Calling All Saints

It would be a rare if not implausible event to drive on a Los Angeles freeway, cut someone off at high speeds, and have that person signal you with a "no worries, please go ahead of me" hand signal. More than likely the response will vary from a loud honk to a rude middle finger gesture to a gun pointed at your head.

Even the most harmless, chill, rational person with a heart of gold will at one point or another lose their cool and express frustration towards another human being. It would be lovely if that person to whom the irritation is directed could say, "I'm so sorry darling. Is there anything I can do to help mend the situation?" 

To my children who are learning about the adult world of business, relationships, and survival, I often say when they are dinged by someone else, "Don't expect others to be saints." And if you zing someone else with your own emotional baggage, most often the other person will react with an offended ego-based reaction that meets fire with fire, or vulnerability with domination.

The only solution that has ever made sense, (aside from the the purest distillation of spiritual texts) was given by a beloved adviser: "Clear up your own side of the street."

Ultimately, we can't control the behavior of others but we can certainly work on our own. And just as a tuning fork can, through resonance, send another tuning fork into singing mode that matches its vibration, then who knows what possibilities lie in wait for the flesh and blood? If we start the cleaning machine, maybe, just maybe, it will make a U-turn and get to the other side of the street as well.

Stray Dog Genocide: Let the Games Commence

The Winter Olympics begin today in Sochi, Russia with an added "human interest" story that provides news junkies with some disturbing local color. (Never mind the all-too-frequent terrorism plots making the headlines...)

Folks in the area had their homes bulldozed to make room for the stadium and other venues. They were moved into highrises somewhere in the vast Russian state, and most were forced to leave their pets behind. It seems that landlords worldwide sing the "no pets allowed" hymnal when renting their apartments.

As a result, a disproportionate number of stray dogs roam the area, left to a cold and lonely fate save for the scraps they glean from construction workers at the Olympic venues. Since an overpopulation of stray dogs would reflect poorly on the area, and tourists seem to view strays as rabid, the Russian government came up with a wonderful solution: killing them with poison darts that cause death by suffocation. Poison control businesses are now booming in Sochi. (I wonder, what happened to the cats, pet hamsters, fish and birds?)

Enter a Russian billionaire who has provided a collection of ramshackle dog huts in a dog village that tragically resembles a South African township for Congolese refugees.

So as Winter Olympic fans joyfully tune in to watch worldclass athletes, who deserve positive attention for their incredible prowess, let us say a prayer for all the sentient beings to survive and thrive - whether they glow on the world stage, are segregated into subhuman slums, or are disenfranchised pets lurking in back alleys in search of scraps.

The Martyrdom of Philip Seymour Hoffman

The emerging details of Phillip Seymour's death paint a sordid picture:

- an out of control heroine addict, found dead on the floor of his bathroom with a needle still stuck in his arm, dangling uselessly;

- banished from his household by the mother of his children to a $9,700 a month apartment so that his decomposition would not be so evident to his progeny's young minds;

- at least 50 bags of heroin, 5 of which were open, discovered by police in his uber-upscale digs (hardly a back alley smelling of urine and garbage).
 
If a hidden camera had followed his moves and moods in the time before his death, the myth of the eerily talented actor would be shattered by the site of a man resembling any strung out junky; hardly the exceptional being he appeared to portray on the screen and in press interviews.

I felt more dismay than sadness when the news popped up on every electronic device in my household. Smart people are supposed to be smart. The fact that superior intelligence doesn't equal common sense, or keen insight, didn't quell my dismay or self-righteousness.

But then another angle arose from the depths of my subconscious computer, who is so good at putting together the puzzle pieces when my conscious mind is busy sidelining itself with random judgements.

With the incredible lens of media attention now focusing on the scourge of addiction and widespread use of heroin, perhaps his death had a purpose. Just maybe in the grand scheme of the universe, his brilliance in life balanced out with a brilliant performance in death: the role of a fallen dissolute who was once a shining star. His last act is making society look squarely in the face of addiction and its horrific dysfunction.

Could it be that with the landslide of media discussion now centering around his death and its cause, someone in this world might initiate more thoughtful care and a cure for the drug disabled? If so, then in his death, Philip Seymour Hoffman will have become a martyr for the cause.

Secrets, Lies, and Teachers

As a global society with internet news capabilities, information-gossip travels almost at light speed: village priests, city priests, a retired Pope, Zen masters, Heads of State, gurus from quasi-religions, all risk being unmasked if their personal behavior deviates from the holy and/or moral teachings they espouse. The tendency for those individuals' neurosis to erupt, in direct contradiction to their teachings, seems to be widespread.

At the innocent age of 21, my first spiritual teacher (of great stature and reputation by the way) invited me into his bed. I had thought he wanted to talk to me in private because I was "special" and ranked to get more in-depth teachings. When it turned out that a roll in the sack was what he was after, I ran away at top speed from this fellow. It took years to figure out how the moral precepts of his tradition, and his profound ability to articulate those teachings, stood in stark contrast to his personal fetishes.

For decades, I asked every guru I met how it could be that a person embodying the Teachings of Ages could at the same time be such a rascal. Finally, after thirty years of questioning, one wise man gave me the answer that settled my heart.

"Don't follow the teacher. Following the teachings. The teacher may go to hell for his behavior, so don't follow him. Follow the teachings."

The Death of a Pleasure Seeker

A wonderful actor, Philip Seymour Hoffman, died of a heroin and prescription drug overdose this week. My first thought was suicide. After all, the highly versatile and nuanced actor used his body like a violin prodigy playing a Stradivarius. Such extraordinary sensitivity in this up and down world could be crazy-making.

But he was about to direct a film with a wonderful cast. And everyone in Hollywood knows that directing is the cat's meow. He also had two more film roles inked in, and most importantly, three very young children - although in today's news universe, the young babies get minor billing compared to the film roles he will never get to play.

Given all the above, and knowing addicts both living and dead, my impression is that he was going for the super high, the high of all highs that passeth all understanding. Lest I be accused of cruel judgment, I know the power of chemical nirvana and how one could shipwreck on the shores of body wasted. Prescription pain pills mimic heroin and when I took them for major cancer pain, they not only dulled the screaming nerve endings but also caused a surge of euphoria and energy that was awesome. It was with great reluctance and a major upheaval of conscience that I told the doctor the happy pills were no longer necessary when the healing had commenced.

It is unfortunate that the world has lost a great talent, a significant other has lost a significant other, and three little children lost their father. But perhaps - and just perhaps because who am I to really know the inside story - this genius was not so smart after all but was among other things a coward and an escapee on the run. He was brilliant, but true brilliance knows the depth of the ocean and the still waters that lie beneath the turbulent surface.

His is truly a cautionary tale. For those who choose not to dive deep into their own suffering and live within the beauty that it can deliver, they will constantly be battling the waves of emotional turmoil. It requires courage and a big light to see one's way through those depths of darkness. The way is there for those who desire that knowledge. The supporting outstretched hands are there to help lift one up.

The real tragedy is that Philip Seymour Hoffman never found his match to help elevate him to the real, true, and pure heights.

Ego "Yuckiness"

There is a method behind the madness of this blog title "Ego Yuckiness." Normally, the word "yucky" is used by young children to express something they find distasteful, unpleasant and wish to avoid; not a word choice of the geriatric group.

But let's face it. An egomaniac manifests childish and unevolved behavior. Most of us would agree that when we are confronted with an egotistical person -  someone who thinks only of themselves and doesn't know how to fit into the other's shoes - and who is sure that their thoughts are the only right ones - we feel...

Unseen. Disrespected. Angry. Hurt. Indignant. Non-existent. Vengeful. Sad. Torn.

To react after being slimed by someone else's ego with the above negative feelings is in essence to reslime oneself. For self-sanity, another tact warrants some attention. After all, as Gandhi famously stated, "An eye for an eye makes the whole world blind."

What if one were to respond to another's unconsciousness with equanimity and a desire to know what is underneath the ego explosion that just dirtied our emotional and mental body? What if we decided to "turn the other cheek" as it were and find a higher path? 

In the words of one of the most memorable Alka-Seltzer ads, "Try it, you'll like it."

Disabled and Displaced

The sight of a person confined to a wheelchair for life, either from serious birth defects or as the result of injuries sustained later in life, causes numerous reactions from others. Depending on the viewer's perspective, these reactions range from empathy to averting of one's eyes to pretending not to notice to being overly solicitous - or better yet, simply seeing that person as a human being.

From the vantage point of people in that mobile chair, they have to contend with their own reality, which differs in certain areas from the majority of two-leggeds who can go where they wish freely. How this psychological component is navigated, from the vantage point of the chair, can make the difference between a life well-lived and one not so well-lived within the interior emotional landscape.

However, one factor that is often overlooked by people graced with full use of their bodies is the way our villages, towns, and cities build their infrastructure. Until recently, the disabled were confined to few areas where they could go in their chairs - because steps, small elevators, sidewalk curbs and a myriad of other obstacles prevented them from getting to where others go so effortlessly.

The real meaning of "disabled" refers not only to the physical condition of the person in the chair. It means that the disabled have been dis-abled from entering most places in our world because architects, city planners, businesses and others disallow them from entering anywhere they wish - because the environment is not designed to allow for the passage of wheeled vehicles a minimum of 3+ feet wide.

Of course there has been progress in this area, with rules governing the construction of buildings that are "handicapped" friendly, although this word is not fondly viewed by people with disabilities. But not enough has been accomplished yet.

Recently, I was at a dinner party in Paris, France. After navigating deep staircases on the Metro and squeezing into the tiny elevator in the apartment building of our hosts, I wondered how anyone in a wheelchair could live in Paris. It was absolutely and completely disabled unfriendly. When I mentioned this to my French host, he said, "You Americans make too much of this disabled thing."

I pray that this man may never know the hardships of being barred from society by its disregard for the needs of the disabled. In the meantime, supporting laws to enforce access to the land of the living is a human rights issue. The time has come to wake up to all of humanity's needs.