May 20, 2022

Be joyful, though you have considered all the facts. Wendell Berry

Escapism is fun. I like to get away from work, loneliness, and the depressing news in the New York Times by reading books, watching movies, hiking, and enjoying two marijuana cookies on Saturday nights. But sometimes, as Martha and the Vandellas sang in 1965, there’s “nowhere to run to, baby, nowhere to hide.”

Escapism is understandable and practical when it involves matters of survival. People fleeing war or extreme poverty or climate change are doing what I would do if I found myself in their shoes. And with the rise in totalitarianism around the world, more and more people are fleeing or will be fleeing dictatorships that restrict human rights and crush human freedoms.

Today I read an article in the always informative, often discouraging New York Times about young professionals in China who are investigating ways of escaping the oppressive restrictions of the Chinese Communist Party by emigrating to other parts of the world. They cannot research these possibilities openly on the internet, due to government censorship, so they’ve come up with a euphemism to use in their internet searches for emigration possibilities: “Run philosophy.” That code phrase enables them, for now anyway, to exchange tips and ideas for getting away from their increasingly Orwellian society and running toward the freedoms of the Western world.

But the freedoms that we’ve long taken for granted in this country are under a growing threat from an authoritarian wing of the Republican party, led and inspired by Donald Trump, with the strong support of right wing Catholics, evangelical Protestants, gun promoters, white nationalists, and anti-democratic opponents of free and fair elections. The U.S. Supreme Court, dominated by six conservative Catholics out of nine justices, is almost certainly going to overturn Roe vs Wade, thereby denying women the right to choose whether or not to have an abortion. The right to personal safety is increasingly endangered by the insane proliferation of guns and mass shootings that are aided and abetted by the gun cult and its lobbyists. I find it fascinating that so many of the anti-abortion people call themselves “pro-life,” but also support the death penalty and the proliferation of guns. Maybe that’s where “pro-life” comes from: prolife-ration of weapons.

From time to time I hear some liberals mutter that if Donald Trump or someone like him is elected or steals the election in 2024, they will move to Canada or Europe. But while such a fight-or-flight reaction is understandable, especially if the U.S. becomes a theocracy or just another country with a strongman rule, led in our case by an American Caesar, fleeing fascism would only be a temporary solution.

There is no escaping climate change. There is no escaping religious puritanism, political zealots, power-hungry Putinesque megalomaniacs. There is no escaping anger, fear, or human nature.

But maybe the poet Wendell Berry was on to something when he wrote: Be joyful, though you have considered all the facts. Maybe, rather than focusing on all the earth-shattering, negative world events, we would be wise to pay more attention to healing ourselves.

This morning I did my brief breathing and meditation exercise, and this time I asked my inner being (or God, if you prefer) what I might share with my readers about how to cope with the metastasizing madness of the human race. Here’s what I wrote down:

Love in the midst of chaos. Stay centered in times of turmoil. Steady as she goes. Be true to the real you, to Source, no matter what others do, no matter what’s going on in the world. Back to basics. Don’t be frightened by the passing show. Do what you need to do, then be joyful though you have considered all the facts.

Run philosophy? Not for me. I ain’t goin’ nowhere.

April 29, 2022

I don’t usually think of myself as a social climber, but this week I found myself questioning my motives as I considered whether or not to be open to a friendship with a rich man.

Mike (not his real name) is technically no longer wealthy after a messy divorce, some legal problems, and other financial setbacks. But he expects to be rich again – very rich – and if he was truthful with me about his prospects, he likely will be riding high on the hog again before very long.

I choose my friendships based on chemistry, shared interests, and personal character, and my friends range from upper middle class to poor. It makes no difference to me whether or not they have money. But a few days ago I was temporarily lured not so much by money as by a sense of adventure as I contemplated the possibility of hanging out with Mike and his high roller associates.

I went to Mike’s house in the California wine country to interview him once again for the health study that I’ve been working on for the last nine years. This was the second time I’ve interviewed him, and the first time we met he offered me a job working for him on one of his business ventures. This was just before the pandemic, and fortunately I declined to accept his proposal. As I drove over fire-scarred mountains and through vineyard-filled valleys, I wondered if this time he would make me an offer I couldn’t refuse, or whether I might turn him down again.

He lives with his second wife who is half his age and with their young son in a large house on several acres on a ridge that has a spectacular view of snow-capped mountains and vineyards as far as you can see. This time I discovered that the interior of the house and its surrounding landscaping were all torn up for extensive renovations, as Mike is spending a small fortune to transform his property into a showcase mini resort. Before we could sit down for the interview, he insisted on giving me an hourlong tour of his home remodel and his future vineyards and outdoor entertainment center.

As we walked throughout the house and drove around his land in a “side by side” ATV (All Terrain Vehicle), he regaled me with tales of his past and future business successes, his high IQ, his many inventions one of which he estimates will earn him between 250 and 300 million dollars, and his former $8 million mansion in the Silicon Valley frequented by judges and politicians that his first wife caused him to lose.

I couldn’t tell whether his stories were based on reality or imagination or some mixture of the two, but I enjoyed listening to his bragging and his grandiose visions for his future. He may have a giant ego, but he also seemed to have the skills and the smarts to realize his ambitions.

As we made our way around his future Shangri-La, I couldn’t help wondering why he was spending so much time with me, and why he felt the need to impress a low roller of my ilk. Was he going to pitch me again on the idea of working for him, or was he bored and in need of an audience or a friend?

At one point Mike had mentioned that he had grown up in an impoverished and violent home, and that in spite of his current affluence he was still a regular guy who was not impressed by social status. After hearing his previous stories about what a high achiever he is, I found it rather unlikely that he really thinks that he’s a normal Joe, but he seemed to believe that version of himself, so for the time being I took him at his word.

We finally settled down into huge easy chairs so that he could answer the survey questions on my government laptop. While we sat there, he turned on YouTube TV and played some beautiful music videos of Mexican pop-rock and folk singer Natalia La Fourcade and Dutch pop and jazz singer Caro Emerald. I had never heard of either woman, but loved their music, and as I listened to his superb sound system and gazed out the picture window at sweeping views of mountains and valleys it occurred to me that this driven entrepreneur was showing me landscape panoramas and musical vistas that seemed to suggest endless possibilities for the future. Was I being bewitched by his abundance, or was I seducing myself by projecting onto him my own fantasies of the lifestyles of the rich and famous?

Once he finished the survey, it was time for me to leave. He told me that he wanted me to come back to visit him in a few weeks so that I can see the finished home remodel, and I readily agreed. And I meant it. I will gladly return if I’m invited, because I’d be curious to see how he’s transformed his property into his dream home.

But somehow I doubt that he’ll really follow through. I suspect that we both know that there is little or no basis for a real friendship. I’m always up for meeting new people and having new adventures, and I guess that’s why I’d like to go back there and see his fancy new house and be open to new music or a job offer or something unexpected. But would I be using him to explore his upper class world? Would he be using me to fill a friendship void? Do I envy him, or pity him? Do I really want to sample his life in the fast lane, or am I afraid that I’d be ensnared by his materialism?

I may never see Mike again. But if he calls, I’m off to see the wizard… of ahhhs.

April 10, 2022

If your parents had never met, would you have never been born?

To what extent is your identity predetermined by your family genes and family history?

These are two of the questions that occur to me whenever I (infrequently) watch the PBS documentary series, “Finding Your Roots,” hosted by historian Henry Louis Gates. In each episode of that series, two or three celebrities are given a genealogically researched Book of Life that features photos, birth records, and other items from their family history, including genetic (DNA testing) research. It can be entertaining to watch their facial expressions and body language as they discover unknown stories and dramas from their ancestors.

I experienced a similar pleasure recently when D’Arcy, a fourth cousin once removed on my dad’s side of the family, wrote to me from Canada and provided some fascinating details about the lives of my German-speaking great grandparents, who I knew when I was a child.

But while I enjoyed learning some new particulars about my great grandparents, and gaining a better understanding of them, my grandmother, and my dad, I also feel that on another level that information, while interesting, has little or nothing to do with who I am.

Yet it is true that we are shaped to varying degrees by our parents and extended family members, as well as by our culture, nationality, ethnicity, and other variables such as our gender, class, and any religious background that we might have had.

The question of identity is always in the news, in one form or another. Political, racial, and religious tribalism frequently makes headlines. Case in point: Although Vladimir Putin is invading Ukraine in an attempt to reestablish the Russian/Soviet empire and bring glory to himself and to Mother Russia, a big part of his motivation is to impose Russian identity, language, and culture upon other eastern European nations. This aggressive assertion of Russian patriotism disregards the wishes of Ukrainian and other peoples who have their own cultures and national pride and who have no desire to be dominated by someone else’s idea of who they should give their allegiance to. But Putin is willing to kill as many Ukrainians as he wants to in order to command the respect he believes that he and Russia are entitled to on the world stage.

Another case in point: Today’s first round of the presidential election in France, where the center-right incumbent, Emmanuel Macron, is being challenged by the far right candidate Marine Le Pen. Although Le Pen and her National Rally party are campaigning on pocketbook issues, she and her party have long appealed to French fears of the loss of their national identity through immigration, multiculturalism, and Islamic extremism. They feel threatened by “le wokism” (American identity politics), which they believe is an attack upon their Catholic heritage and traditional values. Like many Trump supporters, they have working class grievances against educated elites because they see those elites as causing the white majority to be replaced by non-white immigrants. According to an article in the New York Times, some French are anxious that they are no longer “at home” in their own country.

While I find some of these conservative concerns understandable, Le Pen has close ties to Vladimir Putin, and her party has antisemitic roots going back to World War II when some of her party’s early supporters collaborated with the Nazis. Her authoritarian, ultra nationalist, anti-NATO, pro-Putin policies are a threat to Europe in general and France in particular. But after today’s presidential primary, she has a real shot at winning the runoff election on April 24.

While I recognize the human tendency to align ourselves with our familial, ethnic, or national identities, I personally believe that our roots are deeper than those comparatively superficial allegiances. If it is true that we have souls that experience multiple lifetimes, then our racial, cultural, and gender identities are temporary constructs, and it is foolish to over-identify with what are impermanent roles in the stage plays of our lives.

Are we Russian or Ukrainian, French or American, male or female, rich or poor? Yes. And no.

I appreciate my parents for the love they gave me, the good homes and education they provided me, and the healthy genes they passed on to me. But to my way of thinking, my soul was not created by them, and I existed way before I was conceived. If my parents had never met, I still would have been born at some other time and place to different parents, in circumstances of my choosing, for the purpose of soul growth and evolution.

So to Henry Louis Gates, Vladimir Putin, and Marine Le Pen, my message is this: if you want to find and celebrate your real roots, consider the words of Shakespeare’s Prince Hamlet: “There are more things in Heaven and Earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”

March 24, 2022

Sometimes I find myself wishing for the destruction of the Russian military and the assassination of Vladimir Putin. I guess such thoughts make me a bad Buddhist. But at least they show that my shadow side is alive and well. Is that a good thing?

At other times I’ve tried to redeem myself by sending positive vibes not only to the Ukrainian soldiers and civilians, but also to the young Russian conscripts and their karma-creating commander in chief. Putin may turn a blind eye now to the horrible suffering he’s inflicting upon the Ukrainian people, but wait until he finds out about the law of cause and effect. Poor Vladimir. I’ll shed some crocodile tears for him now, and pity him for real when, after death, it dawns on him what he has done to millions of others and to himself.

The Bible says, Thou shalt not kill. But in this war we have Russian Orthodox Christians killing Ukrainian Orthodox Christians. Even the Patriarch of the Russian Orthodox Church supports Putin and his war. Have the teachings of Jesus made even the slightest dent in the Russian psyche?

Buddhists seem to have a better track record than Christians when it comes to war and genocide. But not always. The recent mass killing of Rohingya Muslims in Myanmar/Burma was reportedly instigated in part by deluded, rabble-rousing Buddhist monks.

It’s comforting to know that I’m not the only Buddhist reprobate.

Yet if Buddhism, like Christianity, has a strong emphasis on non-violence, what about the right to self defense? Should the Ukrainian people surrender their country and their freedom to a modern-day Hitler? If Putin threatens to use or actually does use chemical or biological weapons or tactical nuclear weapons against Ukraine, or other European countries, or the United States, should we allow ourselves to be cowed into submission in order to save lives and preserve Western civilization? I’m glad I’m not in Joe Biden’s shoes.

I don’t know what I would do if war came to my doorstep, and for that matter I don’t know what I’d do if an armed intruder came into my apartment. I don’t have a gun, and don’t want one. Would I defend my country if it was invaded? Or would I practice some form of non-violent resistance? Probably the latter, but it’s hard to know for sure. I guess I’d just have to trust myself to choose the best response in that moment.

A few nights ago I attended a live performance of Dancing With the Stars, the TV program whose performers are currently on the road. I’ve never seen the TV series, and there were no celebrities in the road show, but I was curious to see their professional dancers in a traveling production. The show was terrific. The choreography was outstanding, and the high energy sexy young dancers were superb. The female dancers wore beautiful, skimpy costumes that showed off their bodies, and the male dancers were shirtless to display their strong, athletic torsos.

For a moment during the performance my mind wandered back to thoughts about the war in Ukraine, and I briefly felt guilty about enjoying entertainment that was shallow compared to the immense misery and drama being experienced by millions of people in a different part of the world. How could I enjoy music and dance while bombs were falling on civilians in Ukraine? But then I reflected that war and other kinds of suffering are always happening somewhere on the planet, and life must go on in war and in peace, so why not appreciate whatever good fortune we might have while we can? I knew that the glamour and glitz of Dancing With the Stars were transient, as are life and death, so I chose to let go of my guilt and escape for a short time into the romantic fantasy of being young, beautiful, and in love.

The Ohlone people, the original inhabitants of much of the San Francisco Bay Area, had a song that contained a phrase that has survived until the present day. The song lyric captured the precariousness and fleeting nature of life on this planet: Dancing on the brink of the world.

What a wonderful way to keep our spirits up during a time of war and planetary upheaval: singing and dancing on the brink of the world.

March 8, 2022

This is not an essay about baseball.

Rather, it is a meditation on the differences between people, and on the possibility of overcoming or at least transcending those differences so that, if we can’t live together in harmony, we can at a minimum coexist in tolerance.

Several recent incidents in my life and in the world have caused me to ponder how common it is for individuals, groups, and nations to experience conflicts.

Two days ago I approached the front door of a house in my capacity as a survey researcher. Previously the married couple had told me that they were too busy to talk to me, but that I could come back another time. But before I could ring the doorbell this time, I overheard the husband and wife arguing about something. Deciding that that was not the best time to gain their cooperation, I beat a hasty retreat.

A week ago I enjoyed a wonderful family reunion. But one member of my family wasn’t invited, someone who has succeeded in alienating several of us. I’ve never been close to him, and we haven’t spoken in over a year.

There is a woman in one of my hiking groups with whom I have a difficult relationship. I know that I should feel compassion for her, as she has a lot of psychological and emotional problems. And sometimes I do feel sorry for her. But mostly I just don’t like her, and she feels the same way about me. Last week she threw a tantrum, directed at me, as several other hikers watched in awkward silence.

And of course we are now witnessing the mother of all tantrums, the psychodrama of Vladimir Putin’s most recent invasion of Ukraine. Not content with seizing Crimea and portions of eastern Ukraine in 2014, and parts of Georgia in 2008, the psychopath is determined to make the Soviet Union great again by reconquering the people of Ukraine and possibly other former Soviet republics and vassal states. Looks like with Ukraine the Russian bear bit off more than it can chew. Poor Vlad.

While my thoughts and prayers have been with the courageous Ukrainian fighters and suffering civilians, I will admit that earlier this week I sent some sympathetic energy to Mr. Putin, as well as to the nutty woman in my hiking group and to the dysfunctional family member who was excluded from our reunion. Why did I send positive vibes to those three individuals? Partly because their delusional behavior awakens pity and sadness in me. And partly because any resentments I feel toward them is harmful to me, not to them. My anger is self destructive, so it’s in my self interest to not hate them. I may not be as evolved as I would like to be, but I’m tryin’.

It seems that people and nations usually don’t resolve their differences; they just learn to live with them, or to deal with the aftermath of the wars or interpersonal conflicts. Sometimes the best we can hope for is to muddle through and live our lives as best we can while continuing to endure our conflicts, prejudices, and resentments. Many of these tensions may take generations, or multiple incarnations, to resolve.

This morning I had a dream in which I determined to encourage my friends to stay positive during these crazy times by focusing on something that might unite us as human beings. Since most of my friends live here in northern California, it occurred to me that we could overcome any differences we might have by agreeing to support our local professional baseball team. So I decided to send an email to all of my friends with that message. In the subject line of the email I typed “Giants Baseball.” Before I could write the rest of the email, I awakened from my dream.

Is it just a dream to imagine that we humans can overcome our differences to support a common goal?

Maybe our common goal could be saving our planet from climate change in order to ensure our survival as a species.

Or maybe the best we can do in a time of war and economic uncertainty is to just be nice to each other.

I wish the Ukrainian people much success in repelling the Russian invaders and healing their country.

In the meantime, go Giants!

February 19, 2022

Two nights ago I attended what I thought might be a serious lecture on politics and social issues. I spent the evening laughing at those issues instead.

Fran Lebowitz is an eccentric New York City writer and public speaker who came to nearby Santa Rosa as part of her national speaking tour. All I knew about her was what I had learned from googling her before deciding to get my ticket: she’s a lesbian who wears men’s suit coats; she’s a heavy smoker and an advocate for smoker’s rights; she was a New York City cab driver in the 1970’s; she’s a liberal Democrat but not a feminist; and she has a sardonic sense of humor.

I was delighted to discover that in spite of her serious opinions on a variety of subjects, the 71 year old is one of the funniest women I’ve ever seen. Yet she’s not a stand-up comic with prepared jokes – she was quick witted in an unscripted onstage conversation with a local interviewer and in her Q & A session with the audience of about 1,000 people at the Luther Burbank Center for the Arts.

Even if I could remember her wisecracks I couldn’t do them justice here, because my words cannot convey the perfect timing of her spontaneous quips. But I can say that her candor about her personal life, as well as her basic human decency, shone through the topics raised by her female interviewer and the audience.

Fran was not the flaming liberal that I expected. While she predictably deplored Donald Trump, she doesn’t like Bernie Sanders or Kamala Harris either, and she suggested that Joe Biden and Nancy Pelosi should step aside for a younger generation of Democratic leaders. Yet she also said that while she likes Georgia politician Stacey Abrams, she feels that Abrams and former South Bend, Indiana mayor Pete Buttigieg are too inexperienced to be president. She joked that more people live in her Manhattan apartment building than live in South Bend. She admires the intelligence of singer Dolly Parton, a personal friend of hers, and commented half seriously that Parton would make a great president.

What mattered more to me than Fran’s opinions is her ability to see the absurdity in human nature and in political and social behavior. I didn’t agree with everything she said, but she made me laugh long and hard at her perceptive observations. And she doesn’t take herself too seriously – a good reminder for all of us to lighten up in these polarized times.

Another humorist who didn’t take himself too seriously was the self deprecating writer P.J. O’Rourke, who died this week at 74 of lung cancer, probably as a result of his smoking (Yes, I’m talkin’ to you, Fran). His death caught my attention because many years ago I read his 1988 book Holidays in Hell, in which he traveled the world visiting combat zones and other hellholes on a fun-finding mission. He looked for the humor or at least the irony in dangerous or unpleasant places such as Lebanon, El Salvador, Belfast, the Philippines, and the Gaza strip.

One of the strange places O’Rourke visited was Heritage USA, a born again Christian theme park in South Carolina. He commented that “Dorothy and I came to scoff – but went away converted. Unfortunately, we were converted to Satanism.”

A conservative Republican, O’Rourke voted for Hillary Clinton because he couldn’t stand Donald Trump, and he had no problem making fun of his own party: “The Democrats are the party that says that government will make you smarter, taller, richer, and remove the crabgrass on your lawn. The Republicans are the party that says government doesn’t work, and then they get elected and prove it.”

If Fran and P.J. have used laughter to cope with our crazy world, Lieutenant Gail Halvorsen responded to human foolishness with kindness. Halvorsen, a World War II era Air Force pilot, died this week at 101. He may have lived a long life in part because, as a Mormon, he was almost certainly a non smoker (Yes, Fran, I’m still talkin’ to you).

Halvorsen gained fame as the first “Candy Bomber” when, in 1948, he came up with the idea of using Air Force planes to drop tiny parachutes attached to little bags filled with candy for the children of West Berlin. Russian dictator Joseph Stalin had cut off land deliveries of food and medicine to communist-surrounded West Berlin, so President Harry Truman ordered the U.S. Air Force to carry out the Berlin Airlift to deliver those critical supplies to West Berliners.

At one point Lt. Halvorsen noticed some shabbily dressed German children standing outside a fence at his West Berlin Air Force base, and he gave them his last two sticks of chewing gum. When he saw how much they appreciated his little gesture, he promised them that he would use his transport plane to drop candies, chocolates, and chewing gum for them, in addition to the large bundles of food that he delivered for their families.

As Halvorsen later explained, “The airlift reminded me that the only way to fulfillment in life, real fulfillment, is to serve others,” Mr. Halvorsen told CNN on the Berlin airlift’s 40th anniversary. “I was taught that as a youth in my church, and I found when I flew day and night to serve a former enemy that my feelings of fulfillment and being worthwhile were the strongest that I’ve felt.” (from the New York Times, 2/17/22).

Check out the New York Times obituary of this American hero for more details on the beautiful story of the Candy Bomber at

I guess the moral of this essay is: If you can’t be funny, be kind.

Many thanks to Fran, P.J., and Lt. Halvorsen for brightening my day.

January 27, 2022

Should you feel guilty if your skin is white? Should you feel ashamed if your skin is black?

As a field interviewer for a social science research company, my job is to administer a government health questionnaire to a wide variety of people in their homes. Although the majority of the questions have to do with mental and physical health, we also ask about their income, their educational background, and other demographic information.

Two of the demographic questions have to do with ethnic identity. The first of the two asks, “Are you of Hispanic, Latino, or Spanish origin?” No one has any difficulty answering yes or no to that question. But then we ask, “What is your race?” The answer options are “White, Black or African American, American Indian or Alaska Native, Asian, Hawaiian or Pacific Islander.” And that race question confuses almost all of my Latino respondents.

After answering yes to the Hispanic/Latino/Spanish question, they don’t know where they fit in with the race question. Some of them will say “I’m Mexican” or “I’m Guatemalan” until I point out that those options are not available. So maybe half of them will choose “White” even though their skin may be dark brown, because to them that is the closest category among the five choices that they are given. The other half will look at me and say, “I don’t know which answer to choose.”

Last week a young man of Iranian heritage answered “Asian” as his race even though his skin is white, because Iran is in Asia.

A few days ago I interviewed a middle aged, middle class white woman, and when I asked her the race question she replied, “I’m white, with all the privilege and baggage that comes with that.” I wanted to ask her why she felt the need to apologize for her skin color, but my job requires that I remain neutral and just record the respondent’s answers, so I dutifully entered “White” into my laptop and didn’t pursue the matter with her.

But I did pursue the matter in my own mind. As regular readers of these blog essays may have noted, questions of identity in general and racial and cultural identity in particular have been of great interest to me since I was in high school in the 1960’s. This essay gives me another opportunity to explore the theme in greater detail.

We humans tend to be tribal, and so we often sort ourselves according to nationality, ethnicity, gender, class, religion, politics, or even sports team fans. Sometimes these demarcations can harden into rigid distinctions that ignore the many complexities and gray areas of our individual beliefs and personalities.

And that is why it’s understandable that my Latino respondents are perplexed by the race question. Racial categories can seem arbitrary if you are Latino or of mixed race or simply choose to see yourself as a human being who doesn’t fit into any government boxes. Even the term “people of color” is rejected by most Latino and Asian Americans, who prefer to identify with their specific culture or nationality rather than be lumped together with other non-white folks. And many Asian Americans are not comfortable with that term, since they see themselves as Chinese or Indian or Thai or whatever, and not Asian.

I don’t know if the white woman I interviewed really believes that there is something wrong with her racial identity, or whether she was just virtue signaling to let me know that she is above reproach because she acknowledges her supposed complicity in oppressing others as a result of the color of her skin. I’m sure she meant well, but her posturing came across as moral correctness run amok. I almost wanted to tell her to relax, take two aspirin, and get lots of bed rest.

Speaking of virtue signaling, I was initially dismayed to discover recently that the nearby town of Sebastopol had paid to have the political slogan Black Lives Matter painted in huge yellow letters on the sidewalk in the middle of the town square. The colorful street mural looks permanent, and I was as pleased to see it as I would have been had it been a Trumpian slogan; that is, not at all. I don’t want to be reminded of the politics of division, anger, and resentment every time I walk through the plaza. A temporary banner would have been OK, but a permanent political display in a public space alienates me from a sense of community solidarity, much as a Confederate statue or other such symbol or slogan can create an us versus them feeling that “my tribe or ideology is better than yours.”

On the other hand, a temporary BLM banner on the outside wall of the Sebastopol library was torn down and burned last week, and I don’t approve of that negative reaction any more than I like the new BLM banner with an upraised black fist that has replaced it. Anger begets more anger, and creates a backlash which itself is harmful.

I do not consider an upraised clenched fist to be a symbol of compassion or wisdom. The politics of anger, whether on the left or the right of the political spectrum, is polarizing. I’ve never had bumper stickers on my car, or political signs in front of my home, because I want to relate to and get along with all kinds of people.

I believe that most BLM supporters have good intentions. But for me that movement, at least after the police murder of George Floyd, engendered too much violence, rioting, vandalism, looting, hostility toward police, and animosity toward white people. Most of their protests then and now have been peaceful, but there’s still too much rage for that cause to change hearts and minds in the long term unless it can evolve in a more constructive direction.

I have long sympathized with the struggles of black people to be treated as equals in this or in any society. Even in Caribbean and African countries, being in the majority does not ensure that black people will be treated with respect. All too often black lives do not matter in Haiti, Ethiopia, Zimbabwe, South Africa, Congo, Sudan, Nigeria, or Rwanda, among others. Brazil, Cuba, Australia, and some of the European countries – in fact, any country that has a significant black population – also have a long way to go in helping their black residents to feel loved and appreciated. Violent encounters with police officers only make matters worse. But being a police officer is a dangerous, thankless job, especially in the U.S. where so many men are armed. We need to find a way to reduce police brutality and reduce black crime.

The reality is that relatively few black people are killed by police in this country. According to the U.S. Department of Justice, 93% of black men are killed by other black men, so if black lives really matter, then black men need to stop slaughtering each other and committing other crimes that attract police attention. It’s not realistic to expect cops to be social workers or therapists. Painting BLM slogans in predominantly white towns like Sebastopol may make white people feel virtuous, but the real work needs to be done in black communities. Government and legal and judicial systems can only do so much. Building strong supportive and nurturing two parent families, along with creating a culture that values education, can eventually overcome all kinds of inequality, prejudice, and poverty of spirit.

There is much to celebrate in African American culture, and their contributions to society in general have been significant. I especially appreciate black creativity in musical genres such as jazz, blues, rock and roll, doo wop, Motown, and country. The non violent civil rights movement has benefited all of us by allowing us as a people to make some progress toward our Declaration of Independence goal of “All men are created equal” and the Constitution’s aim of “A more perfect union,” not to mention Abraham Lincoln’s idea of “With malice toward none, with charity for all.”

To the extent that BLM is about love and respect for black people, I support it. But I do not support the angry, anti police, anti white energy that sometimes corrupts it. The guilt-tripping of white people such as my survey respondent who has been taught to believe that she should feel bad because of “white privilege and baggage” may be an effective short term strategy to accomplish BLM goals. But rather than bringing white people down, isn’t it better to uplift everyone?

I understand why the federal government asks racial demographic questions on our health survey. They want to measure similarities and differences in health behaviors and outcomes by comparing the health of various ethnic groups. But how do you measure the amount of love that individuals and families give to and receive from one another? How do you measure the respect and self esteem that are so important to a person’s happiness? Should a healthy black person feel guilty because they are better off than a disabled white person? Should an American of Korean heritage feel that they enjoy Asian privilege because they do better in school than a person from Honduras? Is it really necessary to assign roles of oppressor and victim to each person based on our assumptions about their race?

The reason I said earlier that I was “initially” dismayed by the BLM street mural is that I later learned that that mural and the library banners were displayed at the request of local high school activists. The Sebastopol city council was listening to a request from local teens. Although I still disapprove of divisive political and racial slogans in public spaces, my opposition softened a bit as I remembered how I too saw racial politics in simplistic good vs evil terms when I was in high school. I too was idealistic and opinionated about racial injustice, and I too wanted the powers that be to listen to us teens. So maybe I need to relax, take two aspirin, and get lots of bed rest.

Is there social injustice in this world? You bet there is. How much of it is caused by wounded people who lacked love in their childhood? Probably most of it. And is the solution then to have other wounded people project their pain onto others by angrily opposing such injustice? Probably not.

Thich Nhat Hanh, the late Vietnamese Buddhist monk, once gave a talk where he described how, during the Vietnam war, the American anti-war movement became so consumed with anger that their actions became counterproductive.

Where is the peace in being anti-war? Where is the love and tolerance in anti-racism?

As Thich Nhat Hanh said, “Anger can provide energy, but compassion comes from understanding. We belong to each other. The well being of this is the well being of that, and so we have to do things together. There is no evil side. Every side is our side.”

As for my race, I’m not really white. My skin color is closer to beige. So I’ll raise my beige fist and proclaim BLM – Beige Lives Matter! Beige Power! Just don’t call me a beigeist.

January 18, 2022

How can human society in general, and men in particular, channel male aggression in a positive direction? Strangely, that question came to me after I already had an answer.

A few days ago I awoke with the word “knighthood” in my consciousness. I don’t remember having a dream about knights, so I don’t know why that word occurred to me when it did. Yet there it was, an answer to a question I had not asked. Or maybe it’s a question I’ve been asking for a long time.

It’s pretty obvious that almost all of the violence on this planet is perpetrated by men. War, murder, rape, brutality, torture, slavery are almost exclusively male specialties. Yes, females too have their dark sides; women friends have told me that girls can be vicious bullies toward one another, and grown women can be cruel and cold hearted. But girls and women don’t seem to have the large scale of destructive effects on society that misdirected male energy has. So for now I’ll let my female readers ponder their gender’s shadow side while I consider a possible solution to toxic masculinity.

That solution just might be a modern version of knighthood.

I’m not suggesting a return to the jousting of the Middle Ages; our current iteration of armored bodies slamming into one another is called American football. And while I don’t like the violence of that sport, I must confess that a primitive part of my psyche enjoys rooting for our local football team, the San Francisco 49ers, in the current playoff games. So yes, sports can be one way of redirecting violent male impulses in such a way that only the well paid players get hurt.

But it’s not clear to me whether gladiator sports and video games release negative competitive energies vicariously or whether they unconsciously encourage gun violence, drunken road rage, abuse of women, etc. I guess I’d feel better about high school, college, and professional sports if they placed a greater emphasis on sportsmanship, fair play, and honoring opposing players and fans, rather than winning at all costs and denigrating their opponents and the other team’s supporters.

Most little boys grow up admiring sports heroes or wanting to be like superheroes such as Superman or Spiderman. I know I did. But consciously or not, we also want to look up to men who are not just physically strong but who have a nobility of spirit, a selflessness and courage to face life’s difficulties and help others to do the same.

European and Moorish knights were mostly just soldiers on horseback, but sometimes they aspired to uphold a code of chivalry that honored one’s duty to God, that offered respect and gallantry toward women, and that protected the weaker members of society. Like their knightly counterparts, Japanese samurai were also professional killers, but they too attempted to follow their honor code of bushido. And Don Quixote, a fictional character initially created by author Miguel de Cervantes to make fun of the romanticized versions of knighthood, ended up transcending his author’s intentions to become a lovable if unsuccessful yet heroic knight errant.

One of my favorite boyhood role models was Crazy Horse, an Oglala Lakota warrior who through his courage in battle and his generosity toward his people was granted the great honor of being one of four members of the Shirt Wearers Society. But the sacred shirt was not just a trophy. It was a symbol of great responsibility toward the community. As one of the old chiefs said when bestowing the special shirts upon Crazy Horse and his three comrades,

“Wear the shirts, my sons,” he said, “and be big-hearted men, always helping others, never thinking of yourselves. Look out for the poor, the widows and orphans and all those of little power; help them. Think no ill of others, nor see the ill they would do to you. Many dogs may come to lift the leg at your lodge, but look the other way, and do not let your heart carry the remembering. Do not give way to anger, even if relatives lie in blood before you. I know these things are hard to do, my sons, but we have chosen you as great-hearted. Do all these things gladly, and with a good face. Be generous and strong and brave in them, and if for all these things an enemy comes against you, go boldly forward, for it is better to lie a naked warrior in death than to be wrapped up well with a heart of water inside.” (Crazy Horse: The Strange Man of the Oglalas, by Mari Sandoz).

It is perfectly natural for boys and men to desire distinction, honor, and glory. But isn’t it better for all of us if we can achieve those desires through a chivalrous ethic of service to others? I have to believe, to hope, that communities the world over can support or create groups such as the Boy Scouts, the Peace Corps, and the equivalents of the Shirt Wearers Society, to guide young men into constructive uses of their ambition and their energy.

My friend Bruce does not desire distinction, honor, or glory, as far as I know. Instead, he practices a humble form of chivalry known in his Jewish tradition as tikkun olam: acts of kindness to repair the world. Bruce volunteers at homeless shelters, serving meals and talking with the residents, and he volunteers at a local food pantry, and he volunteers in a restorative justice program at San Quentin prison, and for 10 years he used part of his vacations to spend time helping kids from disadvantaged backgrounds who had AIDS.

Now that’s what I call knighthood.

Can you imagine a world full of Bruces, where boys and men compete to see who can help the most people? A world where boys and men have the courage to protect and defend the planet? A world where boys grow up to be men who appreciate women and treat them with great respect? A world where ambition leads to service?

Now I think I understand why I awoke with that one word on my mind.

January 4, 2022

I don’t know how I did it, but somehow I’ve ended up with some wonderful friends. And the crazier the world gets, the more I appreciate my friends and family.

When I was young I thought I could make the world a better place by going into politics and helping to steer California and the nation in a more enlightened direction. Eventually I realized that my desire for power and glory was just as self centered and corrupt as many of the politicians and business people whom I deplored. Now in the last quarter of my life it seems that I’m just along for the ride, carried along with everyone else in a sea current of our collective evolution. I do believe that the human race is evolving, if painfully and often unconsciously. So I might as well enjoy the ride, body surfing the waves of climate change, the pandemic, political turmoil, and economic uncertainty.

But it’s more fun to swim and surf with companions. So in the last few days I’ve taken advantage of some downtime before a wave of work crashes over me to spend time with a few of my friends in person, on the phone, or on Zoom. Navigating the waters of current events alone is sometimes depressing, but my buddies are helping me stay afloat by playfully splashing and frolicking and keeping me buoyant.

One thing my friends have in common is that they all make me laugh. And I love them for that, and for their good hearts, their wisdom, their loyalty, and their quirks. They keep me centered and emotionally honest.

Some of them know each other because many of us were Nichiren Buddhists in the 1970’s. Our idealism may have been shipwrecked on the shoals of reality, but sincerity, determination, and laughter have been our life preservers in troubled waters.

Jovial Joseph is down to earth and loves people. Montgomery is a musician with a passion for history. Diana is honest, unpretentious, and rescues big dogs. Phil is a reverent and irreverent ocean scientist and scuba diver committed to protecting the seas. Cris is a therapist and social worker who has worked with the homeless. Judy volunteers at San Quentin prison where she helps prisoners in a restorative justice program. Jim teaches yoga and adores his wife and animals. Rikki is a writer with a dedication to martial arts and her spiritual journey. My newest confidante Susan is a librarian, avid reader, and Francophile. And I’m proud to call all of them friends. I’m blessed with the best. And these are just the sidekicks that I’ve been able to talk to in the last few days. There are other buddies floating nearby who are just as terrific. I am a rich man indeed.

I can’t help but wonder how it is that I am so fortunate to enjoy the relationships that I have in my life. I’m grateful to my mom Maggie and my sisters Sally and Laura, as well as my dad Roy who is no longer with us, at least physically. What did I do to deserve them, and all my comrades? Celtic mysticism and Nichiren Buddhism offer a couple of possible clues.

The Nichiren term kenzoku-myo means mystic relationship or kindred spirit. And the term zenchishiki means a good friend who supports one’s spiritual journey. Together the terms suggest an unseen bond forged in prior lives or in-between lives. In other words, it’s no accident that the people in our lives are present for us in their current roles. Even difficult people are performing their assigned parts in the stage plays of our lives. This is not to say that everything is preordained; but karma and prior relationships may well draw us to one another through the law of attraction. Birds of a feather flock together.

This Buddhist idea of previous associations is corroborated at least theoretically by Celtic tradition. Here is the Irish poet John O’Donohue:

“Anam is the Irish word for ‘soul,’ and cara is the word for friend. In the anam cara friendship, you were joined in an ancient way with the friend of your soul. This was a bond that neither space nor time could damage. The friendship awakened an eternal echo in the hearts of friends; they entered into a circle of intimate belonging with each other.

“In everyone’s life there is great need for an anam cara, a soul friend. In this love, you are understood as you are without mask or pretension…you can be as you really are…Where you are understood, you are at home.

“The beauty of being human is the capacity and desire for intimacy. Yet we know that even those who are most intimate remain strange to us.” (from Eternal Echoes: Celtic Reflections on Our Yearning to Belong).

I don’t pretend to understand my friends completely. Even those who I’ve known for over half a century are mysterious strangers, just as there are parts of myself with which I am not fully acquainted. All I know is that in a time of great change and planetary upheaval, when the passing show of political and environmental and social drama sometimes feels overwhelming, the real story, that which endures beyond time and space, is love and friendship. And I’m so grateful to my friends for helping me to laugh at the absurdities of this world.

I’ll give John O’Donohue the final word:

“Like the joy of the sea coming home to shore, may the relief of laughter rinse through your soul.”

December 17, 2021

A few days ago one of my neighbors put a sign at the entrance to his driveway: THE OWNER OF THIS PROPERTY IS ARMED, along with an image of a revolver.

Welcome to the neighborhood.

I don’t know the man, although I’ve waved to him a couple of times as I’ve walked down the hill to the mailboxes. So I don’t know why he’s so fearful. The hill where we live is a rural, wooded, middle class white neighborhood with little or no crime. Maybe he or a family member or friend has been robbed at some point in their life. Or perhaps he’s simply allowed himself to be terrorized by reports of violence that have been hyped up by the news media.

I have no objection to any individual having a gun in their home for self defense. At least one of my family members and maybe a couple of my friends have pistols for that purpose. And although I have never had a desire to own a gun myself, I can imagine how I could conceivably be willing to acquire such a weapon if I lived in a dangerous area.

But it’s one thing to discreetly own a gun for self protection, and it’s quite another matter to own automatic weapons that are designed to kill large numbers of people, and then flaunt those guns or their images in order to intimidate your fellow citizens. I’m seeing more and more bumper stickers and decals on pickup trucks that seem to promote gun violence. One pickup I saw recently sported a sticker with two crossed machine guns backed by an American flag. Another pickup sticker cynically illustrated the child-friendly driving slogan Baby on Board with a photo of an automatic rifle beneath those words. And many states such as Texas that are dominated by right-wing zealots are passing legislation that allows anyone to carry guns on public sidewalks or in stores.

Civilized countries such as Japan, Australia, Canada, and the European nations don’t allow such anti-social bullying behavior, and so they severely restrict access to weapons of mass killing. But in the United States, where for many Americans guns are a religion more sacred and appealing than the teachings of Jesus, guns are a potent symbol of masculinity and freedom. It never fails to amaze me how many American men who claim to be Christians and “pro-life” are enthusiastic proponents of the death penalty and of propagating weapons of death. A couple of months ago in Utah I saw a man with a baseball cap that proclaimed “God, Guns, and Trump.” It would be funny if it wasn’t so pathetic.

Gun advocates, whipped into a frenzy by the self-serving National Rifle Association (NRA), claim that the U.S. Constitution guarantees their individual right to own and carry firearms. They proudly quote the Second Amendment to the Constitution, which says “The right of the people to keep and bear Arms shall not be infringed.”

But what they conveniently neglect to mention is that that phrase is only the second part of the sentence. The entire Second Amendment says “A well regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed.” In other words, the framers of the Constitution were allowing the possession of arms for the common good, not for individual gunslingers. The key phrase is “well regulated militia.”

I’m no legal scholar, but it’s pretty obvious that our founders intended for us to be a civilized people, not a bunch of “every man for himself” gun-toting lunatics, and so they allowed the possession of weapons provided that the arms were used by organized groups of police, National Guard, and military. If they intended for us to be a lawless nation of gun nuts, they wouldn’t have specified “well regulated.”

Even so, the larger question is, what do we owe each other, as Americans and as human beings? Anything? Do we have any mutual obligations, any social solidarity, or are we just a collection of self-centered, frightened individuals?

We are currently enduring an epidemic of selfishness, whether it’s spiritually sick gun fanatics, or anti-maskers and anti-vaxxers, or climate change deniers who want to continue the status quo in order to avoid short term economic losses. We as a people are not as evolved as I hope we will one day be. Just as modern day Germans look back at their Nazi past with revulsion and shame, so too will we Americans someday be mortified as well as mystified by the mass psychosis of the gun cult. I’m a short term pessimist but a long term optimist. Too bad we seem to have to learn our lessons the hard way.

Maybe I should knock on the door of my neighbor who has the revolver sign on his driveway, and introduce myself and get acquainted. But if I did so, “howdy neighbor” might be my last words. I guess I’d just have to carry a bazooka along with my smile to his front door.