being > doing

I could tell things were different Down Under as soon as I emerged from the Brisbane airport arrivals door. I stopped in the middle of the hustle and bustle, overcome by the sheer wonderment that I had made it around the planet in a flying metal contraption. A kind woman wearing an airport volunteer badge noticed me looking around bewilderedly in my post-14-hour-flight haze. 

“Can I help you?” Lori asked with a kind, open smile. This opened a spigot in my mind and a jumble of questions poured out, ranging from cell phone SIM cards to ATMs to public transit to walking safety in various city neighborhoods. She answered them all with patience. She genuinely seemed happy to take as much time as I needed. This put me at great ease, and I settled into my naturally curious chit-chatty self. We even talked about birds in Dunedin, New Zealand, where she is originally from, and where we will be going next month to indulge in my kid’s obsession with penguins. 

Next came my Uber driver, Mr. B, a friendly older man from Punjab, India. He jumped out to open the car door for me and profusely thanked me for waving at him so he knew who I was. He proclaimed with a big warm smile: “I was so lost, and if you hadn’t waved, I would have missed you! I’m so happy to have such a nice customer for my first time picking up at the airport!” With another driver, that statement may have made me anxious about getting to my destination safely, but there was something very calming and fun about his openness and trust. 

After sharing a bit about ourselves, he said, “Let us navigate together to the city. You can look at Google maps, and I’ll use Uber.” So there we were, the first-timer tourist and Sikh grandfather working together to slowly get through the confusing tangle of curvy one-way streets in Brisbane. When we arrived at my apartment rental, we were both so elated we got there. 

What was so remarkable about these two interactions was how present Lori (airport volunteer) and Mr. B (Uber driver) were. Their attention was completely on me and what we were doing together. They were not hurried or distracted; they just wanted to do a good job of helping me in that moment. They were being with me.  It sounds so simple and basic, but I encounter these types of interactions so rarely these days, especially with strangers. I notice when it happens because it feels so different… and special. 

When I travel for fun, it’s a lot easier for me to be present for what’s in front of me. I’m not preoccupied with my seemingly bottomless pit of responsibilities and tasks like I am at home. Early on in my travels, I’d squeeze in a long list of things to do each day, but this was stressful and exhausting. Not fun. So now I try to keep my days open and flexible. I know it is a great privilege to travel like this. I’m still very susceptible to FOMO (fear of missing out), pushing me to make the most of my trip by filling it with activities, so I’ve got to be vigilant and proactive to not do so much.  

When I give myself permission to just be, magic happens. 

These are the moments when I encounter the most unexpected delights. Pausing and being present allowed me to connect with Lori and Mr. B and made my arrival in Oceania so much more meaningful and rich. I didn’t do this on my long flight with the woman who sat in my row. I was distracted by my aches and anxieties and devices. I regretted this at the end of the flight when we finally chatted a bit, and I learned she was born and still lives just south of Brisbane. I’m sure she would have interesting stories to share if I had just given her my time and attention earlier on. So, I am learning to not flog myself about it and use my regret as a reminder to just be open and curious.  

While in Brisbane, I wandered around on my own without an agenda aside from a vague idea of visiting one site each day (a museum, a park, a market). This was great because I spent a lot of time exploring the awesome art by Aboriginal creatives (wow, Judy Watson! I am inspired by her art and activism), and took long, leisurely walks through the many parks. Brisbane is a beautiful, green, riverside city. I’d sit in a park field, under a tree, on a bench next to the river, and all sorts of fun, magical things happened:

Like this nosy miner (I mean, noisy miner) who landed right next to me on a bench and hopped around, checking me out for a long while: 

And this Australian white ibis who sauntered up to me and poked around: 

And OMG, MEGAbats! I was sitting in a field in the northern end of the City Botanic Garden, and saw humongous bats soaring overhead. I had to rub my eyes several times because I could hardly believe how big they were. After staring slack jawed for a while and wondering why the other people around were not fazed at all by them, I looked them up. Sure enough, Brisbane is home to native flying-foxes, among the largest bats and flying mammals in the world, with adult wingspans of about 3 feet. What?!! Yeah, so cool. I was jazzed to be in the presence of this huge megabat colony in the middle of the city. (A few days later, a gray-headed flying fox flew right in front of me while in Noosa climbing up a hill at night back to my apartment. I probably startled it out of the tree it was in, and boy, did it freak me out, it was so huge! My apologies to the neighbors for screaming like a banshee.)

And finally, while sitting in the Queensland Art Gallery courtyard, I was enchanted by a flock of rainbow lorikeets making a big gorgeous colorful ruckus in the trees overhead. They move too quickly and blend too well with the foliage (despite their bright colors) that I haven’t gotten a good photo. So I drew and painted one instead: 

You might have noticed that many of my magical moments involve birds. This is because I’m learning about the amazing avian world and the art of bird watching from my kid. More on this later. 

 **

A decade ago, I started learning this equation: being > having, after several years of making a “good” living. That is, making enough money to pay off debts, save for retirement, buy nice things, eat out and travel. At some point in my late 30s, I looked at my closet full of clothes I didn’t wear and piles of cute stuff and art supplies I didn’t use. I felt sad and overwhelmed by my lack of time and energy to enjoy the things I worked so hard to get. 

It was a strange situation to be in. My parents owned very little into their adulthoods, and I didn’t have much in my early childhood. We had our physical and intellectual skills, our intense work ethic, and relationships. That was our capital and what got us places… and eventually, stuff. Within one generation, we had “made it” and accumulated so much stuff. But eventually I realized that all I knew was to work hard and be busy, not how to enjoy life. That insight led me to read about financial independence and the importance of clarity around what is “enough” for me. Having intentions about why and how I earn, spend and save has been a crucial step in enjoying life over accumulating stuff: being > having. (That journey is for a future post.) Now, I am learning the next life equation: being > doing. 

I must admit that it’s incredibly hard for me to just be and not do (and not do a lot). There’s a strident voice inside of me that says, “If you’re not productive, you’re worthless. So get up and do something useful.” It is a voice I inherited from my ancestors, and for good reason: our ability to be useful and productive and our work ethic are what allowed us to survive poverty, several wars and numerous migrations. This survival strategy still serves me well, and without it, I probably would not exist. Now that I don’t have to spend so much time on basic survival (for which I am deeply grateful), I want to learn new skills in how to relax in a healthy way – that is, not with rabbit-hole internet and device distractions and not with buying more stuff.  

I’ve had some clues on how to do this, also from my ancestors: 

Before my beloved uncle suddenly passed away this spring, he told me that his happiest memory was sitting under the longyan tree in his home village with his grandpa, occasionally joking and chatting and eating longyan but mostly quietly watching the world pass by together. 

The last conversation I had with my dear father was in my 20s, before he suddenly passed away. He turned to me as he dropped me off at the airport and said with the concerned-dad wrinkled brow, “I’m worried you will keep jumping from one thing to another and not be happy.” I tried to reassure him with the naive earnestness of a young idealist: “I’ll find a meaningful career and be happy. Don’t worry, Dad.” I gave him a big hug and didn’t see him alive again. His words stuck with me. Am I jumping around too much? Am I happy? Did my father die worried about me? Nowadays, when I visit his grave and burn incense to connect with his spirit, I hear his voice telling me, “Don’t worry about me, I’m fine. Just take good care of yourself.” 

My longyan-tree-sitting uncle is my father’s middle brother, and they were very close. My uncle became something of a second father to me after my father died, even though he lived in China, particularly when I spent two years working intermittently in his adopted city of Hangzhou. During the pandemic we had regular video chats. He frequently advised me to not work so much and relax and have more fun, even though he didn’t get to do this before his health started failing. I think he wanted me to learn this before it is too late for me, while my body and senses and mind and spirit can still fully enjoy the wonders of the world.      

These conversations were and are opportunities for me to enjoy being > doing. 

My spiritual teacher, Zen Master Thích Nhất Hạnh, instituted “lazy days” at his monasteries, to encourage everyone to just be.  

The Art of Laziness: Don’t Just Do Something, Sit There! (Episode #41)

“In quietness we can recognize new things.”

This is when we experience magic moments, unexpected delights, the everyday wonders of the world.