Saturday, April 20, 2019

The Snake and the Rope

A man walks into a dark room and thinks he sees a snake coiled in the corner. Frightened, he runs to get a weapon of choice to vanquish the reptile. Upon returning with lantern and blade in hand,  the light clearly illuminates the threat. Lo and behold, it is a thick rope casually left behind by a family member. The man's heartbeat slows, his blood pressure subsides, and relief resets his alarm bells to the off position.

While this fable could be taken at face value -  a case of mistaken identity - its meaning runs deep. FEAR, or "false evidence appearing real," is the juice that runs a good part of humanity. We don't see things as they actually are. We perceive people, places and things filtered through a lens of pre-digested habits and experiences. Not understanding that we all have the basic need to be safe and to be loved, we interpret reality through a defensive, paranoid viewpoint. Given that nearly every other being is looking at life through their own skewed perceptions, a basic ignorance of reality sets the stage for intricate layers of misunderstandings. From benign to deadly, the original need of every single living being - to be safe and to be loved - gets lost in the fray of false perceptions and the stories we then tell to harden those perceptions.

Untangling this mess requires earnest self-reflection and a deep-seated motivation to connect to reality. Sadly, the number of beings willing to strip away layers of self-imposed deceit are few. Luckily, we have a few beings in this world who can shine a light on the path back to our basic good nature. When we find such a being, it is incumbent upon us to stay the course, follow directions, and take the journey back to who we really are.

Friday, January 25, 2019

Death by Stoning

This is not a blog about the medieval method of killing real women in far-flung places of the world. Mr. R. Stone, aptly named for the condition of his heart, lamented about how he was arrested this morning. The FBI's predawn raid and subsequent arrest scared his wife and dogs, said he. Happy to just surrender civilly (after his morning workout and latte perhaps), he thought the FBI was unnecessarily dramatic.

The use of seventeen FBI vehicles seems a bit extravagant but then again, this "kingmaker" always did like a grand show, even if this one was to his detriment. He actually said that the only thing worse than being talked about was not being talked about. 

Well, Mr. Stone, your dogs (and wife) might have been startled but what about the slow genocide of decency and heartfelt care for humankind you faciliated? Speed up the time frame and the pounding people have felt based on your influence would sound like an atomic bomb.

Self-reflection is not the strong suit of those who plot madness and mayhem so Stone might be forgiven for his shortsighted expression of self-pity. What cannot be forgiven in a court of law is the impact his "dirty tricks" on the so-called civilized world...let us hope.

Tuesday, January 15, 2019

A Conversation with Death circa 2001

As I was cleaning out old files in my computer, the below document popped up. Written in January 2001 during a workshop called "Compassion In Action," it was an exercise in talking to Death. The purpose was to train participants to sit with dying war veterans who had no family or friends. 

My wishes are to know who you are because you are not a being and yet so many see you come to them like the Grim Reaper, as I saw you escorting my father over the bridge to the other side. Why are you a being as well as a portal?

Well, imagine me to be a manifestation of Divine Will cloaked in black with a sword as a projection of your fears. Or perhaps more well stated, I am the grand settler of scores. With me, all is swept clean, what is wronged is righted, what has been undone is completed. With me, there are no more excuses, no more denial, no more of “I'll do it tomorrow.” I am the grand finale for your limited thinking, not I who am the cause of this but your own attachment to fixed and rigid thought forms. In this sense, you mortals see me as limitation. But this is just the smallest aspect of who I am as seen from your limited perspective.

I am the great beyond, the Void, the all that ever was and ever will be. I am the Alpha and the Omega, the I Am Presence. I am your birth into Godhead. Rejoice, I am here as your greatest servant. If I come in robes of black know it to be the Grand Illusion. The Grim Reaper is a harvester, is he not? Reaping the fruits of your life. So celebrate this harvest, which will tide you over in the chilling winds of winter as you make your long journey home to the eternal sunrise.

I am freedom from all limitation and grief if you allow it to be so. And if you chose to wander into the Beyond, it is not I who is the cause of this but your own limitations and attachments.

Can there be such a thing as no death?

I am the train conductor so my existence is a temporal phenomenon. In fact, I am merely a signpost that signifies the point at which the illusory world of appearance drops away like an old suit of clothes. Now go in peace angel friend.

Sunday, November 4, 2018

Ode to the Rubberband

How many rubber bands are in circulation around the globe?

A common item found worldwide, the lowly rubberband is an overlooked, underestimated luxury item. Like all things, its origins come from Mother Earth. Whether born of a rubber tree or the synthetic type formed from crude oil, the ingredients must be mined, manufactured into rubber bands of all sizes and thicknesses, and distributed to the marketplace, whether it be a Walmart or a roadside vendor with a pushcart.

Their uses are multitudinous, among them being an item that holds the hair pulled back and firmly in place. Herein lies the nexus of my pondering mind.

A Californian with a thriving inner-hippy persona, my locks are always wild and free no matter what the occasion. However, upon arriving in Nepal for a task that requires outdoor activity, I found that the dirty, dusty and humid environment made my hair frizz into a halo resembling an elderly lion's mane. Then, prodigious sweat pouring from my pores dampened the hair into a matted mess. By the end of the first day here, my appearance was suggestive of a crazed woman who had been cast out.

Not choosing to be a case of mistaken identity, I combed my luggage for a rubber band to tame my hair into a bun, the kind of look that is the style of "mature" women in Nepal. Only one was to be found, binding together a packet of Wet Ones, truly a First World item for travelers.

The common rubber band, so often discarded without a thought, became a prized item. It was only then, with scarcity as the stimulus, did it dawn on me that these innocent little items, so taken for granted, are in fact a treasure to be treated with care, out of respect for Mother Earth and the human sweat and toil that brought them into being.

Thursday, October 25, 2018

Little Girl by the Roadside

Do you often wonder why you do not act in a timely way to do something rewarding for self or others? Has hesitation or lack of conviction let an opportunity slip by?

A few days ago, I was in a car traveling over bumpy, dusty roads returning to Katmandu from a remote area of Nepal. It is a poor country, rural for the most part, and access to education or varied livelihoods is slim to none for the indigent.

In the distance, the figure of a small girl came into view, an apparition in a landscape with no dwellings or villages in sight. As the car neared, it became clear: she was holding four green-colored fruits for sale. She lifted her arms in a gesture of offering, beckoning the vehicle to stop, eyes aglow with a beguiling invitation to purchase the meager fare.

The two men in the front seat - a driver and a guide - were completely uninterested or unaware of her plight and the vehicle whizzed past as if she were a non-entity, a ghost, a nothing.

I wanted to stop and purchase all of her fruit, give her an extra donation, and allow her to rest instead of standing by the roadside amidst a whirling dust cloud kicked up by the car. I said, "Stop," but the two fellows were talking and didn't hear me.

And here is the moment of opportunity lost. Instead of loudly repeating my request, a hesitant inner voice decided it might annoy the driver, or he was too far past her and it would be inconvenient to back up. Thus, she was left behind.

I looked back to watch her arms lower. She simply stood, waiting, waiting, waiting, for the remote chance another car would come along with a more compassionate driver or passenger.

I will never forget the lovely smile, the eager eyes, the innocent, sweet look of a small child offering us sustenance in order that she might eat for the day. My heart hurts as the memory of her unsullied purity went unacknowledged.

If there is a lesson, it is this: ACT without hesitation or fear. From the smallest to the biggest of life's challenges, boldness and strength are required, lest an opportunity for the good passes us by.

Friday, September 7, 2018

When Snakes and Tigers Meet

The Op-Ed piece in the NY Times, "I Am Part of the Resistance Inside the Trump Administration," penned by an anonymous insider, proves only one thing. When you put snakes and tigers together, there will be a dance to the death. Who will be the first to deliver the fatal blow?

However, the snake-tiger metaphor works only when their natural characteristics are anthropomorphized. These critters in the wild studiously avoid each other, lest an invasion of personal space creates fear-based reactions of unfortunate proportions.

Truth be told, "Crazytown" a.k.a the White House, defies description, a dream-like creation. The Executive Branch once resembled a reality born of an ordinary gestalt but has rapidly become a nightmare of global proportion. If Shakespeare were alive today, he would be burning the midnight soy candle to spin a drama of larger-than-lies proportion.

This giant of drama took his cues from empirical observation. Obviously, what was true then remains true now. The King is Mad.

Wednesday, August 8, 2018

Tears for Obama

President Barak Obama is rated the most popular president in American history, topping Bill Clinton and Ronald Regan. In a country built on the backs of slaves, where racism is still rampant, this is a remarkable fact.

One thing stands out, however. Obama is not the descendant of slaves. His father was a free man from Kenya, an educated one at that, and his mother a white woman from the mid-west. His ancestral load does not include an embedded sense of injustice, pain, and the horror of human cruelty that is the genetic load of black people born in America. Perhaps this enabled him to enjoy a particular brand of self-worth, freeing him to reach for the stars - and get there.

Then why the tears? A recent news clip showed the Obamas walking onto a stage the night he was elected president.  Barack was holding hands with Michelle, each flanked by the two "First Daughters."  Although he might have the panache of an international man, the family were undeniably black Americans, whose lineage came directly through slaves. This is not to say they bore the external signs of this tragic lineage. Quite the opposite. They stood tall, proud, and self-assured. Nonetheless, the fact that there they stood must have seemed a miracle.

That TV visual evoked sobs rising from my chest and tears flowing from my eyes. What goodness had allowed these remarkable people to stand on that stage, triumphant and humble and proud? What nightmare has now hurled us 100 years backward after such a victory of the human spirit?

The past is gone but the future lies ahead. The cancer gripping out country must be defeated lest our democracy be deemed a failed experiment. We have to reclaim our goodness or else the prevailing winds will blow us away. It will require work but work we must.

The Snake and the Rope

A man walks into a dark room and thinks he sees a snake coiled in the corner. Frightened, he runs to get a weapon of choice to vanquish the...