June 13, 2023

Have you ever seen a tree raining on itself on a dry day? Neither had I, until a couple weeks ago. And no, I wasn’t in a rain forest – I was right here in the Bay Area.

Except that, in a way, I was in a rain forest. I was hiking with friends at Indian Tree Open Space Preserve in nearby Novato, and near the summit I decided to relieve myself outside of a fairy circle of redwood trees. When I was done watering the tree, I stepped into the redwood circle and placed my hands on one of the tree trunks to express my appreciation for the beauty and the towering magnificence of this living creature.

As I looked up the trunk toward the sky, I was astonished to see a waterfall of scores of droplets bouncing all the way down the tree mast and splashing on my face. Each water drop bounced many times on its long journey down the bark before blessing the ground or my face with its wetness.

Coast redwoods are known for capturing cloud and fog moisture and sending the drippings down to the forest floor. And these woods and I were at the top of a ridge with a marine layer overhead. But I had never taken the opportunity to slow down enough to experience some extended moments in the life of one of these giant beings.

Redwood groves are not as widespread in northern California as they once were. Even so, as a Bay Area native I have tended to take them for granted, even when hiking among them. But my awareness of trees in general, and redwoods in particular, is starting to change.

Two books about trees that I’ve read recently have raised my consciousness about the importance of these life forms to our physical and mental health.

The first is The Overstory, a novel by Richard Powers, in which he introduces the reader to several very different characters living in various parts of the U.S. Toward the end of the book, some of these people meet one another as they are each drawn for diverse reasons to the same gathering of protesters who are trying to prevent the clearcutting of an ancient redwood forest in northern California. The author’s love for these conifers, and for all trees, is palpable, as he suggests that trees are intelligent beings that are being slaughtered by greed and by the human desire to dominate and subjugate other life forms.

As Richard Powers said in an online Conjunctions magazine interview:

“The salvation of humanity – for it’s us, not the world, who need to be saved – and our continued lease on this planet depend on our development of tree consciousness. We are here by the grace of trees and forests. They make our atmosphere, clean our water, and sustain the cycles of life that permit us. Just begin to see them. See them up close and personal. See them from far away across great distances. Notice all the million complex beautiful behaviors and forms that have always slipped right past you. Simply see, and the rest will begin to follow. Every other act of preservation depends on that first step.”

The second book that in the last few weeks has inspired my sense of wonder about trees is one written by the noted Irish botanist Diana Beresford-Kroeger. It’s her autobiography, entitled To Speak for the Trees: My Life’s Journey From Ancient Celtic Wisdom to a Healing Vision of the Forest.

This extraordinary woman was orphaned at age 11, raised in the city of Cork and in the Cork and Kerry countryside by loving relatives who encouraged her love of books and science and taught her the old Irish knowledge of medicinal plants. She has gone on to write a number of books about nature and science, and she wrote and appeared in the documentary, Call of the Forest: The Forgotten Wisdom of Trees (http://calloftheforest.ca), which was based on her book The Global Forest. As she said in her autobiography:

“I want to remind you that the forest is far more than a source of timber. It is our collective medicine cabinet. It is our lungs. It is the regulatory system for our climate and our oceans. It is the mantle of our planet. It is the health and well-being of our children and grandchildren. It is our sacred home.”

After a lifetime of hiking in the oak and redwood forests of northern California, I’m just starting to really see these beings for the first time. I may not be a tree hugger, but I’m becoming a major tree appreciator.

May 9, 2023

Life is unfair. John F. Kennedy

Today a jury in New York found that former president Donald Trump is guilty of sexually abusing his female accuser. Mr. Trump plans to appeal the jury’s verdict, but whatever the outcome of that appeal, the case is a straightforward example of one individual claiming that she was harmed by another individual.

But since time immemorial women as a group have been mistreated and abused by men. Not by all men, but by many men. Does that mean that all males should be punished for their gender’s misdeeds?

This question is on my mind because the issue of revenge and reparations has been in the news a lot lately. King Charles III was crowned monarch of Great Britain a few days ago, but in the events leading up to the coronation it was reported that at least one of Britain’s former colonies – Jamaica, I believe – is considering demanding that Britain pay it reparations for the monarchy’s role in the slave trade centuries ago.

Some women in South Korea feel that Japan still owes them compensation for the Japanese military’s forcing them into sexual slavery in World War II. Russia has been accused of war crimes against humanity for its torture, rape, and murder of civilians in Ukraine, and Ukrainians and others are demanding that Russia pay the cost of rebuilding Ukraine when the war finally ends.

And here in California, a state task force just announced that it recommends that the legislature pay black Californians up to $500 billion in reparations for past school segregation and discriminatory lending practices. California never had slavery, but California taxpayers may be asked to pay a heavy price for the aftereffects of that Southern institution that ended with the Civil War.

Holding individuals accountable for bad behavior is far easier to understand than punishing all men or all white people or all Californians for something that most of them never did. How far back in history should we go to demand restitution from perpetrators? Should Spanish taxpayers now pay for the sins that their ancestors committed against the Incan, Mayan, and Aztec peoples? And should the descendants of the Incan, Mayan, and Aztec people pay reparations to the descendants of the Indian tribes that their ancestors subjugated? What about the descendants of the Comanche people in Texas and Oklahoma – should they be forced to compensate the descendants of the Apache and Navajo people who were forced off of their lands by the Comanches?

In other words, how do you measure to whom is owed what, when the history of the human race is one long list of suffering inflicted by individuals, tribes, and nations upon one another? And who gets to decide who the winners and losers are in the competition to see who wins the victim lottery?

I’m not suggesting that societies should never be held accountable for national misdeeds. But at this stage of human history, I’m more interested in seeing healing and amends on behalf of our common home, planet Earth. Our survival as a species depends on all of us realizing that we must stop exploiting and harming the home we share with each other and with trees, plants, and animals. Yes, the Russians need to pay their debt to Ukraine. But we all need to pay our debt to Mother Earth, Gaia. The oceans, forests, and animals all deserve our appreciation and protection.

Justice? Fairness? I’m more concerned with the future than with the past. Let’s start with service to our Earth mother.

Happy Mother’s Day.

April 2, 2023

New Orleans

Here in the Big Easy, once the largest and richest city of the Confederacy, I’m fascinated by the human capacity for self deception.

I’m here for two weeks to enjoy the gumbo, jambalaya, red beans and rice, and beignets, not to mention the various flavors of jazz, the streetcars, the Mississippi River, and the beautiful old architecture of the French Quarter where I’m staying.

Thankfully I have not experienced the high crime rate that New Orleans is known for, but every day I see the rampant homelessness of destitute people sleeping on the sidewalks.

Folks here have been friendly, but apparently that easygoing way of life also includes tolerance for corrupt politicians and police officers.

I had a long talk the other day with Alan, a 58 year old black musician and street artist, and when I asked him about race relations in this town, he said that there has been a lot of progress since the Jim Crow segregation era ended around the time of his birth in 1964. He confirmed what I have observed so far – that the races coexist harmoniously, at least on the surface. But he said that there still remain some tensions between blacks and whites.

Now, with the large influx of people from Latin America and Asia, that old black/white dichotomy is being diluted here in New Orleans, as elsewhere.

Yesterday I spent a lot of time in the Civil War Museum, a beautiful red sandstone and brick structure built in 1891 as a social hall for Confederate veterans to share their war stories. It’s located next to Lee Circle, a traffic roundabout in the center of which is a 60 foot marble column that until recently was topped by a statue of Confederate General Robert E. Lee. Now the column is capped by nothing, the statue being one of four Confederate monuments removed by Mayor Mitch Landrieu in 2017 and stored in a city warehouse.

When I asked a museum employee about the statue removal, she lamented the loss, saying that it was an attempt to erase Southern history and heritage.

The elegant, spacious, wood-paneled interior has an excellent collection of Confederate uniforms, battle flags, swords, guns, portraits, and display cases explaining in a neutral fashion the history and causes of the War Between the States. One of the displays features two 10-dollar bills from before the Civil War, printed by a New Orleans bank in both English and French. Since the French word for 10 is dix, some local sailors referred to those 10 dollar bills as dixies, and ever since the Deep South has been referred to as the land of Dixie.

As is so often the case in combat, young men in the North and South eagerly signed up to fight, thinking that the conflict would be brief and bring them excitement and glory. Little did they realize the immense suffering and death they would encounter.

Most Americans, myself included, see the Civil War as a battle over the preservation or abolition of slavery. But only six percent of Southerners owned slaves, and most Southern soldiers fought not to perpetuate slavery, but to defend their hometowns and states from what they perceived as an invasion from another country.

But the Southern economy was built upon the labor of enslaved people, and what the Confederate soldiers and people failed to fully appreciate is that their way of life and their personal freedoms depended upon depriving other human beings of their freedom.

Abraham Lincoln hated slavery, but in order to avoid hostilities and preserve the union, he offered to let the South keep its slaves as long as it agreed to not expand slavery into the American West. But Southern politicians feared (correctly, I believe) that if non-slave states were added in the West, the South would be outvoted in Congress and it would eventually be forced to give up the slave-based backbone of its agricultural economy. So the Southern states left the union and attacked the federal Fort Sumter in South Carolina, triggering what was probably an inevitable clash and exciting the passions of pro and anti slavery people.

As one museum display explained, “On January 26, 1861 (when Louisiana left the union)…all over New Orleans bells rang and cannons boomed when the news arrived. In the successionists’ jubilant Mardi Gras atmosphere, few foresaw the upcoming years of desolation and despair that would be awaiting them.”

One of the ironies of the struggle between the states is that thousands of immigrants whose people themselves had been collectively oppressed fought on behalf of the South. Although as many as 150,000 Irish were Union soldiers, about 40,000 Confederate soldiers were Irish, and of the 10,000 Jews who participated in the struggle, 3,000 defended the South.

In the (shortened) words of the popular 1859 song “Dixie”:

I wish I was in the land of cotton

Old times they are not forgotten

Look away! Look away! Look away! Dixie Land.

I wish I was in Dixie, hooray! hooray!

In Dixie Land I’ll take my stand

To live and die in Dixie.

Away, away, away down south in Dixie.

Given the willingness of the brainwashed Russian masses to support Vladimir Putin’s invasion of Ukraine, or the fanatical devotees of the Donald Trump cult, I guess it should come as no surprise that we human beings are easily led by our emotions and limited perspectives.

As for me, I intend to continue having a good time here in Dixie. Might as well enjoy the Big Easy before the next hurricane hits.

March 17, 2023

Irish identity is valid, but it’s only a tiny part of the equation. Montgomery Bray

Human consciousness is the last frontier. Montgomery Bray

This morning, on a beautiful sunny green flowery California day of St. Patrick, my longtime friend and comrade Montgomery called to say hello. We share an American Irish Buddhist heritage, so it was only natural that we discussed the meaning of this day that honors Ireland’s patron saint.

While we both appreciate the multifaceted aspects of what it means to be Irish, we agreed that our Celtic identity is transient, as is our gender, nationality, religion, and whatever else we might think sets us apart from other people. Yes, we can celebrate Irish music, dance, literature, storytelling, and conviviality, but whether we have multiple lifetimes, as I believe, or whether we live on in some other way, as Montgomery might suggest, our personalities are temporary constructs. So it is limiting and foolish to think that we are only what we seem to be in the present moment.

But since we are here in the present moment, we might as well enjoy it while it lasts.

And if we are male or female, black or white or brown or yellow (or green, in my case), unhealthy or healthy, rich or poor, Catholic or Jewish or Muslim or atheist, German or Argentine or Indian or Moroccan, that is what we have to work with this time around. So it behooves us to make the best of our current circumstances, and learn whatever we can from our fortunate or unfortunate situations.

Still, it begs the question: who are we?

So much of the suffering in the world comes from a limited understanding of the nature of our selfhood. Maybe we are Democrats or Republicans, or straight or gay or something else, or young or old. It’s totally understandable that Ukrainians resent Russians, or Koreans have a problem with Japan, or Tutsis in Rwanda hold a grudge against their Hutu killers. And it’s hard to escape those dramas if we find ourselves in the middle of dangerous or life-threatening events. So I don’t want to judge those who suffer from existential threats or psychological or emotional traumas.

But my intuition tells me that Shakespeare was on to something when he said in As You Like It, “All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players.” These lives we live are temporary roles we have taken on, in order to grow and evolve and experience life from many different perspectives. No one wants to suffer, but suffering and joy both offer their own lessons. I prefer an easy life, and complain when things don’t go my way. But I have to admit that I’ve learned a lot from my stupid mistakes. Still, if I’m an actor on a stage, I’d rather be in a comedy than a tragedy. Maybe we’re all in both.

In my last blog essay, Adventure With a Purpose, I mentioned Abraham Lincoln’s reference to the “better angels of our nature,” which I said are aspects of our inner wisdom. One of the archangels I named, Sandalphon, has a channeled 17 minute video on YouTube which I find inspiring (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JwRyFYj7qoo). I use it as a meditation video, but Sandalphon says a number of things that I believe are worth considering. He claims that humans are divine light beings who have forgotten who we really are, and that it is time that we remember our true identity as being children of Mother Earth. This video might sound too Christian or too Buddhist or too New Age for some of my readers, but if you are open to a different way of seeing yourself and the planet, it might be worth 17 minutes of your time.

Either way, however you choose to see yourself, and whatever your identity, La Feile Padraig go shona duit: Happy St Patrick’s Day.

February 14, 2023

When I was a boy I’d sometimes go hiking by myself or with friends in the hills above our neighborhood. I wanted to climb the oaks and explore the grassy ridges of the Contra Costa ranchlands, and maybe fly a kite or find buried treasure or at least uncover an arrowhead. Occasionally I’d exuberantly shout “adventures!” because that is what I wanted from life.

Ask and you shall receive.

Growing up, I read stories about explorers such as Davy Crockett and Daniel Boone, and the vision quests of Plains Indian boys such as Crazy Horse. I also enjoyed the imaginary journeys of Dorothy Gale in her many visits to the marvelous Land of Oz. As I got older, I graduated to more sophisticated action classics such as Huckleberry Finn, Moby Dick, the Hobbit, and the Lord of the Rings.

And then, at 17, I stumbled into a Japanese mass movement, and rode that social and religious roller coaster for 15 years before getting off those tracks. But I learned a lot from Nichiren Buddhism, which I still practice 53 years later, though I left the Buddhist organization decades ago. It has been a long, interesting, and stimulating journey of ups and downs, disappointment and disillusionment, and many friendships and valuable lessons.

Nowadays I partially satisfy my curiosity and need for excitement by reading, hiking, and traveling. But starting in the 1980’s I began an interior voyage of discovery, and although I haven’t had to suffer physical deprivations such as those of the Lewis and Clark expedition, I’ve certainly experienced the uncertainties, anxieties, and wonder of uncharted territory as I’ve followed invisible trails into my psyche.

Using a variety of methods such as dreams, meditation, prayer, channeling, automatic writing, journaling, marijuana and LSD, singing, and study, I have been seeking not entertainment or escapism, but awakening to who I am and who we all are. And while I have much to learn on my never-ending quest, I can share a few insights that I’m in the process of absorbing.

First of all, when Abraham Lincoln referred to “the better angels of our nature,” he was appealing to reason and to higher qualities of the mind or spirit that might enable us to avoid a civil war. Alas, his appeal was not successful, and a bloody Civil War ensued. But Lincoln was more perceptive than he may have realized himself. There really are angels and benevolent beings within us, and we can call upon them for guidance and support when we need it.

In the Nichiren tradition from which I come, the shoten zenjin are Buddhist protective gods or helpful forces in the universe, although their identities and powers are not specified. And in the Catholic religion of my childhood, there are guardian angels, as well as archangels with names like Gabriel, Uriel, Ariel, and Sandalphon, who are seen by the Church as external beings with wings but who in reality are aspects of our own inner wisdom.

Many of my friends believe that we live only in a material world, and that we meet people and stuff happens by chance. I disagree.

Intention, positive attitude, and what Nichiren Buddhists call a “high life condition” are crucial to creating and attracting good karma, or good fortune if you prefer. Through the Law of Attraction and the Law of Cause and Effect, higher vibrational frequencies attract more of the same, and we can encounter teachers from higher realms of existence. But these teachers and realms are inside us, not on a cross or a pedestal. We can activate our own Christ consciousness if we want to. We start by asking to do so.

I may not be Lewis or Clark, but I’ve crossed some of these prairies and forded some of these streams. I may not be Martin Luther King, but I too have been to the mountain top – many of them, in fact – and I can report that the view of Gaia, Planet Earth, is beautiful. The human race may be in for a rough ride in the short term, but in the long term we and Gaia will learn that we are one and the same consciousness, and we need to take care of each other.

If we are to enjoy the fruits of the New Earth that teachers such as Eckhardt Tolle and Matias De Stefano talk about, then we need to focus on the emerging human awareness of Gaia rather than the dying and chaotic human civilization of the present. We all need to become bodhisattvas of the Earth, or champions of nature and a higher calling for humanity.

As a boy, I asked for “adventures!” Little did I know that my request would be granted beyond my wildest dreams.

Tomorrow I’m going hiking with friends in the hills of Marin. And on Friday I have an appointment with the better angels of my nature. Should be a fun conversation.

January 18, 2023

I have a lot of respect for vegetarians. I’m just not ready to be one.

I would like to be a vegetarian because their diet harms no animals, and it does minimal harm to the planet. It’s also a healthy way of eating, but so is my omnivore diet. I almost never ingest beef, but I do occasionally eat pork, and I frequently enjoy chicken and fish. I don’t want to give up salmon, sardines, or turkey, but I’d like to be as virtuous as my vegetarian friends. I guess they’re more evolved than I am, at least in the food department.

I’ve read horror stories about how pigs, chickens, and cows are mistreated, and I wish all animals were treated humanely. But I still buy a deli chicken from Costco because it’s cheap and delicious. And when pork roast is on sale at Safeway or Lucky, I’ll buy two – one to eat now, and one to freeze for later.

This week I’ve been scarfing veggie burgers that I got on sale at Costco, and for several days now my meals have been 95% vegetarian. But sometimes I eat turkey burgers. And last week I chowed down on pepperoni pizza. If I was still a Catholic, maybe I’d have to confess my dietary sins to a priest. But maybe not – he might eat steak.

A few years ago I was in Hanoi, where I saw dogs being barbequed. I was disgusted. But I had to admit that my moral righteousness was hypocritical. Is my devouring bacon more virtuous than dining on canine ribs?

Although I consume a lot of vegetables, I never buy the organic versions because they’re too expensive. And GMO produce? It’s supposedly bad for the environment, but I eat it all the time. I love almonds, especially the salted smoky flavored ones, but growing them consumes vast amounts of water in the drought-stricken Central Valley.

At least I don’t eat McDonald’s hamburgers, which are partially responsible for the destruction of the Amazon rainforest, since loggers are clearing trees there to make way for cattle pastureland whose animal products they can sell to McDonalds. But I do drive an all-gasoline car, and when I travel I often fly. I’m contributing to climate change, though eventually I’ll get an electric car. But since overpopulation is a big part of climate change, I can console myself with the fact that I never added to that problem.

American Indians and other indigenous peoples probably had it right when their spiritual practices required that if they killed an animal or a plant, that they do so with respect and appreciation for the lifegiving qualities of those beings. In that sense, those peoples practiced mindfulness.

Am I willing to become a vegetarian to help save the planet? Not yet. But in the meantime, I’m working on becoming more aware of my habits and their consequences. You gotta start somewhere.

January 6, 2023

Today is the calm after a big storm yesterday and before the next one starts tomorrow. Flooding, downed trees, and power outages are all over northern California. Yesterday I drove through the storm to a dental office to have a root canal. Then I came home and talked to my mother who has a mild case of dementia.

Life is good.

I’m fortunate to have dental insurance. My mother is fortunate to have a husband and four kids who love and support her. I’m grateful to have a warm apartment with a beautiful view in a treehouse atop a hill where the redwoods could come crashing down on our house or my car. Two days ago a big tree did just that in the nearby town of Occidental, where a redwood fell through the roof of a living room and killed a two year old boy. A terrible loss for that family.

Life is good.

Every day I pray for peace, healing, and victory for the suffering people of Ukraine and for the defeat of Russia and authoritarian governments everywhere. I’m appalled by the political chaos in Washington, especially two years to the day after our country survived an attempted coup and overthrow of democracy by our former president, and I’m saddened by gun violence and mass migrations and the ongoing abuse of our planet.

Life is good.

I don’t pretend to understand what is going on with the evolution of the human race. There are those who believe that humanity is moving toward extinction as a result of our ignorance and self destruction, and maybe that’s true. But I don’t think so. Something tells me that we are on the verge of a big change in consciousness, an awakening to the reality that we humans need to learn to respect one another and work together to save our common home. I don’t believe in astrology, but maybe we really are at the dawning of the age of Aquarius, or something like it. It may be wishful thinking on my part, but as New York Times opinion writer Nicholas Kristof says in a recent column headline, “Cheer Up! The World Is Better Off Than You Think.” https://www.nytimes.com/2022/12/31/opinion/2022-good-news.html

Today I’m just grateful to have ibuprofen to take after my root canal, and I’m enjoying the swaying trees outside my windows even as I hope that the redwoods will stay right where they are. Tonight, if I still have power, I’ll call my mom and enjoy talking about nothing in particular.

Life is good.

December 8, 2022

I guess I wouldn’t make a very good extremist. I know it’s more fun to be self-righteous, because I’ve felt that way on occasion. But my difficulty with being moralistic is that I tend to see shades of gray in most arguments. That’s why I don’t feel comfortable with left wing or right wing culture warriors – their beliefs are often too dogmatic and judgmental for my taste.

Case in point – the question of diverse casting in TV shows and movies.

The argument in favor of including a variety of ethnicities, genders, sexual orientations, and physical abilities is that it allows all kinds of people to feel included in the story they’re watching, and it gives more opportunities for a greater array of actors to portray different kinds of characters.

The objection to that argument for some people is that the diverse actors sometimes don’t look like what that viewer expects the character to look like.

My view of this debate: I want to believe in the character that I’m watching, but whether or not I’m able to accept an actor’s performance depends not only on their acting ability, but also upon the story itself and whether or not that actor is credible in that role. Sean Penn was superb as the gay San Francisco politician Harvey Milk, even though Penn is not gay. I would not have accepted a female or disabled actor in that role, even if the actor did a great job. But I accepted a straight actor because his sexual orientation wasn’t obvious. Would I find Sean Penn convincing as Joan of Arc or Malcolm X? No.

A few nights ago I enjoyed once again the Civil War historical drama “Glory,” starring Denzel Washington as a black soldier fighting for the Union army. Washington’s performance was excellent. But some years ago I watched the Kenneth Branagh film “Much Ado About Nothing,” in which Washington played an Italian prince, and as skilled an actor as he is, I didn’t for one minute believe that he was a 16th century Italian nobleman.

And yet I saw the same play on TV recently in which the cast was all black, and I loved it. Not only was the acting outstanding, but since the play was set in contemporary times, they weren’t pretending to play European characters in Shakespeare’s era, so I was able to suspend my disbelief and simply enjoy the story.

I’m perfectly comfortable with diverse casting for stories set, say, in the 1960’s up to the present and into the future. For that reason, I’m fine with black, brown, or Asian actors in Star Wars, for example. But I just don’t believe tales set in the distant past if the producers try to impose 21st century casting values on cultures and narratives where current ideas of diversity didn’t exist. The play “Hamilton” would have been jarring to my sensibilities if the actor playing Thomas Jefferson had been the only non-white performer, but since almost all of the actors were black or brown, I wasn’t distracted by Jefferson’s race because the play made no pretense of being historically accurate; it’s casting, music, dancing, and lyrics were all contemporary.

But as a Tolkien fan, I was disappointed in the new TV series “The Rings of Power,” due to the politically correct decision to cast black and brown actors whose ethnicities were inappropriate for the story. The actors themselves did a good job, but they were not believable as inhabitants of a northern European Middle Earth. I felt like the producers were waving a red flag in my face, saying in effect, this is not a Europe of long ago, but rather is the United States in 2022. I did not believe a black elf or a black dwarf princess.

However, Tolkien did say that the Harfoots, the ancestors of the Hobbits, were “dark complected,” and so I would have been happy if all of the Harfoots had dark skin, suggesting that over thousands of years their skin colors changed hues. Instead, most of the Harfoots were white, with no explanation as to why some of them were black. The only explanation is that we are supposed to overlook the annoying inconsistency. Either make them all white, or all black, or all something, and if you’re going to make them look different from one another, give us a plausible accounting for that reality.

Unfortunately, some people who share my objection to inaccurate casting chose to not only invoke the dreaded “woke” accusation against the show, but went further by insulting and harassing the actors themselves. Many of those critics seem to be white nationalists who feel threatened by non-white cultures being increasingly represented in popular culture. Just as nasty were the lefty commentators who hurled the abhorrent insult “racist” against anyone, presumably including yours truly, who dared question the multicultural casting of an essentially white story.

I understand the desire to have more opportunities for all kinds of people to see themselves on television and in the movies. But in my view the best way to do that is to create new stories that reflect a greater human diversity, rather than try to force current social theories upon classic tales.

In the meantime, let’s let go of all the name-calling. To err is human, but to be tolerant is divine. I think I just made that up. But if you think it’s inauthentic, then maybe you’re a woke racist.

November 4, 2022

If you ever feel sorry for yourself, visit a prison. And if you have to live in a California prison, San Quentin is probably the best place to be.

I drove down to the penitentiary yesterday with my friend Jean, where we joined a tour group organized by our mutual friend Judy. It was my second visit to San Quentin, the notorious state prison located on the northern shore of San Francisco Bay. It’s a short distance from Alcatraz, the former federal prison on a nearby island in the bay.

Why is San Quentin infamous? Partly because some of its well known former inmates include cult leader and murderer Charles Manson, Black Panther leader Eldridge Cleaver (assault, rape, attempted murder), and Sirhan Sirhan, the assassin of Robert Kennedy. And partly because the prison has, since its 1852 founding at the end of the California Gold Rush, executed hundreds of prisoners, at first by hanging, then later in its gas chambers, and more recently by lethal injection.

Of the 3,263 men currently imprisoned at San Quentin, 456 are on Death Row, though there have been no executions since 2006. Although security is tight for the “condemned” – the Death Row inmates – the rest of the prison is classified as a Level 2 (medium security) facility. It makes you wonder what it would be like to live in a maximum security prison.

Our tour group had the opportunity to meet in the Catholic chapel with six inmates. We sat in pews, while the six men – three black, two white, one Latino – stood in a row on the steps of the altar, facing us. Behind them was a large crucifix, and either side of them were statues of Jesus and Mary.

The six “incarcerated” men (the term “convict” is frowned upon, for some reason) introduced themselves and told us why they were prisoners. Most, and possibly all of them, had murdered someone, although one guy claimed that he was innocent of the charge of conspiracy to murder that landed him in prison. But while the other five admitted their responsibility for their violent crimes, they all believe that “men are more than their crime,” as someone said. In other words, they are human beings who made mistakes, and they are redeemable.

As the six speakers answered questions from our tour group, it became obvious from their friendly and engaging personalities that there was a reason that these men were not handcuffed and were entrusted with being with us in the chapel and then accompanying us on our tour. Unlike many of the more hardened, dangerous inmates, these six are examples of those prisoners who are and have been willing and eager participants in the many self improvement opportunities that make San Quentin the special prison it has become.

One of the successful programs that the six are most grateful for is called GRIP (Guiding Rage Into Power). This training institute, founded in San Quentin in 2012 and now in four other California state prisons, has as its mission “to create the personal and systemic change to turn violence and suffering into opportunities for learning and healing.” They do that by teaching prisoners to control themselves, develop emotional intelligence, cultivate mindfulness, and learn empathy for their victims and the families of those victims. As one of our speakers said, the GRIP program “challenges the belief systems of toxic masculinity.” Another one added, “When you know better, you do better.” One of our tour group commented that these men are learning to turn self hate into self love.

The GRIP institute claims a success rate of 99.8%, with only two of its graduates returning to prison. GRIP students learn to heal the abuse, violence, traumas, and neglect that so many of them experienced as young people.

As my friend and tour companion Jean later commented, “I was impressed with the radical change possible if a person is interested in going in that direction, with just a year of weekly participatory instruction. Wouldn’t it be nice if we could have that in our middle schools/high schools?”

One reason I’ve visited San Quentin twice now is that the visits make me realize how fortunate I am to enjoy the freedom to go wherever and do whatever I please; the freedom to hike and travel and hang out with family and friends.

But another reason I’ve gone there is to unlock my heart toward fellow human beings who are dealing with way more stress and adversity than I’ll ever know. When I was younger my attitude toward criminals was harsh: lock ’em up and throw away the key. But meeting face to face with people who have committed murders has made me understand that, while I might not want to socialize with most of these guys, I have to respect the ones who are trying to improve, educate, and heal themselves.

I’m glad that they’re all in prison, but some – not all – of them deserve the chance to graduate from hell.

October 22, 2022

I commute to Guatemala a couple of times a week for my job. I don’t like going there – the poverty is depressing. But at least my Spanish has improved over the last nine years that I’ve been working there.

I should explain that although I did go to that Central American country over 30 years ago, the Guatemala that I’ve visited in recent years is located in wealthy Marin County. It’s known as the Canal district, so-called because many of its rundown apartment buildings in the city of San Rafael overlook a waterway that leads to San Francisco Bay. And the main drag is called Canal Street.

Most of the people I interview in that neighborhood are from Guatemala, although some are from Mexico or other Central American countries. Almost none of them are in this country legally, which is why there is irony in neighborhood signs that say “Ten cuidado con los coyotes” (Beware of coyotes). The signs are warning of the dangers of the wild animals, but coyote is also a slang term for the exploitive human traffickers that smuggle many of these residents across the border with Mexico.

I don’t like the dirty streets, the empty beer bottles, the lack of street parking due to way-overcrowded apartments. It reminds me of, well, Guatemala City, the ugly capital of that impoverished land. On the other hand, when I’m able to let go of my discomfort with the lack of cleanliness, I’m sometimes able to enjoy the ice cream pushcart hawkers ringing their bells, the fresh fruit vendors, the numerous charming little kids, the blaring music from apartments and cars, and the beautiful boats across the canal in the marina and at the Marin Yacht Club. Rich and poor, separated not by railroad tracks but by water.

Conducting a health survey is what brings me to the Canal barrio, and other social science research projects have caused me to work in more dangerous neighborhoods such as East Oakland, the Bayview Hunters Point neighborhood in San Francisco, and the south side of Chicago. In contrast, the Canal area feels safe to me, with children on bikes, single women, and families on the sidewalks day and night. I see almost no graffiti or signs of gang activity or crime, though in such a densely populated area there is bound to be some illicit activity. The people have been generally friendly and welcoming to me, even when I knock on their doors without an appointment. As an old white guy, my presence is a bit of a novelty to them, especially when they discover that I speak their language.

By world standards, the Canal area isn’t really a slum. I’ve seen a lot worse squalor in Mexico City, Managua, Sao Paulo, Casablanca, and Cairo, not to mention miserable living conditions in Indian cities such as Delhi, Bombay (Mumbai), and Varanasi. By comparison, the Guatemalans who have made it to Marin County are fortunate indeed.

But while I appreciate the hospitality and upwardly mobile progress of these hard working people, I must confess to feeling some unease about the sheer number of migrants crossing the border both legally and illegally. The U.S. seems to be the world’s largest importer of poverty, as if we didn’t already have enough underprivileged Americans to provide for. How can we possibly offer health care, housing, and education to millions of people from other countries when we already have such big problems with homelessness, racial and cultural tensions, and inadequate social services?

And we are not alone in dealing with the negative consequences of mass migration. Other developed countries such as Australia, New Zealand, Canada, and European nations are at risk of being overwhelmed by vast numbers of people escaping war, authoritarian governments, and climate change. Instead of bringing Third World countries up to the standards of wealthy nations, it seems that we are in danger of dragging North America and Europe down to the level of chaotic and impoverished societies.

Even though it often appears that the human race is determined to turn Planet Earth into a giant teeming slum, I occasionally find hope in a generosity of spirit that I seem to lack.

A couple of weeks ago I met a young man from Honduras – I’ll call him Alberto – who admitted to me that he had recently paid a coyote $22,000 to bring him across the border with Mexico. I asked him why he came to the U.S., when it would be easier and cheaper to go to the stable and relatively prosperous Central American countries of Costa Rica and Panama. He opened his wallet and showed me a $100 bill and said, “This is why I came here.” He can make far more money in the U.S. than anywhere else in Latin America. And he needs money to support his numerous younger siblings, because both his parents died of cancer, so he sends money back to Honduras to pay for the food, housing, and education of his brothers and sisters.

I don’t like it that Alberto and millions like him are coming here. But I don’t blame him for coming, and I greatly respect him for supporting his young family members.

The world may be going to hell in a handbasket, but at least one young man is doing his best to spread love and share abundance in his corner of the planet.