Thursday, June 24, 2010

Beginner's Mind

"Bangladesh was in terrible, terrible shape. A lot of deaths. A lot of killings. During the war I was teaching at a university in Tennessee. But I decided I had to come back; I thought I should be useful in rebuilding Bangladesh. I came back and started doing the one thing I knew. I started teaching the same thing I had taught in the United States: economics.

"Instead of getting better, things were getting worse. Then a in 1974 a terrible famine hit. People were dying in the streets. That's a rude shock. I lived in a beautiful bungalow on a hillside near the university and would walk by people who were dying. Then I'd come back to the classroom and give my big lecture, and I said: 'What is this?' I felt completely empty.

"I came to the conclusion that these theories were useless for these dying people. I realized I could help people as a human being, not as an economist. So I decided to become a basic human being. I think that was a good decision for me because I no longer carried any preconceived notions." 

--Muhammad Yunus, in a conversation with Frances Moore



"Yunus's experience of dissonance reminds me of my own at the very same age. Everything I wrote in Diet for a Small Planet was sitting there for any nutritionist or economist to put together well before I did. But because I was untrained, I didn't wear the blinders created by being taught to perceive only within a set framework. Without those blinders, I could see that there is plenty of food for all; that we ourselves create the scarcity we fear.

"For Yunus, as for me, an admission of 'not knowing' was the beginning of real learning. But what Yunus did was much trickier. He had to unlearn what he knew, so that he could look at poverty anew.

"Dropping his preconceptions and leaving his theories in the classroom, Yunus traveled into the villages near Chittagong University. He decided that to understand poverty and hunger, he had to listen to poor people themselves, in order to learn a new economics.

"What Yunus observed in these villages seems, in one sense, utterly obvious. These most hungry were those with no land. At the time, they made up at least half of the rural population. But instead of accepting whta he saw, Yunus asked: Why is it this way? Why can't it be different?

"He found that many of the landless struggle for income by making things to sell. But they must buy the raw materials, and to do that, they must borrow from a moneylender. By the time they repay the loan, plus interest (when Yunus began, interest could be as much as 10 percent, per day), what's left is never enough to live on.

"Yunus's first "aha" moment was meeting Sufiya Begum, a twenty-one-year-old mother who fed her family by making bamboo stools. She bought the cane, her raw material, with loans from moneylenders who made her sell back to them at the end of the day. Her profit? Two cents a day.

"Soon Yunus and his students had collected a list of forty-two people in straits similar to Sufiya's, and he provided each with a loan out of his own pocket. 'My loan of only twenty-seven dollars spread among forty-two people was enough,' he tells us. It was enough to liberate them all from bondage to the moneylender."

--Frances Moore, Hope's Edge



In the beginner's mind there are many possibilities,
but in the expert's there are few.

-- Shunryo Suzuki-Roshi

Monday, June 21, 2010

Climbing Coração


To me, there were no real distinctions between the volcanoes that Scott and I climbed and attempted to climb, nor between the moments exerted on a snowy peak and those relaxed in the valley.
Instead of calling them separately Pinchincha,
Pasachoa, Illiniza Norte, Quito and Cotopaxi,
I decided to give them one name:
Coração.

 

The climb to me is never about the summit; in fact, I feel that the summit tends to detract from the experience.  Each life form,
rock formation, wind gust and dewdrop along the way has something important to teach. Climbing for me has been a way to connect with the wisdom of my environment.

 

Coração means "heart" in Portuguese, but it also reminds me of a French word that I used to hear very often in one of the refugee camps I worked in two years ago: courage. I feel that the name really embodies my reasons for climbing -- to commit with heart-based courage to creating the best collective experience possible, even if it means abandoning traditional notions of progress.  

 

Cotopaxi's summit remains ever elusive in an otherworldly and unforgiving environment, which can only be accessed relatively safely in the earliest hours of the morning, when the glacier has not yet begun to melt. We notice that each step, however higher, brings us farther away from everything we care about.

Volcanic rock crumbles beneath our feet, we gasp for air between
careful steps, the frozen wind howls about us, the clouds hover thousands of feet below us, and the city lights sparkle in
the distant valley.

There are no signs of plants, animals, or life in general. No view of sparkling ice crystals, crevasses, and snow caves. Only a dark, unfathomly cold impression of a summit looms above us. Each step is a struggle because the end is the only point of fixation. 

Sometimes the means belie our reasons for being somewhere, or doing something. If we only have a goal in mind then we tend to push ourselves anyway to do something that feels wrong yet seems "right" in our minds for what we have set out to achieve.

The ends do not justify the means.
The ends are the means.

The Great Climb does not start at one point and end at another:
It runs through all of the peaks and valleys that we travel.

What do we call the mountain that has no summit?  


Secret Garden


 
  
 

 

 









Cotopaxi, Ecuador
{Magic}