January 24, 2025

Sometimes it takes a dream to make someone wake up.

I’m being hunted by a killer, pursued down a street and then chased into the killer’s home. The would-be assassin has superpowers or magic, and I have none, but try as he might he can’t kill me. Even though I have no weapons, I’m resourceful and agile. We keep fighting to a draw, and I keep resisting and then escaping, but neither of us can kill the other. Our battles are stressful, intense, and endless. Then I hear, or sense, or know, a message: “Don’t feed the beast. Step out of the story, and fly higher.”

As I awakened yesterday morning with those words, I realized that on one level I could follow that advice by simply getting out of bed, thus ending the dream. But as I did so, I intuitively grasped the deeper meaning of the message.

Like many of you, I have been disturbed by some of the harsh rhetoric, threats, and chaos emanating from Washington this inauguration week. As a lifelong consumer of current events journalism, I often get temporarily sucked into the dramas and conflicts of politics, wars, and social issues. And I intend to continue being well informed on many of those developments.

But it’s one thing to educate myself about concerns such as climate change, Russia’s invasion of Ukraine, or having a convicted felon in the White House. It’s quite another matter if I allow myself to be triggered enough to participate in the culture of contempt, or what some sociologists have called the outrage industrial complex, that is being exacerbated by greedy social media companies, malevolent Russian hatemongers, and self-serving politicians.

When my dream voice told me “Don’t feed the beast,” I understood as I woke up that it was advising me to cease feeding the primitive human instincts of anger, resentment, and revenge, and instead to replace that resistance with something more positive.

I can, eventually, learn to let go of my story of who I think I am – my ego – and let go of the tribalism, nationalism, and delusional stories of who the human race thinks we are. I need to get my spiritual pilot’s license, and fly higher.

How do I do that? How do we do that?

I’m attempting to raise my vibrational frequency, my attitude, my consciousness, through singing, prayers, breathing meditation, positive intentions, and reading inspirational materials. And elevating my awareness of divinity through an appreciation of nature. Oak trees are my saints, redwood forests are my cathedrals, and the crashing waves of the nearby Pacific Ocean are my heaven.

But an interesting question remains: who, or what, was that dream voice, the author of that profound message?

October 31, 2024

On this day of Halloween, I’m reminded of the various strategies that humans have used to ward off evil spirits. In this era of political stress and world wars, there’s no shortage of dark forces to contend with.

In ancient Ireland, the birthplace of Halloween (specifically, the Oweynagat Cave at Rathcroghan in County Roscommon), people wore costumes during the Celtic harvest festival of Samhain to conceal their identity from scary beings that might harm them or take them down into the underworld.

Recently I’ve been reading about – and remembering – a different method of facing one’s fear of death: singing.

My mother’s death in July has prompted my siblings and cousins and me to rediscover her father’s World War I letters from France. My grandfather William Kenney was an artillery mechanic in the American Expeditionary Forces, and in at least one of his letters he made a passing reference to the 1917 song “Over There” that lifted the spirits of American soldiers such as my grandfather as they headed to war in Europe:

Over there, over there, send the word, send the word over there,

That the Yanks are coming, the Yanks are coming, the drums rum-tumming everywhere,

So prepare, say a prayer, send the word, send the word to beware,

We’ll be over, we’re coming over, and we won’t come back till it’s over over there.

In May I was in Pennsylvania for three weeks, visiting sites from American history such as the French and Indian War, the Revolutionary War, and the Civil War. I was reminded of the Civil War songs “When Johnny Comes Marching Home” and “The Battle Cry of Freedom.” I also recalled the lyrics of a Revolutionary War song we learned in the fifth grade:

Why come ye hither Redcoats? What mind your madness fills?

For there’s danger in our valleys, and there’s danger on our hills.

Oh, hear ye forth the singing of the bugle wild and free?

For soon you’ll know the ringing of the rifle from the tree.

For the rifle [clap, clap, clap], for the rifle [clap, clap, clap},

In our hands it is no trifle.

And that song about American colonists fighting a British invasion led me to remember the many Irish songs of rebellion that my ancestors sang to give them the courage to face overwhelming odds as they risked death during seven centuries of British colonial oppression of their island:

We’re on the one road, sharing the one load, we’re on the road to God knows where.

We’re on the one road, it may be the wrong road, but we’re together now who cares?

North men, South men, comrades all, Dublin Belfast Cork and Donegal

We’re on the one road, singing a song, singing a soldier’s song.

I suppose that singing songs of war is a form of whistling past the graveyard – facing one’s fears of death by summoning a cheerful attitude of confidence and hope. It’s not unlike what my friend Julie once joked about regarding her spiritual path: “I practice maintenance Buddhism – it keeps you feeling good, while everything around you crumbles.”

I love to sing, in good times and in bad times. Unfortunately I’m concerned that we humans are headed into times of even greater turmoil and peril than we have been experiencing recently. And in this country we face the possibility of a period of dangerous political instability in the near future.

I don’t know what goblins or other negative energy may be unleashed to assail us in the aftermath of the November 5th election. But I intend to face it with several rollicking songs in my heart.

September 19, 2024

I was looking forward to a reunion with two longtime friends. But when we finally met for breakfast two days ago, the result was bittersweet.

I’ve known Bart and Monty (not their real names) since the 1960’s, when the three of us were young men devoted to a Buddhist mass movement. All three of us have continued our Buddhist practice, but we now live hours apart in different areas of northern California. And only one of us remains involved with the organization that was once so important to all of us.

Now in our seventies, we know that we don’t have many years left in our current bodies and personalities before we trade them in for new models. So it’s understandable that we would spend a couple of hours laughing and reminiscing about the past.

Except that there was little laughter in our “conversation.”

Monty and I were dismayed to discover that Bart had no curiosity about or interest in our lives. The two hour reunion was an extended monologue by Bart about his stories from the past and his current involvement with his Buddhist cult. Bart didn’t talk with Monty or me – he talked off of us, bouncing his memories and his opinions against his dumbfounded audience of two.

Last night Monty and I spoke by phone to process our disappointment in the outcome of our much anticipated reunion. Monty was understandably shocked and offended by Bart’s cavalier treatment of us and his dogmatic approach to life. We both realized belatedly that perhaps the three of us had never really been friends, only comrades in a common cause, and that our relationships had been superficial and maybe even delusional. Both of us acknowledged how depressed we were as we each drove home separately after the encounter.

But I couldn’t help but wonder what had caused Bart to go from a passionate youthful idealist living for the future to a jaded fanatic with no social skills who is living mostly in the past. Is it his dead-end low-wage job that has robbed him of hope? His failed marriages? Is he lonely, alienated, despairing? Or is it some form of age-related cognitive decline? He reminds me of a classmate of mine who went from being a high school football star to a depressed alcoholic for whom high school was the high point of his life. Both of them are lost boys who never really grew up.

It’s easy to judge someone else’s life choices or karma. But there is much that we don’t really understand about ourselves, let alone our fellow humans.

There is a Japanese nature image known as komorebi, which refers to the shimmering light and shadows caused by sunlight peeking through the shade of trees. This contrast of beauty and darkness is a good metaphor for the human condition.

Two days ago I saw the melancholy shadows of Bart’s personality. But I will never forget the light of his soul that I caught glimpses of so long ago, and that I believe still shines above the forest canopy of his current incarnation.

August 1, 2024

I’m feeling happy, relieved, and depressed these days, and I guess it should come as no surprise. My mom died in her sleep five days ago at the age of 93.

So now I’m in the process of trying to figure out: Who was she? What was my relationship with her? How could I love someone so much who was so different than me?

Part of my appreciation of her stems from childhood memories of her taking good care of me when I crushed my finger in a collapsing folding chair, and when I had the measles, and when I had my tonsils out, and when I suffered miserably so many times from poison oak. But maybe I’m grateful to her because she never stopped loving me.

Margaret Mary Kenney was a very pretty girl and a beautiful Irish colleen who grew up in a Catholic family of 11 in Berkeley during the Great Depression and World War II. Proud of her good looks, she was popular with the boys at Berkeley High School. Her devout mother made sure that she went to confession every Saturday and Mass every Sunday, yet she got in trouble for talking back to one of the nuns who tried to rein in her free spirit. Later, when she divorced my dad and realized that Church rules now prohibited her from receiving communion, she left the Church but never lost her respect for the Virgin Mary.

My mother eventually became a good cook, but not when I was growing up. Our dinners consisted of gourmet meals such as hot dog casserole (hot dogs in tomato sauce from a can), tuna casserole, and Spam and lima beans. When my young parents invited another couple to dinner at their apartment, my mom treated everyone to spaghetti and mashed potatoes.

She was also prone to exaggeration. As a boy I came across a rattlesnake on our road, and then watched as a neighbor decapitated it with a shovel. When I told my mom what I had seen, she called up a friend and regaled the woman with a story about how the vicious snake had lashed out at me and nearly bitten and killed me.

When I was 14, my parents divorced, and at age 35 my mom began her five year frolic in the dating game. She reveled in her miniskirts, hot pants, and white go go boots, while driving her sporty Mustang, much to the embarrassment of her four kids. Fortunately for her and for us, she eventually married Norm, a fine man to whom she remained devoted for the rest of her life.

Perhaps because money had been tight in her Depression-era family, later on, in due course, when she and Norm prospered, Mom delighted in playing tennis at their country club, and was stylish and elegant in her clothing, car, and home, as opposed to my…uh…simple lifestyle. She could be a bit snobbish at times about her upper middle class status, though never with me. Norm jokingly referred to her as his Irish-American Princess. Yet she enjoyed talking with people of all economic and ethnic backgrounds, and was popular with restaurant food servers, grocery store checkout clerks, and pretty much anyone she came in contact with. She could be generous with strangers and with charities.

At my sister Laura’s wedding, I was assigned the task of escorting my mom in the procession down the center aisle to her front row seat. When it came time for us to begin our walk, I started to go, but Mom said, “Wait a moment, David.” She had us take a dramatic pause until the aisle before us was clear of other procession participants. Everyone in the church turned their heads toward the top of the aisle to see who would be coming next. At that instant she whispered, “Now!” And then we (she) made our (her) grand entrance, her beaming and resplendent in her finery. That’s when she taught me that timing is everything.

As my cousin Mary said, “Maggie was fun, with a zest for life, and she had a gift for style and flair.” My cousin Mike said it more humorously, “She was a kick in the pants.”

Mom was mostly bedridden during the last few years of her life, so she really enjoyed my occasional visits and my daily Facetime (video) phone calls. She would ask about the details of my hikes, and loved hearing about the poppies, oaks, redwoods, pelicans, and whales that I and my companions experienced. She was so fortunate to have her loyal husband Norm by her side at the end, and to be able to die in bed at home rather than in a hospital or nursing home.

Although her body died a few days ago, her spirit or soul, in my view, did not, and I have sensed her presence at least three times since her passing. One of them, a dream, featured a huge blossoming tree, with a rushing stream nearby after a recent rain, and a serene range of hills or mountains in the distance. The Irish have a name for such a place: Tir na Nog, the Land of Eternal Youth and Beauty, a mystical realm of immortality. Some might say that it is known as the astral plane, where souls go between lives. Others might call it heaven.

Wherever you are, Mom, congratulations on your new beginning. And may your tree of life continue to blossom.

July 2, 2024

The Fourth of July has long been one of my favorite holidays, in part because of memories of family gatherings at my grandmother’s home in Berkeley, and in part because it’s a secular anniversary that celebrates the independence and freedoms earned through sacrifices made by patriots during the American Revolution.

But in this election year, there are dark clouds on the horizon, in this country and abroad, and the survival of those hard-won freedoms may be at stake.

A couple of months ago I spent a week in Philadelphia exploring the city and being inspired by various sites related to the Revolution and the Founding Fathers. One spot I found especially moving was the Old Pine Street Churchyard, a beautiful green graveyard shaded by mature sycamore trees. Wandering among the 18th century tombstones, I noticed that some of the graves were decorated with little 13 star American flags, and some were not. Upon further inspection I realized that the graves marked by the circle star flags were the final resting places of soldiers who served under General Washington in the Continental Army.

There are many prominent citizens from that time who are buried in that cemetery, but only the graves of the 200 plus ordinary veterans of the Continental Army are honored with American flags, even after 240 some years. Their heroism and sacrifices have not been forgotten, and in death they outrank their social superiors.

And what is it that the farmers and tradesmen and shopkeepers of Washington’s ragtag “army” fought for? Independence from Britain, to be sure, along with the opportunity to experience “life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness,” as the Declaration of Independence proclaimed.

But freedom means different things to different people.

For many conservatives, freedom means the right to carry guns in public, and intimidate their fellow citizens with assault rifles. For some in the Black Lives Matter movement, freedom means to defund the police. In Louisiana the public schools are now required to post the Ten Commandments, and in progressive Berkeley the Free Speech Movement of the 1960’s has been replaced by left wing intolerance of any views but their own.

Democracies are messy and contentious, and even Founding Fathers such as George Washington and John Adams were disgusted by the nasty politics of their day. Sometimes I wonder if there is a cause, a person, or a philosophy today that could unite Americans, and human beings everywhere, in service to the common good. Perhaps climate change will force humanity to come together at some point.

Or maybe true liberty is not political, but spiritual. Beethoven was appalled by the bloody French Revolution, and unimpressed by the authoritarians and monarchies of his day; rather, he said, “I much prefer the empire of the mind, and I regard it as the highest of all spiritual and worldly monarchies.” He didn’t specify what he meant by “empire of the mind,” but I’m guessing that he was referring to creativity and imagination.

So for this upcoming Fourth of July, I’m declaring my independence from left wing and right wing divisiveness, and aligning myself with the ideals of spiritual liberation.

I’m a Yankee Doodle Buddha.

May 14, 2024

Gettysburg, Pennsylvania

For me, the best antidote to cynicism and despair is appreciation. For that reason, on May 1st I traveled from California to Pennsylvania to marvel at the courage and hope of our Founding Fathers and our soldiers at places like Valley Forge and here at Gettysburg.

I enjoy basking in the reflected glory of people who sacrificed their peace and tranquility and sometimes even their lives for the common good. It’s a humbling but healthy reminder to my ego that there are millions of Americans who have done far more for their country than I ever will.

Just south of the small town of Gettysburg is the national park dedicated to preserving the stories of this largest battle in North American history. 160,000 warriors representing the North and the South clashed here, of whom at least 7,000 were killed and 33,000 wounded, plus thousands more missing and captured.

This beautiful green parkland of rolling hills and grasslands is filled with about 1,800 combat monuments, 400 cannon, and thousands of graves. And more drama of life and death than one can comprehend.

One of the many heroes who fought here in July of 1863 was Colonel Joshua Lawrence Chamberlain from Maine. While defending the Little Round Top hill, he and his men were almost out of ammunition, so in desperation he led his regiment in a bayonet charge down the hill, routing the shocked Confederates and saving the Union flank from collapse.

Almost two years later, Chamberlain, now a general, witnessed the 1865 surrender of Robert E. Lee’s Army of Northern Virginia at Appomattox. As the rebels marched down the road, Chamberlain ordered his men to snap to attention out of respect for their defeated opponents.

As he later recalled, “All the while on our part not a sound of trumpet or drum, not a cheer, nor a word nor motion of man, but awful stillness as if it were the passing of the dead.”

A Confederate general passing in front of Chamberlain later praised him as “one of the knightliest soldiers of the Federal Army.”

In 1889 Chamberlain returned to Gettysburg, where he sensed the presence of his fallen comrades: “In great deeds something abides. On great fields something stays. Forms change and pass; bodies disappear; but spirits linger…And reverent men and women from afar, and generations that…we know not of…(are)…drawn to see where…great things were suffered and done for them…”

As Chamberlain predicted, generations have followed in his footsteps, and over the last two days I’ve had the privilege of being one of those pilgrims. The climactic fight of Gettysburg is known as Pickett’s Charge, where Robert E. Lee ordered 12,000 of his Confederate infantry to cross a mile-long farmland to attack the Union defenders. About 5,000 of Lee’s men were killed or wounded before they had to retreat.

As I prepared to walk across the killing field of Pickett’s Charge, a woman called out to me and pointed to a rainbow appearing over the field of battle.

I then marched joyfully into the grassland toward the Union line, alone in the vast theater of war, with thousands of men on either side of me, and thousands facing us in the distance. All of us, Americans. All of us, human beings. All of us, dead and alive. All of us, one people, one spirit, one rainbow.