I was sitting with my cup of cacao this morning, reflecting on today’s oracle casting—51, The Arousing, with the judgment "Shock brings success," and 49, Revolution, stating "On your own day, you are believed." Those words hit me like a quiet thunderclap, stirring up memories and observations from my past and present. It’s like the universe is pointing me toward the shocks and revolutions in my own life—those moments of discomfort and transformation that force me to look at myself in a new way.
Let me take you back a bit. Years ago, before and after my Antarctica trip, I spent time in Buenos Aires, Argentina. Walking down the streets there, I was struck by how openly passionate people were. Couples would embrace and kiss in public without a second thought. My first instinct? Flinch. Look away. Keep moving. It felt almost intrusive to witness. But after a while, I thought—why not just appreciate it? If they’re so unashamed of their joy, maybe I can learn to enjoy watching it unfold. It was a small shift, but a revolutionary one for me.
Then there was another pattern I noticed, both in South America and later among nomad and hippie communities. Women often went without bras, wearing thin clothing that left little to the imagination. I’d feel this mix of reactions—a dopamine rush on one hand, and on the other, that familiar flinch. I’d label it “inappropriate” in my head and avert my eyes. It was this constant push-pull between pleasure and aversion, and I didn’t quite know how to sit with it.
The Zen of Pleasure and Pain
This brings me to the Zen training and sitting meditation I’ve been diving into over the years. I remember reading something early on—adversity is easier to practice in than pleasure. Pleasure, the text said, can feel like a thousand needles trying to pierce the equanimity you’re cultivating. And isn’t that the truth? My mind gets hijacked—like a Pavlovian dog—whenever something pleasurable comes up. I’ve unintentionally built this deep aversion to pleasure, focusing hard on my prajna practice to stay detached. But as I’ve moved into metta (loving-kindness) practice, this aversion has become impossible to ignore.
One vivid memory comes to mind. It was my final evening in the desert, at the Bombay Beach Club by the Salton Sea, during a rave party. There was this woman on the dance floor—mesmerizing, moving to the beat with such fluidity. The way her hips swayed, the way her arms danced above her head—it was both entrancing and arousing. I felt the desire surge in me, pleasure coursing from my head down my spine, tensing everything in its path. The impulse to approach, to embrace her, was strong. But I checked myself—her back was to me, no invitation given. It would’ve been out of place. So, I flinched again, looked away, and threw myself into the music for the rest of the night.
Later, as I grabbed some fruit to cool off, she came up to me. Started a conversation, mentioned her bus was nearby, then left. I nodded, acknowledged her, and let it be. No clinging, no chasing. Just presence.
The Power of Others Reaching Out
Here’s another reflection—thinking back to my time drifting these past few years, I’ve realized something about my interactions. Most of the meaningful connections I’ve made, like a recent exchange with Kris, happened because others took the initiative. Had Kris not closed the physical distance with an extended embrace, I wouldn’t have taken that step myself. That moment led to a deeply vulnerable and intimate experience on my final morning with her in the desert. Looking back, I see how often I’ve played the passive passerby, while others actively reached out to connect. It’s a shock to realize how much I’ve held back, waiting for the world to come to me.
Sitting with Joy, Letting Go of Scripts
Fast forward to now, visiting my folks in Singapore after four years away. I had a call with Fatima, a supporter of our cacao project. She was so happy for me, asking how it felt to be back in my old bedroom. “You must be happy,” she said. I paused to check in with myself—and felt… nothing. Or rather, that old aversion script kicked in, flinching away from any hint of pleasure to avoid attachment. But this time, I pushed past it. Dug deeper. And yeah, there it was—a subtle baseline of joy. Mild, but real. I’m starting to see there’s work to do in just sitting with pleasure, feeling it fully without grasping or pushing it away.
On a side note, since leaving the desert and driving to LA, there’ve been moments where tears just welled up out of nowhere. Sadness, then relief, washing over me. Even on the plane ride here, it happened a few times. I think there’s some lingering narrative—some melodramatic filter I’ve been seeing reality through—that’s finally surfacing to be processed. It’s like my nervous system is slowly releasing what’s been pent up.
Reflections for the Day
Key observation: This new phase of metta practice is tough. Before, it was about seeing everything as transient—watching thoughts and sensations arise and pass with the mind’s eye. Now, it’s about embodying it, feeling those sensations fully in the body, then letting them go without clinging or aversion. It’s like being a blade of grass—rooted firmly, yet soft, swaying with the wind as it blows by. Pleasure, pain, joy, sadness—it’s all just sensation to experience, not to fight or flee from.
I’m curious—how do you handle those shocks and revolutions in your own life? Do you find yourself flinching from pleasure or vulnerability like I do, or do you lean in? And what about those hidden scripts—those old narratives shaping how you see the world—are they starting to surface for you too?
- Personal Growth
- Mindfulness
- Travel Reflections