I was sipping my cup of cacao this morning, letting today’s oracle casting sink in—51, The Arousing, with "Shock brings success," and 49, Revolution, declaring "On your own day, you are believed." Those words rattled me a bit, like a quiet wake-up call. They’ve got me thinking about the shocks I’ve felt over the years—those jarring moments that destabilized me—and the slow revolutions in how I’m learning to relate to the world, especially when it comes to pleasure, attachment, and human connection.
Let’s rewind a bit. Years ago, around the time of my Antarctica trip, I spent time in Buenos Aires, Argentina. Walking the streets, I couldn’t help but notice the unbridled passion in the air. Couples would embrace and kiss openly, right there on the sidewalk. My gut reaction? Flinch. Look away. Keep moving. It felt almost too raw to witness. But after a while, I figured—if they’re so unapologetic about their joy, why not let myself appreciate it too? It was a small but significant shift in perspective.
Then there was another thing I noticed, both 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 feel this internal clash—a rush of dopamine on one side, and on the other, that familiar flinch, labeling it “inappropriate” and averting my eyes. It was a constant dance between pleasure and aversion, and I wasn’t sure how to just… be with it.
Roots of Aversion: Early Shocks and Missing Models
Digging deeper, I’ve been reflecting on where this aversion might come from. I think it traces back to my formative years—those adolescent moments where I started noticing a disconnect between what people say and what they do. Early in my dating life, I’d encounter prospective partners who’d show consistent attention at first. I’d let myself get drawn in, only for them to suddenly ghost. It happened enough times to shock my system, leaving me with this sense that attachment—or even the pleasure of connection—was something to avoid, something to calibrate out of existence if I could.
And when I really sit with it, I wonder if it goes even further back. Until I was about six, I didn’t spend much physical time with my parents. They were working incredibly hard, sometimes sleeping just four hours a day. In hindsight, I don’t think I was shown a model of what healthy attachment or relating between adults looks like. It’s only recently that I’ve started paying close attention to the nuts and bolts of how others connect, trying to piece together what I missed.
Zen Lessons and the Challenge of Pleasure
This ties into the Zen training and sitting meditation I’ve been practicing for years. I remember reading something early on—adversity is easier to practice in than pleasure. Pleasure, it said, can feel like a thousand needles piercing the equanimity you’re trying to cultivate. And man, isn’t that spot on? My mind gets hijacked—like a Pavlovian dog—whenever something pleasurable arises. I’ve built this deep aversion to it, focusing hard on my prajna practice to stay detached. But as I’ve shifted into metta (loving-kindness) practice, this aversion has become painfully obvious.
One moment stands out. 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—captivating, moving with the rhythm in a way that was both entrancing and arousing. I felt the desire rise, pleasure coursing from my head down my spine, tensing every muscle. The impulse to approach, to embrace her, hit hard. But I checked myself—her back was to me, no invitation given. It would’ve been out of line. So I flinched, looked away, and lost myself in the music for the rest of the night. Later, as I grabbed some fruit, she came up, started a conversation, mentioned her bus was nearby, then left. I nodded and let her go. No clinging, no chasing.
Learning from Others: Connection and Disruption
Here’s another piece of the puzzle—looking back on my drifting these past few years, I’ve realized most meaningful connections happened because others took the initiative. Take Kris, for instance. Had she not closed the physical distance with an extended embrace, I wouldn’t have taken that step myself. That led to a deeply vulnerable, intimate experience on my final morning with her in the desert. I’ve often played the passive passerby, while others actively reached out. It’s a shock to see how much I’ve held back.
Then there’s this powerful moment from years ago at my business partner’s place. I’ve always had a turbulent relationship with distractions—feeling tension in my nervous system whenever I’m interrupted. But I watched the husband of my business partner that day. He was deep in computer work, yet every time he was disrupted, he’d calmly set aside what he was doing, answer the question, then return to his task. It blew my mind. It showed me there’s a different way to relate to disruptions—not as threats, but as part of the flow.
Reflections on the Now
Fast forward to today, visiting my folks in Singapore after four years away. I had a call with Fatima, a supporter of our cacao project. 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—and felt… nothing. Or rather, that old aversion script kicked in, flinching from pleasure to avoid attachment. But this time, I dug deeper. And yeah, there it was—a subtle undercurrent of joy. I’m starting to see there’s work to do in 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 old narrative, some melodramatic lens I’ve been seeing reality through, that’s finally surfacing to be processed. My nervous system feels like it’s slowly clearing out the clutter.
A New Phase of Practice
Key observation: This new phase of metta practice is hard. 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 in the body, then letting them go without clinging or aversion. It’s like being a blade of grass—rooted, yet soft, swaying with the wind as it passes. Pleasure, pain, connection, disruption—it’s all just sensation to experience, not to fight or flee from.
I’m curious—how do you handle the shocks and revolutions in your own life? Do you find yourself flinching from connection or pleasure like I do, or do you lean in? And what about those early experiences—how have they shaped the way you relate to the world today?
- Personal Growth
- Mindfulness
- Relationships