Perspective

The legs of the crane
have become short
in the summer rain. - Buson in the Zen Calendar (August 26, 2009).

Day 292. Full moon. I don't know about the rest of you, but I am definitely influenced by the lunar calendar. It makes me moody. I want to howl and hunt things. Interpret as you will.

My son walked into his room, turned on the dinosaur, clicked the browser icon twice, and -- Voila! Cyberspace flooded into our home like a spotlight on Cher. Nothing like a house call. I can only say I hope the co-eds (such an outdated term, but I really wanted to use it) at his university do not comply with his bidding quite so earnestly. The kid already oozes confidence . . . .

. . . . and recently heard of the high probability that his football team (yeah, the one he is not presently playing with) will be in a bowl game in Hawaii. That's right. Hawaii. That shimmering, white sanded, emerald vacation destination plopped down in the middle of the Pacific ocean. I am pretty sure this Number One Fan would have found a way to view that particular game live. Alas, the trip is not to be. We tried to console ourselves with the rousing likelihood that he will make straight A's this semester. Whoopee. Mutually agreed that we'd trade the trip for a couple of B's in a heartbeat. Doubted that bowl games for academics loom on the horizon.

The football talk made me recall a paradigm shift caused by my son during his senior year of high school. As on all Fridays during football season, we processed his game into the wee hours. I had commented on a couple of passing plays, wondering why the QB didn't pass to a couple of receivers who appeared to be wide open. My son pointed out the obvious: My perspective from high up in the bleachers afforded me a panoramic advantage that was not available to the quarterback, who was on a flat playing surface with large and tall defenders rushing at him waving their arms. The quarterback couldn't see the players on the field as they appeared to us in the stands. OMG. How had it never occurred to me that the visual perspective of the players on the field was entirely different from mine as I sat in my lofty and unimpeded bleacher seat? Duh.

I know (hope?) I am not the first fan to grasp this reality so late in my sports spectating career. We have become more enlightened because of the technological advances in how sports are depicted on television. I realize ESPN occasionally affords us those brief shots of the football field filmed with cameras showing what the players see. Still, this particular paradigm shift makes for a good metaphor.

I began to think about all the opinions and conclusions I hold regarding matters I know precious little about -- at least from the perspective of the people, places, and things upon which I have formulated my opinions. Like faulting a quarterback for failing to see the receiver that is perfectly apparent to me from Row W in the nosebleed seats. Like making assumptions about the exchanges between my son and the receivers he guarded while playing corner. From Row W, it looked like all manner of shoving and pushing and taunting and aggressively mixing it up (this was before and after the actual plays). I was certain they were hurling insults, obscenities and abusive threats at one another. Sometimes they were. A lot of times they weren't. As my son and I shared more frequent conversations about the intimate details of what actually occurs on the field during a high school football game, I learned that my version of what was transpiring out there couldn't be more wrong.

Here are some things he taught me: The players are generally not nearly as emotionally volatile as the fans. By the next play, they have usually forgotten things the fans and coaches are going to ruminate about for days. Within their own team and across the line of scrimmage, they talk to each other and at each other nonstop. They joke. They laugh. They cuss and mock and mess with each others' heads. Those receivers with whom I think he is involved in some high stakes, competitive, testosterone-infused mini war are sometimes complimenting him on his speed or how well he covered them. Sometimes they are telling one another how much they hate football. Sometimes they are exchanging information on other players. Sometimes they are planning what they're going to do after the game.

My point is that the intricacies of the game that is actually being played on the field are generally lost to the average fan. The experience of the players and the experience of the watchers co-exist in galaxies far, far away from each other. In the world of sports, this is probably no big deal. Spectators have misinterpreted themselves as experts on whatever they are viewing since chariots first raced in the coliseum. I suspect, however, that outside the realm of sport there are inherent dangers in mistaking our perspective as the truth about what we think we see. Most of the time, there is a lot taking place that cannot be seen from Row W.

I am again using far too many words to express what Kabir said beautifully and simply: "If you have not lived through something, it is not true." (Zen Calendar, August 7, 2002). I am concerned about the certainty with which some people insist that their "truth" is the Truest Truth and the Only Truth. Interestingly, a lot of them seem to be spectators rather than actual players on the field. For myself, I am going to try and remember that the view from Row W is only one perspective. No doubt an incomplete one. I will also remind myself that the view from my cushion is probably the clearest one of all.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc