area Rapid Transit (BART) last night I felt so lonely. Everyone on the train was somewhere else. Most people had some kind of earbuds or headphones on, and almost everyone was looking at their cell phones.

I was listening to music on my phone with my earbuds and really rather enjoying it. But when a person sat down next to me, I realized that they weren't really there. It wasn't just, "sitting next to someone I don't know"; it was sitting next to someone that wasn't sitting next to me at all.

So, I took out my earbuds and put away my phone. I wanted to connect in even the most trivial of ways.

I noticed another man, of about my age, on the train. He didn't have anything on his ears, nor was he holding a phone. He was behind me, so I had to turn pretty obviously to look at him. He didn't look back. I wanted to signal to him in some way that we were kind of kindred spirits, but, of course, we were strangers on a train, and I was a stranger craning around to look at him.

I thought about when the Sony Walkman came out. The "older generation" decried it as the end to sociability. Perhaps it was the first drop in the bucket, the first chip in the glass, the first step on the journey to isolation.

The difference is that now many of the people on the train probably are being social - it is likely that they are on their phones using social media or doing email. They're just not being social with those humans around them. They aren't isolated from those nearby by music on a Walkman, they are somewhere else, with someone else, as I sat alone on the train.