August 27, 2019

Aviemore, Scotland

What happens to your identity when you live in a little land with a long military tradition and no one to fight? The Scots are in the process of figuring that out now.

I don’t know that I’ve ever visited a small country so proud of its military heritage. The Israelis are rightfully pleased with their military prowess, but they are a young country with a short history of self defense. The Irish appreciate their centuries of fighting the Vikings, Anglo Normans, and British, but while they served in large numbers in British and American armies, they could not field highly organized units against their English overlords.

Neither could the Scots. So they figured, if we can’t beat ‘em, let’s join ‘em.” And join ‘em they did.

Until I arrived in Scotland five days ago, I couldn’t understand how or why the Scots would so willingly embrace their hated English enemies. A Celtic people like their Irish cousins, the Scots bitterly resisted invasions by their more powerful English neighbors to the south. Heroes such as William Wallace and Robert the Bruce fought valiantly against superior English numbers. And today I visited the Culloden battlefield near Inverness, where the Highland warriors of Bonnie Prince Charlie were destroyed by English forces in 1746 in a devastating loss that crushed the Scottish clans and Gaelic culture once and for all.

So what made the Scots change their minds?

In a word, opportunity.

Two days ago I was in the National War Museum of Scotland in Edinburgh Castle, and that’s where I learned much of what I now know about Scottish military history.

It turns out that Scottish businessmen were lured by access to English trade with its colonies. “Scotland alone could not compete for dominance or empire. England’s growing power depended on the stability of the whole of mainland Britain. The 1707 Union between Scotland and England offered Scotland a share in England’s wealth and power. In return, England gained greater military security.”

It didn’t hurt that, unlike the Irish, the Scots were Protestants, and so were able to assimilate more easily into English society than were the detested Irish Catholics.

A career or even a shorter stint in the English military offered Scottish young men employment, advancement, discipline, pride, ritual, pomp and circumstance, and a sense of adventure, purpose, and identity. The Scots redirected their fighting spirit in the cause of their new-found membership in something greater than Scotland or England: the British Empire.

“Military service had become a powerful expression of Scottish identity…The Scottish military legacy still stands as a symbol of Scottish identity…The essence of Scotland is its military tradition.”

This tradition is celebrated most notably in the annual Edinburgh Military Tattoo performance at Edinburgh Castle each August that features mostly military bands and especially bagpipers. And the pipers always play that great classic, Scotland the Brave.

But after 148,000 Scottish soldiers were killed in World War I, and another 58,000 in World War II, the British Empire collapsed and large numbers of Scots emigrated to Canada, Australia, and elsewhere. The British military has reduced its size and eliminated many decorated Scottish regiments. And if the United Kingdom leaves the European Union via Brexit in a couple of months, the Scottish National Party may call for another referendum on having Scotland leave the United Kingdom to become an independent nation.

If “the essence of Scotland is its military tradition,” what happens if its military mostly disappears?

Maybe the Scots will find a new way to channel their fighting spirit into a cause greater than themselves. If so, I’ll be curious to see what that cause might be. Fighting climate change? Combatting fear and ignorance? Becoming the champions of love and tolerance?

May the Scottish bravehearts find a worthy opponent.

August 22, 2019

Belfast, Northern Ireland

Your neighbor is your other self dwelling behind a wall. Khalil Gibran

Sometimes people just can’t get along. Sometimes divorce is unavoidable. Sometimes it’s necessary to build fences and walls to keep human beings from killing or harming each other. And sometimes the time is right to remove such barriers and allow folks to come together when they are ready to do so.

The always interesting question of appropriate boundaries between individuals and between groups of people occurred to me yesterday as I walked along the “peace walls” of Belfast. These fences and walls, some of which date back to 1969, were built during the violence of the “Troubles” of 1968 – 1998 to separate warring Catholics and Protestants in Belfast, Derry, and other Northern Irish towns and cities. But since the Good Friday Agreement of 1998 officially ended the Troubles (thanks in large part to President Bill Clinton and Senator George Mitchell), the violence between Protestants and Catholics has greatly subsided, and some of these walls built to keep peace through separation have been dismantled.

The local government of Northern Ireland has vowed to remove the last of these walls by 2023. But according to our tour guide Lynn, the majority of both Catholics and Protestants in these adjacent working class neighborhoods want to keep the walls in place, because they don’t trust each other to refrain from violence. They feel safe and secure in their homes and neighborhoods because they feel protected from each other.

Northern Ireland has been transformed by the 1998 peace agreement. The last time I was in this British province, in 1986, Belfast and Derry were patrolled by armed British soldiers, and the tension and fear in the air were palpable. But now the soldiers, their Land Rovers, the barbed wire, and the checkpoints are long gone, and tourism is booming. Cruise ships now regularly dock in Belfast, and people come to see the Titanic museum, various film locations of the Game of Thrones TV series, and the murals and graffiti that decorate or deface the peace walls. Northern Ireland, like the rest of Ireland, is thriving.

Brexit could do serious short term damage to the economy of Ireland, both in the British-ruled north and in the independent Irish Republic in the south. But beyond the immediate social, political, and economic trends, something positive is happening on this island. The people here seem to be evolving toward a more tolerant, more internationalist, more conscious world view. So even though tribalism is alive and well in Northern Ireland (nationalist Catholics vs unionist Protestants), the peace and prosperity that the Northern Irish have enjoyed for the last 21 years have convinced most people here that the violent extremists on both sides must not be allowed to turn back the clock and bring back the bad old days.

In 1968, when I was 16 years old, I wrote a 10 page paper about Ireland for my Modern European History class. Entitled “On the Possibility of the Reunification of Ireland,” that paper concluded that Northern Ireland and the Republic of Ireland would one day be reunited because of demographic change. That is, although Protestants outnumbered Catholics by a two to one ratio in 1968, Catholics had (and still have) a higher birth rate than Protestants, so eventually Catholics would outnumber Protestants in the north as they already did in the south. And that high school prediction of mine is about to come true, as Catholics are now approximately 50% of the population of Northern Ireland. Part of the Good Friday peace agreement of 1998 stipulates that if and when a majority of the people of Northern Ireland vote to leave the United Kingdom and unite with the Republic of Ireland in the south, the UK will not stand in the way of the will of the Irish people.

The Irish here in the north are not quite ready to tear down all the walls that divide them. But they are making good progress in that direction. For now I think it best to leave the peace walls in place until such time as the folks in those neighborhoods feel safe and secure enough to voluntarily remove them.

Boundaries, borders, fences, and walls between people are necessary – until they are obsolete. And I hope that I live long enough to see the Northern Irish transcend their limited loyalties in favor of more inclusive identities. One of these days I might even try to do the same thing myself.

August 12, 2019

Kinsale, County Cork, Ireland

Tonight in this colorfully painted little coastal town there’s a ghost walking tour. It’s reputed to be more about comedy than ghosts, so I think I’ll skip it. I’m more interested in real ghosts.

Ireland is a haunted country. I’m not necessarily talking about Halloween-style ghosts, misty white-robed apparitions floating about and spooking humans, though this island may have its share of those beings for all I know.

Rather, I’m referring to a nation haunted by its memory and its imagination. A nation that bears the scars of history, the scars of An Gorta Mor (The Great Famine) of the 1840’s, the scars of political violence inflicted upon it by a foreign occupation and its aftermath. And a culture that for centuries has imagined supernatural forces at work in its landscape.

In the last couple weeks I’ve been moved by two outdoor sculptures by renowned Irish artist Rowan Gillespie. “Famine” is a group of several bronze figures next to the River Liffey in Dublin. The emaciated, anguished, and despairing figures dressed in rags commemorate a 100 mile walk by 1,490 starving people in 1847 from County Roscommon to Dublin to get aboard ships bound for Canada. “Proclamation” is located opposite the infamous Kilmainham Gaol in Dublin. Its 14 blindfolded, bullet-ridden bronze figures stand in a circle around a metal table inscribed with the words of the 1916 proclamation of Irish independence. The sculpture honors the 14 rebel leaders of the Easter Rising who were shot to death by British soldiers in the jail across the road. The circle of figures is also reminiscent of ancient stone circles found in various parts of Ireland, circles thought by some to have special power.

The ghosts of the famine victims, the executed rebel leaders, and other heroes (Daniel O’Connell, Michael Collins, Charles Stewart Parnell, Roger Casement, et al) occupy a prominent place in the collective Irish psyche. In Dublin’s beautiful Glasnevin Cemetery, where several of the political chiefs are buried, the number of dead interred there is about 1.5 million, approximately triple the population of living Dubliners. Many graves there are marked by Celtic crosses, which are crosses with pagan circles representing the sun and the moon superimposed upon them. Ireland may be a Christian country, but pagan beliefs in nature, magic, and fairies lie not far beneath the surface of the conscious national mind.

The Tuatha de Danaan (people of the goddess Danu) are said to be an immortal race of supernatural beings, beautiful to look upon: tall, with red or golden hair, blue or green eyes, and pale skin. They are the guardians of Tir na Nog, the Land of Eternal Youth, where time stands still. It is sometimes said that these beings later became the Good People, also known as the Gentry, better known to us as the Fairy People.

When I was last in Ireland in 1986, Irish currency (before the Euro) featured Maeve, Queen of the Fairies, on the one pound note. Can you imagine the American dollar bill having a fairy on it? Neither can I. But it was no problem for the Irish.

W.B. Yeats, winner of the Nobel Prize for literature, believed in magic and the occult, and wrote about Irish myths and fairies in his poetry. One famous poem, “The Stolen Child,” includes this refrain: “Come away, O human child! To the waters and the wild, with a faery, hand in hand, For the world’s more full of weeping than you can understand.”

Tomorrow my tour group is headed to the west coast, but we’re stopping along the way in Kenmare, County Kerry, to visit a prehistoric stone circle and the sacred hawthorn tree next to it that, like all hawthorn trees in Ireland, is said to be a meeting place for fairies. Even the Irish government has been forced by public opinion to reroute roads in order to avoid cutting down fairy trees. Our tour guide has given each of us a card upon which to write a wish, a card that we will then tie to the hawthorn tree. I haven’t yet decided what to wish for. But I’m inclined to summon all the ghosts of the Emerald Isle, both real and imagined, and to call upon those invisible people to help heal this magical green island in the deep blue sea.

August 7, 2019

Dublin, Ireland

When is it worth dying for Ireland, or the United States, or any country?

I’ve been pondering that question here in Bailé Atha Cliath (Irish: The City on the River), also known as Dublin. Everywhere in the Irish capital there are reminders of the sacrifices made by patriots as they resisted invasions by Vikings, Anglo Normans, and ultimately, British colonialists. Street names, statues, songs, exhibits, and museums celebrate the heroes of the Easter 1916 Rising that eventually led to a modicum of independence in 1922, and greater autonomy in 1949 with the establishment of the Irish Republic.

While a quarter of a million Irish soldiers were fighting for the British army against Germany in World War I, a small group of Irish poets and philosophers led a band of 1600 rebels in Dublin in attempting to overthrow 700 years of British colonial rule. Hundreds of people were killed, half of them civilians, as British cannons and machine guns slaughtered Dubliners and crushed the rebellion. At first, many locals blamed the rebels for the death and destruction, and even nationalist poet W.B. Yeats questioned the futility of the attempted revolution, asking in his poem Easter 1916: “Was it needless death after all?” Speaking of the movement’s leaders, he went on to say in the same poem, “We know their dream; enough to know they dreamed and are dead.”

But when the British government made the mistake of executing 14 rebel leaders by firing squad, Irish public opinion changed, and Yeats honored four of the leaders by naming them in his poem: “MacDonough and MacBride and Connolly and Pearse, now and in time to be, wherever green is worn, are changed, changed utterly: a terrible beauty is born.”

The death and destruction were the “terrible” price that the rebels and civilians had to pay, but the “beauty” was in the ultimate result of political freedom from oppression of the Irish nation. In the words of songwriter Tommy Makem in his song Freedom’s Sons, “A poet’s dream had sparked a flame. A raging fire it soon became. And from that fire of destiny, there rose a nation proud and free.”

Ireland consistently ranks among the most patriotic of nations, according to the International Social Survey Program, probably because they had to earn their freedom through centuries of battles and uprisings against overwhelming odds. The United States also ranks highly for patriotism in that same survey, probably for the same reason: a bloody revolution by underdog colonies against a mighty empire.

But was it necessary for the Irish and the Americans to use violence to achieve their ends? George Washington certainly felt so, as did the colonists who stood up to the British at Lexington, Concord, Boston, and elsewhere. And the martyrs who died violently in Dublin hoped, correctly as it turned out, that their deaths would inspire their people to rise up and “trade their chains for guns,” as Tommy Makem sang in Freedom’s Sons.

Yet nonviolence might have accomplished the same goals. Britain eventually allowed Canada, India, and other colonies to achieve their independence peacefully. In Ireland’s case, Winston Churchill was an early supporter of Irish independence, and the British government was planning to allow some form of Home Rule for Ireland until they were distracted y the outbreak of World War I. But American and Irish independence were achieved sooner by bloodshed than they would have been if those colonies had waited for England to see the light. And sometimes you just have to stand up to bullies, as we and the rest of the world found out in World War II when appeasement failed to deter Hitler and violent self defense became necessary.

As a hot-headed young man in 1776 or 1916, I might have picked up a gun and joined the revolts. Would I be willing to die for my country now? I doubt it. I’d have to be convinced that there was no alternative, and that the cause was just and righteous. Even then, as I near the end of my life, I don’t feel that I’d be willing to kill anybody for the cause of nationalism or for any other cause. I do appreciate the sacrifices made by those who died for Irish and American freedom. But as Yeats said in Easter 1916, “Too long a sacrifice can make a stone of the heart.” I’m not willing to turn my heart into stone.

I’m pleased to report that Ireland is prospering both culturally and economically. Clearly they are benefiting from the fruits of their long struggle for freedom. But I hope they never again have to give birth to a terrible beauty.

.

,

July 31, 2019

Dublin, Ireland

I’m not entirely sure what the great Irish poet W.B. Yeats meant by the above line when he wrote it in his 1931 poem Coole Park and Ballylee. But here and now in the Irish capital, it feels like a great metaphor for this nation in contemporary times.

Dublin has changed dramatically since last I was here in 1986. At that time, the city was a charming European backwater, the provincial capital of a country mired in economic doldrums with a high unemployment rate. It was also the whitest big city that I’ve ever seen. Almost everyone was white, and almost everyone was either a local or a tourist. There were no immigrants because there were no jobs to be had; in fact, Irish people had been emigrating to the U.S., Britain, and elsewhere for generations in order to find work. The vast majority of the buildings were brick or stone structures leftover from British colonial rule.

When I arrived here three days ago, I was immediately struck by the cosmopolitan appearance of the city. Instead of the one black man that I saw in 1986, I observed scores of Africans, numerous Asian faces, and a number of women wearing the Muslim hijab. I heard a wide variety of languages, including Spanish, Polish, French, Arabic, and Asian and African tongues. Modern buildings abound, with construction cranes everywhere, adding economic vitality to the old Georgian and Victorian architecture.

What happened?

The short answer is that Ireland opened to the world. It opened to change.

For centuries Ireland had been dominated by London and Rome. Its British colonial masters had kept the island isolated from the rest of the world, and the Roman Catholic Church had kept the people captive to religious dogma and control. Even after independence from Britain was achieved in 1922, it took time for the Irish psyche to break free from the bonds of dependence upon their former overlords. But joining the European Union broadened Irish horizons both economically and psychologically, as did the decision, circa 1990, to invite foreign investment on a large scale with significant tax breaks.

The result? An economic boom, known as the Celtic Tiger, that lasted from about 1990 to 2008, until the global recession burst the local real estate bubble and temporarily wrecked the economy. Now the economy is growing rapidly again, and is once more attracting temporary workers and permanent immigrants from all over the world. Meanwhile, major scandals involving pedophile priests and abusive nuns have rocked the Catholic Church and badly damaged its standing in this former bastion of Catholicism, leading to increasing secularization, gay rights, and abortion rights.

But the impending departure of Britain from the European Union, known as Brexit, could deal a serious blow to the Irish economy. Britain is still a major Irish trading partner, and if the British economy suffers as expected from leaving the European common market, that would have significant repercussions for Irish exports to Britain.

Great change, both economic and social, has come to this country in the last 33 years. For now, the Emerald Isle is thriving. Prosperity, materialism, and demographic diversity have enriched the island and its culture. But beneath the graceful Irish swan is a darkening flood of economic uncertainty, climate change, tribalism, and world turmoil.

The time may come when the swan will have to find another river.

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.