July 19, 2019

I prefer to select my adventures. Travel, hiking, and work are ways that I get to explore the world in a time and manner usually of my own choosing. But three weeks ago something happened to me that, perhaps as when Bilbo Baggins first met the wizard Gandalf in The Hobbit, has become an unexpected journey that is taking me out of my comfort zone.

I was walking beneath the oaks and redwoods on the road where I live, a short distance from my front door, when my landlady (and neighbor) Jennifer drove up alongside of me and said hello. Usually we have a friendly chat and then go our separate ways. But this time she told me that she wanted to talk about our relationship. Since we don’t have much of a relationship, I had no idea what she was talking about.

Jennifer got out of her car and gently informed me that her niece needs a place to live, and that although I’ve lived in my granny unit for 34 years, I need to move out to make way for her relative. Our conversation was cordial, but I was blindsided by this development, and stunned. I don’t know where I’ll go.

At 67, I’m not as open to change as I once was. Sonoma County is a very desireable place to live, so the rents are high and there’s lots of competition for the kind of rural cottages that I prefer. I initially dreaded the uncertainty and stress of house/apartment hunting in a difficult rental market, and I’m still feeling sadness, loss, fear, as well as doubts that I’ll be able to find an affordable refuge in the country, with oaks, redwoods, fruit trees, vineyards, and great views like I have now. I may not own my home legally, but I own my home and my neighborhood visually and emotionally. I have a sense of belonging and a sense of place here. So losing my home is a major life change.

But it’s also a lesson in impermanence. Nothing in the physical world lasts forever – not our health, jobs, or homes. I’ve had a long run of good fortune – a beautiful neighborhood, excellent health, the freedom and means to travel, and the opportunity to follow a rewarding spiritual path. After 34 years in paradise, maybe I should just appreciate what I’ve had and still have (for now, anyway), rather than worrying about not having it anymore.

My ego wants to control the outcome of my housing search through willpower and hard work. It wants to get what it wants. But there’s a real chance that I’ll have to settle for less than what I want because of financial limitations. Hence my fear that I’ll be disappointed. And if I should have to settle for less, how will I handle it? With equanimity and grace, or with bitterness and self-recrimination?

There’s another perspective which I’m in the process of embracing, though not always successfully. That other way of seeing the world is from the loftier outlook of one’s inner being, the part of oneself that outlives death and that is therefore not afraid of the vicissitudes of earthly life. The part of us that counsels: Don’t worry, be happy. The part of us that allows for curiosity, wonder, surprise, and the joy of surrendering control over external events. The part of us that allows for serendipity. The part of us that says in a soft voice, “Trust the Force, Luke.”

Meanwhile, my search for a physical haven continues apace. I’m networking like crazy, and searching online. So far I’ve found two possibilities, though neither one can compare with my current Shangri La. Hope may eventually have to give way to reality.

I leave in a week for an adventure of my choosing: a long awaited return to Ireland and a first time visit to Scotland. Once I return from those travels I’ll need to deal even more urgently with the uncertainty of my housing search. When it comes to my expectations for a desirable sanctuary, I’ll have to face either the music or the firing squad, as fate will have it.

As Don Quixote sang in Man of La Mancha, “And the wild winds of fortune will carry me onward, whithersoever they blow. Onward to glory I go.”

July 4, 2019

Thanksgiving and the 4th of July have long been my favorite holidays. Both days are secular occasions, and both are about gratitude. Oddly, it took a Japanese religious zealot to help me to regain a sense of appreciation for this country and its founding fathers and original ideals.

When I was growing up, all of the holidays of our extended family were held at the Berkeley home of my grandmother, Emma Flanagan Kenney. Easter, Mother’s Day, the 4th of July, Thanksgiving, and Christmas Eve were all at Gram’s house. Every 4th of July she would hang a 48 star American flag from the second story of her house, overlooking the backyard where my numerous aunts, uncles, and cousins would sing It’s A Grand Old Flag and other patriotic songs. In the 1950’s and early 1960’s, in the aftermath of World War II, none of us questioned the value of allegiance to our country.

But as I got older and learned about our genocide against American Indians, slavery, and the Vietnam war, I became cynical about this country and its history. The 4th of July became a hollow festival commemorating slave-holding founding fathers, and I had no desire to fight in a war promoted by lying politicians.

And then, at 17 I became a Nichiren Shoshu Buddhist.

At first I was amused by the anti-drug, clean-cut, all-American image advocated by our Japanese leaders. They believed that a wholesome appearance would be appealing to middle America, and if we were going to replace Christianity as the dominant religion of the United States, we had to be acceptable to the mainstream. While most of our leaders were Japanese immigrants, some of them were Japanese Americans who had been imprisoned in internment camps during World War II, and they didn’t want to be perceived as the Other again. I later learned that Nichiren Shoshu of America (now Soka Gakkai International-USA) and its Japanese parent organization Soka Gakkai were being monitored in the U.S by the FBI and in Japan by the CIA as a potential threat to American security. So the paranoia about potential persecution was at least partially understandable.

Our General Director, Masayasu Sadanaga, loved to watch old movies late at night, and one evening he saw James Cagney portray Broadway producer/actor/dancer George M. Cohan in the 1942 film Yankee Doodle Dandy. Inspired by the patriotism of the song and dance man, Sadanaga changed his name to George M. Williams, and around 1972 he began to infuse our Buddhist gatherings with red white and blue fervor. For our 1976 convention in New York we even took the Cohan song I’m a Yankee Doodle Boy and changed the words for our convention theme song:

I’m a Yankee Doodle Dandy, kosen rufu do or die, the Gakkai spirit that’s for all the world, was born on the 4th of July. Doing human revolution is my Yankee Doodle joy. To have a happy country we need lots of shakubuku, let’s go and fill the world with joy.

Kosen rufu means world peace based upon spreading our Buddhist teachings, Gakkai means our society of Nichiren Buddhists, human revolution refers to elevating one’s character through Buddhist practice, and shakubuku means to convert people to true Buddhism (our brand of Buddhism, as opposed to every other kind of Buddhism).

But George M. Williams didn’t stop there. He really believed that the ideals of the American Revolution were humanistic values totally aligned with Soka Gakkai beliefs, so he had our publications praise George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, Benjamin Franklin, James Madison, John Adams, Alexander Hamilton, and others. He even let it be known among a select few of us that he was probably the reincarnation of George Washington.

Here was a Japanese Buddhist immigrant using the music and story of the son of Irish Catholic immigrants, George M. Cohan, to sell us Americans on our own history. And Williams, like Cohan, was a great showman, using our annual conventions to celebrate both Nichiren Buddhism and American culture through large Broadway musical-style productions. To this day I must say that the shows were uplifting, exciting, and educational, as well as professionally produced. Williams was jokingly referred to by a friend of mine as Cecil B. DeBuddha because he loved to create spectacular extravaganzas. Our 1975 convention on a Buddhist-built floating island off of Waikiki Beach in Honolulu had a Bicentennial theme that honored American democracy, and I was moved to tears by the show.

I began to understand that, as imperfect as our founding fathers were, they were political geniuses who created a society where freedom of religion, the press, speech, assembly, and other rights are enshrined in the Constitution. Granted, our society is deeply flawed and always will be. But the more I travel around the world, the more I appreciate the opportunities that we Americans enjoy.

In retrospect, it may have been overly simplistic to conflate American democracy with Nichiren Buddhism. And eventually I became disillusioned with George M. Williams and Soka Gakkai International, as well as our current highly partisan political atmosphere in Washington and nationwide.

But while I believe that my American identity is temporary, limited to my current incarnation, I still appreciate the sacrifices made by our founders and by subsequent generations to create the kind of country that people all over the world are sometimes desperate to get to. And if I’m not reborn here in my next lifetime, I still hope that others are able to enjoy what George M. Cohan and George M. Williams recognized as a special oasis of freedom for humanity.

On this 4th of July, I give thanks to all those who have contributed to this American experiment in liberty and self-determination.

June 24, 2019

I don’t want the world to know, I don’t want my heart to show…Two faces have I, one to laugh and one to cry… Excerpt from Lou Christie’s 1963 hit song, Two Faces Have I

I thought of this song for some reason today as I learned of the death ten days ago of a long time acquaintance and pondered the possible approaching death of a dear friend.

I’ve known Jonathon and Kay since we were teenage Buddhists, though they may not have known each other since they practiced in different parts of the Bay Area. Kay and I hit it off immediately (see my March 24, 2019 blog post about her), and we are still close friends. I met Jonathon maybe a year after I met Kay, and while we were briefly friends, we were never close. So while his death a few days ago surprised me, I felt no real loss at his demise.

I don’t know what lessons Jonathon’s soul was working on in this incarnation or between lives, so I can’t judge his evolutionary progress. I just know that when I was around him, he did me the favor of being a good example of the kind of negativity that I don’t want to emulate.

In contrast, Kay’s courage and cheerfulness in the face of her cancer is an inspiration to me. We went hiking a week ago at the Marin Headlands near the Golden Gate, and as usual we shared candid observations about our lives and the state of the planet while laughing a lot. When we parted, I fell into a brief depression at the thought that I might not see her again in this lifetime. Maybe I was being overly sentimental at the possible imminent loss of our 50 year friendship. Maybe I was allowing myself to be too attached to someone in a world where impermanence is the nature of reality. But to hell with all that Buddhist philosophical crap – I felt sad, goddammit. And she’s not even dead yet. And maybe she’ll outlive me – who knows? But even though I believe that she and I will meet again on the other side of the veil, I want to keep having fun with her on THIS side for as long as possible.

It has occurred to me that Kay and Jonathon are two sides of my own nature; two aspects of myself with very different lessons to share. We all have the ability to choose our focus, to decide between an optimistic or pessimistic approach to our lives. I don’t know whether Jonathon outgrew his cynicism, but I do know that sometimes such cynicism is alive and well in me. And I also know that Kay’s joyful outlook is something that she and I share.

One face to laugh and one face to cry. But why be a moth when you can be a butterfly?

June 19, 2019

Who owes what, and to whom?

This question occurred to me today as I read two different stories about historical wrongs perpetrated against two different peoples.

The first story is in today’s New York Times, and concerns hearings in the House of Representatives about whether or not the United States should pay reparations to African-Americans for slavery and for discrimination that has continued until the present time.

The second story is the history of the Irish people as told by Rick Steves in his Ireland 2019 guide book. I’ve been interested in Irish history for over 50 years, and am reading about it again in preparation for an upcoming trip to Ireland and Scotland. In his summary of Irish history, Steves informs us of the brutality of English rule in Ireland for 800 years, which included genocide, the seizure of all of the valuable land, and the unnecessary famine deaths of a million people. My ancestors were part of the emigration of somewhere between one to two million Irish who left their homeland to escape the oppression of their British overlords.

While there is no question that African-Americans and Irish suffered terribly at the hands of their inhumane masters and other abusers, as have American Indians, Jews, gays, and various minorities all over the world, the question is what if anything is owed to such people or their descendants.

I would argue that if someone harms another person, then the victim (but not their descendants) should receive restitution for the injury inflicted upon them. A good example of such a scenario would be the Japanese-Americans who were interned in relocation camps during World War II. In 1990, those individuals or their heirs did receive an apology and a check for $20,000 per internee (about $42,000 in today’s dollars) from the federal government. That compensation, however, was limited to the person who had been incarcerated or their immediate heirs, not to subsequent generations.

But aside from the practicalities and complexity of attempting to administer such a program for African-Americans or American Indians in this country or the Irish or Jews in this or other countries (see my previous blog post, “Who creates our reality?” dated February 22, 2019), let me add (a tad wryly) that I don’t feel entitled to reparations from the British. Yes, they stole the land and devastated the culture of my Irish ancestors, but nothing has been stolen from me. Why should the current residents of the United Kingdom be punished for the sins of their ancestors? Besides, that would be a bit awkward in my family. Should the fraction of me that is a Wigginton (English) pay reparations to my larger Kenney (Irish) side? Who am I, really – English? Irish? American? Who are you – are you your nationality, gender, religion, political affiliation, sexual orientation? Is there more to you than meets the I?

In the grander scheme of things, we are (in my view) not limited to our current, physical identity. We are eternal beings who have chosen to incarnate in this lifetime and in other lifetimes in order to learn lessons and evolve our consciousness. We choose to be African-American or Irish or whatever, male or female, rich or poor, for the purpose of experiencing life from different perspectives. And to create good karma and learn from our karmic mistakes.

The only real justice in this world is that which we create for ourselves, through our choices of action, thought, and intention. John F. Kennedy, an American of Irish descent, once said that “Life is unfair.” And on the surface of things, that is true. But from a cause and effect perspective, ultimately we learn from our suffering and from our wise and unwise choices. We can blame others for our problems, and sometimes that blame is understandable. But even when our grievances are justified, and we demand atonement for our losses, even if we receive what we seek, it still does not serve us to live in the past. All we can ever really do is be the best that we can be with the hand we have been dealt in this lifetime. And realize that we are the one who dealt the cards in the first place.

No, the British government doesn’t owe me any reparations. But if they send me a check, I’ll cash it.

June 14, 2019

Last week I worked at my annual part time seasonal job at the Bohemian Grove, a private men’s retreat in a redwood forest on the Russian River here in Sonoma County. This week a local politician wrote an open letter to members and guests of the Grove, published in a local paper and online, criticizing the Grove for not admitting women as members.

I was not happy with several of her comments, or with the overall tone of her letter. So today I sent her a polite email asking her to clarify three of her remarks. So far, I have yet to hear from her.

But I’m curious about why I had such a strong negative reaction to her letter. After all, I’m not a member or guest of the club, just a temp worker for four weeks each summer for the past nine years. Did I, on some unconscious level, feel that she was attacking me or my co-workers or the work that we do there? Possibly, though consciously at least I realize that her real targets are the rich and powerful men who choose to gather there each summer without their wives or girlfriends. And these men, while polite and respectful to me, are not my tribe. I like them for the most part, but don’t feel a need to defend them. So I’m not sure why I had such a feeling of antipathy toward her screed. Maybe it’s because I love the beauty of the forest and the traditions and camaraderie of the 150 year old club.

In her open letter she addressed a hypothetical member, saying “Stop trying to convince me that the Grove is totally normal. It’s not. It’s weird. But here’s the thing – I don’t have a problem with weird. Try (telling me), ‘Hey, I like to hang out with a bunch of powerful dudes in the redwoods and pee on trees and listen to music and hear famous men speak and burn effigies in weird little tent cities.’ “

Weird little tent cities? For someone who doesn’t have a problem with weird, she seems to have a problem with weird. Especially as someone who admits that she’s never set foot in the Grove, and therefore has never seen these supposedly weird camps.

She goes on to complain, “Many men’s groups come together for same-sex company, but don’t have rules that entirely prohibit females from ever entering certain buildings or rooms…This kind of weird is a little less ‘fun/quirky/free-peeing weird,’ and a little more ‘creepy/witch-trial weird.’ “

Creepy, witch-trial weird? Really?

“I don’t care if you enjoy weird things; quite frankly I don’t give a damn if you enjoy getting drunk and peeing on trees with other dudes.”

Is peeing on trees weird? If so, I plead guilty. As a member of three hiking groups, I can report that women and men in all three groups pee in the woods or in the bushes or wherever and whenever nature calls. One woman likes to refer to leaving the trail for the purpose of a bio-break as “using the facili-trees.”

There are plenty of bathrooms in the Grove, and the men use them almost all of the time. There are also a few women’s rooms as well, since half of the employees are women. There are private weddings and picnics in the Grove occasionally, to which women are invited. My mom and dad attended one such event there in the early 1960’s. And there’s even an annual lunch for county officials, to which the aforementioned female politician is invited. I reminded her of that invitation in my email to her.

I just hope that if she shows up, she doesn’t get drunk and pee in the trees. That would be weird.

June 6, 2019

Last week a friend slandered my walking shoes. I tried not to take it too personally, but given the global warming implications of his insensitive remarks, I’ve decided that I have to take a principled stand.

I was camping at Pinnacles National Park with Bruce and another friend, Charles, and during our day hikes I wore perfectly respectable hiking boots. But at breakfast and dinner I felt secure enough – no, I need to be honest here – I felt proud to wear my beat-up, formerly white, low-top, unpretentious tennis shoes. I don’t play tennis, but never mind.

Charles was gracious enough (or perhaps simply unobservant enough) to not comment upon my footwear. But Bruce? He good-naturedly (in his mind, anyway) decided to rib me about the sorry state of my camp shoes. Setting aside the arrogance of his condescending remarks – that’s right, Bruce, I’m talkin’ to YOU – I need to explicate the higher consciousness that informs my sartorial choices. And then you, dear reader, can decide for your discerning self which of the two of us, Bruce or moi, is the more evolved citizen of the world.

But first, a little history is in order.

When I inherited these shoes from my dad in 2007, they were in pristine condition. What I didn’t know, however, is that these sneakers have an allegedly genteel pedigree. I didn’t learn of their venerable origins until one day, while hiking three years ago in the High Atlas Mountains of Morocco, a fellow tourist who was walking behind me made a passing reference to my Rockports. I had no idea what he was talking about. It turns out that, according to him, my humble walking shoes aren’t so humble after all. They’re high quality, American-made, sometimes expensive footgear not usually worn by the hoi polloi. But as a card-carrying member of the rabble, I had inadvertently come into possession of a modest status symbol.

This was confirmed upon my return from Morocco when I mentioned to my upper middle class sister Laura that I had just learned that Dad’s shoes were Rockports, a brand I had never heard of before. She laughed at my ignorance, incredulous that I was so clueless about such a reputable product. But then again, Laura sometimes feels compelled to point out my need to upgrade my wardrobe. Knowing that I don’t have a wife or girlfriend to nag me about such important matters, Laura takes pity on me. Kind of like Bruce, only with less ridicule.

Anyway, as a child of the 1960’s I confess to taking a perverse pride in rejecting the consumerism that has infected our modern global culture and damaged the health of the planet. In addition to my, uh……seasoned Rockports, I’m pleased to report that I still occasionally wear hiking shorts that I purchased in 1977. I’ve had to mend them at times, along with one of my vintage T-shirts and other ancient garments, but in addition to keeping my yearly apparel budget at zero, my frugality affords me the opportunity to feel morally superior to people such as the beautifully dressed, rich Asian tourists I saw last week in a Rolex shop in Carmel. I should mention that it was Bruce’s idea to pop into that shop, and I felt obligated to humor him. I must admit that the Rolex watches were as elegant as the finery of the wealthy tourists who were admiring them. But lovely Carmel seemed phony to me. Shallow. Pretty, but somehow empty. At least the fancy stores and their expensive contents create jobs for people. As my previous landlady Judy once said, “If everyone was like you, Dave, then the economy would collapse.” Even so, I still say, let ‘er rip.

But while I concede that I’m being ethically smug in comparing myself favorably to more materialistic and less high minded souls, my self-righteousness feels justifiable. Except when it isn’t.

Next month I’ll be jetting off to Dublin to explore the Emerald Isle, thereby adding months worth of carbon emissions to the atmosphere. Hypocrisy is delightful. I hear that it’s good for the liver. To compensate for my contribution to climate change, I intend to bring my antique Rockports with me for rural walks. My flights might be helping to destroy the planet, but at least my old shoes will ensure that I won’t be doing so with excessive style.

May 24, 2019

“We can just stay open to what arises.”

This was the suggestion given to me this week by my longtime friend Leana, in response to my usual tendency to over-plan my travels and free time. In this case we were emailing back and forth to arrange our next visit, which happened to be the 50th anniversary of our serendipitous first meeting on a surreal Berkeley evening.

I wrote back to her approving of her advice, acknowledging that I need to be more spontaneous, adding, “The night I met you I was young and improvisational, and as a result I had a fun adventure. Age has made me more careful, but I’d rather be more carefree.”

I wasn’t exactly carefree on May 24, 1969, but I was 17, and bored. My high school buddies Ron and Dwight and I lived in suburban Lafayette, a few miles east of Berkeley, and we didn’t know what to do with ourselves on that Saturday evening. So since there were no appealing movies playing in nearby theaters, we decided to take Dwight’s Jeep into Berkeley to see if there might be a better selection of films in that town.

But we had forgotten about the soldiers.

Berkeley was an occupied city. On May 15 Governor Ronald Reagan had declared a state of emergency and called out 2,700 National Guard troops to support about 800 local police, sheriff’s deputies, and highway patrol officers in suppressing rioting by thousands of protesters at and nearby what is now known as People’s Park. I later learned that my uncle Johnny, an Oakland cop, was one of the police officers assigned to restore order. Many protesters, bystanders, and police officers were seriously injured in the violent confrontation, and one bystander was shot and killed by police.

People’s Park was and still is a vacant 2.8 acre plot of land owned by the University of California. The university planned to build an athletic field there, and eventually student housing, but in the meantime local activists had decided, without permission, to create a park on the site. The university and park activists were negotiating the future of the property when Governor Reagan decided to escalate the situation. Reagan, who had called the Berkeley campus “a haven for communist sympathizers, protesters, and sex deviants,” ordered the empty lot to be fenced off to keep people out and prevent any more flowers or trees from being planted.

Nearby at Sproul Plaza, site of the Berkeley Free Speech Movement five years earlier, about 3,000 people had gathered. A friend of mine, Montgomery, a Vietnam army vet who I first met not long after this memorable evening, happened to be performing as a drummer with the Golden Gate Jazz Band in lower Sproul Plaza. He and his band mates were asked by the protest leaders to stop playing, and when they did so, the activists used the band’s sound system to urge the crowd to march on People’s Park, about three blocks away. As the throng trooped off to confront the police, for some reason Montgomery and his band decided to play When The Saints Go Marching In.

For the next nine days Berkeley was an armed camp. And then three teenagers from the suburbs stumbled into the war zone.

We three were accustomed to seeing the war zones in far away Vietnam broadcast every night on the TV news, but this was different. Here were live soldiers in battle fatigues with bayonets affixed to their rifles in a California city, close to our homes. This was exciting! We decided to skip the movies in favor of checking out the action on Telegraph Avenue, a major street that dead-ends at the Berkeley campus.

As we walked along the sidewalk, staring at the soldiers, troop carriers, cops, and college students, the three of us were approached near the corner of Telegraph and Durant (two blocks from People’s Park) by a beautiful young woman in a miniskirt. Smiling, she asked, “Would you like to go to a Buddhist meeting?”

This was starting to feel like an episode from The Twilight Zone. What kind of preternatural world were we entering? Here we were in a tense urban environment where conflict could break out at any moment – and a cheerful, pretty white girl wants us to go with her to an Asian religious gathering? This was too weird, even for Berkeley. Ron and Dwight declined the invitation. But I took them aside and said something to the effect of, “Hey guys – it’s Saturday night. Didn’t we come to Berkeley to have a little fun? Maybe this Buddhist meeting will turn out to be a party. Maybe we’ll get lucky and meet some more pretty girls.” Eventually I prevailed, and off we went with our new friend Leana.

We soon learned, however, that the Buddhist get-together had been cancelled due to the highly-charged tension in the streets. So Leana and her comrade Jim drove my buddies and me to the nearby apartment of her boyfriend Mike, at the corner of Berkeley Way and Shattuck Avenue. There the three university students began their efforts to convince us to join their Japanese Buddhist sect, Nichiren Shoshu of America, now known as Soka Gakkai International (SGI).

In the middle of their sales pitch, one of Mike’s neighbors came to his door laughing maniacally. He was carrying a birthday cake lit with candles and laced with LSD, and offered each of us a slice. We decided to forgo this Alice in Wonderland birthday party, he cackled on down the hallway, and we somewhat disconcertedly returned to our bizarre trip down a Buddhist rabbit hole.

At the end of this Buddhist be-in, Dwight turned down the opportunity to join the religious denomination, but Ron and I signed up to receive a Gohonzon (sacred scroll) and begin chanting the sacred mantra Nam Myoho Renge Kyo. On our way home that evening Ron changed his mind, leaving me alone without my friends on that path to enlightenment. But now I had new friends: Leana, Jim, and Mike, and soon I was to meet Montgomery and his fellow Buddhist band mates in the Golden Gate Jazz Band, and many others. I eventually learned that I had signed up to be a bodhisattva of the earth, a Buddhist latter day saint, and I was expected to go marching into battle for world peace. Onward Buddhist soldiers. Onward Buddhist saints. I had just joined a Japanese mass movement, and I didn’t even know it.

Half a century later, having left that religious organization in 1984, I still do the mantra chanting. The Buddhist path hasn’t been a cakewalk, never mind a piece of an LSD-laced cake, but it has been an adventure.

And today, exactly 50 years to the day since I first met Leana, she and I went back to the corner of Telegraph and Durant for the first time (together) since May 24, 1969.

On this sunny afternoon, we reminisced about our youthful experiences in Berkeley, which for Leana are mostly a blur. I recall our first encounter in great detail, whereas she vaguely remembers it. So much for my youthful charisma and dashing good looks making a lasting impression. We noted the increasing gentrification of Telegraph Avenue and much of downtown Berkeley, along with the growing Asian influence noticeable in the types of shops and restaurants as well as the people on the nearby campus. Now in our late sixties, Leana and I have changed physically as well, echoing the impermanence of life that we saw all around us, though I’m not sure you could say that we have become gentrified. Wiser, I would hope, but not necessarily upscale. Maybe the renovations will come when we reincarnate into young bodies again.

People’s Park could also use some upgrades. It’s still a sad, derelict monument to a faded revolutionary ideology, known for its homeless denizens, crime, and drug use. It looked seedy as we wandered around the littered grounds and graffiti-marred facilities. Leana and I spoke with several people there, some of whom were suspicious of me taking photos of the site. Paranoia was rampant there this afternoon, perhaps in part a reaction to a recent shooting death in the park. Power to the people.

At a nearby Persian restaurant on Telegraph, I asked Leana about her current philosophy of life. She left the Buddhist movement before I did, and no longer does the Nichiren practice. At first she told me that she’s interested in balancing Eastern and Western philosophies, along with her interest in feminism and the Goddess. But then she put it in simpler terms. “I’m into making friends with aging. And having fun, with everything I do.” She loves her husband, her adult daughter, and her many friends. And she loves to travel.

I wasn’t quite sure what to expect this morning as I left home for my rendezvous with Leana. I knew that we would be celebrating a half century of friendship. But as our afternoon together unfolded, I began to understand that what was arising for me was appreciation. We only see each other every few years, and while I’m not her closest friend, I’m her longest friend. I really appreciate Leana for who she is: smart, outspoken, opinionated, honest, funny, kind, and beautiful. Soon enough we both will fade into memory, just as for many Bay Area residents the drama of the People’s Park riots is ancient history. But right now I don’t care about the future or the past. She is my friend now, and I honor her in the this moment. I’m so grateful that saint Leana came marching into my life when she did.

May 20, 2019

Two nights ago, a woman told me to go f**k myself. A couple of days before that, another woman flipped me the bird while passing me on the freeway. I obviously have a way with women. They just don’t know that they’re under my spell.

I volunteer occasionally as an usher at the nearby Luther Burbank Center for the Arts in Santa Rosa, and Saturday night I was taking tickets at one of the entrances. A woman approached me, fumbled frantically in her purse for her ticket, then discovered that she didn’t have it. She told me that her friend must have it, and brushed past me into the lobby to find her friend. I followed her, explaining that she can’t come into the lobby without a ticket. She erupted, told me to go f**k myself, then stormed out of the building. A few minutes later she came back to me, showed me her ticket, and snarled “Are you satisfied now?” I just thanked her, and said nothing more. The show that night? Stand-up comedian Paula Poundstone. I know of at least one patron at that show who could learn from Paula to take life a little less seriously.

Earlier in the week I was driving home from work on Highway 101 in San Rafael when a woman in an SUV came speeding up behind me in the fast lane. Normally I have no problem with pulling over to let a faster driver pass me, but in this case she got right on my bumper in an attempt to intimidate me with her larger vehicle. It didn’t work. In fact, it had the opposite effect. I slowed down. Enraged, she honked her horn and gesticulated wildly, but when I wouldn’t do her bidding she whipped around and pulled alongside me, displaying a finger which could have meant “We’re number one!” Or not, as the case may be. Perhaps, like me, she is a fan of the Golden State Warriors, and was just expressing her solidarity with our local basketball team. But I doubt it.

Speaking of the Golden State Warriors (he said, in a clever segue), Draymond Green is a player notorious for his temper tantrums. A talented and passionate athlete, he’s a major reason why the Warriors are doing well in the playoffs right now. But until recently he was better known for screaming at officials and opposing players and occasionally even his own teammates.

Now, however, something has caused the fiery 29 year-old to regain his composure. He says that he realized that he was setting a bad example for his toddler son. Other reports say that his mother and fiancee advised him to keep his cool when dealing with referees. Whatever the explanation may be, a New York Times sports reporter commented that Green “…may be operating with more diplomacy than usual, but his level of ferocity feels familiar. He is merely channeling it in all the right ways.”

Green’s coach Steve Kerr concurred, saying “He’s playing with force. He’s playing with discipline. He’s playing under control. He’s not letting anything bother him. Officiating, bad shots, turnovers, he’s just moving on to the next play.”

So what do the two women mentioned above have in common with Draymond Green (and, truth be told, with me)? All four of us have a tendency to let our anger get the better of us, and when it happens, it ain’t pretty. But Draymond, if he can continue to redirect his intensity into a positive direction, is showing us the benefits of being centered in a more mature level of who we really are. Complaining and blaming are momentarily gratifying, but ultimately counterproductive. Better to channel our ferocity in more constructive ways, and move on to the next play.

Easier said than done. But that’s what I’m working on these days: staying focused on my more evolved self, rather than my ego self, and when I lose my cool, noticing that and then choosing a loftier intention. That should please the two ladies. And if it doesn’t, they can go f**k themselves.

May 15, 2019

“Who you with?”

These are the words that Golden State Warriors star Steph Curry called out to his mother Sonya when he saw her in the stands cheering for him while wearing the jersey of his brother Seth, who plays for the rival Portland Trail Blazers basketball team.

Sonya and her husband Dell were trying to be diplomatic by cheering for both of their sons who are competing fiercely in the conference finals for the National Basketball Association championship. But Steph isn’t used to his parents having divided loyalties at one of his games. He’s accustomed to being the sole recipient of their support. Hence his momentary confusion upon seeing his mother in his opponents’ uniform. His father was wearing a Warriors jersey.

As a Warriors fan, I’m happy to report that last night Steph’s team defeated his brother’s team in Game 1 of the best of seven series. But as a human being, I’m not sure how comfortable I am with the us versus them mentality that seems to be a prerequisite of team sports.

For example, it turns out that one of the Portland stars, Damian Lillard, grew up in Oakland near the Golden State arena. He loves his hometown, and is known for his generosity in support of the community there. He grew up as a fan of the Warriors, who he is now trying desperately to defeat. So while I want his team to lose to the Warriors, I have to appreciate and respect Lillard as a man who is loyal to his roots and true to his alma mater Oakland High by giving back financially and emotionally to that school and to its students.

In other words, like Sonya and Dell Curry, my feelings are mixed. I wish Lillard a successful career and happy life, and I hope the Warriors sweep his team in the playoffs.

It isn’t always easy to remember to appreciate individuals on opposing teams. It’s often simpler to see teams as groups rather than as persons. And then to demonize or ridicule those teams for being inferior to or less deserving than the home team. Not unlike what nations or political parties or religions do to dehumanize their opponents.

But while these tribal instincts may be understandable and all too human, trash talking is not the same as team spirit. Denigrating others is not respectworthy; good sportsmanship is. I admire players or anyone who wins or loses graciously, and I’m embarrassed when I catch myself being petty or vindictive.

And in the greater scheme of things, who or what is our team? Is it our race or class or gender or sports affiliation? Or are there greater selfhood realities beyond our egos, such as souls and/or kindred spirits? To whom or to what do we owe our allegiance?

I’m rooting for Team Earth, and the Golden State Warriors.

Who you with?

May 5, 2019

Yesterday I found myself in the apartment of a young woman who lives near Golden Gate Park and the Haight Ashbury district. When I mentioned the Summer of Love in the Haight Ashbury in 1967, she looked at me blankly. She had no idea what I was talking about.

In fairness to her, she is 24 years old, and has not lived in San Francisco for much more than a couple of years. Still, I had assumed that anyone living in San Francisco would have at least a rudimentary awareness of the glory days of the hippie movement. I was wrong.

I first met “Kathy” two years ago when she lived downtown in the South of Market area. Now I was doing a followup interview for the nationwide health survey for which she is a respondent. After she completed the questionnaire, we chatted about her life in the city. She works for a Silicon Valley company, and realizes that the relatively high income that she and her co-workers earn has made San Francisco unaffordable for many longtime residents who are being forced out of the city by the high rents that she and her peers can afford to pay. Kathy appreciates her good fortune to be young and well compensated enough to enjoy the amenities of beautiful San Francisco, but she also feels guilty about the effect that her industry is having on the cost of living for everyone else.

Kathy believes that the technology companies could do more to be part of and contribute to the community, rather than being so focused on making money for themselves. She especially is concerned about the large homeless population of San Francisco, and she wants to do something – donate money? volunteer? – to help.

I admired her sincerity and idealism, but didn’t want her to feel bad about her role in the gentrification of her neighborhood. So I said that it’s understandable that she’s focusing on her career and her social life as she looks forward to marrying her fiance later this year. I suggested that there’s nothing wrong with enjoying being young in an exciting city, and that there will be plenty of opportunities for her to give back to the community in her thirties and forties when she is more settled in her personal and professional life.

But after I said goodbye to Kathy and wished her a wonderful life, I began to question the unsolicited advice that I had offered her. Was I encouraging her to be selfish, rather than honoring her desire to be of service? It is natural for young people to want to make the world a better place, and in a time of great income inequality and catastrophic climate change, we need the energy and altruism of youth to address the social and environmental problems that we have bequeathed to them. Kathy may not have heard of the Summer of Love, the epicenter of which was a few blocks from her apartment, but in her own way her heart wants to contribute to the equivalent of a love-in with flowers in her hair. She may not look or act like a hippie, but her instincts are similar: kindness and generosity of spirit.

It occurred to me that I might have been projecting onto Kathy my regrets about how I spent my own youth. In the summer of 1970 I had volunteered to provide recreational and cultural opportunities for children living in San Francisco housing projects, but I became disillusioned by the depravity of the denizens of those dysfunctional apartment blocks. And in the 1970’s I devoted a great deal of time, money, and energy to promoting what I believed to be world peace through the advancement of our Japanese Buddhist movement, only to discover that our leadership had been corrupted by power and egoism. Part of me wishes that I had not been so idealistic and naive in my twenties, which could explain why I hoped that Kathy might enjoy a more fun-loving youth than I was able to experience.

But in spite of my misgivings about my foolish youth, I must admit that I learned a lot from my mistakes. My intentions were the best, even if I was less than wise in my attempts to fulfill them. And Kathy is smarter and wiser that I was at her age. So I imagine that she will enjoy a rewarding life while finding ways to honor her desire to help others.

Kathy may not be a flower child, but she’s a very hip chick.