September 4, 2021

When hiking with friends and acquaintances at Point Reyes National Seashore, I enjoy taking in the sights of the natural world: pelicans, tule elk, seals, coyotes, wildflowers, and occasionally whales and dolphins. Our trail conversations cover a variety of topics, but race is rarely one of them. Yesterday was one such day.

While eating lunch with my 13 fellow white hikers at the tip of Tomales Point, a woman sat next to me on the sandy hillside, a woman I had never met before. After some small talk, I learned that she grew up in Berkeley, and in recent years had returned to her hometown.

Susan went to public schools there, as did her son, and she was a teacher in the public schools for awhile. She said that the Berkeley public schools were among the best in the nation until the city began busing both black and white students in 1968 in order to achieve racial balance in the schools. Many white parents responded by taking their children out of public schools and putting them in private schools. And she said that the teachers were sometimes overwhelmed by trying to manage the unruly black kids who were bused in from the poorer neighborhoods, and the remaining white kids were bored because the stressed teachers had to spend much of their time maintaining discipline and order among the bused children rather than teaching the more advanced white kids.

I lived in Berkeley until 1955, when I was three years old. Then my family moved to the suburbs, where I got an excellent education in the all white public schools. For that reason I’m glad that I grew up in the suburbs.

At 18 I chose to move back to Berkeley to attend the University of California, where in addition to my academic studies I began my education in racial dynamics by living in predominately black neighborhoods for three and a half years. My motives weren’t lofty; I was working my way through college as a kitchen helper and dishwasher, and I lived where I and my roommates could afford the rent.

In the summer of 1970, after high school but before starting college, I volunteered with a handful of other idealistic white and Asian teens to help provide recreational opportunities for black kids living in two housing projects in San Francisco. My naivete was rewarded when I was targeted by a black boy who threw a rock that struck me between the eyes, opening a gash that bloodied my face.

One time we took the kids on a field trip to the zoo, and while on public transportation the boys behaved like wild animals while the girls were their usual charming, sweet selves. I imagine that those boys ended up either in prison or in early graves.

I did not then and do not now believe in segregation, but I certainly gained an appreciation for why one would choose to be selective about the kinds of people with whom one associates. If you are black, there are legitimate reasons to resent white oppression, and if you are white, Asian, or Latino, it is understandable if you fear black crime or other anti-social behaviors.

A few days ago I was reminded of segregation and racial animosity when for the first time I finally read To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee, then watched for the umpteenth time the movie of the same name starring Gregory Peck. Both book and movie are first rate classics, though the book provides far more detail and nuance about the coming of age story of the two Finch children, Scout and Jem, the nobility of character of their father, attorney Atticus Finch, the class divides between white people, and the racial abuse of black people by whites in a small Alabama town in the 1930’s during the Great Depression.

The title of the book and movie refers to a quote from Atticus, who told his son Jem and daughter Scout that it’s a sin to kill a mockingbird because they are innocent creatures that harm no one but instead make music for everyone to enjoy.

The two symbolic mockingbirds of the story are Boo Radley, a white, psychologically abused recluse, and Tom Robinson, a black man falsely accused of rape and defended in court by Atticus. The townspeople were quick to judge Radley and Robinson, but as Atticus said indirectly of both of them, “You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view – until you climb around in his skin and walk around in it.”

Atticus was a wise, loving father and man of great moral integrity, but he was also realistic about the state of race relations in his town, and he knew that he had little chance of prevailing when he agreed to defend Tom Robinson in court. Even so, he sat alone outside the county jail at night, unarmed, waiting for the lynch mob that came to hang Tom Robinson before the trial.

As Atticus told his young son Jem, courage is “when you’re licked before you begin but you begin anyway and you see it through no matter what.”

The black residents of the town watched the drama from the segregated “colored” balcony of the courthouse, and they too were realistic about the outcome of a trial with an all-white male jury judging a black man in Alabama. In spite of that understanding, at the conclusion of the trial, as Atticus prepared to leave the courtroom, all the black spectators stood out of respect and appreciation for his heroic efforts before and during the trial, and a black minister said to Atticus’ daughter, “Miss (Scout), stand up. Your father’s passin’.”

My takeaway from the book, movie, and conversation with Susan from Berkeley: there is ugliness and beauty in this world, but we are better off if, like Atticus Finch, we can choose to focus on doing the right thing even when the deck is stacked against us. As much as possible, we are wiser if we can ignore those who express negative energy, and instead appreciate the songs of the mockingbirds.

August 12, 2021

Yesterday I found a twig of ugliness in a forest of beauty. Being human, I naturally chose to focus on the twig.

I was hiking in a redwood grove at the Sonoma coast with five companions on a sometimes foggy, sometimes sunny day. We had just come down the fairly steep Pomo Canyon trail, and were admiring the gorgeous forest with light streaming down through the towering redwood and bay trees, when I encountered my old friend Bill and his daughter Anne. I hadn’t seen them in years, so I told my hiking buddies that they could continue on without me for a bit while I reconnected with Bill and Anne.

I learned that Anne and her husband are co-owners of two popular Asian eateries in nearby Sebastopol. One of them, a new Thai restaurant called Khom Loi (Floating Lanterns), has received highly favorable reviews from the Michelin restaurant guide and other food critics. But Anne told me that a writer for the San Francisco Chronicle had scolded the two chef co-owners in her review, accusing them of “cultural appropriation.” Their culinary crime? They are white. How dare they presume to be familiar with a cuisine that doesn’t match their skin color?

I don’t have a lot of patience with political correctness, but living in the Bay Area one frequently encounters such narrow-mindedness and intolerance. Even so, I try to keep an open mind myself in order to understand where people with those beliefs are coming from.

The term “cultural appropriation” is a relatively recent phrase that refers to the use of images or aspects of cultures that are different from one’s own heritage. So according to this idea, it’s not a bad thing to appreciate different ways of life, but it is taboo to copy them. Anyone is free to enjoy food, music, dance, clothing, or language from other parts of the world, so this thinking goes, but only members of the original ethnic group are entitled to engage in the creation or practice of those traditions.

In a way, I can appreciate this argument. The intent is to respect the originality and positive traits of various peoples without stereotyping or offending them in the process of mimicking them. So while some individuals may not intend any disrespect when they wear blackface or dress up as American Indians on Halloween or wear a leprechaun get-up on St. Patrick’s Day, some members of those ethnicities feel that they’re being caricatured by those portrayals. It is important, therefore, that we do our best to be sensitive to one another in our cross cultural encounters.

Sometimes, though, we go too far in demanding that we not be offended. Some people argue that it is cultural appropriation for folks who live outside of India to practice yoga. Others insist that it’s only acceptable for black people to wear dreadlocks or corn rows, while ignoring the fact that by straightening and sometimes lightening their hair most black women are choosing white or Asian hairstyles. Should white and Asian women resent black women for copying their hair?

If you scroll down to one of my previous blog posts, Heavenly Dance, dated March 27, 2021, you’ll see that I celebrated a Chinese performance of Irish stepdance. Some would claim that it’s not cultural appropriation for Chinese people to copy Irish civilization, because by definition cultural appropriation only occurs when a dominant culture (white) exploits an oppressed culture (Chinese). But wait – the Chinese dominate and/or oppress the people of Hong Kong, Taiwan, Tibetans, Uighurs, and their neighbors in India, Vietnam, the Philippines, and elsewhere, and the Irish don’t dominate or oppress anyone.

Oh well – so much for politically correct racial stereotypes.

The reality is that, throughout history, humans have migrated, cultures have mutated, and people have adapted to changing circumstances. And now, with TV and the internet, societies and ethnicities are encountering one another and mixing with ever greater frequency. So who gets to decide what should or should not be allowed in cultural exchanges? Which cultural expressions belong to whom? Should we believe the culture warriors when they insist that we limit our freedom of expression to those forms that match our racial or religious identity?

Maybe we should take ourselves a little less seriously. Maybe instead of being cultural puritans, it’s OK to be human rather than being attached to labels of ethnic authenticity. Maybe it’s time to let go of our over-identification with our current incarnation.

When I googled Khom Loi (Floating Lanterns) I came up with this explanation:

It is good luck to release a sky lantern since it symbolizes your problems and worries floating away. The sky lantern ceremony has come to represent the releasing of one’s deepest fears and desires. It is a symbolic cleansing, a letting go of everything that troubles you. It is also the beginning of a new, enlightened you, with the light illuminating the path of knowledge and righteousness.

We are all floating lanterns, transient beings in the cosmos.

My advice to the Chronicle restaurant reviewer: Lighten up. And float away.

And I intend to check out the delicious Thai food made by white people at Khom Loi restaurant in Sebastopol.

July 23, 2021

Is it better to be in love with a person, or with a cause?

Both can disappoint you. Both can let you down. And both can inspire you and give you a reason to live.

I’m interested in comparing the different forms that devotion can take because this week I’ve been reading two very different works of fiction that do not explicitly address the contrast between these two kinds of love.

The first, The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald, is on one level a novel about class and the excesses of the Roaring Twenties. But it is also a story about a doomed love affair between two rich people, bootlegger Jay Gatsby and a woman, Daisy Buchanan, who is married to someone else.

The other book I’ve been reading this week is the last book in The Lord of the Rings trilogy by J.R.R. Tolkien. Although there are some instances of romantic love in The Lord of the Rings, the three books are primarily about the struggle between good and evil and the efforts of several characters, notably the hobbits Frodo Baggins and Samwise Gamgee, to devote their lives to the task of saving their civilization through their selfless attempt to destroy the evil Ring of Power.

I’m probably the first person in history to compare and contrast The Great Gatsby and The Lord of the Rings. And I’m probably the last, especially since it is just happenstance that I, likely the only person in the world who ever has or will do so, ended up reading these two novels at the same time. So now that I’ve expressed that absurd bit of self aggrandizement, let’s see what Fitzgerald and Tolkien can teach us about love.

Jay Gatsby and Daisy Buchanan are hardly the best examples of romantic love. They, and most of the other characters in that novel, are shallow, decadent people. While it’s true that Gatsby fell in love with Daisy, it’s probably more accurate to say that he projected his fantasies onto her and then fell in love with the illusion that he had created.

But we’ve all probably done that at one time or another – I know that I have. Are we really in love with the other person, or are we actually in love with our idea of who they are? What happens when we encounter their shadow side – understanding and forgiveness, or splitsville? Is it realistic to expect one person to meet all of our emotional, physical, psychological, and spiritual needs?

Realistic or not, Fitzgerald tells us that “…he [Gatsby] had committed himself to the following of a grail [Daisy].” I don’t think that Daisy was worth pursuing, but hey – it’s Gatsby’s story, not mine.

I do feel, however, that the grail that Frodo and Sam were hunting in The Lord of the Rings was worthwhile. Unlike Gatsby’s selfish chase, Frodo and Sam were on a quest to rescue their society from imminent annihilation. Theirs was a journey of self sacrifice, not self indulgence.

One reason that I’ve read The Lord of the Rings so many times, and will read it again, is that it’s a tale about nobility of character; it’s a tale about a kind of love that is a higher calling – a love for one’s community, a love for all life forms. Even the main romantic love interest in The Lord of the Rings, that of elf princess Arwen and Lord Aragorn, is postponed until Aragorn can fulfill his mission on behalf of all living beings. In other words, the love expressed in the actions of Frodo, Sam, and Aragorn is of a lofty nature, unlike the delusional desires of Jay Gatsby.

I’m not suggesting that romantic love is not worthwhile. In The Lord of the Rings, once their adventures were over, Sam married his sweetheart Rosie, and Arwen gave up her immortality to marry Aragorn. And I’m not suggesting that devotion to a cause is always righteous. Once upon a time I devoted myself to what I thought was a noble cause – world peace and enlightenment based upon Buddhism – only to discover hypocrisy and disillusionment. So doing the right thing is not always a clear choice.

If you look at what’s going on today in the worlds of politics, sports, business, social media, and elsewhere, it seems that honor and integrity have been forsaken in favor of selfish desires for money, power, fame, and glory. There are a lot more Gatsbys around the world these days than there are Frodos, Sams, or Aragorns. Or so it seems, anyway. But I suppose that has always been the case.

So maybe it’s not a question of who or what we love, but how and why we dedicate ourselves to our beloved person or cause.

In other words, what (if any) grail are we chasing, and are we doing so in a loving and selfless manner?

July 4, 2021

An important ingredient in comedy is the element of surprise, or unexpected insight delivered with a twist. And that may explain why I had a good laugh yesterday.

I was driving in nearby Marin County for my job when I found myself behind an extra large pickup truck sporting an out-sized American flag waving from a pole at the back of the truck. Usually in my mind I stereotype the driver of such a vehicle as a gun-toting jingoist Republican, and I did so with that driver until I noticed something else at the back of the truck. It was a big, brand-new, red white and blue campaign poster from 1960 with a smiling picture of JFK and the words “Kennedy For President” emblazoned in bold letters at the top of the placard. That photo and slogan were the last message I expected to see behind that truck and flag, and I had to laugh at myself for making an assumption about the driver which turned out to be false.

I think the message that the driver may have intended to convey is that the American flag is not just for conservatives or Republicans, but for everyone. If that was his intention, then he was wise to use a 1960 JFK sign rather than a more recent campaign banner from a Democrat such as Joe Biden, Hillary Clinton, or Barack Obama, because a more contemporary presidential advertisement would have made a more partisan point. By choosing Kennedy, the driver was recalling a time when the American flag was more a symbol of unity and community rather than angry right-wing extremism.

I’m neither happy nor surprised about how the flag is abused by some conservative and liberal activists. The biggest domestic threat to our country is from the far right, but the far left is doing its part to tear the nation apart as well. Waving American and Confederate flags, Trump supporters attacked the Capitol of the United States on January 6 of this year to try to overthrow a free and democratic election. Those so-called “patriots” desecrated the flag by their allegiance to a personality cult and by their attempts to destroy democracy.

But some leftists denigrate the Founding Fathers and the American Revolution as promoters of slavery and genocide, and would split us into rival racial identity camps vying for power and influence. They believe that being white is a form of original sin, and that all white people are complicit in “white supremacy” and the oppression of everyone else. Some Black Lives Matter protesters hijack the national anthem and flag at sporting events to object to police shootings of black men.

There will always be those who salute the flag and those who burn it. I do neither. I understand that for some people, especially those of African American or American Indian heritage, the history of this country makes it difficult for them to value or honor this nation and its freedoms. And for some white nationalists, rapid demographic change caused by high rates of immigration represents a threat to their identity and culture.

But government of the people and by the people is by no means assured in this country. Democracy is fragile in the United States and around the world. For all its flaws, I appreciate the U.S. and the sacrifices made by military veterans and by statesmen such as Washington, Jefferson, and Lincoln that have allowed this American work-in-progress to continue into the 21st century.

While I’m well aware of the dark side of American history, and the ugliness of current American politics, I choose to focus upon the bright side of this nation: the freedoms of speech, the press, assembly, and religion; peace and prosperity for most people; our national parks; opportunities for health and self advancement that are all too rare in most parts of the world; and, for now at least, free and fair elections.

When John F. Kennedy was elected president in 1960, I was 8 years old, and when he was assassinated in 1963, I was 11. Maybe my fond childhood memories of JFK are just nostalgia for a simpler time. Be that as it may, for me Kennedy still represents optimism, civil rights, and the successful quest to land on the moon. And he represented social progress, in that as a member of two formerly reviled groups (Catholics and Irish immigrants) he could rise to the highest office in the land, similar to the way that Barack Obama also overcame comparable prejudice many years later.

So for me, the 4th of July is a day of thanksgiving, a day of appreciation. And the American flag is an imperfect yet potent symbol of freedom and hope.

JFK for president in 2024! And in the meantime, happy 4th of July, everyone.

June 28, 2021

Last week four jailbirds came into my living room. They were all invited, but they won’t be coming back.

Three of the men had committed serious crimes (murder, statutory rape), and had spent many years in San Quentin Prison before being released in the last two years. Now in their sixties, they’ve repented for their crimes and are now leading constructive lives back in society. They came into my home via a Zoom meeting, in which they told stories of their crimes and rehabilitation.

The fourth jailbird is a wealthy young man who I’ve interviewed two or three times at his beautiful home near San Quentin and a short sailboat ride away from the former penitentiary on Alcatraz Island. This time I interviewed him by phone from my living room because his paranoid belief in conspiracy theories has convinced him not to get a Covid shot. He lives with his parents, and they won’t permit any visitors until he can escape the prison of his mental illness for long enough to get vaccinated against Covid. So I had to conduct my health survey by phone with this particular inmate. I’ll call him James.

It might seem odd to lump a spoiled rich young white guy with three older criminals, two white and one black, who’ve killed or abused other human beings. After all, the young man has not, to my knowledge, ever harmed anyone but himself. But what James has in common with Dwight, Fred, and Gino (their real names) is that all four men have suffered from harsh limitations upon their freedom. Whether those limitations were caused by genetics or dysfunctional family dynamics or stupid youthful mistakes is debatable. What is clear is that, like all of us, these men have made and continue to make choices for which they are responsible.

Dwight, Fred, and Gino were wise enough to participate in San Quentin programs designed to help them heal themselves: anger management, parenting classes, religious and spiritual forums, and Restorative Justice. That latter curriculum teaches its participants to come to grips with the crimes they’ve committed and the impact those misdeeds had on the victims, the families of the victims, the families of the perpetrators, and the community at large. They learn to be accountable to others, and perhaps most importantly, to be accountable to themselves. Most of the younger inmates have too much anger and pain and too little maturity to take advantage of the opportunities that were so helpful to Dwight, Fred, and Gino.

A major factor in the rehabilitation of Dwight, Fred, and Gino is their belief in the possibility of redemption. Dwight and Fred have become devout Christians, and Gino expresses his spirituality through chanting and other means. Gino adds that he has learned to think good, wholesome thoughts. All three have reclaimed their humanity and dignity through service to others and through their connection to God. They’ve learned that though they were punished for their transgressions, no one is eternally damned.

Dwight, Fred, and Gino have graduated from the San Quentin school of hard knocks and are now on parole and leading productive lives in southern California.

James, sadly, still lives in his gilded cage in northern California. He and his parents may be rich, but he suffers from, among other things, a poverty of spirit. He probably needs hope, or God, or some sort of epiphany or spiritual breakthrough, to give him the courage to overcome his psychological challenges.

I suppose we’re all in the dungeon of limited beliefs about who we are and what we’re capable of. So I wish James a successful jailbreak in escaping the shackles and blindfolds of his suffering. He could learn a lot from his three former neighbors at San Quentin.

June 10, 2021

All that is gold does not glitter,

Not all those who wander are lost. J.R.R. Tolkien

I can think of only one story where a scruffy homeless man becomes a king.

The words vagabond, nomad, rambler, tramp, and gypsy are not usually terms of endearment. I call myself a wanderer – to be specific, one of the Sonoma County Wanderers, also known as a group of hikers who regularly traverse local trails seeking nature, exercise, and comradery. Our slogan is “Not all those who wander are lost.” But while some of our hikers know that our motto originated with Tolkien, few if any of them know the name of the character to whom that phrase refers.

In his essay “Walking,” Henry David Thoreau describes the act of wandering by foot as a sacred undertaking, a higher calling, a pilgrimage to the Holy Land of the natural world. He says that there are at least two origins of the word “saunterer”: a pilgrim (Sainte-Terrer, or one who goes to the Holy Land), and a person without a home (sans terrer).

A pilgrim suggests a person on a religious or spiritual journey, such as many of those who walk the Camino de Santiago in northern Spain seeking to find themselves or God or some kind of adventure or epiphany.

A person without a home implies a transient, rootless individual who is just trying to survive.

The difference between a pilgrim and a homeless person is that the former has a sense of purpose or mission, whereas a person without a home may or may not feel a higher calling.

According to Thoreau, “every walk is a sort of crusade…to go forth and reconquer this Holy Land from the hands of the Infidels” (civilization).

The reason that I’m currently reading The Lord of the Rings for the fifth or sixth time is that Tolkien’s fantasy trilogy inspires me, especially at a time of recent political, social, and economic turmoil. The journey of four hobbits, an elf, a dwarf, two men, and a wizard to face and overcome terror by destroying the evil Ring of Power is not a spiritual quest, so the travelers are not pilgrims. And although they are all homeless during their long and perilous mission, they are not aimless drifters.

One of the nine adventurers is Aragorn, a mysterious, rugged, quiet, humble, yet heroic warrior whose aristocratic blood entitles him to be a king but whose virtuous character is hidden by his grubby exterior. It is to Aragorn that Tolkien refers when he says that

All that is gold does not glitter,

Not all those who wander are lost;

The old that is strong does not wither,

Deep roots are not reached by the frost.

From the ashes a fire shall be woken,

A light from the shadows shall spring;

Renewed shall be blade that was broken,

The crownless again shall be king.

Aragorn lived a life of poverty, exile, and obscurity. Yet over many decades he devoted himself to service to others. He never forgot his royal origins, but he experienced a nobility of purpose and character, if not patrician rank. Homelessness and suffering humbled him, but also deepened him.

I’m not suggesting that warriors like Aragorn are the most courageous among us. In The Lord of the Rings the two bravest characters were arguably Frodo and Sam, ordinary hobbits with extraordinary determination and commitment to the cause of destroying the Ring of Power.

As a Sonoma County Wanderer, I enjoy hiking. As a Walker Errant in the tradition of Thoreau, I’m a spiritual pilgrim and seeker of nature. As human beings, we can aspire, like Aragorn, to be in service to a greater cause. What that cause is will vary for each of us. But if our purpose enables us to align with the circle of life, the ring of joy, then as with Aragorn we will be ennobled by our vision.

At the end of The Lord of the Rings, Aragorn fulfills his destiny and becomes king of Gondor. For the rest of us, becoming a king or queen is probably not in the cards. But as Aragorn learned the hard way, there is something greater than status: being true to our vision, our calling, our inner gold.

May 23, 2021

A week ago I met an extraordinary young woman, and I’ve been haunted by her ever since. I feel both inspired by her example and saddened by her life. I admire her courage, but I’d rather be dead than have to live a life like hers.

Helen (not her real name) lives with her family in northern California in a comfortable middle class home. In her early twenties, she has lived with a debilitating illness that has almost completely paralyzed her since birth. She can’t speak, so to communicate she uses a specially outfitted computer that features a female voice. She has to have a caregiver or family member at her bedside or close at hand 24/7.

I knew when I called to make my appointment with her that our interview would be challenging for both of us. My job as a field interviewer for a social science research company allows me to meet and interact with a wide variety of people, including people with various disabilities, but I’ve never had to interview someone who couldn’t speak. However, since she has slight movement in one of her hands, she’s able to manipulate a toggle stick that is connected to her computer, and is therefore able to select from various options on her screen. She can’t type, but can choose from a menu of pre-set sentences, words, or letters.

As I sat by her bedside and set up my laptop, I reminded her of the subject matter of our interview while I also studied her face for clues as to how I might interact with her. Her eyes moved back and forth from me to her computer screen, but except for almost imperceptible movements of her hand and her head, her body was frozen as she lay on her side under her bed covers. Her caregiver had positioned her reclining body so that Helen would be facing my direction. Her lips were open the entire time, exposing a mouthful of crooked teeth and causing her Latina caregiver to have to regularly suction the saliva from her drooling mouth and from the tube in her throat.

Yet though her face was expressionless, her “speech” was upbeat. When I asked how she was doing, she replied through her computer that she was “fabulous.” I didn’t believe her, but understood that she was probably being politely positive.

Her bedroom was decorated with cheerful photos, sayings, and artwork. There was a pinup photo on the wall of a handsome young man, probably a movie star or rock star with whom I am unfamiliar. It was clear that her family has surrounded her with loving and optimistic images in order to keep her spirits up.

Usually I hand my laptop to the respondent and it takes them about 45 minutes to answer the questions for the tobacco and health survey. But with Helen I had to read the questions aloud to her and record her answers, and with her physical limitations it took almost 3 hours to complete the interview. Obviously she has never smoked, so her answers saying no to the smoking questions were predictable. But what surprised me was her rosy response to some of the physical and mental health questions.

When I asked her to describe her physical health as either excellent, very good, good, fair, or poor, she chose excellent. Ditto for the question about her mental health. Again, I didn’t believe her, but dutifully recorded her answers. Yet she was relentlessly positive throughout the interview, causing me to wonder whether she was faking her cheeriness out of habit, denial, or social conditioning, or whether she really believes that her life is as hunky dory as she claims. I’m sure that she gets discouraged as we all do from time to time, but with me at least she kept up a good verbal front.

Her caregiver told me that Helen is intelligent, curious, and enjoys surfing the internet. I mentioned to them both that Helen reminded me of the renowned British physicist Stephen Hawking, who also had similar physical constraints. But while I projected a lively social facade, my “happy face” belied my pity for a fellow human being who is imprisoned in a body that is a permanent straightjacket.

I don’t know how Helen really feels about her handicap or about the quality of her life. She’s fortunate to have a loving, supportive family and a nice home. But it occurs to me that, in a way, she has no viable alternative to being so positive. What good would it do her to be depressed all or most of the time? She really has to be cheerful while living with her disease, because otherwise she would suffer and be miserable. And since she’s been trapped in that body since birth, she’s never known a better quality of life, though she can see that her family members and others are not as deprived of freedom as she is.

I would be terrified and claustrophobic to be so totally constrained, and would probably insist on escaping my confinement through assisted suicide. Then again, I’ve only known good health, and so if I were to suddenly experience paralysis at this late stage of my life it would be shocking in a way that Helen has had a lifetime to adjust to.

Even so, it must take a lot of psychological and emotional energy and strength to confront what anyone would acknowledge is a most difficult life. I admire Helen’s fortitude, and am grateful to her for showing me a fine example of a courageous spirit in spite of what must sometimes feel like a hopeless fate.

A few days after I met Helen I went hiking with friends at the spectacular Point Reyes National Seashore. It was a sunny but cold and extremely windy day, and a tiring hike. But I thought of Helen and what she is missing, and I thought of my mom who is also bedridden and unable to enjoy the natural beauty and freedom that I so often take for granted. And I thought how trivial my challenges are compared to those of Helen and my mom. My occasional complaints are ridiculous and petty compared to what so many other humans have to contend with on a daily basis. Of course, that realization won’t stop me from feeling frustration and self pity at times.

But Helen is a reminder to appreciate my good health and freedom while I have them. I can only hope that if I ever have to face insurmountable odds, I can do so with the grace and resolute cheerfulness that Helen displays.

May 10, 2021

This morning I heard a little story from a meditation teacher during a live video broadcast, a story that brought me good cheer. So I thought I’d share the positive vibes with y’all.

Once upon a time a parrot was flying over its forest home when it saw lightning strike a tree and start a wildfire. The fire quickly spread, trapping many animals. The parrot could easily fly away and escape the flames, but it looked down upon its terrified neighbors and knew that it had to take action.

The parrot flew to a nearby lake, immersed much of its body in shallow water, flew back over the flames, and shook the remaining water droplets over the raging conflagration. Back and forth it flew from the lake to the fire, each time releasing a few drops onto the roaring wildfire.

At one point Brahma (or Zeus, or God, or whomever you prefer) looked down upon the scene with wonder and curiosity, transformed himself into an eagle, and flew alongside the parrot as it carried out its mission. “Why are you engaged in such a hopeless task?” asked the eagle. The parrot answered, “It may be hopeless, but I have to do SOMETHING to help.” Moved by the parrot’s courage and compassion, the eagle/Brahma caused a mighty rainstorm to pour down upon the animals and the forest, extinguishing the flames.

The moral of the story is: Don’t worry about feeling powerless; just do the best you can. Our world may be burning – here in California, sometimes quite literally – but small efforts like picking up trash or offering a kind word to others can have unforeseen reverberations. Integrity matters. Kindness matters. Personal responsibility matters.

When I was a teenager I learned a Buddhist principle that I’ve never forgotten. Myo no Shoran means “the inconspicuous witness,” or “the invisible observer.” It suggests that there is an unseen world, represented in the above story by the eagle, where justice and righteousness prevail. This intangible realm is sometimes called the law of cause and effect, or the law of attraction. In our earthly existence on the physical plane it may seem that no one notices our suffering or our good deeds, but in the real world behind this one all thoughts, words, and deeds have consequences.

I want to trust in myo no shoran, in the benevolent consciousness that watches and records our behavior. And usually I do believe it. But sometimes my cynical side doubts that there is any payoff for virtuous intentions or ethical behavior. Is it wishful thinking to believe in the morality of the story of the parrot and the eagle? Maybe. But it feels rewarding to imagine it. And my intuition tells me that that story speaks to a fundamental truth about the nature of reality, even if I don’t always see evidence of that truth.

So I intend to follow the humorous advice of Mark Twain: “Always do right. This will gratify some people, and astonish the rest.”

April 23, 2021

I’m reluctant to be too quick to judge combat soldiers or police officers, because those are dangerous jobs and I don’t know how I’d behave in such stressful or precarious situations. But I do believe that American soldiers should not be awarded the nation’s highest military commendation for slaughtering women and children.

Yet that is what happened after the massacre of Lakota Sioux men, women, and children in 1890. Twenty soldiers of the U.S. Cavalry were granted the Medal of Honor for killing between 250 and 300 unarmed Lakota people at Wounded Knee, South Dakota.

But now there is a movement to get Congress to rescind those medals.

When I read about that political effort in today’s New York Times, my first reaction was negative: why are these activists focusing their attention upon a symbolic act when there are more serious and pressing social problems such as poverty and Covid on the nearby Lakota reservation? Yes, the mass murder at Wounded Knee Creek and the honoring of its perpetrators was a historical injustice, but that was long ago and there are more urgent challenges that need to be addressed today.

Then I remembered my visit to Wounded Knee 20 years ago.

It was an extra warm afternoon in late July, 2001 when I walked from the hilltop cemetery down to the meadow next to the creek. I was alone, wading through dry, knee-high summer grasses, with grasshoppers leaping away at my approach. The killing field was quiet, an occasional sunflower swaying in the hot summer breeze. My four companions would not come with me to the massacre site, preferring to wait near the cars for my return. They had explored the burial ground with me, but were vague about their reasons for declining to walk the short distance to the creek.

Two of my four fellow travelers were a Lakota couple, and the woman told me that the Lakota see the carnage as a sad event that happened generations ago, and that they don’t dwell upon it. Wounded Knee Creek is in the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation, and Pine Ridge is reputedly the poorest place in the U.S., with very high rates of unemployment and alcoholism. Yet when I suggested that the tribe create jobs by making the battlefield a tourist attraction, like Gettysburg or the Little Bighorn site of Custer’s Last Stand, she said that her people did not want to make money off of their dead. Her husband added that the Lakota are often unable to overcome the petty jealousies and factionalism that plague their tribe, and that a visitor center (trading post?) which once stood near the historic site was burned down by Indian radicals in 1973.

The couple did not object to my wandering around the site of the bloodbath, but neither did they wish to join me.

It was a cold December day shortly after Christmas in 1890 when tense Seventh Cavalry troops disarmed captive Lakota warriors. A shot rang out, and the tension turned into panic and chaos as the soldiers opened fire on the surrounded Indian camp. Exploding shells and bullets killed warriors and cavalrymen, women and children. Some soldiers went berserk, pursuing and murdering mothers and children who were cowering in the creekbed. When the shooting stopped, wounded troopers and Lakota alike were taken up the hill to a little church where clergy labored to save their lives.

Up to 300 Lakota were buried in a mass grave in the cemetery. There was no burial mound or marker showing the exact location of the bodies, though there was an old monument to the Lakota dead, along with more recent Lakota graves marked by crosses. In the meadow, site of the former Lakota campsite, there were no reminders of the fighting. No signs, no interpretive displays, no maps, no monuments. A rusty car had been pushed down the side of the creek bank. Discarded clothing was scattered nearby. Two trailers were on the edge of the flat. Wounded Knee Creek was peaceful, its waters sheltered by thick growths of leafy trees and bushes. Hard to imagine the barren winter ravine filled with blood, shrapnel, and corpses.

According to the Times, “In 1990 the descendants of Native Americans killed and injured during the Wounded Knee massacre received an apology from Congress after lawmakers approved a resolution expressing ‘deep regret’ for the Army’s actions…Representative Dusty Johnson, a South Dakota Republican, said ‘This was a sin of our nation, and the United States Congress has issued a formal apology; that doesn’t make the massacre go away, but it’s those kinds of efforts toward reconciliation that I think can help mend hearts and minds and give it the opportunity to move forward.'”

The Times quoted Marcella Lebeau, a 101 year old World War II nurse veteran and citizen of the Two Kettle Band of the Cheyenne River Sioux, who said, “I believe on our reservation, we have a pervasive sadness that exists here because of what happened at Wounded Knee, the massacre, and it has never been resolved and there has never been closure.”

I don’t condemn the nervous soldiers who panicked and started shooting indiscriminately. Maybe I would have done the same thing in that situation, although I can say with confidence that I would not have hunted down and butchered the fleeing women and children. But soldiers are warriors, and warriors sometimes go crazy in the heat of a fight. Even so, there’s no excuse for the murderous behavior of the Seventh Cavalry, and every reason to revoke the awards that those troops received.

We owe it to our fellow Americans, our Lakota brothers and sisters, to help them heal the sorrow they have felt since before and after 1890, by honoring their request to retract the misguided decorations granted to the killers of their ancestors. It may be just a symbolic gesture, but if it helps the Lakota people to heal, let’s do it.

April 10, 2021

Once upon a time I broke one of the Ten Commandments. And I had fun doing it, though later I had second thoughts about my sin.

I was reminded of my transgression this week as I finished reading Tolstoy’s novel Anna Karenina. Anna was a wealthy woman of the Russian aristocracy who allowed herself to be seduced by a rich cavalry officer, Count Vronsky. The problem was that she was already married, with an eight year old son, and Russian high society and the Russian Orthodox Church did not approve of extramarital affairs. Anna was unhappy with her marriage, and chose to abandon her husband and son in favor of the dashing Count Vronsky, thereby bringing shame and humiliation upon herself. Spoiler alert: I’m about to give away the ending of a 150 year old novel – Anna committed suicide by throwing herself under a moving train.

How did Anna’s choices remind me of my own behavior? Almost 40 years ago I met a very attractive, sexy woman who flirted extensively with me after a Buddhist meeting. Flattered, I went with the flow, only to have her disclose that she was married. Upon learning that fact, I at first declined to proceed with our intended illicit rendezvous. But she assured me that our having sex would be OK, because her husband was having lots of affairs, so why shouldn’t she have one? Persuaded by that logic, I invited her to my place, where we did not discuss Buddhist philosophy.

At some point during our brief affair she informed me that if her hot-tempered Latin American husband found out about our non-religious encounters, he would kill me. I thought it was worth the risk, but decided to break off our aerobic workouts after she started obsessively calling me every day at work. I knew I wasn’t that good in bed, so her neurotic and driven behavior caused me to conclude that our physical therapy sessions were not worth being shot by a jealous husband.

As a single man, was I wrong to have sex with a married woman? As an unhappily married woman, was Anna wrong to get it on with the Count?

I confess that I don’t feel guilty about what I did. Maybe I’m rationalizing sexual misconduct, but as my paramour said, her husband was cheating on her left and right, so their marriage was rocky well before I came along. Was anyone – the husband, the wife, or I – harmed by my naughty pleasure? I don’t think so. Yet she was not being honest with her husband, and I helped her in her dishonesty, so perhaps I did contribute to the deterioration of their marriage. Our brief adventure ended weirdly, causing me to reflect that maybe I had not handled the energy of the situation wisely.

Anna was young and foolish. I was young and foolish. Would I be susceptible to that kind of fantasy encounter now, in my late 60’s? I don’t know, but I doubt it. Yet I can’t rule it out. I’m not as horny as I was 40 years ago, and I’ve lost my youthful good looks, so women don’t come on to me anymore. For better or for worse, such temptations seem to be entirely behind me. But if I met the right woman, and she was married, what would I do? I hope that I don’t have to find out. It’s probably best to let sleeping dogs lie.

As to what Anna and I did in the past, I’ll let Jesus have the last word. As he said to those who asked him how he would judge an adulterous woman, “Let he who is without sin cast the first stone.”