Tommy Angelo

I have a feeling that old people benefit more from yoga than young people do. Partly because older bodies rate to have more and deeper ways to improve. And partly because older people rate to be more spiritually ignitable.

If my conjecture is true, you could use it as a great excuse to not start your yoga practice yet. The longer put it off, the more you’ll benefit from it when you do it! So you might as well wait until you’re like, I dunno, 95 years old or so. That way you’ll be getting the maximum value from each yoga minute.

About once a month or so, when I’m sitting on my meditation bench in the morning, my hands get big. They get, like, really big. Approximately house sized. And sensation seems to subside, except that I am keenly aware of my hands, and everything else. My whole body gets big too, sometimes bigger than a house, but no matter how big my body gets, my hands seem to remain bigger than my body. All the while my focus is on every little scrap of breath, while at the same time it’s on everything else too, including the occasional thought that might begin to pop up, but they hardly have a chance of growing in this environment. It’s all quite something. The borders between me and not me become less defined. It’s not an easy place to describe, or to arrive at, but quite simple and easy to reside there once there.

Before last week, my favorite bumper sticker was:

Atheists are beyond belief.

That one has held the top spot for something like 15 years. And then I heard this one, in a talk Jon Kabat-Zinn gave to a room full of Google employees. (You can see the whole talk on YouTube.) Here’s the saying…

Meditation: It’s not what you think.

Went camping last weekend. One night solo, my best one of those yet. Kay appeared the next day. The day after that, we had people over, some stayed, some just ate. It was all quite glorious.

One morning I was up ahead of the rest. I made a fire and put the kettle over it. The kettle was fairly high above the fire, and it had quite a bit of water in it. I got my meditation bench out and spread out a mat right next to the fire and assumed the position. My eyeballs were aimed at the kettle. I had a couple logs next to me prepared to put on the fire as needed.

I don’t know how much time passed, but I do know that the kettle did start making that pained screechy sound it makes when it has boiling water inside. So I can now attest, first hand, that a watched pot does in fact boil.

Since the dawn of DeucesCracked.com, I have been singing their praises. I know all five founders well. I’ve played poker with them. I’ve hung out with them. I’ve coached a couple of them. I’ve watched the videos they make. I know how they think, how they work, who they are, and how they are. I see the community they have built and the dedication of their faithful. Being part of the DeucesCracked family is a source of joy and gratitude for me. And now that I have a video airing, I feel like I’ve been promoted from cousin to brother.

The only way to see the videos is the be a DeucesCracked subscriber. If you decide to do that, and you use this link to DeucesCracked.com, I will get a piece of your action.

The Eightfold Path to Poker Enlightenment — EPTPE, pronounced rapidly like so: eh-puh-tuh-puh — is an eight-part video series that, according to these people who have seen the first episode and written about it in the EPTPE thread at the DeucesCracked forums, is really good. I of course have no opinion on such matters since I am opinionless. (This is when my partner in the series, Wayne Lively, would call bullshit.)

Speaking of Wayne, he’s the reason this whole thing happened. Back when he had his own poker show on Hold’em Radio, he had the idea of me coaching him on the air. This was an especially good idea because not only does Wayne have an awesome voice and great microphone sense, he also exhibits some behaviors and attitudes that make him ripe for my coaching.

Well, Wayne’s tenure with Hold’em Radio came to an end right about the same time the idea was bouncing around about me doing a video series for DeucesCracked. When I learned that the DC videos are released in eight-episode-long seasons, it was an instant slam dunk idea for me to use Buddha’s eightfold path as an outline for a series, and just start filling in the blanks from there.

Wayne and I kicked lots of ideas around on the way to settling on having the audio portion of the series be improvised conversations on pre-determined topics. That’s the meat of it. Wayne and I talking. For flavoring, I decided to put short bits of piano music in between the conversations. I played all of the 100 or so piano inserts. Some of them I “made up” and others are excerpts borrowed from classical composers such as Mozart and Neil Young.

The poker talk covers a lot of ground, with the recurring theme being: How can we play our A-game more often, and have more fun (or less agony) doing it? Along the way there are many how-to’s that pertain more directly to modifying thoughts and actions that will lead directly to more profit (or less loss). Wayne came up with the best way to summarize the series: “It’s not about how to play poker. It’s about becoming a poker player.”

The visuals of the videos have been an absolute blast to think up. We use text, sparingly, to let the viewer know what topic we are on, and to emphasize an occasional spoken phrase, and to create a humorous wise-cracking third character. We use original drawings by my good friend Wendelin Montciel that capture ideas with grace and levity. We use occasional photographs, cartoon images, and flash movies, to drive home key points and to keep you from nodding off during Wayne’s long boring parts.

Two words: Rob Cole. Also known as Entity. If EPTPE is a house, Rob is the carpenter. He’s the brains and the brawn behind assembling the pieces, while adding much artistic input along the way. Basically, EPTPE is a three-man job. Me, Wayne, and Rob.

The reason EPTPE exists is because I went from being a self-destructive tilt monkey to being pretty much stable. And I want to increase the probability that you will do the same thing.

Breathing in, I am aware that I am breathing in.
Breathing out, I am aware that I am breathing out.
In this way, I train myself.
Breathing in, I am aware that I am sitting at a poker table.
Breathing out, I smile to the poker universe.
Breathing in, I watch the cards being dealt.
Breathing out, I observe the players on my left.
Breathing in, I look at my cards.
Breathing out, I fold.

Breathing in, I watch the hand play out.
Breathing out, I know that I am breathing out.
Breathing in, I am aware that air is entering my body.
Breathing out, I notice my fingers.
Breathing in, I am aware that a player is thinking about his decision on the river.
Breathing out, I watch him call.
Breathing in, I watch the called player turn over the nuts.
Breathing out, I hear the caller curse briefly.
Breathing in, I am aware that I understand the cause of the caller’s discomfort.
Breathing out, I send him some ease.
Breathing in, I erect my spine and I know that I am preparing myself to receive the next hand.
Breathing out, I am perfect and I notice the sounds of poker.

Breathing in, I am aware that I am breathing in a short breath.
Breathing out, I am aware that I am breathing out a short breath.
Breathing in, I know that I am breathing in a long breath.
Breathing out, I know that I am breathing out a long breath.
Breathing in, I calm my mind.
Breathing out, I calm my body.
In this way, I train myself.

Breathing in, I look at my cards.
Breathing out, I know that one is an ace and the other a king.
Breathing in, I move chips from my stack across the betting line.
Breathing out, I await and observe the decisions of my opponents.
Breathing in, I see them folding.
Breathing out, I see the player on my right raise.
Breathing in, I call.
Breathing out, I see the dealer thumbroll an aceless, kingless flop.
Breathing in, I watch the player on my right prepare to bet.
Breathing out, with anticipation, I time it so that at the moment he bets, my lungs are empty, and I dispatch my cards into the muck with the tip of my thumb, expending the least possible energy.

Breathing in, I am completely aware that I am breathing in and that my lungs are inflating.
Breathing out, I know that right now I am breathing out.
In this way, I train myself.

Breathing in, I post a big blind.
Breathing out, I see the player on my left post a straddle.
Breathing in, I hear the cards coming off the deck.
Breathing out, I look at my cards and I determine that I will fold when it is my turn.
Breathing in, I am grateful for this opportunity to relax and be still.
Breathing out, I fold and I notice my own gratefulness.

Breathing in, I see a player bet the flop.
Breathing out, I see the other players in the pot fold.
Breathing in, I hear the winner’s remark and a reply.
Breathing out, I intentionally shape my body as I please.
Breathing in, I post a small blind.
Breathing out, I watch the dealer’s hands deliver the cards.
Breathing in, I look at the big blind as he looks at his cards.
Breathing out, I look at my cards – 9-4 off-suit.
Breathing in, I decide to pay close attention to the action and to not decide yet what I will do at my turn.
Breathing out, I watch a player raise. Breathing in, I decide now not to reraise.
Breathing out, it is my turn, and I fold.

Breathing in, I pay attention to my in-breath at my nose.
Breathing out, I make my out-breath even and long.
In this way, I train myself.
Breathing in, I am aware that I have the button.
Breathing out, I perfect myself, I hear the poker sounds, I look at my cards – 8-6 of clubs – a vulnerable player limps, I look to the left as the action approaches me, I raise, the small blind calls, the big blind folds, the limper calls, the flop comes, they check to me, I bet, the small blind calls, the limper folds, the turn comes, the small blind checks, I check, the river comes, he bets, I call, he says “You got me,” I show my cards, he mucks, I hear someone say “He’s a moron,” the dealer’s eyes smile at mine as I tip, the next hand is dealt, I’m in the cutoff, I look at my cards – A-5 off-suit – the same player limps, I look left, the button indicates that he is folding, I raise, the button folds, the small blind folds, the big blind reraises, the opener folds, I fold, I sit back, and…

Breathing in, I notice that I have not noticed my breathing for a while.
Breathing out, I remind myself to remind myself to do better at reminding myself to remember to remember to remember to, ah, to remember. With each aware breath, I rejoin, I recombine, I become a member again, I re-member.

Breathing in, I know that I am breath taking.
Breathing out, I know that everything is breathtaking.
Until death do I live.

Pretty incredible how much I used to hate air travel and now it’s one of my best times.  What a difference a bench makes.

From Friday to Sunday I was in Las Vegas for a long-planned sibling+partners get together.  We did wonderful things.  Visiting.  Eating.  Shows (we saw LOVE and Blue Man Group).  It would be an easy matter to write many words about the events and ideas and feelings of those three days. I could put up some pictures.  I could recall on this page — as I have already done on my bench in the morning using my little hyper-detailed-reconstruction-while-putting-myself-in-the-scene mental memory gadget that I’ve developed — the finest details of the settings and events.

And I probably would.  Except that something happened yesterday, at the end of the trip, that is still kind of sitting on top of everything like the huge flowing white sheet that covered half the audience during part of the LOVE show.  The good news about the thing that happened is that it was really amazing in general and really wonderful and good for me in particular.  The bad news is that by the very definition of the words “thought” and “experience,” the thing that happened cannot, and I mean that literally, cannot be described.  It can, by definition, only be experienced.  To even attempt to describe it reduces it to non-existence and non-reality.  And that’s why it always sounds insane to some people when such attempts are made.  So, because of the limited nature of ideas and words, here come some that know they are insane.

On the flight back from Vegas, Kay was asleep in the seat next to me and I decided to stay with my breathing for a long time.  I do this whenever I fly.  About 3/4 of my flights are alone, so I’ve gotten pretty good at meditating on the plane.  The result is always the same: good.  Good takes different forms.  It changes as it happens.  Good is better than not good, in other words, meditating is better than non meditating.

I’ve gotten used to residual good that follows me off the plane, even after my thinking mind wanders away and gets lost in the not-now.  Good usually keeps wedging its way in there as a walk through the terminal thinking about what I’m doing and where I’m going and all that.  Good usually uses my feet and my breathing, sometimes my vision, to scamper back up and sit on my thoughts.

And that’s what was going on again yesterday.  I was walking alongside Kay, and we were in the middle of a little stretch when neither of us was talking, and I noticed to my left an especially beautiful woman walking toward me.  She was everywhere impeccable and appealing, not just visually, but her walk and her demeanor too.  A thought arose about the labels that my thoughts had assigned to her: attractive, appealing.  I have been giving thoughts like these much thought these last few years, so it didn’t take long to tread this familiar ground.  I understand the evolutionary forces behind the existence of and the determination of attractiveness.  I know that I am an animal organism with a mind that sees and rates.  I know what’s happening while this happens.  And I do like looking at people I like to look at.  It’s pleasing now in the same way that looking at any pleasing thing — such as The Wynn, or a horizon — is pleasing.

I looked at her, and I smiled inside.  I looked at the next person, an obese person, and my smile was unchanged.  I looked at the next people, an anxious couple walking very fast, and I breathed in their tenseness and breathed out my air and my smiling gut widened.  I noticed all the people all at once all together, and they all died.  I noticed the carpet, and it was living.  The floor was as dead and as alive as the people.  I was dead.  I was good.  I was moving, depending on where you stood, and I was still, and the carpet was moving, depending on if you happened to be a human or a wall.  There were no divisions.

I got ripped off recently, and I realized that I don’t own anything. And let me tell you, it’s a relief. I used to own lots of stuff. I was totally bought into the idea that there was “mine” and “somebody else’s.” And then I bought into a couple other ideas. One was that I can’t own a galaxy, and I can’t own an atom, and that since everything I encounter is somewhere between galaxies and atoms, I can’t own it, whatever it is. Another idea that made me an ex-owner is when I realized that my stuff has many times made me unhappy when it either became less good, or damaged, or no longer mine. So if I lay claim to nothing, then I literally have nothing to lose, which leaves me permanently protected from ever being upset over losing anything or having it break or wear out.

This is not to say that I forget what ownership is all about, or that it’s really important to lots of people, or that there is an ethical code of behaviors and attitudes in our society based on ownership that serves the purpose of keeping the peace and keeping track of what goes where. And I’m fine with all that. I plan to play along until the end, getting all the benefits that ownership has on society, but risk free. For example, when someone “steals” something of “mine,” I experience no sense of injustice. Nothing bad or wrong happened. The effect on me is the same as if someone stole the Milky Way galaxy or an atom from my foot.

The next million times you’re alone, try this.

Touch a thumb to the index finger of the same hand, and breathe in. (You can do this with one hand or both. Either way is fine.)

Then touch thumb to middle finger, and breathe out.

Repeat a lot.

Now, if you want something harder, do an in-breath AND an out-breath on the index finger, and then move to the middle finger for the next in-out combo.

And if you really want to get exotic, you can work your other fingers into the act.

They say home is where your heart is. I don’t see it that way. My heart has a high mobility rate. I take it everywhere. I suppose in a sense you could say that I am home wherever I am. But as to where I sleep and such, as to the location I return to that makes me feel oh so glad to be there again, the defining feature of that place is that my stuff is there. So the way I see it, home is where my stuff is.

My stuff is 30 feet off the ground. And the walls around my stuff have lots of windows. About once every year or two, some guy comes over and climbs a really long ladder, washes a window, climbs down, moves the ladder, climbs up, washes a window, etc. So I was only slightly startled when I walked into the dining room today to see a man who appeared to be suspended in space, right outside a window. At first I didn’t notice his ladder or his cleaning intentions. It was the sound that stopped me, coming from his mouth. It was music. It was the kind of full-throated exaltation that comes from a place of unpressured, unperformed contentment. It was as pure as any music I had ever heard or made. I didn’t know the melody. I didn’t even know the language. Here’s what I did know. I’ve changed. I’m like that guy now. If my life should turn in such a way that me and my heart washed windows for pay, I think I would sing on a ladder.