"Are you hardcore, really?/ Who's hardcore, really?" K'naan
This month, Movember as it has come to be known in these parts, was hard. That just sounds weird doesn't it? I mean, seriously, all I did was grow a moustache. It's not like I underwent chemotherapy or surgery, nor did I lose anyone close to me or receive terrible news of a life threatening disease. Nope, all I did was grow a moustache. And yet, how incredibly difficult it was.
See, we sit zazen on the cushion daily, for some us twice daily, and because the practice strips away the usual psychic armour used to 'protect' us from ourselves, we come face to face with all of the insane ideas of self that we have built up. And so, instead of just feeling weird because of having this 'stache, I felt the double difficulty of feeling weird AND experiencing the deep sensation that this was nothing more than my (false sense) of ego judging me FROM THE INSIDE, and while I can accept that others have their opinions (and that their opinions are none of my damn business) this judgement is definitely troublesome.
So I sit with it. Time passes, and I sit some more. As the 40 minute morning sit comes close to its end, I am filled with the thought that I have to get going, that the sit must be over, that there are things to do, that it'd be ok if I got up a couple of minutes early... that everything will be much better just as soon as I'm done. But I sit 'til the end anyway.
And as much as I think things will be better off the cushion, no such luck. There's the world and I go about things.
But things are different... a little better somehow. The thoughts that I might cling to, I can let go more easily; the emotions that threaten to take me over, I can allow to pass without taking them out on anyone else; the things I may have tried to push away or avoid, I accept.
And there's that moustache. And although I understand that it may have become 'the new tattoo', or that it stands as an emblem of solidarity with my brothers, and particularly those brothers with prostate cancer, it stills feels and looks yucky. See, moustaches, for me mean two predominant things (my brother-in-law's 'stache aside): cops and child molesters. Don't ask me how they got there, but there they are, starring back at me every time I look in the mirror.
And moustaches, by the way, while Motorhead and Metallica acceptable for the metalheads, trucker savvy for the country folk, and badass cool for the bikers, don't hold any cred for the puck rockers. None. Zero. It's just something the banker or some other cog in the machine had. And yes, I can accept this juvie talk, but I'm just being honest. Moustache's are fuckin ugly and really serve to remind me of everything that I dislike on principle alone.
And yet, I made it based on acceptance alone. May the gods and goddesses and fairy folk and sprites alike bless my punk rock soul, I wore that thing all month and even though I almost wished away these past few days (is it over yet? Movember must be over by now. No one will mind if I skip out a couple of days early. Things will be so much better when this is over with...) I made it nonetheless.
And while I though things would be so much better without the damn 'stache, no such luck. I'm still stuck with the same old me, with the same weirdnesses and issues.
And not. See, sitting, like holding on to the 'stache, is a hardcore activity. They both require strength, perspective, compassion, and a letting go of self and societal judgement. And while over the past two decades I've often told myself that things would be better if I didn't sit, I always go back, because I was wrong, here on November 30th I'm telling myself that I'll not be participating in Movember next year, I know that I will. Because it's the right thing to do, and because, despite looking and feeling stupid, challenging yourself to look deeply and carefully at who you are and how you are interrelated with everyone else is the most hardcore, punk thing that a person can possibly do.
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