Quality

In the book “Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance”, philosopher Robert Persig defines quality.  I couldn't possibly reiterate the definition, which is what made the book so wonderful.  Perhaps my favorite description was “the moment you realize the perfect chess move”.  It's when everything just comes together, and you know it's right.  The book's point is that quality is about how we care, the effort we put in, it's what is meaningful, it's what's beautiful, and it's what's good.  Using the analogy of a motorcycle, being at one with the machine, as one with the hum of its engine, everything is just so.  A zen garden can be explained the same way, of course; a garden is a living thing.  People are living things, we have engines that hum, our communities have a hum.  Personally I haven't heard any hum in a while, but I have faith in humanity.  Being at one with our environment, internal and external, is what matters.  Another great book: “The Yamas & Niyamas'” by Deborah Adele, delves deeper into internal and external harmony.  But Pirsig made an interesting point: nobody cares about your bike except you.  Quality is when your heart is in something.  

I propose that we should care about each other's harmony.  I wish to augment Persig's point, to suggest that while the mechanic you've never met before almost definitely does not care about you, your family and friends do.  That's the best and most important kind of maintenance you can do - to nourish each other.  Maintenance in the home, the garden, maintenance in the tummy, nourishing camaraderie, making each other feel safe and accepted.  

And with that, our lives will overflow with comfort in stillness.  

Pride is a special thing, we should have pride in our families and our homes and whatever other beautiful thing we create.  But pride and dignity are all but lost in the world.  It's that feeling when you finish mowing the lawn and the birds are chirping, and you know all the yard maintenance is done.  It's the feeling when you've just cleaned the kitchen, and the sun suddenly shines off the counter.  It's when you're sitting on the porch in the lull of dusk, watching the kids safely playing outside.  It means that all that work you put in meant something, and now you can enjoy the order and peace of what you have accomplished.

Our life is our own, we can't just pay to make our problems go away, or to live in a paradise. That's why governments don't work.  The quality of health care, transportation, childcare, education, social security, international relations, fiscal responsibility, it's all garbage, and we can do it better ourselves because we care, and we take pride in it.  Our children, our grandparents, our garden, our safety, it's all our responsibility - we can't buy any of it, and we can't expect anyone to do it for us.

I'm a city boy, but I'm starting to realize that small towns and farmers probably already feel this way and are already operating like this to some degree, so it's no wonder that majority votes are going to parties that burn cities down.  Take the 10,000-foot view, and see that we all have the same problem.