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.

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.