Tag: zen

Flying and Letting Go

January 4th, 2026

I sometimes dream about flying. I guess a lot of people do that. I have heard that it is a common type of dream. It might be a different situation in my case in that there was a time when I actually did fly. I was an U.S. Army aviator back in the day. For five years I flew helicopters, initially Hueys (think of the movie Apocalypse Now) and later Black Hawks (the film Black Hawk Down comes to mind). I was never in combat, but I flew. It was often fun, and occasionally terrifying. I stopped being a pilot back in August of 1986. That was a long time ago, but apparently that role is still part of my life, or at least of my history.

My flying dreams are usually frustrating. I never actually get to fly. I am always preparing for a flight, sometimes on the verge of takeoff, but I never quite get into the air. Apparently, the problem is that the current version of myself is trying to be who I was forty years ago. In my dream I have a long beard, which I do now, but obviously did not have as an Army officer. In the dream I am not in uniform but should be. In the dream, somebody is giving me orders that I have no intention of following. It just never works out. I stay on the ground.

People ask me, “Do you miss flying?” the answer is: “Of course.” However, I know in my mind and my heart that flying is no longer part of life. That part of my story is done. It was wonderful while it lasted, but it’s over now, and I have many other things to do. I have other responsibilities. I am no longer a pilot. I can’t return to that identity. Even in my dreams, I know that I can’t go back.

I had a conversation yesterday, via Zoom, with a woman who is the guiding teacher for the Zen sangha to which I belong. She asked me questions about my life and I babbled on for a while. Then she spoke briefly about detachment and letting go. Zen is all about that. Zen is about being in the moment and not hanging on to things that are either lost in the past or hidden in the future. All there that exists is the present. The past is dead and the future a mystery.

The teacher gave me a subject on which to meditate. I am not very good at letting go of things, especially relationships. It is hard for me to stay in the moment, although our young grandson, Asher, does his best to keep me in the here and now. Caring fulltime for the little guy does not allow me much time to wallow in the past. That is a very good thing. In that respect, Asher is an excellent spiritual guide, and one who loves me, as I love him.

I write about Asher frequently. At this point, my life revolves around the boy. I have a friend, who reads my blog, and he once asked me what I will do when Asher is no longer in my life. The guiding teacher from the Zen sangha also touched on that. Will I be able to let go of Asher when he no longer needs my full attention? I don’t know. I will not know the answer to that question until the moment when he slips away from me (or I from him).

It is clear that someday Asher and I will separate. That is inevitable. That will hurt. The only question is how I will accept it.

He will be always in my dreams.

What am I?

October 19th, 2025

“Identity dispersion refers to the extent to which an individual’s self-concept is fragmented, inconsistent, or lacks coherence across different roles and contexts. In psychological and sociological terms, it describes a state where the meanings a person attaches to “who I am” vary widely depending on the situation — for example, feeling like one person at work, another at home, and someone entirely different among friends. While it’s natural for people to adapt aspects of themselves to fit different environments, identity dispersion becomes problematic when these variations feel disconnected or contradictory, leaving the person without a stable, integrated sense of self.”

The paragraph above describes the psychological concept of “identity dispersion”. My therapist has spoken to me about this topic. He in fact sent me this definition of the term. I tend to feel that the condition applies to me to some degree. Since I talked with the clinician about the subject, I have been thinking quite a bit about “who I am” and “who I was”. Identity is a difficult thing to understand. It’s like grasping at smoke.

I will start with Zen Buddhism. I started Zen meditation back in 2005, and although I almost never meditate with the sangha anymore, the teachings I received while I was actively engaged with Zen still resonate with me. One thing that I remember distinctly is the mantra that was suggested for sitting mediation. As a newbie, I learned that I could focus during meditation by softly asking, “What am I?” on my inbreath, and then saying, “Don’t know” on my outbreath. The mantra is deceptively simple. First, it asks a question for which there is no clear answer. Secondly, the response to the question is not “I don’t know”. It’s just “Don’t know”, because there is really no I that doesn’t know.

Zen assumes that there is no real identity. Who or what I am is just a constantly churning mix of the five skandhas, different aspects of a personality that fluctuate and morph constantly. I am not the person I was twenty years ago. I’m not even the person I was twenty seconds ago. My identity is a moving target, something I can’t maintain.

After thinking about it, I see that often my identity has been a function of my relationship with other people. There is a song by Paul Simon called “My Little Town.” It’s about a boy growing up in a dying industrial community. One verse goes like this:

“I never meant nothin’, I was just my father’s son
Savin’ my money
Dreamin’ of glory
Twitchin’ like a finger on the trigger of a gun”

That was my youth. That was me. I was just an extension of my dad’s life. My job was to work hard, be successful, and make him look good. Especially after I was accepted to West Point (United States Military Academy), I was somebody he could brag about at work or at the tavern. I can recall him often telling me, “Make me proud! You got my name, you know!” He was a “Frank”, so that’s what I became. I was always “Frank’s oldest boy”. Nothing more, nothing less.

Now, many years later, I am generally known as “Asher’s grandpa”. At the playground or at the Waldorf school, people often don’t know my name. However, they know I am Asher’s grandfather and caregiver. I’m okay with that. At this point in time, Asher needs me. He’s not quite five years old, and I provide him with love and stability. My life revolves around this little boy, so my identity is deeply connected with his.

I was a soldier. During that period of my life, my identity was often determined by my rank and my profession. I was “Captain Pauc”, an officer and a helicopter pilot. That was a time when I really did feel disconnection and contradiction in terms of what I was. A military officer by definition is an expert in the management of violence. I was never comfortable with that role. I couldn’t make that jive with my moral values. Alcohol abuse made the contradictions blur somewhat, but I that particular identity was a bad fit and I eventually was encouraged to find a different career path. I’m glad that I did.

Over the years, I have been many things: soldier, peace activist, father of a combat vet, husband, pilot, dock supervisor, advocate for migrants, representative in a parish council, non-Jewish member of a synagogue, Zen practitioner, marginally competent bass player, etc. The list goes on and on and on. I am different things to different people. Maybe that’s not a bad thing. I can relate to a diverse population.

The input about my identity that I get from others with whom I interact is often confusing. I have had some people tell me that I am a good person. I have also had others enthusiastically declare that I should burn in hell. So, who’s right? Who’s wrong? Are maybe both parties right to some degree?

So, what am I?

Don’t know.