April 28, 2019

Yesterday I was informed by someone I’ve known for decades that he intends to kill himself within three to five years. We laughed about it, but he wasn’t joking.

I had just been hiking with a group in Morgan Territory, a 5,000 acre regional park south of Mt. Diablo in Contra Costa County, CA. The park, adjacent to Mt. Diablo state park, is (in April) a wonderland of rolling green hills, orange California poppies, yellow Diablo sunflowers, blue skies, green oak forests, and stunning views of Mt. Diablo, the Central Valley, and the snow-topped Sierra Nevada mountains to the east. The Miwok people lived here in harmony with the gorgeous scenery for thousands of years.

But now Morgan Territory and Mt. Diablo together form an island of serenity in a sea of madness known as modern society. Urban and suburban sprawl almost completely surround this original California enclave of mountain, hills, and grasslands. Massive freeways connect shopping centers and housing tracts, and none of these concrete freeways, commercial hubs, office parks, or residential districts were there when I was growing up nearby. Ironically, while I was trudging in the lovely hills, an editorial in yesterday’s New York Times proclaimed that “the solution to California’s housing crisis is more housing.” No, the solution to California’s housing crisis is less people.

After my hike in earthly paradise I drove through and beyond the concrete jungle to visit “Rick,” an old crony of mine since childhood. I had never been to this house before, and hadn’t seen him in many years. But knowing him as I do, I shouldn’t have been surprised to be greeted as I pulled into his driveway by a large wrought-iron sign next to his garage depicting a rifle and the warning WE DON’T CALL 911.

My next welcome was from his Doberman. Luckily for me, the dog was as friendly as Rick was glad to see me. Maybe Rick told him I was coming. A previous Doberman, “Satan,” wasn’t so nice, at one point suddenly and repeatedly lunging at Rick’s throat until Rick punched him unconscious. If I were you, I wouldn’t show up unannounced at Rick’s place.

After Rick squired me around his meticulously maintained large property and small house, we sat down for two hours to catch up.

Rick is a kind, generous man with a turbulent past. As a retired cop and Vietnam veteran, he’s been through hell, but you wouldn’t know it from his friendly demeanor and ready laugh. Divorced long ago, he dotes on his adult daughter, and thoroughly enjoys his retirement. Handy with gadgets, he has two complete tool sheds with duplicate tools, five power lawnmowers for specialized purposes, four outdoor barbecues, two outdoor fountains, flowerbeds, a chicken coop, two large lawns with different kinds of grass, and three large-screen TVs and one small-screen TV inside. Everything is clean and orderly inside and outside. His material world is comfortable, and he often enjoys peace and quiet.

But in Vietnam he acquired PTSD and claustrophobia, was exposed to Agent Orange, and now suffers from a variety of ailments including diabetes and the beginning stages of dementia. A large, healthy-looking man, he fell out of his hammock a few days ago and couldn’t get up off the ground for a long time. He’s not sure whether his mind will give out before his body, but he anticipates one or both of those losses happening soon. He admits that his refusal to take pills or change his diet for his diabetes or to in any way accommodate his illness has greatly contributed to his physical deterioration. But he still insists on eating what gives him pleasure in the moment, because to him it’s the quality of the life you live that counts and not the number of years. So he lives in the now, and ignores any physical symptoms. When he thinks he’s ready to go, he’ll find a way to check out quickly without traumatizing his daughter.

As a young soldier in Vietnam, he shot and killed a woman by mistake in circumstances similar to a scene portrayed in Apocalypse Now. He doesn’t know how many enemy soldiers he may have killed on purpose. He patrolled rivers on a gunboat, hunting Viet Cong and spraying Agent Orange along the riverbanks. He tried to blow the head off of his boat captain in revenge after that superior had locked him into a tiny dark hatch, but the flame from the boat’s gun barrel only singed the top of the officer’s head. That officer then forcibly and vindictively removed Rick and another soldier from the boat, abandoning them on the riverbank with only knives to defend themselves against the Viet Cong and claiming that they were deserters.

Back home as a young cop, Rick aggressively went after fleeing criminals, at one point using his car at high speed to ram a suspect’s car before that man could escape into a nearby neighborhood and take hostages.

But the same Rick ran into a burning building to rescue several developmentally disabled babies. While carrying out the last two babies he collapsed from smoke inhalation and shielded the babies with his body until they were all rescued by arriving firefighters.

I asked how he could reconcile his killer instinct with his humanitarian impulses, and he just laughed. Obviously to him they’re two sides of the same coin: life. And death is part of life, including his own, so he’ll do whatever it takes to die when he’s good and ready. And he expects to be good and ready soon. He prefers a violent death.

I tried to talk him out of killing himself, but he’s made up his mind. And I had to admit to him that while I hope to live a long, healthy life and die a natural death, I can imagine circumstances and suffering where I too might prefer to end my life sooner rather than later, in my case peacefully and legally through lethal drugs. So I empathized with him about the challenges of living and dying gracefully, while expressing my concern that he not act too hastily in committing suicide.

As we spoke, the hum of the nearby freeway could be heard outside his windows. Not far away, vultures and red-tailed hawks circled above Morgan Territory and Mt. Diablo. Life and death were the backdrop to our laughter at our impending demise. I don’t want to lose Rick, but one of us has to go first, and I’d rather that it not be me.

It’s an ugly world, and it’s a beautiful world. I choose to spend more time living in the latter.

Easter Sunday, April 21, 2019

As a former Catholic and former Christian, I don’t know if Jesus was crucified or resurrected, though I doubt that either event took place. But whether or not they happened, I don’t think it really matters. If the primary message of Jesus was love, then love should be the main focus of Easter and of every day for those who follow his teachings. And love should probably be the central focus for the rest of us as well.

But whom or what to love?

In the United States the worship of the Almighty Dollar, along with the materialism that goes with it, seems to be the predominant religion, followed by the veneration of Almighty Guns and the “freedom” they supposedly represent. Christianity and its manifesto of love are probably a distant third among the belief systems in this country. And we are not alone among Western countries in minimizing the doctrines of Jesus.

Nationalism is another philosophy that is increasingly prevalent around the world, as evidenced by last week’s violence in Northern Ireland. The instructions of Jesus seem not to have taken root among many of the Protestants and Catholics on that part of the island, as national identity (preference for political affiliation with Ireland or Britain) supersedes spiritual beliefs.

Religious identity is often stronger than religious teachings, as exemplified by today’s Easter bombings of Catholic churches in Sri Lanka by (apparently) Islamist terrorists. Christians, Muslims, and Jews believe in God, Hindus believe in many gods, and Buddhists believe in rebirth and the law of karma, yet followers of all those religions continue to engage in violence against one another in spite of their religious philosophies. Where is the love in these behaviors?

Romantic love may be the most common and most appealing of the various forms of devotion, rivaling attachments to money, guns, nations, and religions. But idealized love can lead to disappointment or grief when it ends with a breakup or a death. Even so, I allowed myself to be swept up in the fun of the unlikely affinity between the English teacher Anna and the ruler of Siam as last night I watched The King and I musical on TV. I love the song Shall We Dance, and enjoyed seeing Deborah Kerr and Yul Brynner’s characters cavorting about the king’s palace to the joyful melody of that song. Yet their budding relationship ended in sadness as the king died, apparently as a result of the stressful conflict he experienced between his traditional beliefs and the more progressive attitudes of Anna. Parting is such sweet sorrow, as Juliet said to Romeo.

I would be delighted to find my Juliet or my Anna and waltz around a palace or anywhere else with her. But since that form of love is not currently available to me, I’ll have to turn to the only kind of intimacy that is accessible to me at this time: love of soul/inner buddha/the god or goddess within.

So on this Easter Sunday, I invite my inner Christ consciousness, my interior being, to join my outer persona in a wild and passionate love affair. Shall we dance?

April 15, 2019

Idealism or pragmatism – which attitude is wiser? This was the gist of the phone conversation I just had with my old friend Joseph.

I had called him on another matter, and then asked him what he thought of my last post, The Magnificent Seven (April 10). As someone who has known me for half a century, he perceptively observed that that post reflected my ongoing need for hero worship. Whether those heroes were white cowboys riding to the rescue of Mexican villagers in a Hollywood movie, or Japanese Buddhist leaders exhorting Joseph and me to follow their vision of world peace, I have always had a need to look up to someone who could represent an exemplary way of living, a model for the kind of man I could someday become. My father was a good man and role model, but I didn’t fully appreciate him until later in life. I grew up needing or wanting someone to inspire me to fulfill my potential, and arguably I’m still looking, consciously or unconsciously, for such a figure today. Even if it turns out that such a personage already exists somewhere within me.

Interestingly it was one of our Buddhist leaders, Masayasu Sadanaga (later known as George M. Williams, but that’s another story), who in 1972 fell in love with that year’s Man of La Mancha movie and soundtrack. He decided that the movie would be the theme of our 1973 convention in Japan, so we began singing The Impossible Dream at our Buddhist meetings. We admired the fictional Don Quixote and Sancho Panza characters created by Spanish author Miguel de Cervantes. I still remember a scene from the movie, in which Peter O’Toole, playing both Cervantes and Quixote, says “Life itself seems lunatic. Who knows where madness lies? Perhaps to be too practical is madness, to surrender dreams – this may be madness. To seek treasure where there is only trash. Too much sanity may be madness! And maddest of all – to see life as it is and not as it should be!”

So we became Quixotic in our quest for the impossible dream of world peace, and I became Quixotic in my hope for enlightenment and for worldly success.

Coincidentally, I had given a foot-tall wooden carving of Don Quixote to my dad as a Christmas gift circa 1967, and he kept the figure on his bookshelf for 40 years until his death. Now I have that statuette on my Buddhist altar, symbolizing the idealism of my spiritual path. Yet I can’t help wondering if that optimism is naive and foolish.

Joseph described himself today as a pragmatist, and we joked that he is Sancho Panza to my Don Quixote. He said that he doesn’t try to change the world or make his life better; rather, he appreciates and accepts things the way they are. I acknowledged the wisdom of that approach, while admitting that I would still like to make improvements in the life that I have. But my wishful thinking creates suffering whenever I feel frustrated that my desired improvements are not happening. He pointed out that I have much to be grateful for: excellent health, living (simply) in the same beautiful neighborhood for 34 years, the ability to hike and travel in ways that he and many others cannot. I agreed that I am very fortunate indeed, and added that I do appreciate my good circumstances. But for whatever reason I’m hard-wired for idealism in this lifetime, though as Joseph pointed out, I may be too attached to my vision of the way things could or should be.

Perhaps the wisest approach is a balance between the romanticism of Don Quixote and the realism of Sancho Panza. Yes, being a dreamer can be hopelessly utopian, but it can also provide reassurance and inspiration. Being practical is more sensible, down-to-earth, and grounded in reality, but can be too utilitarian and lack the magic and joy of a visionary. Don Quixote was a delusional zealot, but I admire his passion for his quest and his platonic love for his imaginary Dulcinea. Sancho Panza was content to be who he was, and Joseph laughs a lot and enjoys his life just the way it is.

I think I want to be Sancho Quixote.

April 10, 2019

Inspiration. Hope. Joy.

These three words only begin to capture the rapture I feel every time I listen to the theme song from The Magnificent Seven. Yesterday I happened to stumble across the soaring music of Elmer Bernstein’s movie score on YouTube, after not hearing the instrumental or seeing the movie for awhile. Wow. The gloriously uplifting tune makes me want to saddle up and ride to the rescue of downtrodden people, whether they want to be rescued by me or not. The powerful music is energetic, masculine, and very, very American: optimistic, and evocative of our wide open spaces.

Perhaps I love the film score and the movie in part because they are from a simpler time. When the movie was released in October of 1960, I was eight years old, and the country was about to elect a young president who would call for a New Frontier of social reforms and space exploration. The stars of the film were at the beginning of their storied careers: Yul Brynner, Steve McQueen, Charles Bronson, Robert Vaughn, James Coburn, and Eli Wallach. I love the story, inspired by Akira Kurosawa’s 1954 film The Seven Samurai, of seven misfits who for different reasons decide to work together to defend a little Mexican village against a large group of bandits.

The seven gunslingers were rugged individuals in the Old West who were persuaded by Yul Brynner’s character to rise above their selfish interests to help the bullied farmers stand up to the cutthroats who were tyrannizing them. Whatever their original motivations, the seven became heroic in their protection of the vulnerable peasants.

Even as a boy I knew that westerns romanticized the dark side of that time and place in American history. I was especially aware of our mistreatment of the Indians. But then, as now, I needed to believe in the altruism represented by the seven fighters. I wanted to know that people could transcend their self-centered behavior to serve a higher ideal. And the dramatic excitement of the seven adventurers was beautifully captured by the epic scale of the movie’s theme song, which somehow managed to evoke the courage of the seven as well as the endless possibilities and beauty of the western landscape.

The Magnificent Seven movie and film score offer a welcome antidote to our current national and international moods of pessimism and divisiveness. I personally need the goosebumps and inspirational chills I get every time I hear that music. Sometimes I feel sad and disappointed that I haven’t lived up to the idealism inspired by the film and its anthem, but I’m still hopeful that some day, or some lifetime, I will. I believe that we all have a yearning deep inside us to serve others and serve the greater good. And in this era of rapid climate change and social turmoil, we need such enthusiasm and passion, such hope and inspiration, to rescue ourselves and give ourselves the joy that is rightfully ours.

April 5, 2019

My friends Birgit and Jeff lost their beautiful home in the devastating California wine country wildfire of 2017, and they came within minutes of losing their lives. Most of their neighbors had already escaped the roaring flames, but one neighbor, Richard, unsure of whether Birgit and Jeff had already evacuated, pounded on their door to awaken them in the middle of the night. Several neighbors had tried to call them to alert them to the imminent danger, but fire-caused power outages prevented Birgit and Jeff from receiving the phone calls. Richard saved their lives. Forty two people died in that fire.

Why were Birgit and Jeff fortunate survivors when other people were not? Was it just luck that they had such a thoughtful neighbor? These are the questions that Birgit and I discussed two days ago as we hiked at Lake Sonoma with our Wednesday hiking group.

Of course, on one level these questions are unanswerable. How, when, and where we die are mysteries to our conscious minds, conundrums about which we can only speculate. But that didn’t stop Birgit and me from wondering aloud about possible explanations for her and Jeff’s good fortune. Although she cannot be sure, Birgit thinks that they may have survived because they had a reason to live: their adult daughter, and Birgit’s mother, both of whom would have been crushed by the shocking deaths of Birgit and Jeff. Whether it was guardian angels, their souls, or good karma, something seemed to be protecting them that dreadful night.

If that is true, however, why didn’t a similar someone or something also prevent the deaths of the 42 people who did die that evening? Did those unfortunate people die randomly, or did they run out of luck? What about all the people who die every day from apparently untimely events such as car accidents, plane crashes, shootings, war, or sudden medical emergencies? And what about all the people who do live through those catastrophes, then feel survivor’s guilt because they made it and others didn’t?

There is a possible explanation for how, when, and where we die, but it’s an explanation that isn’t provable, so for many people it is not believable. Even so, it interests me, not only because it offers meaning to our deaths, but also because intuitively it feels right, at least to me.

Who decides when we die? We do. Not consciously, unless we commit suicide. But rather, on an unconscious, soul level, our interior being decides that it’s time to move on, either because we’ve completed our tasks for this lifetime, or because of karma that we have incurred and that needs to be redressed.

Abraham, a non-physical teacher of mine, put it this way: Because we know that life is eternal, and we know that there is no ending to you, if one of you is killed in an earthquake or crashes your plane, or any number of other very creative ways you have found to make your exit into the Non-Physical, because we know the whole picture we grieve not a moment for any of you. But from your more shortsighted point of view in physical, a lot of you grieve tremendously…The timing of your death is always chosen by you. (Abraham-Hicks Publications)

Why did Birgit and Jeff survive the fire? They don’t know, and neither do I. At least, our personalities don’t know. But if Abraham is right, then some part of them does know the answer to that question. And that information may become available to them once they do die and shed the limitations of their physical bodies and minds.

For now, they’re rebuilding their home and enjoying their lives. And tomorrow night Birgit and I are going to take pleasure in Jeff’s quartet’s singing performance. Life goes on, and when it ends, it still goes on. I hope to hear Jeff sing for centuries to come.

April 2, 2019

It is endlessly fascinating to me how creative we humans are in finding ways to exalt other people or ideas above ourselves. Celebrities, sports heroes, politicians, or religious figures can take on a prominence in our imaginations that supersedes the value of our own identity or self worth.

The tendency to place other beings upon pedestals of reverence was reiterated for me today as I received another email from my friend Karen in continuation of a conversation we began earlier in reference to my March 30 essay, Making Peace (below). In that essay, I had quoted extensively from a book excerpt from Ajahn Sumedho, a Buddhist monk, an excerpt that Karen had kindly shared with me and other members of our meditation group. While finding the quote insightful and wise, I had questioned some aspects of his teaching, prompting a gentle rebuke from Karen: “When I receive a teaching from a teacher of this caliber, I don’t feel it is my place to disagree. It is to be contemplated, chewed thoroughly over time, and digested. Practiced. I may not always like what I hear coming from the mouths of my esteemed teachers, or the suttas (sutras, or teachings). Sometimes the teachings make me uncomfortable, but so be it. The teachings are not meant for us to like or not like, but to lead us to real freedom.”

Now, in fairness to Karen, in a subsequent email she walked back that mild admonishment, clarifying that “I guess I do feel strongly that the teachings and practice sink to a deeper level than our (or I should say my) cognitive sphere, but as the …email I forwarded this morning says, there is more than one way to practice. It all has to be worked out individually.”

Even so, I felt a need to explain to her why I feel so ardently about my need to question authority: “I don’t share your absolute faith in the Thai forest monks, but I do respect them, and am always willing to hear what they have to say…However, allow me to share with you why my perspective is different than yours on the question of allegiance to any religious tradition. As you know, I spent 15 years following the Japanese Buddhist traditions of Nichiren Shoshu (priesthood) and Soka Gakkai International (lay organization). These organizations were once in lockstep with one another, but since I left them in 1984 they have diverged and are now bitter rivals. What they both had (and still have) in common is the expectation of unquestioning loyalty to their dogmas and to their respective leaders (the High Priest and the SGI president). I personally encountered verbal abuse for daring to question their orthodoxies. To me it is a sign of a personality or religious cult when a priest/lay leader/monk cannot be questioned. I refuse to put any religious authority on a pedestal. That is why I will not bow down to a statue of the Buddha or to a monk, after literally and figuratively having done so for years. I don’t object to you or others in our group bowing down to the Buddha statue, nor do I have a problem with your reverence for the various ajahns (teachers). I agree with you that ‘the teachings and practice sink to a deeper level than our cognitive sphere,’ which is why I’m willing to question not only their teachings but my response to those teachings. I question everything and everyone, including myself. It’s part of my learning process. But I will no longer give my power away to the Buddha or Jesus or a monk by believing that their buddha nature is superior to mine. I trust the Law and not the Person. If a monk offers a teaching that rings true to me, I’ll attempt to practice it. But as you said, it all has to be worked out individually.”

So I suppose that Karen and I are more or less in agreement about the need to honor one’s own individual path. But given the hard lessons I had to learn about the pitfalls of idealizing glorified gurus, I’m probably more reluctant to exalt leaders with halos over their heads.

Having said that, I still have my heroes: Abraham Lincoln, Cochise and Tom Jeffords, Crazy Horse, my dad, and others. Flawed beings, all. I respect and appreciate them, but don’t idolize them. If there’s any being I revere, it would have to be the source energy of love and kindness within each one of us. Whatever that is. And conveniently, it’s invisible, so I can’t find fault with it.

In Love I Trust.

March 30, 2019

When we say to you, make peace with where you are, we want you to make peace with where everyone is; we want you to make peace with the world events; we want you to make peace with where your friend is in relationship with where your friend wants to be. We want it to be all right with you where anybody is. Abraham, Abraham-Hicks Publications

When this quote arrived in my email inbox today, it was a message I needed to hear again. It’s a message to relax and let go of expectations and worries, and it’s a reminder that I need to hear frequently. My mind insists on creating new dramas, or repeating old dramas, or otherwise finding or inventing stories to chew on or to become indignant about. And if I don’t have enough on my personal plate to make me feel discontented, my imagination is quite happy to latch on to political or social problems that the New York Times or PBS Newshour think I should be obsessing about. My friend Michelle suggested that I might want to consider fasting from news consumption, and she’s probably right. I’m not quite ready to do that, but I’m getting closer to exploring the possibility that, when it comes to national and international issues, ignorance is bliss.

Yesterday my friend Karen from our Thursday night meditation group forwarded an email quote from a Buddhist teacher that I found illuminating, even if I didn’t completely agree with it:

The freedom from suffering the Buddha talked about isn’t in itself an end to pain and stress. Instead, it’s a matter of creating a choice. I can either get caught up in the pain that comes to me, attach to it and be overwhelmed by it, or I can embrace it, and through acceptance and understanding, not add more suffering to the existing pain, the unfair experiences, the criticisms or the misery that I face. As with the Buddha: even after his enlightenment, he had to experience all kinds of horrendous things. His cousin tried to murder him, people tried to frame him, blame him and criticize him. He experienced severe physical illness. But the Buddha didn’t create suffering around those experiences. His response was never one of anger, resentment, hatred or blame, but one of acknowledgement.

This has been a really valuable thing for me to know. It’s taught me not to ask for favours in life, or to hope that if I meditate a lot, I can avoid unpleasant experiences. ‘God, I’ve been a monk for thirty three years. Please reward me for being a good boy.’ I’ve tried that and it doesn’t work. To accept life without making any pleas is liberating, because I no longer feel a need to control or manipulate conditions for my own benefit. I don’t need to worry or feel anxious about my future. There’s a sense of confidence, a fearlessness that comes through learning to trust, to relax, to open to life, and to investigate experience rather than to resist or be frightened by it. If you’re willing to learn from the suffering in life, you’ll find the unshakability of your own mind. Ajahn Sumedho, Intuitive Awareness

My initial reaction to the above quotes from Ajahn Sumedho was that they suggest a passive or cerebral approach, but when I emailed my objection to Karen, she wrote back saying “It is really important to take note of the part where Ajahn talks about investigation. The practice is anything but passive. Investigation is an activity of the mind that requires focus and also, if it is going to lead to real acceptance and not just distancing, then opening one’s heart to one’s experience.”

I still don’t agree with his statements, It’s taught me not to ask for favours in life…To accept life without making any pleas is liberating…I disagree because, at least for me, asking my higher self for favors or making pleas (to my higher self) are forms of prayer, forms of asking or of stating my intentions for having a better life. I don’t think that prayer is resistance, as he seems to imply, though it certainly suggests a desire for a better outcome than one is currently experiencing. Whether one directs one’s prayers to God, to the buddha within, to the Force, or to angels, there’s a lot to be said for articulating one’s preferences.

In any case, where I think that Abraham and Ajahn Sumedho would agree is about the need to relax and to make peace with where you are.

And once we’ve made peace with our personal status and with world events, what else is there to do? I guess the only thing left to do is to lighten up and have fun.

March 24, 2019

Twenty years ago she was given a death sentence: inflammatory breast cancer, a rare and aggressive form of breast cancer. She survived. Since then it has come back three times, most recently a year ago, and she’s still thriving.

I first met Kay 50 years ago in high school. I was 17, she was 15, and we both were newly minted Buddhists. Being young and full of idealism and naivete, we enthusiastically embraced the goals of individual enlightenment and world peace. I was to eventually learn that our Buddhist organization had a darker side, but at the time I saw our efforts through rose-colored glasses, and Kay was with me every step of the way. One time, in 1972, we had both been desperate to go on a group pilgrimage to the head temple in Japan, and went to the airport with bags packed even though we were not on the list. When the plane took off without us, we were momentarily deflated. Then one of us had an idea: why not go to a restaurant in Berkeley and celebrate our defeat? And so we did, laughing about our disappointment and making further determinations to advance the cause of Nichiren Buddhism. We even donated our Japan travel money to our organization, even though in my case I had earned it through many long hours of washing dishes at $3/hour.

Kay went away to college in Oregon, and I stayed in Berkeley as a student at the university and as a kitchen helper/dishwasher. We stayed in touch by letter and phone, and I went to her wedding in 1977. But although both of us have continued our Buddhist practice, she has remained a loyal member of Soka Gakkai International, and I left the group in 1984. In fact, that divergence in allegiance caused us to lose touch for many years, and I thought I might never see her again.

Then in 1999 I ran into her mother at a grocery store, and her mom told me of Kay’s cancer diagnosis. Shocked, I put aside my past reservations and called her. I didn’t want to have any regrets about having her die without saying goodbye. But instead of saying goodbye, we said hello, and picked up right where we had left off: laughing. And so it has been ever since.

Kay is one of the most positive people I have ever met. She makes Pollyanna seem like Ebenezer Scrooge by comparison. Even the ever-present specter of death doesn’t faze her. I spoke with her by phone earlier today, and we talked candidly about the possibility of the cancer finally claiming her life. And that’s why she has decided to travel and enjoy her life now, rather than looking forward to retirement. She still works four days a week, and has been visiting her kids and grandkids and traveling with her husband. She treats every day as if it might be her last.

To validate her decision to travel as much as she can while she can, I told her the story of my aunt Maria. My uncle John and aunt Maria loved to travel, but were saving their money to enjoy traveling in their retirement. John had already retired, but Maria was still working full time when she learned that she had terminal cancer. She became a recluse, so I wasn’t able to speak with her, but I later learned that she was bitter about never being able to retire and enjoy seeing the world with John. She died a few months after her diagnosis, disappointed at having postponed her life for a future that never arrived. Kay and I both see Maria’s story as a warning: live for today, not tomorrow, because tomorrow may never come.

Kay credits her Buddhist chanting for her survival, and it certainly has contributed to her fighting spirit and her joie de vivre. But I think her sunny disposition has played an equally important role in her longevity. She’s ready to die, but even more importantly, she’s ready to live. Now.

March 20, 2019

I can understand how we humans are more comfortable with people like ourselves. It’s sometimes less stressful to be around other folks of the same religion, gender, sexual orientation, political persuasion, nationality, age range, economic class, or sports team fandom. We don’t have to explain or defend ourselves or our beliefs. We can let down our guard and relax without worrying about being judged or criticized.

But killing people because they look or think differently than we do? Verbally or physically abusing other human beings for no reason, other than that they are not members of our own tribe? No, I don’t understand that at all.

As much as I enjoy traveling the world and encountering people of different ethnicities, I find it easier to relate to other white people, at least initially, whether at home in the United States or in Canada or Europe. There is simply less likelihood of cultural misunderstandings. But while it may often be simpler for me to communicate with people of European heritage, it can sometimes be more rewarding to reach across racial or religious differences and connect with fellow human beings living in very different realities from my own. It’s good to be reminded of our common humanity, even if at times it might seem that we have little in common other than our shared species.

I don’t blame the white nationalists for wanting to preserve the European cultural attributes that have led to prosperity, stability, and opportunities for so many in our Western civilization. I prefer living in a Western society myself. I would rather see Third World countries become more like Europe, North America, Australia, and New Zealand than the other way around. But one of the hard-won lessons still being learned by the more advanced human societies is the importance of tolerance. If we fail to preserve that most important virtue, we will lose the glue that holds our developed commonwealths together.

So what I would say to the white supremacists around the world is this: rather than fearing or resenting Muslims, black people, Jews, or others, why not celebrate the positive qualities of the white culture you claim to admire? It’s so much easier on your karmic repercussions. You don’t have to love or even like non-white people, but at least leave them alone and build a constructive alternative to the chaos of so many developing countries. Hatred is toxic to our bodies, minds, and spirits, but being creative and optimistic is empowering, even if and especially if we are unemployed or sick or have broken families. Appreciate your European and/or American heritage, rather than denigrating someone else’s religion or culture. If you think that Christianity is so wonderful, prove it by becoming a role model for the teachings of Jesus.

But if you insist on harming other people, remember this: no one ever gets away with anything, ever. There’s no such thing as impunity or injustice in the grand scheme of things. The law of cause and effect will teach you painful lessons in karmic justice. And that means that, more than likely, your soul will choose to be reborn in one of the very groups you now despise, in order to learn lessons in compassion and empathy to compensate for the negativity you create in this lifetime. So think about that before you continue upon a foolish and ignorant path. Jesus and the Buddha didn’t hate anybody, and if you are wise, neither will you.

Trade in your white for light.

March 16, 2019

To pick a flower, or not to pick a flower – that is the question.

Recently I went hiking at Armstrong Redwoods State Park in Guerneville, CA with some people from one of the hiking groups to which I belong. The sunny day was a welcome respite from the heavy rains that had caused the nearby Russian River to flood the towns of Guerneville and Monte Rio. At one point we stopped to take a break by a cluster of daffodils at Bullfrog Pond, and “Donna” mentioned that in a previous hike to the same spot she was about to pick those same daffodils when her boyfriend spotted a ranger and warned her to stop. It’s illegal to remove plants or animals from state and national parks. Donna explained to us that she knew she shouldn’t pick flowers in a park, but she rationalized her intended behavior by saying that the flowers would soon fade away, and besides that, few people would see them anyway due to a road closure caused by the heavy rains. I could have pointed out that had she picked the daffodils on her previous hike, we wouldn’t have been able to enjoy them on our hike that day. But, not wanting to shame or embarrass her, I said nothing.

The following week I happened to return to Bullfrog Pond with “Carla,” one of Donna’s and my hiking companions from the previous week. Once again we admired the daffodils, but since Donna wasn’t with us this time I decided to ask Carla about her views on the ethics of picking flowers on public property. To my surprise, she said that she could understand Donna’s rationalization, since it is true that the yellow beauty of daffodils is fleeting. But she also acknowledged her own anger at having flower thieves dig up decorative plants at one of her previous residences, and severely cut back ti plants at another former home.

I in turn mentioned an encounter I had a few months earlier with a homeless man in front of my local library. As I walked along the sidewalk I saw a man enter the landscaping with a pair of clippers and proceed to snip orange poppies and pink camellias from the bushes. I’ve seen the man around town many times with his dog and a shopping cart filled with his belongings, and I know that he likes to wear a garland of flowers in his hair, but never knew where he got the blossoms. Now I knew. I stopped, and debated whether as a good citizen I should say something to the man or whether I should mind my own business and leave him alone. I decided to speak up. I said to him, “Don’t you think it would be better to leave the flowers for everyone to enjoy?” He looked at me, seething, as if he was showing great restraint at my rudeness. He said nothing, and continued to clip the flowers. I thought of calling the police, but decided that since he wasn’t uprooting and stealing the plants I wouldn’t take any further action.

Why did I choose to confront the homeless man and not Donna? Probably because with Donna there were other people around, and I didn’t want to question her ethics in front of them. Also because she’s only an occasional hiking comrade, and I don’t know her well enough to risk alienating her with what could be perceived to be a holier than thou attitude. With the homeless man I had less to lose, unless he had chosen to become belligerent as a result of being accosted by a stranger.

Carla then told me of an environmental science term that I did not remember having heard of before: the tragedy of the commons. I later learned that the phrase was coined by American ecologist and philosopher Garrett Hardin in 1968 to refer to selfish individuals, governments, or corporations that take natural resources for themselves without consideration of the common good. Examples of this would be strip mining, clear-cutting forests, polluting air or water, population growth, or overfishing. Hardin later said that he should have labeled such egoistic behavior “the tragedy of the unregulated commons.”

My understanding of the concept of the commons is that, ideally, natural resources should be protected or shared via some form of voluntary cooperation, and failing that, that they should be regulated by governments to ensure that the harvesting of such resources is sustainable and shared equitably. It’s to everyone’s benefit that we all enjoy clean air and water and healthy fisheries on an ongoing basis.

But most people and institutions don’t understand the need for long term planning or for a broader planetary perspective. Even the idea of the commons is poorly understood worldwide. In my travels in India, Egypt, Morocco, Cambodia, and elsewhere, I’ve been disgusted by the garbage I’ve seen strewn everywhere. In speaking to educated locals in those countries, I’ve learned that poor people understand the desirability of keeping their own homes clean, but they view public spaces as not their responsibility, so they don’t think twice about throwing garbage out of train or bus windows or littering as they walk down the street. My informants tell me that the solution to the problem of trash in public places is to educate people about the health and social benefits of a clean environment.

Whether it’s uneducated people in poor countries, or short-sighted governments and avaricious corporations in developing and developed countries, the problem is the same worldwide: a failure to understand that we are all on this planet together, and that we need a radical adjustment of our understanding of what it means to be human. And a dramatic reevaluation of our ability to coexist with other species.

I’m not a socialist or a capitalist. I’m fine with free enterprise as long as it doesn’t exploit people or nature, and I’m fine with socialism as long as it doesn’t become totalitarian. I am a pragmatist, which means that I recognize the existential necessity of defending the common good and promoting the well being of the entire planet, not just a few wealthy individuals, countries, or businesses. The climate change that we are already experiencing will increasingly become harmful to all of us, but political, economic, and technical solutions will not be enough. In my view, what is needed internationally is a change of consciousness, a change in our collective mindset or morality, as to how we see our world and how we see each other.

How will we achieve such a psychological, social, or spiritual awakening? I don’t know. It does seem that we humans are choosing to learn these survival and prosperity lessons the hard way, at least for the foreseeable future. We may end up destroying much of the planet as part of our learning process of saving it, to paraphrase a quote from the Vietnam war. But it is my hope that eventually, consciously or unconsciously, we will evolve to the point that we will learn to live in harmony with each other and with the Earth. We really have no other viable alternative.

In the meantime, maybe a lot more individual and collective self reflection and mindfulness are in order: Where do we draw the line between mine and ours?