February 2, 2019

When is it appropriate to forgive someone? Should a person be branded for a lifetime for youthful mistakes?

These are a couple of the questions that have occurred to me over the last two days as I’ve read about a current political controversy. Virginia Governor Ralph Northam is being pressured to resign after admitting to one and possibly two incidents of appearing in blackface in 1984, when he was about 25 years old. One occasion happened at a dance contest, and another was a photo in his medical school yearbook.

Governor Northam has apologized for the offensive events. Should he resign? I don’t know, but he will almost certainly have to do so. Yet an important question needs to be asked: Has he changed his racial insensitivity in the last 35 years? By all accounts a progressive Democrat on civil rights matters, he has indeed changed. But in the current political climate, it may not matter.

If the governor had committed these acts a year ago, or even five years ago, I would say that he has to go. But 35 years ago? Can we realistically expect politicians, and each other, to be so perfect all of the time? Are we not allowed to outgrow our youthful indiscretions, or even our mature adult mistakes?

It’s not my place to forgive Northam. I’ll leave that for African Americans to decide, as they are the ones who would have felt any pain from his blackface stereotypes.

I myself am not always so forgiving. I have held my share of grudges, although I do seem to let them go eventually. One reason I try to forgive others is that I’m painfully aware of my own insensitivities to others on occasion (see my January 24 blog post about Barbara). Another reason is that I simply feel better when I let go of anger, bitterness, or resentment. I don’t know whether I’d be able to forgive someone who murdered a family member or close friend. I hope so, but I just don’t know, and I hope I never have to find out.

When I was in high school I was bullied my entire sophomore year by Bob, a guy who was a year older and bigger than me. He abused me physically, psychologically, and emotionally. I hated him, and fantasized about killing him. I even thought about bringing a knife to school to stab him (this was well before anyone thought of bringing guns to school). I never told anyone about the abuse, but I never forgot it either. Many years later I decided to forgive him. I reasoned that he was 16 at the time, and just a stupid kid, so I should let go of my hate and heal myself and move on.

Then, at my 45th high school reunion, Bob showed up. He wasn’t in our class, but came because he had friends who were. I debated whether or not to speak to him, let alone confront him about his past misdeeds. What if he got defensive, or continued with his past ridicule of me? Would I get angry and bitter all over again? Would this just reopen old wounds?

I decided to face my past. I asked him if we could speak privately. Then I calmly reminded him of what had transpired between us 45 years ago. To my surprise and disappointment, he didn’t remember a school year’s worth of bullying! But to his credit, he listened carefully, and then apologized profusely and sincerely for having been such a jerk. I told him that I had forgiven him long ago, but even so it was healing to hear him take responsibility for all the suffering he had caused me. And it was healing for me to risk an ugly encounter in order to stand up for my 15 year old self.

I don’t believe that there is always justice in a given lifetime. But I do believe that, over many lifetimes, what goes around comes around. And if I can practice forgiveness now, maybe I can earn the right to be forgiven for my transgressions. Even if others don’t forgive me, maybe I can learn to forgive myself.

January 30, 2019

When I told my 87 year old mother yesterday that I had just come back from a funeral that I had attended because I thought it would be a good party, she was scandalized. “You’re supposed to go to funerals to pray for the person who died,” she gently chided me, “not to have a good time.”

I explained that there were people there who I hadn’t seen in decades, and I wanted to reconnect with them. Besides, the deceased person wouldn’t mind what my motives were; he wouldn’t know or care why I was there. And his ex-wife, sister, and two adult sons appreciated my supportive presence. So there, Mom! She grudgingly admitted that as long as I was comforting his family, it was OK for me to enjoy myself at the event.

George had died unexpectedly at 72, and for his sons especially it was a sudden loss and a time of grief. I had known George for almost half a century, but hadn’t seen him in about five years and wasn’t a close friend. So it was easier for me to be detached, whereas his family understandably was still getting over the shock of his sudden death of an apparent heart attack.

The religious rites were interesting. George had been raised Catholic, then was a Nichiren Buddhist in the 1970’s when I first met him, then he became an Orthodox Christian in the last years of his life. The service was in the domed St Seraphim Eastern Orthodox church in Santa Rosa, CA. The building features beautiful, brightly colored frescoes of Jesus, Mary, and various saints. Most of the service was sung, by the priests, a choir, and occasionally the congregants. There were candles everywhere, and each of us held one as well. The priests frequently waved an incense burner over the flower-bedecked casket. In other words, lots of rituals. Had it been a Nichiren Buddhist memorial service, there would have been no candles, singing, or saints, but there would have been chanting and the vibe would have been more upbeat.

After the service five of us bad Buddhist boys played hooky from the cemetery burial and sneaked away to a nearby Starbucks to catch up with each other. Then we high-tailed it back to the church just in time for lunch.

     I don’t know whether George was a very religious Christian at the end, but as our mutual Buddhist buddy Joseph noted, he had found at St Seraphim’s a community of people he loved and who loved him. And that’s what counts, not which denomination or religious tradition one follows. Especially now, as the world seems ever more unstable, it’s good to be connected to our fellow human beings in as many ways as we can.

At lunch I swapped youthful Buddhist war stories with friends Marilyn, Bonny, and Joseph. I hadn’t seen the two women in decades, and it was so gratifying to see them healthy and doing well. They were the reason I was there, not George, though I wished George bon voyage on his ongoing journey. Heart to heart dialogue – it doesn’t get any better than that. I even did an Irish jig for Marilyn. George would have laughed. Come to think of it, maybe he did.

My father insisted that his memorial event be a good time for all, and I have stated that same desire in my own will. My farewell will be a fun party, and you are invited. Only trouble is, I don’t have a date yet. Might not happen for another 25 years. Check back with me in 2044. And if I’m broke when I die, then it will be a potluck.

January 28, 2019

Yesterday I had coffee with my cousin Mary in Lafayette, the Bay Area town where we grew up but where neither of us can afford to live anymore. We lamented the gentrification and the appalling traffic, even as we acknowledged that the increased wealth has led to more attractive city design and landscaping and a greater number of good restaurants. Our laid back small town has become part of the rapid urbanization of the Bay Area, so partly for that reason we both escaped to more rural communities.

I remember in the 1960’s when the population of the U.S. reached 200 million. Now it’s about 328 million, and growing fast. This has led in California and elsewhere to a loss of open space and farmland, more crowded schools, terrible traffic, and a housing shortage with a resultant huge increase in housing costs. And what is driving this dramatic population increase? Immigration.

In 1965, when I was 13, I was pleased that the U.S. government changed its immigration policy to allow greater numbers of immigrants from non-European countries. I wanted to see a more diverse population, especially in our all white town. Mission accomplished. But what I and the government didn’t foresee was the large number of family members who would follow the initial immigrants, and the high birth rates of these immigrant families. This has led to faster demographic change than anticipated by the government or the public, and a more crowded infrastructure. It’s the old saying, “Be careful of what you wish for; you might get it.”

I have read, in the New York Times and elsewhere, people arguing for open borders, saying that it would be good for the economy and that we need a much larger population to compete with countries such as China and India. Really? Yes, a U.S. population of 500 million or 1 billion would create a bigger economy, but at what cost to the quality of life? I’ve been to Hong Kong and India, and I wouldn’t want to live in such congested conditions. And I’m no longer convinced that the human race has evolved to the point that very diverse peoples can live together in close quarters harmoniously. Maybe someday, but not yet.

At the same time, the United States and the planet are changing at an ever increasing pace, whether I like it or not. And in all honesty, while I welcome some of the changes, I don’t like many of them. Yet there’s little that I can do to stop the changing world, other than voting and writing. So maybe I would be wise to make peace with what is happening, and let go of my resistance to what is. Change what I can, and accept the rest. A tough balancing act, but necessary if I am to keep any semblance of inner harmony.

I won’t vote for any candidate who advocates open borders. But whatever does or does not happen with immigration and population policy, I trust that in the long run the planet will be just fine. And I intend to enjoy and appreciate Lafayette and Planet Earth just the way they are now.

January 24, 2019

When I was very young, I knew a girl named Barbara. I wasn’t always nice to her, and I’ve regretted that ever since.

We grew up in a suburb east of San Francisco, where we were classmates from kindergarten through third grade. Walnut Creek in the late 1950’s and early 1960’s was an all white, middle class town, and our elementary school reflected those demographics. The only exception, to my knowledge, was Barbara. She was white like the rest of us, but I gradually came to realize that her family was poor, and that she was the only poor kid at school. I don’t remember noticing the holes in her clothes in kindergarten, but by third grade I definitely remember her shabby appearance.

There was also something different about her personality. She didn’t seem very bright, and she had poor social skills and an odd laugh. Needless to say, kids teased her, and she gamely played along, trying to fit in. We pretended that she had “cooties,” and would have her chase us to tag someone with her cooties. I don’t recall anyone expressing overt hostility toward her, but we felt superior to her and she must have been well aware of our condescension.

But even at an early age I felt guilty about being a part of the group needling. So I made a point of being pleasant to her in my one-on-one interactions with her. Unfortunately I would revert to razzing her whenever I was part of a group.

At the end of third grade my family moved to nearby Lafayette, and I never saw Barbara again. But I never forgot her.

Recently I googled her, but found nothing. In the last year I reconnected with two of our classmates, and when I inquired after her, both of them remembered Barbara and agreed that we had been less than compassionate with her. But they didn’t know what became of her after elementary school. I wanted to find her so that I could say hello, and apologize for my past behavior. No such luck.

I’ve been thinking of Barbara lately because there’s a woman in one of my social circles who reminds me of her in some ways. This woman – I’ll call her Susan – annoys me at times because of her lack of social skills. Barbara didn’t irritate me; I bothered her. But Susan and Barbara seem to share the ability to attract negative attention. At first I grew increasingly resentful of Susan as she behaved in ways that antagonized me. Then a light bulb flashed on: Susan is unfortunate, as was Barbara, and so she deserves my empathy, not my enmity. In a way, Susan is Barbara, so if I can’t redeem myself to Barbara for my past lack of kindness toward her, then at least I can redeem myself now by being charitable toward Susan.

So until recently I had a yellow post-it note upon which I had written: Susan = Barbara. I would put this note on my calendar on any day where I thought I might encounter Susan. By summoning the memory of Barbara, it usually (but not always) softened my antipathy toward Susan. I don’t use the post-it note anymore because I think I’ve internalized its message. Still, I need to be vigilant whenever my judgmental self rears its ugly head in Susan’s presence.

Abraham Lincoln once said, “I don’t like that man. I must get to know him.” He also said, “With malice toward none, with charity toward all.” I’m not sure how much I want to get to know Susan. But I owe it to Barbara to try.

January 20, 2019

When positive things or negative things happen to us, are they the result of good luck or bad luck? How much control, if any, do we have over the events of our lives?

Last night I had the good fortune to stumble across a YouTube video of a 2010 Oprah show celebrating the 45th anniversary of The Sound of Music movie. It was an emotional reunion of the cast members who portrayed the von Trapp family, including Julie Andrews, Christopher Plummer, and the children (now adults). In addition to excerpts from the film, Oprah interviewed the actors about their experiences of being in the movie, and even had a clip of a young Julie Andrews singing Edelweiss with the real Maria von Trapp.

After watching the video, I scrolled down to read the comments. The vast majority were gushing expressions of appreciation of the film, the actors, and Oprah. But I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised to read a few cutting remarks about Andrews (her hair), Plummer, and Winfrey. Even the “kids” were criticized for not having aged as gracefully as Andrews.

I was so elated after watching the show about one of my favorite movies that I dismissed the snarky comments as coming from cranks who probably criticize everything and everyone they encounter. But this morning I began to reflect upon the nature of people who have an appreciation of others, as well as those folks who tend to be critical. Of course we all have our likes and dislikes, our positive and negative opinions about whatever we come across in life. I certainly am capable of sarcastic and negative judgments of other human beings.

Still, it does seem that individuals develop certain tendencies over time, as we make conscious and unconscious choices about what to think, say, do, or feel. And those choices are usually motivated by fear or love. As those choices accumulate, they form a pattern, sometimes known as character or karma. And that pattern, those tendencies, that momentum, attracts similar energies, people, and experiences. Then we wonder why our lives turn out the way they do.

One of my favorite songs from The Sound of Music is a duet between Maria (Julie Andrews) and Captain von Trapp (Christopher Plummer). In the song Something Good, Maria and the Captain sing of their wonder at their good fortune at having met each other: 

Perhaps I had a wicked childhood, perhaps I had a miserable youth, but somewhere in my wicked, miserable past, I must have had a moment of truth. For here you are, standing there, loving me, whether or not you should, so somewhere in my youth or childhood, I must have done something good. Nothing comes from nothing,  nothing ever could, so somewhere in my youth or childhood, I must have done something good. 

I do believe that good things happen for a reason, though that reason may be shrouded in mystery, at least to our uncomprehending eyes. But if good things happen for a reason, what about bad things? Again, I believe that life events are not random, and that there are no accidents. Yet if you ask me why a good thing or bad thing happens, the obvious answer is that I usually don’t know the specific reason. In some cases the cause and effect relationship is fairly clear: my dad’s lungs were damaged because he was a lifelong smoker. No mystery there.

But what about kind, loving people who are murdered or who die in car accidents or natural disasters? What about innocent children who are sexually assaulted, or people born with severe deformities or health challenges, or individuals or groups targeted because of their race or sexual orientation? Once again I would say that these events are not coincidences. But it’s not my place to judge others for their misfortunes, especially because I don’t have enough information to form an opinion. Fortune or misfortune may be the result of karma (cause and effect), but it could also be a deliberate choice by the soul to have a certain experience in order to gain understanding and compassion. Every soul has its own agenda for growth and for learning lessons. I’m too busy trying to understand and align with my own soul goals to figure out someone else’s motivations or karma.

All I know is that even if I had a “wicked, miserable past,” I want to have as many “moments of truth” as possible now. I intend to create my own good luck by doing, being, and living “something good” now.And when sometimes my life isn’t so good, I hope to remember to return to the sound of my own soul music.

January 17, 2019

I believe that spiritually, we are all one. I believe in the American political motto, E Pluribus Unum (out of many, one). And I believe that sometimes, we just can’t get along.

I just finished reading a remarkable book about a remote tribe in the Amazon jungle in Brazil. Don’t Sleep, There Are Snakes by Daniel Everett, describes his life as a Christian missionary among the Piraha people. A skilled linguist, he grew to know and love these Indian hunter-gatherers over his three decades among them, so much so that he eventually concluded that their way of life and beliefs were superior to his own, leading him to become an atheist.

But while he remains a fervent admirer of the Piraha, he also acknowledges the dark side of their culture. “While the Pirahas are very tolerant and peaceful to one another, they can be violent in keeping others out of their land…tolerance toward a group of outsiders and coexistence with them does not mean long-term acceptance. The Apurinas (another tribe of Indians who had lived on Piraha land for 50 years) had believed that a lifetime among another people could overcome the differences in culture and society that separated them from this other people. They learned the deadly lesson that these barriers are nearly impossible to overcome, in spite of appearances over time – just as residents of the former Yugoslavia, Rwanda, and many other places have learned in the course of history.”

I’ve always appreciated my encounters with subcultures in this country, and I travel internationally for the same reason: to meet people who are different than me and see what I can learn from them. But I’m well aware of the cultural tensions that exists between different races, religions, and nationalities (see my travel pieces on the travel tab on my home page, about conflicts between Israelis and Palestinians, Hindus and Muslims in India, and Vietnamese and Chinese). And I’m well aware of the long term frictions in this country between American Indians, whites, blacks, Latinos, and Asians.

Sadly, there are people on both the political right and left who promote identity politics in order to advance their own race or agenda. The current president encourages white nationalism, and the Democrats often portray ethnic minorities as victims in order to get their votes. Both parties sometimes pander to the worst instincts in people for political gain.

But I don’t blame just the politicians and their parties. The reality is that, to varying degrees, we are all tribal. We humans are more comfortable with people like ourselves, whether we live in the Amazon, Europe, Rwanda, Vietnam, Israel, or the United States. I myself have belonged to several tribes in my lifetime: American, Catholic, Irish, Buddhist, Cal Bears, San Francisco 49er fans, hiking groups, theater companies, et al. Granted, my tribes aren’t that exclusive, or at least I don’t see them that way. But they are ways that I have used to differentiate myself from others, not for the sake of asserting any superiority, but rather for the sake of belonging and identity.

The problem is that we often mistake our temporary identities (gender, class, nationality, ethnicity, religion, political persuasion) for our true identities (inner being/essence/soul/buddha nature), and therefore we emphasize our differences rather than our commonalities. Assuming, that is, that you share my belief in multiple lifetimes. If you believe that this lifetime is all there is, as my father did and many of my friends do, then the ego-based identities are understandably more important to you.

In either case, in all honesty, looking at human history and human nature, I think that this delusional behavior of separateness will continue for a very long time to come on this planet. And that means that the bickering and strife will not end anytime soon. As I said in an earlier post, I’m a short term pessimist and a long term optimist. Eventually, I believe that we will transcend our tribal identities and remember our essential unity.

But in the meantime, go Bears!

January 14, 2019

“Don’t keep searching for the truth. Just let go of your opinions.” Seng Ts’an

At a dinner party recently, I listened to some political views that eventually veered into conspiracy theories. I said nothing. Eventually I was asked about my perspective on the topic at hand, and I mentioned the complexity of the issue before changing the subject.

This week I rejoined Facebook after an absence of several years. Maybe I shouldn’t have been surprised to see on that site a couple of old friends venting their political anger. I did not comment upon their posts.

I can be quite opinionated about politics and about a lot of things. In high school and college I wanted to become a career politician because in my idealistic naivete I thought that I could fix the world’s problems. Fortunately for me and for the world I never ran for office, because I realized that I would eventually have been corrupted by power, ego, and maybe money. I needed to fix myself before I would be qualified to fix society.

As my friend Phil once said, “Whenever there’s an argument about politics, it’s not really about politics. It’s about feeling powerless.”

So while I regularly vote and occasionally pontificate to a friend or two, I’m trying to minimize my social and political commentary, even in my own head. My judgments erupt frequently, but I try to just notice them and then let them go. Opinions seem to be mostly expressions of the ego, whereas wisdom and insight apparently arise from a deeper level of our psyche.

Perhaps the world isn’t broken after all, and maybe it doesn’t need fixing. True, there are serious environmental threats and social problems, and they must be addressed by all of us. That’s why I vote. And that’s why I write. But I believe that the planet and humanity are evolving, slowly and with much turmoil, but evolving nonetheless. Sometimes it seems that things are out of balance, and that there is great injustice in the world. But in the long term I think that the law of cause and effect will ensure that lessons will be learned by individuals and by the human race. Earth is our classroom, and our souls will learn what they came here to learn even if we do it the hard way.

Do I like population growth in this country or elsewhere? No. Do I think that war, racial tensions, poverty, and economic upheavals will continue indefinitely? Yes. But while I feel that political discourse and processes have their place in society, and I’m quite willing to put my two cents worth into the public sphere every once in awhile, I also need to remind myself that spending my energy and attention resisting certain politicians or political beliefs is not in my best interest. I would rather have compassion for my fellow deluded beings than attempt to convert them to my social or spiritual philosophies.

Dinner parties and Facebook are more fun when they aren’t battle zones. The truth of my life and the lives of others will emerge when I allow all of us to be just the way we are. But if I don’t, that’s OK too.

January 10, 2019

So here I was, asleep in bed a few minutes ago and minding my own business, when visions of change came to me. And the changes felt good, if a bit unsettling.

In the first dream, my old friend Joseph said to me, “Let’s get up at 3 a.m. and go exploring Mt. Tamalpais.” My first reaction was to resist such an outlandish suggestion. Joseph is not an early riser, and this idea was totally out of character for him. I came up with various reasons why we shouldn’t follow his impulse: it’s too early, I won’t get enough sleep, it’s too much effort. But then, as I thought about it, a sense of adventure began to appeal to me, and I started imagining all the places we could visit on the way to the mountain, and all the fun we could have hiking and the many great views we would enjoy. Even so, I wasn’t entirely convinced.

In the second dream, Joseph and I were at a lush green park at the coast, waiting to meet our friend Tom. I had been to this park before, but now it was greatly improved and much more interesting. Someone had spent a lot of money upgrading the attractions, and I spoke with a ranger about all the new things to see and do.

In the third dream, I was at my old high school, but instead of being all white and middle class as it was when I was a student, it was now very exotic. All the young people were wearing what appeared to be Afghani and/or Indian dress, as that was now the fashion, and they were all excited about their new clothing styles.

I woke up feeling stimulated and open to new perspectives.

When I was young I was far more open to changes of all kinds: social, political, personal. I used to laugh a lot more than I do now. Now, at 66, I’m more set in my ways, and sometimes feel resistant to the direction in which the world is heading. In fact, lately I’ve been feeling downright pessimistic about the human race. I’ve long considered myself to be a short term pessimist and a long term optimist.

But these dreams made me feel like an optimist, both short term and long term, if I can just learn to let go of fear and trust myself in the moment. Go with the flow, let go of resistance to what is, and allow people and the world to be the way they are, without worrying about how things will turn out in the future.

Easy for me to say. But hey – I’m sitting here naked at my computer, having come straight from bed. No shower or breakfast yet. Changing my ways! Little steps, to be sure. Don’t know if I’ll make any more changes to my behavior or attitudes. Don’t care. Right now, here I am, in this present moment, free to be whoever I want to be.

Yippee!

January 8, 2019

I enjoyed the Disney movie Pollyanna when it first came to theaters in 1960, and I enjoyed it again a couple years ago on a Netflix DVD. Filmed at the McDonald mansion in nearby Santa Rosa, it’s the charming story of an orphan girl who has a positive attitude that uplifts the people around her. I sometimes call myself a pollyanna because I try to have an upbeat mindset most of the time. Then I have days like today where my mood takes a dive.

I had a productive and rewarding morning at work, then met my friend Gus for a pleasant conversation and Vietnamese noodle soup. But later in the day, I allowed external influences to get me down. I made the mistake of reading too many articles in the New York Times, first about the political dysfunction in Washington and then the political dysfunction in Latin America. Depressing stuff. Then I watched a little TV news about the bickering in Washington, before shutting that off and feeling more depressed.

So I decided to watch a DVD of the HBO TV series, Insecure. It has gotten good reviews, and I thought that maybe getting a dose of black culture would be a fun antidote to the bad news on TV and in the newspaper. Wrong. I hated the show, and couldn’t watch any more than the first episode. Full of profanity and shallow, ugly behavior, I thought it portrayed African American culture in a negative, stereotypical light. It probably helps to be young or black or both to appreciate the hip hop culture, but since I’m neither I detested it. Interestingly, its audience is mostly white, and Oprah Winfrey and the Obamas, people I respect, are said to like it. So what do I know? All I can say is that after watching and reading the news and then seeing an episode of Insecure, I felt despair at the state of the human race.

Being the pollyanna that I am, I realized that I didn’t want to wallow in my state of hopelessness. So I did three things to lift my spirits.

First, I watched a five minute YouTube video called Where the Hell is Matt 2012. In it this young white guy travels the world, dancing with people from diverse cultures. His dancing is sometimes silly, but the music and the message of universal love of humanity are joyful and inspiring.

Second, I sat in front of my Buddhist altar and chanted prayers for inspiration and awakening for myself and for all humanity.

Third, I reviewed a wonderful book I’ve read several times, Proof of Heaven by Eben Alexander. He’s a neurosurgeon who had a near death experience, and his descriptions of the afterlife are wondrous indeed.

After the video, the prayers, and the book, I feel better. I don’t deny the darkness of the world, but I choose to focus on the light. It’s the only way I can keep my sanity in this crazy but beautiful world.

January 6, 2019

On a gray, rainy day in the hills of Sebastopol, I’m so grateful for my little cottage. Grateful for the fire in the fireplace, grateful for the good health to enjoy my country life. Grateful to have a home for my books, plants, family photos, and Buddhist altar. Grateful to live in northern California and in a country with such freedom and abundance. And I’m surprised that I’m still here.

In my house, that is. Not my body, though there will be a time to leave both before too long.

I’ve been renting this little place for 33 years, half of my lifetime. I never intended to be a renter for my entire adult life, and I never intended to stay here for so long. It just kinda happened. I wish I owned the place, because by now I’d own it free and clear and would have equity and with it greater financial security. And I would have installed hookups for a washer and dryer. Going to a laundromat several miles away for 33 years gets old. But it’s a small price to pay for living in paradise.

It’s mostly peaceful and quiet here, and the neighborhood is gorgeous. Redwoods, oaks, vineyards, apple orchards, and a goat farm. In the summer there are blackberries, apples, and pears, and in the winter, persimmons and lemons. In the morning I often enjoy sunrise over a sea of fog in the valley below. From my ridgetop perch I can see Mt. St. Helena and the hills and valleys of the wine country. Like Thoreau at Walden Pond, I don’t own any property legally, but I own it visually. So because I appreciate all that I can see, I’m a very rich man.

I’m well aware that I live far better than most of humanity. I’ve seen people living and dying on the streets of Delhi, and living in poverty in the slums of Bombay, Mexico City, and Cairo. And I felt terrible for many of my friends who lost their homes in last year’s wine country wildfires. It just goes to show that, renter or homeowner, rich or poor, life is transient, and there is no true security in the physical realm.

But there is appreciation. And I appreciate my humble two-room cottage. It reminds me of the huts once built as summer cabins in the mountains of Ireland. These stone dwellings were built by farmers to live in during the summer months when they would graze their cattle in the high meadows. Called booley houses, they were sometimes the setting for nighttime storytelling, music, and songs. And sometimes they were said to shelter raparees, or outlaws hiding out from English oppressors.

I’m not an outlaw raparee, but I do like to sing and dance by myself at night on occasion. And I sit at my computer and tell stories to whoever might be reading this blog. So life is very good in my booley house. I don’t know how long I’ll be here, and I don’t know how long I’ll continue to enjoy excellent health. But for now, I’m filled with wonder at my good fortune.