Zero The Hero

It seems like a lot of my friends would like to have some zero in their lives. The tricky thing about zero is that it feels like it’s all or nothing. Like you can’t be partially committed to zero – it’s zero or it’s something else. It’s empty, or it contains something. I am not sure this is the case, but it's a premise that is being tested in my life. I have had 5 conversations in the last couple of weeks with dear friends who would like some of my zero. They probably are not ready for the Total Zero experience, but a taste of zero seems to be what they are seeking. some vacations offer a taste of zero, except when folks bring along their blackberries and laptops, and then zero is never really tasted – it's a mere sniff. Friends ask me questions as if I am a guest speaker at some kind of Total Zero workshop. They ask “what is it like to sell all of your stuff?” They say “it must be cool to not have to be anywhere.” They are coveting the freedom that comes with zero, and I understand their fascination. Many people have zero-envy, and I used to have it also. It’s a little ironic then, that several weeks into my ZERO experience, I am faced with the ominous responsibility of freedom. That's right, the looming choices, and the limitless possibilities - this wide open field of dreams is producing a distilled sense of responsibility…to myself and to the universe. It's a bit more than simply the pressure of  "Gee-Whiz Wally, I don’t want to blow this." I’m beginning to believe that I can balance on the high side of zero – you know, have my cake and eat it too. I guess we'll find out.

It is 10am on a Wednesday morning, and I am pedaling my new touring bike – my Surly Long Haul Trucker, out along North Levee Road, somewhere between Elverta and Garden Highway. This baby rides like a Cadillac, and on this beautiful summer morning, it feels like I am moving backwards down the number line - to reference a Phish song. I rescheduled a handyman job today, to clear space for this bike ride, because I am preparing to take the train up to Ashland, Oregon in a couple weeks, and bicycle back down to Sacramento. Actually, we’ll catch some Shakespeare first, and shoot out to the coast, sweeping South on Highway 1 for a couple days, and then back inland over to the Russian River and down through Napa Valley, before returning to Sacramento. It’s going to be a great trip, and it’s just the beginning I hope. I am trying to craft my life around trips like this - Trying to bottle my freedom, and take big swigs of it each morning, like I’m drinking from a jug of moonshine, slapping the cork back on the jug with a chunky gulp and a hearty grimace.

Right now, I can do whatever the bleep I want to do with my time. I don’t have to earn very much money, and it is my business – I am the boss. It’s a blessing – a mixed blessing, but a blessing. With each spin of the crank, I am hit with a new impulse to grab onto these little pieces of identity that are breaking off and floating away from me. I struggle to resist. That’s right, my identity is breaking up, and this is good news, but it doesn’t come easy. I’m not really complaining, but I didn’t expect to be back in Sacramento, living at my mom’s house, deep in the Suckburbs, running my lame-duck business again. I was so done with being a handyman when I left for Spirit Rock. I was so done being self-employed. I wake up every morning with a great big What the Fuck? It’s a good What the fuck, but it is a burly, greasy, groany What the Fuck.

I completed my Peace Corps application last week – it took me over 6 hours. This is the problem with anything to do with the government. Paperwork. One would think that I had learned my lesson with four years in the military. One would think. I relish the idea of traveling abroad right now, and being of service. I know it will be an adventure, but I am also a bit reluctant to commit myself to 24 months away from the people and places I love right now. I am hesitant to sign up for anything, at a time when I am completely weightless – unfettered by the common debts and obligations. Of course, I have deep commitments to my community of family and friends, to my spiritual practice, and to my dog – but on paper, my biggest commitment is my Netflix account. I know that many folks my age might wonder if this represents a simple character flaw of irresponsibility. Am I some kind of Metro-hobo? Pedaling my bike in the quiet country on this warm summer morning, I ponder the fact that my biggest responsibility is actually my dog – my wonderful little buddy. The way  was raised, dogs are family, and it occurs to me how much he feels like an honored guest, more a trusted friend, and less like a responsibility. I feel my feet on the pedals, look out over the levee road, across the rice fields and I can see the Sutter Buttes on the horizon. I can see the jet-liners circling the airport, slow and small and peaceful in the distance – I swerve to miss a pothole, and shutter to think that up close those planes are full of busy people moving and shaking and getting their various grooves on. My bike is inviting me to shift to the next gear, and pedal on to the next county before turning back for dinner. And then I remember the mouse that I set free at Spirit Rock. That sure felt great.

It was my last day there, and I was asked to check the mouse traps again – the tin cats as they are called – these are traps that don’t hurt the mice, but simply trap them so that they can be removed from the premises. There are tin cats (which strikes me as a great name for a band – the tin cats,) placed at strategic locations, and they frequently catch mice that would otherwise invade the dining hall or one of the residence halls. I zip around on the golf-cart and check each location and sure enough, there is a little fella in one of the traps. I jump in the golf-cart with the tin cat containing my prisoner, and drive out to the far end of the property. All the way there, I am looking into the trap, catching glimpses of the little mouse as he peeks out at me, and then hides again. I’ve never dealt with a mouse this way. It feels very Buddhist, very enlightened to practice non-harming. I get to the liberation spot, and place the trap on the ground, carefully opening the lid to allow Mr. mouse to exit at his leisure. I have to coax him out, by shaking the trap. It’s an incredibly poignant moment. He pokes his head out a bit at me, with an expression of waryness…is this a trick? I calmly savor the moment of watching the mouse reclaim his freedom. My heart is open. He is clearly shaken by the experience. He climbs out and scurries away into the tall brush, probably mouse-miles from his home. But he is free, and very alive.

So am I – and just like that mouse finds himself in strange uncharted territory out on the far end of the land beyond his little mouse-village, where he probably has never ventured before, I am getting out past the edge of town…lost but making good time as they say. There is nothing that even remotely resembles a crisis in my life. There is a fire, but it’s something akin to what the forestry service does to clear the forest floor of dead wood and stuff, to facilitate new growth and keep the elders healthy. I am getting empty, getting still and formulating a plan. This goes against the grain of my high-achiever self that has always pushed to be saddled with various indiscriminant commitments. I think this is some of what my friends are recognizing about themselves – seeing the yoke for what it is. There is a beauty in that. I can’t speak for anyone else, but clearly this is the work I need to be doing. The collapse of identities associated with my old life can be seen as making room for new identities, or it can be seen as an all-together liberation from the trappings of identity. Identities are cheap, but the care and feeding of them weighs on us like debts and obligations – this gets very expensive. Voluntary simplicity requires the retirement of these debts and obligations, and in our culture, it’s like learning a new language. I feel like such a novice.

After my bike trip from Ashland, I will be house-sitting for a couple weeks, and then going to Burning Man. When I return from that, I will depart to go stay at a monastery for two weeks, sitting and working with the monks in silence, and sleeping in a tiny hut in the woods. Maybe others live like this all the time, but I am not used to having such rich texture of variety in my life, such meaningful flirtations with freedom as this. Like Franky Says, the World is my oyster. I am investigating the idea of being a traveling caretaker for awhile, and WOOFing is definitely on the menu. The World Organization of Organic Farms has member farms all across the planet. I could combine bicycle-travel with periodic stays volunteering on organic farms (in exchange for room and board) across the country, and then across Europe – that is the big vision. “It’s good to have a plan,” he says with a crooked smile.

The possibilities are endless, and therein lies the stress. That’s what I am experiencing right now – a bit of freedom-related stress. More than anything, I am nervous about back-sliding and simply getting myself yoked – yoked once again. I want to be completely immersed in zero before ramping back up to whatever lies beyond. In that sense, danger lurks around every corner. Can I transcend mere survival? Can I get my ass out of this crappy neighborhood that feels like dead society with lipstick on? It’s clear that I am longing for something other than zero…but What? What do I replace zero with? This is the honest-to-God dilemma– there may be nothing beyond zero, or at least nothing that I desire. Is there a balance I can strike? Can I craft a life that combines a forward trajectory in career and material prosperity with an extraordinarily high quotient of time-autonomy, deep job satisfaction and personal well-being, freedom for adventure - to roam when I want to, and the financial resources to make it all happen? Can I craft a life that uses my biggest gifts, and strengths, and cultivates the highest wellness? I’m pretty sure I can.