I was sipping my cup of cacao this morning, mulling over an oracle casting that landed on "The Arousing" and "Revolution." Shock brings success. Revolution, on your own day, brings belief. Those words stuck with me, like a quiet nudge from the universe to pay attention to the jolts and upheavals in my own life. And as I reflected, my mind wandered to moments—some distant, some recent—where I’ve felt that shock, that inner revolution, especially around something as human as pleasure and aversion.
Years back, before and after my Antarctica trip, I found myself in Buenos Aires, Argentina. Walking the streets there, I couldn’t help but notice the raw passion woven into daily life. Couples embraced openly, kissing without a hint of hesitation. At first, I’d flinch—look away, keep walking, almost embarrassed for them. But after a while, I thought, why not just appreciate it? If they’re so unapologetic in their joy, maybe I can learn to enjoy the sight of it too. It was a small revolution in how I saw things, letting go of that initial discomfort.
Then there was another observation from my time in South America, and later among nomad and hippie circles. Women often went without bras, their thin clothing leaving little to the imagination. I’d catch myself—part of me feeling that dopamine rush, part of me flinching again, labeling it “inappropriate,” and looking away. It was this weird internal tug-of-war. Pleasure on one side, aversion on the other. I didn’t know what to do with it back then.
Fast forward to my Zen training and sitting meditation practice. I remember reading something years ago—Zen teachings often say adversity is easier to practice in than pleasure. Pleasure, they described, can be like a thousand needles trying to pierce through the equanimity you’re cultivating. And man, isn’t that true? I’ve noticed how my mind gets hijacked—Pavlov’s dog style—when something pleasurable comes up. I’d instinctively develop an aversion to it, almost as a defense mechanism, doubling down on my prajna practice to stay detached. But as I’ve shifted into metta (loving-kindness) practice, this aversion to pleasure has become glaringly obvious to my conscious mind.
One memory stands out. It was my last evening before leaving the desert, at the Bombay Beach Club by the Salton Sea. A rave party was in full swing, and on the dance floor, there was this woman—striking, moving to the rhythm with such grace. The way she swayed her hips, the way her arms wove above her head, it was both entrancing and arousing. I felt it—the desire rising, the pleasure coursing from my head down my spine, tensing every muscle. The impulse to step closer, to embrace her, hit me hard. But I checked myself. Her back was to me, no invitation given. It would’ve been out of line. So, I flinched again, averted my eyes, and lost myself in the music for the rest of the night.
Later, as I grabbed some fruit to refresh, she approached me. Started a conversation, mentioned her bus was nearby, then left. I nodded, acknowledged her, and let her go. No clinging, no chasing. Just… letting it be.
Now, here I am visiting my folks in Singapore after four years away. I had a call with Fatima, one of the project supporters for our cacao initiative. She was thrilled 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 familiar flinch, that aversion to even acknowledging a baseline of pleasure. But this time, I pushed past it. Dug a little deeper. And yeah, there it was—a mild undercurrent of joy, subtle but present. I’m starting to see how much work there is to do in just sitting with pleasure, experiencing it without clinging or pushing it away.
Reflections on the Journey
Key observation: This aversion script—it’s deep. It’s not just about romantic or physical pleasure. It’s in the small stuff too, like being back home. I’ve trained myself to flinch from joy as much as from pain, all in the name of non-attachment. But metta practice is showing me a different way. It’s not about avoiding the sensation; it’s about feeling it fully, in the body, as it is. Neither grasping nor rejecting. Like a blade of grass—rooted to the ground, yet soft, swaying with the wind as it passes.
Another thing I’ve noticed recently—since leaving the desert and driving to LA, there were moments where tears just welled up out of nowhere. Sadness, then relief, washing over me. Even on the plane ride here, it happened a couple of times. I think there’s some old narrative, some melodramatic lens I’ve been seeing the world through, finally surfacing to be processed. It’s like my nervous system is slowly clearing out the clutter.
What’s Next in This Practice?
This new phase of metta practice feels like a lot of work. In the earlier phase, it was about seeing everything as transient—watching thoughts and feelings arise and pass with the mind’s eye. Now, it’s about embodying it, feeling the sensations fully in the body, then letting them go. No clinging, no aversion. Just presence. And honestly, it’s harder than it sounds when pleasure is involved. Pain, I can sit with. But joy? That’s the real test.
I’m curious—how do you handle those shocks, those little revolutions in your own life? Do you flinch from pleasure like I do, or do you dive right in? And what about the deeper narratives—those hidden scripts that color how you see the world—are you starting to notice them too?
- Personal Growth
- Mindfulness
- Travel Reflections