Billy Crystal's 'City Slickers' Speech and the Two Birds on the Tree
A scene from one of my favorite movies maps the feeling of being 'stuck.' Ancient philosophy shows a different path.
[Image: A stark, split image. On one side, a slightly bewildered or resigned office worker, perhaps with a subtle potbelly, looking at a clock. On the other, a sleek Tesla driving into a vibrant, futuristic sunset, with a subtle overlay of a serene, meditating figure.]
You know the scene. It’s from one of my favorite movies, City Slickers, and it’s easily my favorite scene. Billy Crystal’s character, Mitch Robbins, stands before his son's class for Career Day. He’s a burnt-out radio ad salesman, and the kids are immediately confused.
"Are you a disc jockey?" one kid asks.
"No," Mitch sighs, "I'm not a disc jockey. I sell time... for commercials."
Another kid’s hand shoots up: "So you decide which commercials to use and when?"
Mitch’s face tightens. "Well... no, it's not right. It used to be right. Seems now that I even have to check with the station manager if I want to wipe my nose. Community took away my authority. I should have quit."
This confession of powerlessness is the real start of the speech. It’s the sound of a man who has lost himself before he even gets to the part we all remember—a dim outlook on life that gets a knowing laugh from every adult in the audience:
Your 20s? “A blur.”
Your 30s? You raise a family, make a little money, and “you wonder what happened to your 20s.”
Your 40s? A "little potbelly," another chin...
Your 50s? A "minor procedure."
Your 60s? A "major surgery"...
Your 70s? Retirement... "muttering, ‘how come the kids don’t call?’”
Your 80s? A major stroke...
We laugh because it feels familiar. It’s a clear picture of a life lived on autopilot, a slow slide into regret and irrelevance.
But what if this isn't a prediction? What if it's a diagnosis?
And what if the cure was written down 3,000 years ago, and is being practiced today by the very people who are actively defying Mitch's timeline?
[Image: A stark, split image. On one side, a slightly bewildered or resigned office worker, perhaps with a subtle potbelly, looking at a clock. On the other, a sleek Tesla driving into a vibrant, futuristic sunset, with a subtle overlay of a serene, meditating figure.]
You know the scene. It’s from one of my favorite movies, City Slickers, and it’s easily my favorite scene. Billy Crystal’s character, Mitch Robbins, stands before his son's class for Career Day. He’s a burnt-out radio ad salesman, and the kids are immediately confused.
"Are you a disc jockey?" one kid asks.
"No," Mitch sighs, "I'm not a disc jockey. I sell time... for commercials."
Another kid’s hand shoots up: "So you decide which commercials to use and when?"
Mitch’s face tightens. "Well... no, it's not right. It used to be right. Seems now that I even have to check with the station manager if I want to wipe my nose. Community took away my authority. I should have quit."
This confession of powerlessness is the real start of the speech. It’s the sound of a man who has lost himself before he even gets to the part we all remember—a dim outlook on life that gets a knowing laugh from every adult in the audience:
Your 20s? “A blur.”
Your 30s? You raise a family, make a little money, and “you wonder what happened to your 20s.”
Your 40s? A "little potbelly," another chin...
Your 50s? A "minor procedure."
Your 60s? A "major surgery"...
Your 70s? Retirement... "muttering, ‘how come the kids don’t call?’”
Your 80s? A major stroke...
We laugh because it feels familiar. It’s a clear picture of a life lived on autopilot, a slow slide into regret and irrelevance.
But what if this isn't a prediction? What if it's a diagnosis?
And what if the cure was written down 3,000 years ago, and is being practiced today by the very people who are actively defying Mitch's timeline?
The Bewildered Bird and the Tree
Mitch Robbins’s entire speech is the lament of what ancient Indian philosophy calls the jīva—the individual, personal soul.
A powerful metaphor from the Mundaka Upanishad describes this exact feeling. It’s called Samāne Vṛkṣe, or "The Two Birds on the Same Tree."
The metaphor goes like this:
On the same tree (your life, your body) sit two birds.
The first bird (the jīva) is on a lower branch. It’s frantically eating the fruits of the tree—some sweet, some bitter. It’s so consumed by the experiencing and chasing that it feels powerless, bewildered, and full of grief.
The second bird (the Īśa) sits on a higher branch. It is silent, radiant, and detached. It doesn’t eat; it simply watches. It is the calm, eternal witness.
Mitch Robbins is a perfect example of this first bird.
His monologue maps directly onto the verse: anīśayā śocati muhyamānaḥ—"he grieves (śocati)... bewildered (muhyamānaḥ) by his powerlessness (anīśayā)."
Let's look at that breakdown through Mitch's life:
Anīśayā (Powerlessness): This is Mitch's core complaint: "Community took away my authority." The feeling of not being in control of his life is the source of his sorrow.
Śocati (Grieving): His cynical speech is a lament, a regretful inventory of a life he feels has been done to him.
Muhyamānaḥ (Bewildered/Deluded): This is the state of confusion. His "20s blur" and wondering "what happened to your 20s" is a great description of muhyamānaḥ. He was so sunk in the experience, the decade simply vanished.
He is tragically unaware that the second bird even exists.
The Upanishad says the grieving bird is freed from all sorrow the moment it stops eating, looks up, and beholds the glory of the other bird.
This "beholding" is the escape route. It’s a profound shift in perspective.
Mitch Robbins’s entire speech is the lament of what ancient Indian philosophy calls the jīva—the individual, personal soul.
A powerful metaphor from the Mundaka Upanishad describes this exact feeling. It’s called Samāne Vṛkṣe, or "The Two Birds on the Same Tree."
The metaphor goes like this:
On the same tree (your life, your body) sit two birds.
The first bird (the jīva) is on a lower branch. It’s frantically eating the fruits of the tree—some sweet, some bitter. It’s so consumed by the experiencing and chasing that it feels powerless, bewildered, and full of grief.
The second bird (the Īśa) sits on a higher branch. It is silent, radiant, and detached. It doesn’t eat; it simply watches. It is the calm, eternal witness.
Mitch Robbins is a perfect example of this first bird.
His monologue maps directly onto the verse: anīśayā śocati muhyamānaḥ—"he grieves (śocati)... bewildered (muhyamānaḥ) by his powerlessness (anīśayā)."
Let's look at that breakdown through Mitch's life:
Anīśayā (Powerlessness): This is Mitch's core complaint: "Community took away my authority." The feeling of not being in control of his life is the source of his sorrow.
Śocati (Grieving): His cynical speech is a lament, a regretful inventory of a life he feels has been done to him.
Muhyamānaḥ (Bewildered/Deluded): This is the state of confusion. His "20s blur" and wondering "what happened to your 20s" is a great description of muhyamānaḥ. He was so sunk in the experience, the decade simply vanished.
He is tragically unaware that the second bird even exists.
The Upanishad says the grieving bird is freed from all sorrow the moment it stops eating, looks up, and beholds the glory of the other bird.
This "beholding" is the escape route. It’s a profound shift in perspective.
The Escape Plan, Part 1: The Inner Gaze (Dhyans)
The first step to stop being the grieving bird is to practice being the witness.
This is Dhyans, or mindful, focused attention. It's the practical, moment-to-moment act of "looking up."
It’s an antidote to the "blur." Dhyans trains you to be present, making your decades vivid and filled with conscious choices, not regret.
It reclaims your authority. The witness (Īśa) is never powerless because it is not reacting; it is observing. When you can observe your own stress and desires without being consumed, you reclaim true inner authority.
It transcends the body. The grieving bird is its potbelly. The witness has a potbelly. This separation is the key to freedom. You observe the decay without being plunged into grief.
The first step to stop being the grieving bird is to practice being the witness.
This is Dhyans, or mindful, focused attention. It's the practical, moment-to-moment act of "looking up."
It’s an antidote to the "blur." Dhyans trains you to be present, making your decades vivid and filled with conscious choices, not regret.
It reclaims your authority. The witness (Īśa) is never powerless because it is not reacting; it is observing. When you can observe your own stress and desires without being consumed, you reclaim true inner authority.
It transcends the body. The grieving bird is its potbelly. The witness has a potbelly. This separation is the key to freedom. You observe the decay without being plunged into grief.
The Escape Plan, Part 2: The Outer Drive (Your "Tesla Mission")
But "beholding" isn't just passive. You also have to change what you do. You have to align your actions with the glorious, detached purpose of the second bird.
Mitch Robbins's job is selling ad time. It's a transient, self-serving pursuit. It's empty fruit.
The antidote is to find your "Tesla Mission."
This has nothing to do with cars. It has to do with the ethos. Tesla's mission is "to accelerate the world's transition to sustainable energy."
This is a visionary purpose. It's a goal so big it transcends personal gain, ego, or a paycheck. It's a "why" that can weather any "how."
A "Tesla Mission" fights stagnation. A person driven by a profound, outward-looking purpose doesn't just "wander malls" in their 70s. They are too busy; their mission gives them energy.
It's unattached action (Karma Yoga). You act with 100% of your skill and passion, but your focus is on the mission, not on the "fruits" of your labor. This detachment liberates you from the anxiety and grief that plague Mitch.
It defies the timeline. Mitch's timeline is about decay. A purpose-driven life is about building. You're not just getting older; you're contributing to something that will outlast you.
But "beholding" isn't just passive. You also have to change what you do. You have to align your actions with the glorious, detached purpose of the second bird.
Mitch Robbins's job is selling ad time. It's a transient, self-serving pursuit. It's empty fruit.
The antidote is to find your "Tesla Mission."
This has nothing to do with cars. It has to do with the ethos. Tesla's mission is "to accelerate the world's transition to sustainable energy."
This is a visionary purpose. It's a goal so big it transcends personal gain, ego, or a paycheck. It's a "why" that can weather any "how."
A "Tesla Mission" fights stagnation. A person driven by a profound, outward-looking purpose doesn't just "wander malls" in their 70s. They are too busy; their mission gives them energy.
It's unattached action (Karma Yoga). You act with 100% of your skill and passion, but your focus is on the mission, not on the "fruits" of your labor. This detachment liberates you from the anxiety and grief that plague Mitch.
It defies the timeline. Mitch's timeline is about decay. A purpose-driven life is about building. You're not just getting older; you're contributing to something that will outlast you.
Your Choice: The Blur or The Beholding
So, this leaves us with a choice.
Are we on the lower branch, frantically eating, letting the decades blur into a cynical joke? Are we living out Mitch Robbins’s timeline?
Or will we do the hard work of looking up?
Will we embrace Dhyans to cultivate the inner gaze of the witness?
And will we find our "Tesla Mission"—a purpose so big it pulls us out of our own head and into a life of meaningful, unattached action?
The City Slickers monologue isn't a prediction. It's a warning. You don't have to be the grieving bird.
You have the power to look up. And in that act, you become free.
So, this leaves us with a choice.
Are we on the lower branch, frantically eating, letting the decades blur into a cynical joke? Are we living out Mitch Robbins’s timeline?
Or will we do the hard work of looking up?
Will we embrace Dhyans to cultivate the inner gaze of the witness?
And will we find our "Tesla Mission"—a purpose so big it pulls us out of our own head and into a life of meaningful, unattached action?
The City Slickers monologue isn't a prediction. It's a warning. You don't have to be the grieving bird.
You have the power to look up. And in that act, you become free.
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