Siddhartha Entry 1

Excerpt from:

Siddhartha

by Herman Hesse, pg. 9 - 11

“But he, Siddhartha, was not a source of joy for himself, he found no delight in himself. Walking the rosy paths of the fig tree garden, sitting in the bluish shade of the grove of contemplation, washing his limbs daily in the bath of repentance, sacrificing in the dim shade of the mango forest, his gestures of perfect decency, everyone’s love and joy, he still lacked all joy in his heart. Dreams and restless thoughts came into his mind, flowing from the water of the river, sparkling from the stars of the night, melting from the beams of the sun, dreams came to him and a restlessness of the soul, fuming from the sacrifices, breathing forth from the verses of the Rig-Veda, being infused into him, drop by drop,

from the teachings of the old Brahmans.

Siddhartha had started to nurse discontent in himself, he had started to feel that the love of his father and the love of his mother, and also the love of his friend, Govinda, would not bring him joy for ever and ever, would not nurse him, feed him, satisfy him. He had started to suspect that his venerable father and his other teachers, that the wise Brahmans had already revealed to him the most and best of their wisdom, that they had already filled his expecting vessel with their richness, and the vessel was not full, the spirit was not content, the soul was not calm, the heart was not satisfied. The

ablutions were good, but they were water, they did not wash off the sin, they did not heal the spirit’s thirst, they did not relieve the fear in his heart. The sacrifices and the invocation of the gods were excellent—but was that all? Did the sacrifices give a happy fortune? . . .

And where was Atman to be found, where did He reside, where did his eternal heart beat, where else but in one’s own self, in its innermost part, in its indestructible part, which everyone had in himself? But where, where was this self, this innermost part, this ultimate part? It was not flesh and bone, it was neither thought nor consciousness, thus the wisest ones taught. So, where, where was it? To reach this place, the self, myself, the Atman, there was another way, which was worthwhile looking for? Alas, and nobody showed this way, nobody knew it, not the father, and not the teachers and wise men, not the holy sacrificial songs! . . .

Siddhartha knew many venerable Brahmans, chiefly his father, the pure one, the scholar, the most venerable one. His father was to be admired, quiet and noble were his manners, pure his life, wise his words, delicate and noble thoughts lived behind its brow—but even he, who knew so much, did he live in blissfulness, did he have peace, was he not also just a searching man, a thirsty man? Did he not, again and again, have to drink from holy sources, as a thirsty man, from the offerings, from the books, from the disputes of the Brahmans? Why did he, the irreproachable one, have to wash off sins every day, strive for a cleansing every day, over and over every day? Was not Atman in him, did not the pristine source spring from his heart? It had to be found, the pristine source in one’s own self, it had to be possessed! Everything else was searching, was a detour, was getting lost.

Thus were Siddhartha’s thoughts, this was his thirst, this was his suffering.”

Today's post is the result of a process that began around three weeks ago. A good friend of mine, Maria, posted a discussion of Herman Hesse's classic “Siddhartha” on her own excellent travel blog (“Life and Lessons in Ecuador,” – I highly recommend you check it out at http://). I found the ebook and was immediately sucked in. It is a short but dense read, a dialogue on zen philosophy told via the journey of a Brahmin youth in the time of the Buddha, Siddhartha. After reading it through a few times, I began a response to her blog post that quickly ballooned into a full-fledged blog entry.

Anyway, one of the reasons the book has captivated me so fully is the above selection. This is from the first few pages when we are meeting Siddhartha as a youth. He comes from a loving family, with a wise and benevolent father and a caring and tender mother. He is an intelligent, pious, confident youth who enjoys debate with the elders of his community about all matters religious and philosophical. By all rights he should mature into a leading member of the community, settle down, and make his parents proud.

This is not what happens, however. Despite the love and wisdom of his parents, despite all the benefits of his caste and background, he feels an unrest in his soul that will not be quieted. I, too, feel this thirst. I also grew up sheltered from hardship in a loving family and should be happy with what I have. But I'm not; I can't help feeling that there is something more, and that this something is the most important thing there is. Is this thing what they call achieving peace?

Have you ever met someone who has achieved peace? I have not. Everyone I know has conflict, internal and external. My mother and father are both very wise, but they still have conflict. The leading religious figures in my life have conflict. My teachers, professors, peers, role models, co-workers, and friends all have conflict. Everyone I know spends their lives mired in conflict, spinning in circles around one another until their years are expended and they pass away. I am deeply dissatisfied with the vision of a life that follows the same pattern.

So what can I do? Kenny Werner says that “the meaningful path is the path of action.” But what action?

Entry 72 5.24.11

Entry 72, May 24^th, 2011, 12:10am (ship time GMT +2)

I got off the ship today in Barcelona. Originally I intended to go to the Picasso museum, but after a delay dockside I didn't have enough time to make it there. Instead, I headed for the Maritime Museum (Barcelona had one of the largest medieval shipyards in the world, after all), but it turns out that it is closed for renovation for the next two years. Next I headed to the Museum of Contemporary Art, but by the time I got there they were about to close, and I forgot my student ID so the ticket would have been rather expensive. Beginning to feel slightly frustrated, I sat down at a cafe on La Rambla to drink coffee and people watch, but was informed by the waiter that if I wasn't going to eat there I had to leave. Fine! Gah!

I finally succeeded at getting a haircut at a little hole in the wall off of La Rambla owned by an Arabian guy. He had more hair on his forearms than I've had on my head through my entire life, so I figured he was an expert. The shop was not much larger than my cabin here on board . . . luckily he spoke some English, because if we had to resort to Spanish (his, heavily accented, and mine, just plain shitty) things could have gotten ugly. The cut looks good, and was cheap, too: five Euros. I tipped him an extra, so the whole thing cost a bit less than nine dollars. Ten, if you count the beer I'm going to have to buy the hairdresser on board to pacify her for getting it cut on shore.

Entry 71 5.22.11

Entry 71, May 22^nd, 2011, 4:32pm (ship time GMT +2)

I woke up this morning having fasted more than 24 hours and did not feel hungry in the slightest. In fact, I felt like I could have gone another whole day with no problems at all, but I decided not to. It is probably best to build these things up gradually; maybe I will go two days next time.

I'm not totally sure why I'm doing it. Partly I think it is an urge to emulate the ancient Buddhist and Zen masters, including the characters I am reading about in “Siddhartha” (more on this book later) (also, thanks to Maria Navedo for mentioning it in her blog, it is a great book!). Also, I think I am curious what sort of control I can exert over my own habits – it is part of the larger work of developing self discipline. And finally, if I am not afraid of being hungry, it will keep me from over-eating.

Entry 70 5.21.11

Entry 70, May 21^st, 2011, 8:10pm (ship time GMT +2)

I just finished “Effortless Mastery” by jazz pianist Kenny Werner. For those who haven't read it, it is a fascinating book about forging a connection between musical performance and the inner self.

The book has left me conflicted in one area – namely, practice. Kenny tells the story of his own journey to Brazil after attending Manhattan School of Music and Berkley. He stayed with a saxophonist friend and his twin brother, who was a classical pianist. His friend's brother, by placing intense pressure to himself, had reached a very high level of performance in European competition before suffering a mental breakdown. He moved back to Brazil to recuperate, meeting with a therapist and a series of piano teachers. Kenny Werner, also a pianist, soon become friends with him, and starting picking up the method that he was studying.

The classical player was practicing two things. First, whenever he started to resume the cycle of self-torment that had led to his breakdown, he repeated “I must be kind to myself” over and over again. Second, the only thing he was practicing was a five-finger exercise – playing from thumb to finger on one hand and back again, concentrating on releasing each finger onto the key absolutely effortlessly. He started with five minutes of practice a day, stopping as soon as he was unable to play without thinking. Gradually he had built his practice time back up to about eight hours a day, except this time it wasn't driving him crazy. In fact, it took no effort at all – he felt as fresh at the end of eight hours of playing as he did at the beginning.

Mr. Werner took this method and applied it to his own playing. He rebuilt his entire practice routine around only playing what he could play with a still, empty mind, and it worked for him. This is of course what he recommends in his book, and this is what has me confused.

All of my teachers up to this point have emphasized a pretty similar method. Step one: learn something (scale, transcription, etude). Step two: apply. Step three: be great. The amount of material you learn has a direct relationship with how good of a musician you are, and if you aren't learning at a certain rate you're lazy. Mr. Werner is the first person that I can remember talking about a separation between musical skill and personal self-worth. He also says that the constant drive to scrabble together more knowledge is usually driven by the fear and panic inspired by the vast amount of knowledge that exists to be mastered. No one stays on one project enough to really master it, and so very few actually become master musicians – they just become very practiced mediocre musicians.

Mr. Werner lays out a four step practice plan to help fix these problems. The first (and most important) step consists of first quieting the mind and then picking up the instrument. This usually stirs up the mind, and so after quieting it again the horn is placed to lips. This usually stirs up the mind once again, and so after quieting it for a third time the player takes in a deep breath. After holding it for as long as possible, the breath is released through the horn. The drill is regarded as a success if the student is able to release the breath without trying to control it in any way, and accept the sound the emerges with love, immediately forgetting it and returning to a quiet mind. As soon as the student can no longer do this, they put down the horn and go do something else.

This is so counter-intuitive to everything I've been taught that I don't know what to do with it. On one hand, it makes perfect sense. The next three steps involve expanding this sense of playing mindlessly to improvisation and finally practice. I can see how it would work, but I would have to devote myself entirely to this one system. I am afraid to do this because the practical part of myself (a part that has been cultivated by many respected teachers over the years) scoffs at the ephemeral and mystical nature of Mr. Werner's system. Play five minutes and then put the horn down for the day? That's lazy! I'll never get anywhere if I do that! I'm not a serious musician if I use his method as an excuse not to practice!

This is exactly the fear he talks about – Buddhists call it the fear of loss of life, the fear that I would waste my time here on Earth. I'm afraid that I'm not a good musician (and by extension not a good person) if I am not working hard at my instrument. It would be easier if I could practice as Mr. Werner says, and then practice all of my usual stuff afterward, but I feel as if that would defeat the point. No, it's got to be one or another. We're talking about a significant amount of practice time here, too; probably several months. The book says it usually takes this long to begin laying the new patterns in your mind.

On the other hand, it reminds me of the way the master teaches in “Zen and the Art of Archery.” There is very little, if any, discussion of theory or how to shoot a bow. Instead breathing, meditation, and focus are taught. Once the author is able to let go of the desire to shoot well, he begins shooting well, but he spends several years (years!) shooting poorly week after week. Mastery comes to him, but only once he stops searching for it. This is the path I've been looking for, but now that I've found it I'm not sure that I am brave enough to take it. I have no idea if it will work or not, and it runs so against everything I have been taught before . . . I need to keep thinking about it.

Later

I've been fasting all day today, mainly to see if I could. It has been surprisingly easy – some mild discomfort, but easily ignored. I actually felt the loss of pleasure much more strongly than the loss of sustenance. I feel as if my eyes have been opened as to how much I eat purely for pleasure.

Entry 69 5.20.11

Entry 69, May 20^th, 2011, 12:03am (ship time GMT +2)

Rome!

Management is doing their best to make sure that everyone has a chance to get into Rome while we're here in the Mediterranean. To this end, the orchestra had the day off today. There was also a special crew-only tour of the city for only $20 that filled up extremely quickly. Luckily I was able to snag a spot!

The crew tour was a particularly good deal because the ship does not actually dock in Rome (the city isn't really on the coast). Instead, we dock at Civitevecchia (chiv-ah-ta-Veck-ee-ah, or as the crew has already shortened it: Chivvy), one of the industrial ports that serves the Rome area. From there it is about an hour and half by bus or an hour by train to the city itself.

Most of the bus trip is through rolling countryside, the hills bursting with verdant green shoots in the mild breeze of late May. Hidden in the idyllic landscape we could see pastures with grazing cattle, vineyards, and the odd collection of red tile roofs scattered here and there. Rob, our lead trumpet player and a native of Morrow Bay, California, said it reminded him of home (except with Cypress tress scattered everywhere). To me, it looked like a Van Gogh painting. It is no large wonder to me that Percy Shelley, Humphrey Davies, Coleridge, and Lord Byron all ended up here in Italy at one point or another.

The city strikes out of nowhere. In the space of five minutes the bus goes from rolling green countryside to crowded cobblestone streets. The ancient district strikes with similar rapidity – we were beginning to wonder if the bus was in the right city when out of the asphalt jungle sprang a two thousand year old wall (our guide announced (with practiced nonchalance, I thought) that, “this wall was built in 37”). From there we were mostly walking.

The tour was rather rushed, I feel. We got no more than ten minutes in each location, but I suppose this makes sense as it was designed to allow the crew members who will only manage to get off the boat once in Rome this season a chance to see the whole city at one go. We saw (in no particular order) what's left of the Circus Maximus, what's left of Caesar's palace, what's left of the Colosseum, what's left of the forum, what's left of . . . you get the idea. All of these things were mind boggling, of course, but I have to wonder whether or not they would be more impressive rebuilt to their former glory rather than left as pile of rubble. Of course, there's much to be learned from archaeological digs, but once those have been completed, why not restore the Colosseum to its former glory? It used to be plated in white marble and gold . . . what's left is sort of a skeleton that's been worked on in haphazard fashion over the years before being preserved. I say, fix it up and let's have some concerts!

But these are quibbles. I deviate from my main point, which is namely that I saw more actual history today than I've seen in my entire life up to this point combined. To see, in a single day, everything from the hill where Romulus founded Rome to the balcony where Mussolini used to speak leaves me in a state of sensory overload that will take some time to recover from. I consider today's trip to be a sort of reconnaissance mission, laying the groundwork for future expeditions. I already know that one day will be spent on the Colosseum, another on the old forum and governmental ruins, another on the Vatican and Sistine chapel . . . etc. There are plans to be made!

Entry 68 5.18.11

Entry 68, May 18^th, 2011, 1:44pm (ship time GMT +2)

Wow, I am behind in my travel writing! I didn't write much about Barcelona or Malaga, and I missed Cannes entirely yesterday. Let me catch up a little.

Barcelona is the most metropolitan place that we've been to so far, although I'm sure Rome will surpass it tomorrow. Regardless, it is a thriving, modern city of one and half million people and may be too large for me to explore fully, even though I'll be there every two weeks for the next four months (seven more visits, I think?).

Barcelona is the city that Chicago could be, given another two thousand years of continued urban development. It was originally a cluster of Phoenician (Minoan? I get them confused, my brother would know) settlements (the coastline was radically different at this point, as a pair of rivers have been depositing silt in the area) before being colonized by Rome as “Barcino,” a walled city along the Augustus road. It was known for luxury fish foods (one of the preserved ruins is a fish salting and gamum (fish sauce) workshop), grains, grapes, and olives. During the Moorish occupation of the Iberian penninsula, Barcelona existed at the crossroads of Moorish and Christian cultures (I think . . . this depends on if I read the Spanish museum displays correctly). It also was one of the centers of the industrial revolution in Spain.

The cruise ship terminal is very large, and was hosting three other ships in addition to our own. The terminal actually exists on an artificial breakwater in the harbor and is connected by a drawbridge to the city itself, allowing transit of both heavy freight trucks and the cruise ships themselves. The shuttle bus from the pier dropped me off at a huge traffic rotary near the Barcelona world trade center, where a fifth, extremely strange cruise ship was docked. It was about the same length as the Grandeur, but with perhaps half as many decks. From the decks protruded four huge masts, with triangular sails furled into rollers on each of them! A cruise ship with sails, what silliness. It had a stack, too, I might add – there's no way such a small sail area could move a ship of that tonnage at anything like an economical speed.

From this rotary it was just a short walk to the huge Columbus Monument. This is a huge pillar with a statue of someone who I can only assume is Christopher Columbus on top of it, surrounded by angels and Poseidon and all manner of fawning deities. Columbus, by the way, is written and pronounced “Colón” in Spanish, meaning that Colón, Panama is really Columbus, Panama (another way in which that wretched city is like Ohio . . . it figures, really). If you're not really into the whole Christopher Columbus hero worship thing, it may be a bit of a let down, but the monument is impressive for its size nonetheless.

From the monument I headed down La Ramba, a wide avenue with a tree-lined plaza down the center that leads into the heart of the city. It is known for being the “Most Interesting Street in the World,” as well as a slightly notorious haven for pickpockets, racketeers, and assorted miscreants. Fortunately for me I saw plenty of the former and very little of the latter. Human statues, chocolate stores, flower shops, guys selling little squeakers that you can hide in your mouth, cafes, restaurants, a woman selling fish and birds (in tanks and cages, respectively) . . . all of this was just on the plaza itself, the stores along either side only added to the mass of noise and activity.

I visited Barcelona's cathedral as well. This building, although larger and more sophisticated, did not strike me in the way that Palma's cathedral did. Perhaps this is because I was not there on a day of worship . . . however, I suspect that this is also because the cathedral in Barcelona feels more like a museum than a place of worship.

That's not to say that it wasn't stunning, because it was. Even though part of it was under construction, the cathedral itself is an architectural and engineering masterpiece so incomprehensibly old that I can't even wrap my mind around it (the Count of Barcelona and his wife are interned in boxes on the wall . . . they died in the 1000's!). The thing is, it doesn't shimmer like the building in Palma. It doesn't feel alive.

Although even in this state the cathedral still has a very powerful suggestive influence. I sat for a while, just thinking and watching the people pass by. When sitting in such a building the question is not “Is there a God?” but rather, “How can there not be a God?” The building feels like physical proof of the divine. Intellectually I know that it proves nothing except for the incredible devotion of people long dead, but emotionally it registers as truth. I was always skeptical of the power of architecture to actually influence human behavior . . . until now.

Also, there's a saint buried beneath the altar. Like, a person thought to be so in tune with the holy spirit that they could violate the laws of physics (or perform miracles; however you want to say it is okay with me, really). Whoa. Can you imagine meeting a saint today?

In fact, why don't we meet saints more often these days? The population of the world has increased massively since the time of Christ. Shouldn't that mean that saints appear more often, assuming that humanity keeps popping them out at the same rate per number of normal souls? Perhaps it's like Dostoyevsky says, and they're all locked up in insane asylums. I suppose we can blame science for this. As many good things as science has done for humanity, I am kind of sad that it has taken away the concept of super powers. We may still not know what we are, but we know what we're not, and we're not special.

Also, this means that I personally have no chance of becoming a superhero through sainthood. This was pretty unlikely anyway (let's be real here), but it is still kind of a letdown.

But I'm wwaaaaayyyyy off topic here; I'm supposed to be writing about my travels. The images of the saints and other various figures around the cathedral were fascinating to me – I wish I was able to recognize more them. Stories are everywhere (told mainly in pictures on the wall and in alcoves), and they are the stories of people trying to “figure it all out.” Sometimes they succeed, and sometimes they don't. I like to think that the questions they were trying to answer and the questions I am trying to answer are not that different from one another.

Today I'm in La Spezia (Italian soil! Woo!), our port of choice for reaching Florence and Pisa. We had a rehearsal this morning, so I didn't have time to make that happen (plus, I'm saving my pennies for Rome tomorrow!) but I did get off the ship to wander around town. Italy is green, lush, and mountainous. The city feels snug and quiet, with lots of winding roads and paths up the hills, mixed in with old stone walls and creeping greenery filling the nooks and crannies everywhere! It is the very end of spring here, and so the entire city smells of lilac and lavender. It reminds me of the gardens at MSU on the last day of spring finals . . . quite pleasant, indeed – I will try to get some good pictures.

Entry 67 5.16.11

Entry 67, May 16^th, 2011, 11:38am (ship time GMT +2)

People occasionally say things like “that's a beautiful song,” or “what a beautiful dress.” While the message is perfectly clear, I wish we had a more accurate way to say it because technically nothing is intrinsically beautiful on its own. It can't be.

Consider the following: what is considered beautiful and what isn't changes as time passes. Each new generation's music (or art, writing, etc.) is criticized by the previous generation for being “senseless noise” before becoming the new standard. It then proceeds to go in and out of vogue before ultimately being forgotten. Nothing in the physical makeup of the art has changed (Romeo and Juliet is still the same collection of words it was a hundred years ago, and the Mona Lisa looks exactly the same).

Beauty even varies across the same slice of time, depending on the audience. If two people view the same painting at the same second, they see different things. No, when someone says that something is beautiful, this only tells you something about the person talking, not anything about the object in question.