.
Several months ago, during "spring break," my daughter and her boyfriend went to the Dominican Republic. She returned full of what a good time the two of them had had and I was happy for her.
But when she showed around the pictures she had taken, all of them were scenes within the gated community in which they lived. Palm trees, swimming pools, dining rooms, pictures of each other. There wasn't a church or historic fort or downtown bazaar or mountain trail or anything that would indicate the two of them hadn't been locked up on the east coast of Florida or someplace similar.
The gates were to keep the poverty and its implications at bay.
Gautama Buddha lived in similar circumstances, behind walls and surrounded by eye-popping comfort and luxury.
But never mind the fancy names of the past. The gated communities of the mind and heart serve similar purposes and are similarly protective and defensive. Jobs, finances, relationships, religions, cultures ... the walls are there to distinguish what is within from what is without. I am more interested whether it is true and less interested whether it is "good" or "bad."
I think it's true.
And I think it is pretty wearing.
Walls that keep something out also hem something in. And no one likes being hemmed in ... except when they imagine their safety is in question. And when the notion arises to escape the walls that hem in, as like as not, the escape route leads to yet another gated community, another safe haven, another protective and protected place.
Over and over again -- pictures of palm trees and swimming pools and faces smiling in the glamorous sunshine ... that then begins to cling and cloy.
It's not worth ranting about, but I do think it's worth consideration.
.
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
goodness and originality
.
Woke up thinking ...
It is better to be original than to be good.
Goodness is always in need of exercise and correction and company.
Originality is not something anyone could escape. It is always relaxed. It does not require duct tape.
No doubt there will be a penalty for having said so -- spiritual-endeavor mavens rushing in with rolls of duct tape to assure others that goodness and originality are the same or different or profound or shallow ... sticking together all the dangling shards with their good and reliable tape.
A little trailing-vine story along the same lines, perhaps:
That's pretty good duct tape, but originality is easier than juicy little tales. Goodness is a good start, but who ever said things need to be stuck together?
Why waste perfectly good duct tape?
.
Woke up thinking ...
It is better to be original than to be good.
Goodness is always in need of exercise and correction and company.
Originality is not something anyone could escape. It is always relaxed. It does not require duct tape.
No doubt there will be a penalty for having said so -- spiritual-endeavor mavens rushing in with rolls of duct tape to assure others that goodness and originality are the same or different or profound or shallow ... sticking together all the dangling shards with their good and reliable tape.
A little trailing-vine story along the same lines, perhaps:
The First Principle
When one goes to Obaku temple in Kyoto he sees carved over the gate the words "The First Principle." The letters are unusually large, and those who appreciate calligraphy always admire them as being a masterpiece. They were drawn by Kosen two hundred years ago.
When the master drew them he did so on paper, from which workmen made the larger carving in wood. As Kosen sketched the letters a bold pupil was with him who had made several gallons of ink for the calligraphy and who never failed to criticize his master's work.
"That is not good," he told Kosen after the first effort.
"How is that one?"
"Poor. Worse than before," pronounced the pupil.
Kosen patiently wrote one sheet after another until eighty-four First Principles had been accumulated, still without the approval of the pupil.
Then, when the young man stepped outside for a few moments, Kosen thought: "Now is my chance to escape his keen eye," and he wrote hurridly, with a mind free from disctraction. "The First Principle."
"A masterpiece," pronounced the pupil
That's pretty good duct tape, but originality is easier than juicy little tales. Goodness is a good start, but who ever said things need to be stuck together?
Why waste perfectly good duct tape?
.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
beloved enemy
.
A lone American was arrested in Pakistan Sunday and apparently said he was on a quest to kill Osama bin Laden.
The 52-year-old Californian construction worker was arrested by Pakistanis, but I can imagine the Americans breathed a sigh of relief. Not that paying the extant bounty of $25 million of taxpayer money would be a problem, but the United States would be deprived of a prized enemy if someone actually killed or captured a man who heads up a very small group (Al Qaida) which the American public has been fetch-trained to despise.
Without that card in the expensive house of cards called "terrorism," how could more funding be forthcoming? Finding or fabricating enemies is a long-standing ploy by any number of governments, but it does get tiring when people go hungry or uneducated or uncared-for because the funds are not available.
The convenient enemy helps to consolidate power of those who do not wish to relinquish power, but it can hardly be said to pass for leadership. CEO's, battlefield commanders, and religious leaders all know the efficacy of fear and too often use it as a default position.
The trouble with fear is that those who are afraid are constantly looking over their shoulders and covering their asses -- and thus unlikely to produce the 100% effort that might advance some fruitful cause.
Sometimes it's hard not to wish for leadership.
But as the old saying goes, "If wishes were horses, beggars would ride."
.
A lone American was arrested in Pakistan Sunday and apparently said he was on a quest to kill Osama bin Laden.
The 52-year-old Californian construction worker was arrested by Pakistanis, but I can imagine the Americans breathed a sigh of relief. Not that paying the extant bounty of $25 million of taxpayer money would be a problem, but the United States would be deprived of a prized enemy if someone actually killed or captured a man who heads up a very small group (Al Qaida) which the American public has been fetch-trained to despise.
Without that card in the expensive house of cards called "terrorism," how could more funding be forthcoming? Finding or fabricating enemies is a long-standing ploy by any number of governments, but it does get tiring when people go hungry or uneducated or uncared-for because the funds are not available.
The convenient enemy helps to consolidate power of those who do not wish to relinquish power, but it can hardly be said to pass for leadership. CEO's, battlefield commanders, and religious leaders all know the efficacy of fear and too often use it as a default position.
The trouble with fear is that those who are afraid are constantly looking over their shoulders and covering their asses -- and thus unlikely to produce the 100% effort that might advance some fruitful cause.
Sometimes it's hard not to wish for leadership.
But as the old saying goes, "If wishes were horses, beggars would ride."
.
a symmetrical peace
.
As the light gained pace this morning, I sat on the porch looking at the roof-lines of nearby houses and thought, not for the first time, that where there is a straight line, there also is man.
In the woods or mountains, nature creates straight lines casually -- it's just one of the possibilities, and so is not often seen. But elsewhere, man creates straight lines for ... for security and profit, I imagine.
Mathematically, the shortest distance between two points is a straight line ... or anyway, I think I remember memorizing that in some math class. Straight lines are efficient and carry with them a whiff of perfection. There is no distraction or imperfection. Nothing sticks to a straight line. It is pristine.
Which is why, I think, people like the Mona Lisa ...
the crooked, quirky smile brings savor and irregularity and life to what otherwise might be (metaphorically) straight or symmetrical. The eye longs to fall in love and it is hard to fall in love with straight lines and coiffed symmetry.
And yet we can work at it pretty hard -- falling in love with symmetries. Jobs, relationships, spiritual endeavors, possessions -- don't we work pretty hard to find the straight-edged container that will bring a symmetrical peace to what can be an irrepressible asymmetry ... our lives?
A symmetrical, straight-edged peace, a peace over which we have control, a peace that comes when we whistle, a peace that will hold what is unpeaceful at arm's length. I suppose that such efforts fall under the heading of banging-your-head-against-a-wall-because-it-feels-so-good-when-you-stop. Not that there isn't something to be learned from all the straight-edged efforts, but rather that it simply doesn't work. What is asymmetrical may be confusing, but it contains sass and juice and makes the eye fall in love.
And in the end, even the straight lines of a symmetrical peace is nothing more than another asymmetry, another Mona Lisa smile, another reason to enjoy yourself.
Or anyway, that's what I imagine.
.
As the light gained pace this morning, I sat on the porch looking at the roof-lines of nearby houses and thought, not for the first time, that where there is a straight line, there also is man.
In the woods or mountains, nature creates straight lines casually -- it's just one of the possibilities, and so is not often seen. But elsewhere, man creates straight lines for ... for security and profit, I imagine.
Mathematically, the shortest distance between two points is a straight line ... or anyway, I think I remember memorizing that in some math class. Straight lines are efficient and carry with them a whiff of perfection. There is no distraction or imperfection. Nothing sticks to a straight line. It is pristine.
Which is why, I think, people like the Mona Lisa ...
the crooked, quirky smile brings savor and irregularity and life to what otherwise might be (metaphorically) straight or symmetrical. The eye longs to fall in love and it is hard to fall in love with straight lines and coiffed symmetry. And yet we can work at it pretty hard -- falling in love with symmetries. Jobs, relationships, spiritual endeavors, possessions -- don't we work pretty hard to find the straight-edged container that will bring a symmetrical peace to what can be an irrepressible asymmetry ... our lives?
A symmetrical, straight-edged peace, a peace over which we have control, a peace that comes when we whistle, a peace that will hold what is unpeaceful at arm's length. I suppose that such efforts fall under the heading of banging-your-head-against-a-wall-because-it-feels-so-good-when-you-stop. Not that there isn't something to be learned from all the straight-edged efforts, but rather that it simply doesn't work. What is asymmetrical may be confusing, but it contains sass and juice and makes the eye fall in love.
And in the end, even the straight lines of a symmetrical peace is nothing more than another asymmetry, another Mona Lisa smile, another reason to enjoy yourself.
Or anyway, that's what I imagine.
.
Monday, June 14, 2010
a properly executed crime
.
Generally, if uncertainly, attributed to Honoré de Balzac (1799 – 1850), the line is still interesting in its force: "Behind every great fortune, there is a great crime."
Whether or not Balzac wrote those exact and more pithy words, he did write in "Le Père Goriot" "The secret of a great success for which you are at a loss to account is a crime that has never been found out, because it was properly executed."
A properly executed crime -- one whose particulars remain hidden -- wreathes the success in unassailable light. I think that is probably true, but I don't think it's a good idea for individuals to fall prey such much-accepted activity.
I don't mean that anyone would want to run around raining on every available parade, playing the cynic and pessimist. I do mean that good things carry less-glorifiable elements and that those elements deserve attention and care.
Yin and yang are not just some symbol on a Chinese restaurant. They are the way of the world and failure to accord with the way of the world is bound to encourage uncertainty and sadness.
Success -- yes. Examine it.
Failure -- yes. Examine it.
Where is the resting place of all the pros and cons?
.
Generally, if uncertainly, attributed to Honoré de Balzac (1799 – 1850), the line is still interesting in its force: "Behind every great fortune, there is a great crime."
Whether or not Balzac wrote those exact and more pithy words, he did write in "Le Père Goriot" "The secret of a great success for which you are at a loss to account is a crime that has never been found out, because it was properly executed."
A properly executed crime -- one whose particulars remain hidden -- wreathes the success in unassailable light. I think that is probably true, but I don't think it's a good idea for individuals to fall prey such much-accepted activity.
I don't mean that anyone would want to run around raining on every available parade, playing the cynic and pessimist. I do mean that good things carry less-glorifiable elements and that those elements deserve attention and care.
Yin and yang are not just some symbol on a Chinese restaurant. They are the way of the world and failure to accord with the way of the world is bound to encourage uncertainty and sadness.
Success -- yes. Examine it.
Failure -- yes. Examine it.
Where is the resting place of all the pros and cons?
.
mysteries
.
A ratting-around night trying to sleep or at least get comfortable provides what I imagine will be another 'doc day.' There are some heart problems that need addressing -- probably beyond the pills that doctors these days so freely dispense.
Interesting how the body knows things that leave intellect and emotion in the dust. The body knows and there is simply no discussion necessary.
In the midst of racketing around last night, the name "Karlovy Vary" refused to get out of my mind. I couldn't remember where I had read it or what it meant, but it repeated itself often enough so that I looked it up on the internet when I finally did get up. All it means is Karlsbad in western Bohemia of the Czech Republic.
What brought it to mind was a complete mystery.
The body, however, was not a mystery at all.
.
A ratting-around night trying to sleep or at least get comfortable provides what I imagine will be another 'doc day.' There are some heart problems that need addressing -- probably beyond the pills that doctors these days so freely dispense.
Interesting how the body knows things that leave intellect and emotion in the dust. The body knows and there is simply no discussion necessary.
In the midst of racketing around last night, the name "Karlovy Vary" refused to get out of my mind. I couldn't remember where I had read it or what it meant, but it repeated itself often enough so that I looked it up on the internet when I finally did get up. All it means is Karlsbad in western Bohemia of the Czech Republic.
What brought it to mind was a complete mystery.
The body, however, was not a mystery at all.
.
Sunday, June 13, 2010
a single incense stick
.
I remember how shocked I was when Dokai Fukui, a monk who ran a small Zen temple in Japan, wrote to me and said that he usually sat zazen, or seated meditation, for one incense stick a day and then went about his business.
I had assumed all Zen monks were all but grafted to their sitting cushions ... and sat four, five, six, seven, eight hours a day. Hell, even as a layman, I was sitting two or three hours a day at the time. And here was Dokai -- a wise soul if ever I met one -- sitting for an incense stick ... 30 or 40 minutes.
I remembered all that with a smile when I got up from my incense-stick's worth of sitting this morning. Maybe it's old age or delusion or laziness or understanding or misunderstanding ... hell, I don't know. I know I wasn't mimicking Dokai. But I was amused to come out at what seemed like much the same place he had depicted so long ago.
Or not.
.
I remember how shocked I was when Dokai Fukui, a monk who ran a small Zen temple in Japan, wrote to me and said that he usually sat zazen, or seated meditation, for one incense stick a day and then went about his business.
I had assumed all Zen monks were all but grafted to their sitting cushions ... and sat four, five, six, seven, eight hours a day. Hell, even as a layman, I was sitting two or three hours a day at the time. And here was Dokai -- a wise soul if ever I met one -- sitting for an incense stick ... 30 or 40 minutes.
I remembered all that with a smile when I got up from my incense-stick's worth of sitting this morning. Maybe it's old age or delusion or laziness or understanding or misunderstanding ... hell, I don't know. I know I wasn't mimicking Dokai. But I was amused to come out at what seemed like much the same place he had depicted so long ago.
Or not.
.
selling out
.
I suppose the American legislative branches count on people like me -- people who will not do what, for a flashing moment, I seriously considered doing when it came to the financial reform bill currently being whittled away in the House and Senate.
Not that my action would have amounted to much. All I was thinking of doing was sending a note to senators and representatives from my state saying, "Please don't screw us ... again."
It's such an impotent little whimper. Mentioning decency and honor to those who don't operate that way is like spilling a drop of water on a hot frying pan. It disappears almost instantaneously. And you can hear the indulgent, hissing chuckles.
Banks will continue to be "too big to fail," meaning that instead of setting money aside to pay for their own errors, the taxpayer will foot the bill for the banks that have lobbied and paid off various legislators whose main hope in life is to get re-elected. Credit cards will be allowed to charge usurious rates. Mortgages that might stun a mogul ... well, caveat emptor. And there will be smooth, articulate descriptions of how this legislation has done its best for the little guy.
I'm too old to be enraged by the selling out of public trust. It has happened before and will happen again, but I do wonder how people who are entrusted look in the mirror. It is a question that reflects more on me and less on them, I suspect.
And it is all the same as with other mistakes observed in others:
Just don't YOU do that!
.
I suppose the American legislative branches count on people like me -- people who will not do what, for a flashing moment, I seriously considered doing when it came to the financial reform bill currently being whittled away in the House and Senate.
Not that my action would have amounted to much. All I was thinking of doing was sending a note to senators and representatives from my state saying, "Please don't screw us ... again."
It's such an impotent little whimper. Mentioning decency and honor to those who don't operate that way is like spilling a drop of water on a hot frying pan. It disappears almost instantaneously. And you can hear the indulgent, hissing chuckles.
Banks will continue to be "too big to fail," meaning that instead of setting money aside to pay for their own errors, the taxpayer will foot the bill for the banks that have lobbied and paid off various legislators whose main hope in life is to get re-elected. Credit cards will be allowed to charge usurious rates. Mortgages that might stun a mogul ... well, caveat emptor. And there will be smooth, articulate descriptions of how this legislation has done its best for the little guy.
I'm too old to be enraged by the selling out of public trust. It has happened before and will happen again, but I do wonder how people who are entrusted look in the mirror. It is a question that reflects more on me and less on them, I suspect.
And it is all the same as with other mistakes observed in others:
Just don't YOU do that!
.
Saturday, June 12, 2010
the little bird
.
It's old, but I had occasion to send it along anew today and thought I would repeat it here as well:
Once upon a time, there was a little bird who decided not to fly south for the winter. His friends begged and cajoled, but he was adamant. So his friends took off to the south and the little bird sat on his branch.
Pretty soon, the winds grew colder and the snow began to fall. The little bird decided he had made a mistake and he took off after his friends. Alas, he was too late: The temperature was below zero and the ice formed on his wings as he flew. He grew more and more tired and finally he just plain gave up and plummeted to earth.
As it happened, he landed in a field of cows and as the little bird lay there, waiting to expire, a passing cow crapped all over him. The manure warmed him and thawed his wings. He would survive! The little bird was so happy that he began to sing. A passing cat heard the singing, dug through the manure, found the little bird and promptly ate him.
There are three morals to this story:
1. Not everyone who shits on you is necessarily your enemy.
2. Not everyone who gets you out of the shit is necessarily your friend.
And ...
3. If you're happy in your own pile of shit, keep your mouth shut.
.
It's old, but I had occasion to send it along anew today and thought I would repeat it here as well:
Once upon a time, there was a little bird who decided not to fly south for the winter. His friends begged and cajoled, but he was adamant. So his friends took off to the south and the little bird sat on his branch.
Pretty soon, the winds grew colder and the snow began to fall. The little bird decided he had made a mistake and he took off after his friends. Alas, he was too late: The temperature was below zero and the ice formed on his wings as he flew. He grew more and more tired and finally he just plain gave up and plummeted to earth.
As it happened, he landed in a field of cows and as the little bird lay there, waiting to expire, a passing cow crapped all over him. The manure warmed him and thawed his wings. He would survive! The little bird was so happy that he began to sing. A passing cat heard the singing, dug through the manure, found the little bird and promptly ate him.
There are three morals to this story:
1. Not everyone who shits on you is necessarily your enemy.
2. Not everyone who gets you out of the shit is necessarily your friend.
And ...
3. If you're happy in your own pile of shit, keep your mouth shut.
.
light and sound
.
Received in email without attribution:
Light travels faster than sound, which is why some people appear to be bright until you hear them speak.
.
Received in email without attribution:
Light travels faster than sound, which is why some people appear to be bright until you hear them speak.
.
Cracker Jack importance
.
At 2:30 a.m., it was bright and important and interesting and chock-a-block with stuff I did not want to forget: Cracker Jacks.
Popcorn and peanuts covered in caramel ... often with a prize in the box.
Sticky. A confection whose name later segued into a means of praise -- eg. "a Cracker Jack job."
But as I dozed closer to dawn, somehow I could no longer remember what importance it all had. If there had been some spiritual metaphor I was going to spin, I simply couldn't remember what it was. All I could remember was Cracker Jacks, a candy I had never found as delectable as, say, chocolate.
And after I rolled myself out of bed, got a little coffee and donned the functions of being awake, there was an email from a cousin who said her publisher and agent had agreed two days ago that her latest suggestion for a book was ... well ... they simply didn't like it. She had been banking, in some part of her mind, on acceptance and importance and work to do and suddenly the balloon simply lost its fullness. Ouch. She threw herself into cleaning the closet and, a day ago, came up with a new writing project to pitch to her agent, one that apparently was received more enthusiastically.
Important stuff. Really, at the moment it's important, it really is important. The oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico. The war in Afghanistan. Unemployment. The latest ways in which politicians would sidestep the hard choices necessary to helping the constituents they wanted to be seen as helping. Or the more mundane, up-close-and-personal stuff ... relationships and sock drawers and, oh yeah, what was it about Cracker Jacks that was important?
How many important things have come and gone and yet the habit remains strong ... THIS is important. On the one hand, you couldn't call it unimportant. On the other hand, if it's so all-fired important, how come it's not as important today as it was yesterday? I know, I know -- I can sit down and rework yesterday's lather so that it seems to maintain an overarching and ongoing importance, but is it true?
I do wonder what I thought was so important about Cracker Jacks. I know it was important, but ... what was it?
.
At 2:30 a.m., it was bright and important and interesting and chock-a-block with stuff I did not want to forget: Cracker Jacks.
Popcorn and peanuts covered in caramel ... often with a prize in the box.
Sticky. A confection whose name later segued into a means of praise -- eg. "a Cracker Jack job."But as I dozed closer to dawn, somehow I could no longer remember what importance it all had. If there had been some spiritual metaphor I was going to spin, I simply couldn't remember what it was. All I could remember was Cracker Jacks, a candy I had never found as delectable as, say, chocolate.
And after I rolled myself out of bed, got a little coffee and donned the functions of being awake, there was an email from a cousin who said her publisher and agent had agreed two days ago that her latest suggestion for a book was ... well ... they simply didn't like it. She had been banking, in some part of her mind, on acceptance and importance and work to do and suddenly the balloon simply lost its fullness. Ouch. She threw herself into cleaning the closet and, a day ago, came up with a new writing project to pitch to her agent, one that apparently was received more enthusiastically.
Important stuff. Really, at the moment it's important, it really is important. The oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico. The war in Afghanistan. Unemployment. The latest ways in which politicians would sidestep the hard choices necessary to helping the constituents they wanted to be seen as helping. Or the more mundane, up-close-and-personal stuff ... relationships and sock drawers and, oh yeah, what was it about Cracker Jacks that was important?
How many important things have come and gone and yet the habit remains strong ... THIS is important. On the one hand, you couldn't call it unimportant. On the other hand, if it's so all-fired important, how come it's not as important today as it was yesterday? I know, I know -- I can sit down and rework yesterday's lather so that it seems to maintain an overarching and ongoing importance, but is it true?
I do wonder what I thought was so important about Cracker Jacks. I know it was important, but ... what was it?
.
Friday, June 11, 2010
guns and religion
.
Reading on the internet a question about how anyone might approach the topic of religion with their kids, I was reminded again of a time when my youngest son, then perhaps 9, came to me an said, "Papa, I want to build a gun."
I knew what he meant. He did not mean he wanted to build a gun so that he could become a neighborhood serial killer. He meant he was fascinated by exactly how a piece of machinery -- especially one so powerful -- was put together ... literally.
I used the occasion to pile all the kids (one girl, two boys) in the car and make a 20-mile drive to a Smith & Wesson plant where the gunmaker had a firing range. Going down, the kids were pretty excited and there was a lot of chatter laced with swagger and wonder.
But when we got there, the tone changed and exactly what I wanted to happen, happened. First there was the selecting of weapons. I picked a .22 revolver for starters, something without too much kick. When we went onto the range itself, I grabbed the range officer and told him to look after the kids ... to make sure they got things right. Then I stood aside: No kid listens to a parent the way s/he might listen to an expert.
The range officer laid down the law: Always point the pistol down-range. Keep the safety on until ready to fire. Here's how to hold the revolver, etc. The kids paid attention and one by one took a turn shooting at a paper target, reloading and then shooting again. The gun had weight. It had noise. It had palpable power. There was nothing flashy about it. It was all business.
After the .22, we returned to the gun case and I asked for a pistol that shot the most commonly used ammunition, whatever that might be.
The salesman gave us a 9mm pistol and a box of bullets. We returned to the range and the range master. The clip was hard to load. It took time and energy. The gun was heavier. The kick was larger. The noise more insistent. If the .22 had be serious, this was s-e-r-i-o-u-s. It was harder to hit the target anywhere near the bulls-eye.
When we walked out, the conversation was still excited and proud and a bit macho, but now it was laced with an experience that spoke from within. This was not TV or some detective movie. This was not simply kool. This was business and each of the kids knew something about business instead of the excitement of a faith depicted on celluloid with its attendant woo-hoos and swagger and cardboard retributions.
It was a good experiment, I always thought. You want to play guns? Here, try a gun. It's part of the world we live in and you should know something about what a gun is and isn't, what it can do and can't.
And I guess I feel somewhat the same about spiritual life. It's part of the scenery so you should know something about it. But it's not enough to run celluloid hosannahs and haloed hoorahs. That's the glitz. It has no heft, it carries no challenge, its stories are not its truth.
So I kind of hope that at some point my kids will rent
a religion and investigate its ins and outs in the care of something more than an idiotic range master. No need to find the perfect and complete answer or bias ... just pick it up, feel the heft, pull a trigger or two, enjoy the bang ... and just know it's out there, awaiting your actual-factual pleasure or dismay.
It's part of the landscape so....
.
Reading on the internet a question about how anyone might approach the topic of religion with their kids, I was reminded again of a time when my youngest son, then perhaps 9, came to me an said, "Papa, I want to build a gun."
I knew what he meant. He did not mean he wanted to build a gun so that he could become a neighborhood serial killer. He meant he was fascinated by exactly how a piece of machinery -- especially one so powerful -- was put together ... literally.
I used the occasion to pile all the kids (one girl, two boys) in the car and make a 20-mile drive to a Smith & Wesson plant where the gunmaker had a firing range. Going down, the kids were pretty excited and there was a lot of chatter laced with swagger and wonder.
But when we got there, the tone changed and exactly what I wanted to happen, happened. First there was the selecting of weapons. I picked a .22 revolver for starters, something without too much kick. When we went onto the range itself, I grabbed the range officer and told him to look after the kids ... to make sure they got things right. Then I stood aside: No kid listens to a parent the way s/he might listen to an expert.
The range officer laid down the law: Always point the pistol down-range. Keep the safety on until ready to fire. Here's how to hold the revolver, etc. The kids paid attention and one by one took a turn shooting at a paper target, reloading and then shooting again. The gun had weight. It had noise. It had palpable power. There was nothing flashy about it. It was all business.
After the .22, we returned to the gun case and I asked for a pistol that shot the most commonly used ammunition, whatever that might be.
The salesman gave us a 9mm pistol and a box of bullets. We returned to the range and the range master. The clip was hard to load. It took time and energy. The gun was heavier. The kick was larger. The noise more insistent. If the .22 had be serious, this was s-e-r-i-o-u-s. It was harder to hit the target anywhere near the bulls-eye.When we walked out, the conversation was still excited and proud and a bit macho, but now it was laced with an experience that spoke from within. This was not TV or some detective movie. This was not simply kool. This was business and each of the kids knew something about business instead of the excitement of a faith depicted on celluloid with its attendant woo-hoos and swagger and cardboard retributions.
It was a good experiment, I always thought. You want to play guns? Here, try a gun. It's part of the world we live in and you should know something about what a gun is and isn't, what it can do and can't.
And I guess I feel somewhat the same about spiritual life. It's part of the scenery so you should know something about it. But it's not enough to run celluloid hosannahs and haloed hoorahs. That's the glitz. It has no heft, it carries no challenge, its stories are not its truth.
So I kind of hope that at some point my kids will rent
a religion and investigate its ins and outs in the care of something more than an idiotic range master. No need to find the perfect and complete answer or bias ... just pick it up, feel the heft, pull a trigger or two, enjoy the bang ... and just know it's out there, awaiting your actual-factual pleasure or dismay. It's part of the landscape so....
.
Thursday, June 10, 2010
right on!
.
Of all the scrumptious trip wires in life, I sometimes wonder if being right isn't pretty close to king of the castle. The scrumptiousness comes, of course, not from actually being right but from the warming sun of imagining you are right.
The other day, I ran into a heart doctor with whom I have had some personal contact and, since he seemed to have time to chat, I said to him that I had always been grateful to him for an observation he once made after I retired: "Your health is now your business." Depressing in one sense, still the advice was good, I said. He took that conversational ball and ran with it: "You can't imagine how many people I tell that too -- guys with a gut out to here and can't even walk across a room without difficulty -- and they just don't listen. It's like spreading grass seed on concrete."
His eyes and mouth tightened slightly as he issued this judgment. It was a small nod towards a what-a-bunch-of-assholes assessment, scrumptiously cranky-making. He was right. Why wasn't the world listening to him? He wanted to help, was offering help and much of the world he inhabited was spurning his good intentions and experience-based virtue.
And the same trip wire is visible in many nooks and crannies. Spiritual life is littered with people who may, in fact, be right, but then add on an insistence that they are right. And when people agree with them, it's Nellie-bar-the-door ... suddenly it's OK to insist you are right when there is a lot of applause for your being right.
There's only one fly in this ointment: It doesn't work and it engenders uncertainty. Being right is OK. Thinking you are right means you must constantly buttress your position, shore it up against those who, implicitly or explicitly, suggest you are off the mark.
The exterior versions of being right -- politicians, Tupperware salesmen, virtue merchants, etc. -- are really not so bad as what people can do to themselves within, basking in being right when in fact they may merely be right. In Buddhist lingo, this is called attachment ... and it is so scrumptious that it's a hard habit to break. The Buddhists are right ... but there's no telling that to others, even other Buddhists.
In Buddhism, for example, there are the Four Noble Truths. These are observations about the way the world goes around:
But there is no convincing anyone that such observations are true or right. There is only finding out that they are true or right and then working forward based on your own discoveries. The fact that anyone can quote these lines or write these lines or agree with others about these lines ... well, it's all piss in a snow bank...a scrumptious relief, perhaps, but lacking ease. It's right, perhaps, but there is no need to be right about it. In fact, the need to be right will stand in the way of being right no matter how scrumptious being right may be.
And if this depiction rings any bells within and if it suggests investigation and attention, then I think the same investigation and the same attention might be warranted about being wrong. Nothing wrong with being wrong ... unless of course you think (scrumptiously) that you or someone else is wrong.
Speak your piece. Spread the grass seed. As the Zen teacher Shunryu Suzuki once observed approximately, "There are things to do and there are things not to do -- that is enough."
But I concede that scrumptiousness requires some effort.
.
Of all the scrumptious trip wires in life, I sometimes wonder if being right isn't pretty close to king of the castle. The scrumptiousness comes, of course, not from actually being right but from the warming sun of imagining you are right.
The other day, I ran into a heart doctor with whom I have had some personal contact and, since he seemed to have time to chat, I said to him that I had always been grateful to him for an observation he once made after I retired: "Your health is now your business." Depressing in one sense, still the advice was good, I said. He took that conversational ball and ran with it: "You can't imagine how many people I tell that too -- guys with a gut out to here and can't even walk across a room without difficulty -- and they just don't listen. It's like spreading grass seed on concrete."
His eyes and mouth tightened slightly as he issued this judgment. It was a small nod towards a what-a-bunch-of-assholes assessment, scrumptiously cranky-making. He was right. Why wasn't the world listening to him? He wanted to help, was offering help and much of the world he inhabited was spurning his good intentions and experience-based virtue.
And the same trip wire is visible in many nooks and crannies. Spiritual life is littered with people who may, in fact, be right, but then add on an insistence that they are right. And when people agree with them, it's Nellie-bar-the-door ... suddenly it's OK to insist you are right when there is a lot of applause for your being right.
There's only one fly in this ointment: It doesn't work and it engenders uncertainty. Being right is OK. Thinking you are right means you must constantly buttress your position, shore it up against those who, implicitly or explicitly, suggest you are off the mark.
The exterior versions of being right -- politicians, Tupperware salesmen, virtue merchants, etc. -- are really not so bad as what people can do to themselves within, basking in being right when in fact they may merely be right. In Buddhist lingo, this is called attachment ... and it is so scrumptious that it's a hard habit to break. The Buddhists are right ... but there's no telling that to others, even other Buddhists.
In Buddhism, for example, there are the Four Noble Truths. These are observations about the way the world goes around:
There is suffering.
There is a cause of suffering.
There is an end of suffering.
There is a way to end suffering.
But there is no convincing anyone that such observations are true or right. There is only finding out that they are true or right and then working forward based on your own discoveries. The fact that anyone can quote these lines or write these lines or agree with others about these lines ... well, it's all piss in a snow bank...a scrumptious relief, perhaps, but lacking ease. It's right, perhaps, but there is no need to be right about it. In fact, the need to be right will stand in the way of being right no matter how scrumptious being right may be.
And if this depiction rings any bells within and if it suggests investigation and attention, then I think the same investigation and the same attention might be warranted about being wrong. Nothing wrong with being wrong ... unless of course you think (scrumptiously) that you or someone else is wrong.
Speak your piece. Spread the grass seed. As the Zen teacher Shunryu Suzuki once observed approximately, "There are things to do and there are things not to do -- that is enough."
But I concede that scrumptiousness requires some effort.
.
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
ashamed
.
All I can think of this morning is that there seems to be quite a lot of emphasis placed on learning from the mistakes of others ... studying history, being observant, finding connections and the like.
But the only kind of mistake-learning I can figure as being worth much is the willingness to learn from our own mistakes ... the other stuff is all eyewash and diplomas by comparison.
A press release seeking donations for a Zen monastery project came in email yesterday. Its efforts included the phrase, "Mysteriously, the Dharma arranged for...."
The fact that there are those who lap that stuff up the way a dog licks a plate covered in beef gravy is no excuse in my book. Those who concoct such words have a hundred tasty and delightfully-eerie excuses, but beef gravy laced with ground glass is still fatal.
I too have lapped up such shit. I too have served such shit.
And what have I learned?
Shame is the tasty result for me.
.
All I can think of this morning is that there seems to be quite a lot of emphasis placed on learning from the mistakes of others ... studying history, being observant, finding connections and the like.
But the only kind of mistake-learning I can figure as being worth much is the willingness to learn from our own mistakes ... the other stuff is all eyewash and diplomas by comparison.
A press release seeking donations for a Zen monastery project came in email yesterday. Its efforts included the phrase, "Mysteriously, the Dharma arranged for...."
The fact that there are those who lap that stuff up the way a dog licks a plate covered in beef gravy is no excuse in my book. Those who concoct such words have a hundred tasty and delightfully-eerie excuses, but beef gravy laced with ground glass is still fatal.
I too have lapped up such shit. I too have served such shit.
And what have I learned?
Shame is the tasty result for me.
.
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
all in
.
Who knows ... it may all be over one way or the other by now, but yesterday I received a note from Claire, Hugh Greenaway's daughter, telling me about pending action in the wake of a massive stroke my internet friend had on May 23 in the UK. Hugh and Claire are something like five or six hours ahead of me in time, so I don't know if the matter is resolved or not:
A risk if you act.
A risk if you don't act.
And quite conceivably is may be the last risk ever taken ... the risk di tutti risks. Nothing fancy about it. All-in as they say in poker. Nothing held back. One shot, dead or alive.
Funny how the most complex things are like this: In the end, it's simply a matter of in or out, act or don't act. And it's not just true in woeful, saddening circumstances. It's true as well where gaiety and smiles and laughter are in force.
However much I may wish my friend well, however much I may love him, however much I may wring my hands in horror or sorrow ... still ... this moment is always this moment and it's in or out. And there is something within that knows this and is at ease. No escape is just no escape so there is no need any longer to try to escape, to maintain control, to revise in accordance with something else.
Where "life and death" are the issue, there is a tendency to pay greater attention. We may wriggle and squirm and issue consoling words or try to manipulate things to some 'spiritual' advantage. There is importance.
But isn't the same importance, the same inescapable importance, in force when it comes to kissing a friend, giving a gift, laughing out loud or sunbathing on a beach? I think it is and I also think that our practice is to get our heads and hearts straight about things: I am responsible ... act or don't act, still this moment is only this moment.
And there is joy in it.
.
Who knows ... it may all be over one way or the other by now, but yesterday I received a note from Claire, Hugh Greenaway's daughter, telling me about pending action in the wake of a massive stroke my internet friend had on May 23 in the UK. Hugh and Claire are something like five or six hours ahead of me in time, so I don't know if the matter is resolved or not:
Just to let u know my dad has to have an emergency operation on his neck artery 2moro. They have decided now that it's too risky to not do it as there's a high chance at the minute of him having another stroke which would be massive or even kill him. Unfortunately the operation can actually cause a stroke to happen so we are all really worried obviously but the chance of him having one as he is is higher than him having I've during the op so they have decided they have no option but to take that risk. He has been transferred tonight so will let you know what happens 2moro.
A risk if you act.
A risk if you don't act.
And quite conceivably is may be the last risk ever taken ... the risk di tutti risks. Nothing fancy about it. All-in as they say in poker. Nothing held back. One shot, dead or alive.
Funny how the most complex things are like this: In the end, it's simply a matter of in or out, act or don't act. And it's not just true in woeful, saddening circumstances. It's true as well where gaiety and smiles and laughter are in force.
However much I may wish my friend well, however much I may love him, however much I may wring my hands in horror or sorrow ... still ... this moment is always this moment and it's in or out. And there is something within that knows this and is at ease. No escape is just no escape so there is no need any longer to try to escape, to maintain control, to revise in accordance with something else.
Where "life and death" are the issue, there is a tendency to pay greater attention. We may wriggle and squirm and issue consoling words or try to manipulate things to some 'spiritual' advantage. There is importance.
But isn't the same importance, the same inescapable importance, in force when it comes to kissing a friend, giving a gift, laughing out loud or sunbathing on a beach? I think it is and I also think that our practice is to get our heads and hearts straight about things: I am responsible ... act or don't act, still this moment is only this moment.
And there is joy in it.
.
Monday, June 7, 2010
cool day, crabby mind
.
Yesterday's oppressive heat has turned, after some purgative storms, to a crisp and cool morning. It makes life seem somehow easier. Not that much easier, but easier.
Once upon a time there was an elderly woman in whose obituary I read some words that become increasingly sane as time passes. "If," she was quoted as saying, "you wake up after the age of 65 without any aches or pains, you will know you are dead."
Aches and pains are par for the course and yet now and then waking up with aches and pains -- however reasonable -- brings on a fit of explosive and unreasonable crabbiness. Recollecting times without aches and pains brings on a foot-stomping crankiness. Somehow THIS isn't right; I've done enough of THIS ... let's get back to normal!
And accompanying the physical, there is a mental crabbiness and confusion. Where are all those wants and plans that once shaped the day ahead? They seem to have lost their force and yet wanting is such an old and familiar friend, there seems to be a hole in the fabric. I can say what I don't want -- that's the nature of crabbiness -- but finding something that I actually do want seems to have become incredibly elusive. I want things MY way, but what the hell does that mean? Where are the new wants that might fulfill the promise of wanting stuff? Things seem to be dripping out of control even as the understanding that control is a figment of the imagination gains sway.
Yesterday, Eric came to find out about Buddhism in the zendo. We went through the postures and etiquette and sat a little and walked a little and later he told me he was going through a rough patch with his wife.
His words made me think of a turning wheel ... that his search and his difficulties were really as common as salt, though of course not to him. And in the same way, my difficulties are common as salt ... but not to me. Around and around it goes. Nothing new or relieving or unusual ... although a while back I was interested in an exterminator's tale of raising worms, a thing about which I knew little or nothing. Some of the old interest raised its head ... the right kind of worms, where you bought them, how much they cost, what kind of mark-up anyone might expect when selling them, what they ate, the good they could do ... now THAT was interesting whereas aches and pains and loss of control and blog-writing and Buddhism and doing things for others was pretty much like flat, crabby-making beer.
A little breakfast, common as salt, will probably set things right.
.
Yesterday's oppressive heat has turned, after some purgative storms, to a crisp and cool morning. It makes life seem somehow easier. Not that much easier, but easier.
Once upon a time there was an elderly woman in whose obituary I read some words that become increasingly sane as time passes. "If," she was quoted as saying, "you wake up after the age of 65 without any aches or pains, you will know you are dead."
Aches and pains are par for the course and yet now and then waking up with aches and pains -- however reasonable -- brings on a fit of explosive and unreasonable crabbiness. Recollecting times without aches and pains brings on a foot-stomping crankiness. Somehow THIS isn't right; I've done enough of THIS ... let's get back to normal!
And accompanying the physical, there is a mental crabbiness and confusion. Where are all those wants and plans that once shaped the day ahead? They seem to have lost their force and yet wanting is such an old and familiar friend, there seems to be a hole in the fabric. I can say what I don't want -- that's the nature of crabbiness -- but finding something that I actually do want seems to have become incredibly elusive. I want things MY way, but what the hell does that mean? Where are the new wants that might fulfill the promise of wanting stuff? Things seem to be dripping out of control even as the understanding that control is a figment of the imagination gains sway.
Yesterday, Eric came to find out about Buddhism in the zendo. We went through the postures and etiquette and sat a little and walked a little and later he told me he was going through a rough patch with his wife.
His words made me think of a turning wheel ... that his search and his difficulties were really as common as salt, though of course not to him. And in the same way, my difficulties are common as salt ... but not to me. Around and around it goes. Nothing new or relieving or unusual ... although a while back I was interested in an exterminator's tale of raising worms, a thing about which I knew little or nothing. Some of the old interest raised its head ... the right kind of worms, where you bought them, how much they cost, what kind of mark-up anyone might expect when selling them, what they ate, the good they could do ... now THAT was interesting whereas aches and pains and loss of control and blog-writing and Buddhism and doing things for others was pretty much like flat, crabby-making beer.
A little breakfast, common as salt, will probably set things right.
.
Sunday, June 6, 2010
graduation
.
It was thick and hot in the auditorium where my older son was graduated from high school yesterday. No air conditioning. No fans. The heat of hundreds of people was only vaguely mitigated by open windows and open exit doors. It was the kind of oppressiveness that might have done Louisiana proud.
In preparation for the ritual that was already filling the house with vague uncertainties and confusions, I went out to the zendo and dug out a fan that had been given to me a lot of years ago. I love fans -- they are incredibly efficient in a world that promises efficiency and seldom delivers.
This fan is adorned with a reproduction of a Torei Enji (1721-1792) enso and calligraphy.
The calligraphy, I was told, quotes the words of Gautama Buddha when, as a newborn, he took seven steps in each of the cardinal directions and then, raising his right index finger to the heavens and pointing his left index finger to the earth, proclaimed, "Above the heavens and below the earth, I alone am the world-honored one."
Leaving aside the miraculous or miraculously-annoying sentiment expressed, the fan worked well in an auditorium filled with over-heated people who wanted to take part in a ritual that marked end's and beginning's and all the other stuff that speakers at graduations can drone on about. Even though those speeches always contain and element of truth, still they never contain the truth that you could see fleetingly etched on one parental face or another ... mine too. What's-going-on-here, those faces seem to ask with a kind of incredulity. I knew this was coming, but now that it has arrived, how the hell did it get here ... it's so... it's so ... it's so uncertain. What happens next? I was so accustomed to my son's shambling presence and now, like any other parent accustomed to the quirks and wonders of a child who has grown tall ... well ... hunh?????
There was some nice a cappella singing and several sprightly talks and then the diplomas were passed out and at last we could go outside where, if it was not exactly cooler, at least there was more room in which to be hot.
Everyone smiled.
One of the nice things about Buddhism, I sometimes think, is not that it is better or more profound or wiser than other takes on life, but that it is there to catch you and point you in the right direction when things get serious ... when the smiles and gossip and memories seem to run up against a brick wall like change or sorrow or something that is somehow more compelling and important. It's like a good mom ... someone who will catch you and put you on your feet and kiss things better and then send you on your way ... until the next, inevitable, time, the next inevitable graduation. It doesn't work to ignore a mom like Buddhism and it doesn't work to cling ... but it's nice to have something or someone with some common sense and caring to point out how your sails might be re-set.
.
It was thick and hot in the auditorium where my older son was graduated from high school yesterday. No air conditioning. No fans. The heat of hundreds of people was only vaguely mitigated by open windows and open exit doors. It was the kind of oppressiveness that might have done Louisiana proud.
In preparation for the ritual that was already filling the house with vague uncertainties and confusions, I went out to the zendo and dug out a fan that had been given to me a lot of years ago. I love fans -- they are incredibly efficient in a world that promises efficiency and seldom delivers.
This fan is adorned with a reproduction of a Torei Enji (1721-1792) enso and calligraphy.
The calligraphy, I was told, quotes the words of Gautama Buddha when, as a newborn, he took seven steps in each of the cardinal directions and then, raising his right index finger to the heavens and pointing his left index finger to the earth, proclaimed, "Above the heavens and below the earth, I alone am the world-honored one."
Leaving aside the miraculous or miraculously-annoying sentiment expressed, the fan worked well in an auditorium filled with over-heated people who wanted to take part in a ritual that marked end's and beginning's and all the other stuff that speakers at graduations can drone on about. Even though those speeches always contain and element of truth, still they never contain the truth that you could see fleetingly etched on one parental face or another ... mine too. What's-going-on-here, those faces seem to ask with a kind of incredulity. I knew this was coming, but now that it has arrived, how the hell did it get here ... it's so... it's so ... it's so uncertain. What happens next? I was so accustomed to my son's shambling presence and now, like any other parent accustomed to the quirks and wonders of a child who has grown tall ... well ... hunh?????
There was some nice a cappella singing and several sprightly talks and then the diplomas were passed out and at last we could go outside where, if it was not exactly cooler, at least there was more room in which to be hot.
Everyone smiled.
One of the nice things about Buddhism, I sometimes think, is not that it is better or more profound or wiser than other takes on life, but that it is there to catch you and point you in the right direction when things get serious ... when the smiles and gossip and memories seem to run up against a brick wall like change or sorrow or something that is somehow more compelling and important. It's like a good mom ... someone who will catch you and put you on your feet and kiss things better and then send you on your way ... until the next, inevitable, time, the next inevitable graduation. It doesn't work to ignore a mom like Buddhism and it doesn't work to cling ... but it's nice to have something or someone with some common sense and caring to point out how your sails might be re-set.
.
Saturday, June 5, 2010
believe it!
.
To my right along the peace picket line that was sweltering this morning, a grey-haired man with a guitar was talking to a white-haired woman who was clearly a pretty good friend. And I caught a snippet of conversation:
He: How can he say he does not believe in God. Saying you don't believe in God is like a fish saying it does not believe in water.
She: Nods with an appreciative smile.
It was a cozy little exchange -- friendly, agreeable.
But later, after the man with the guitar had moved on to an appointment and as I was about to head home for lunch, I couldn't stop myself from commenting to the white-haired woman: "You might tell your friend to consider: A fish that does not believe in water is precisely the same as a fish that DOES believe in water."
Belief -- so inviting, so convincing, so agreeable. And yet what is it that belief and disbelief accomplish beyond all doubt? Belief and disbelief separate one thing from the next. From the get-go, separation is the DNA of belief/disbelief.
And is separation the sort of peace that is A. True or B. Most healing?
I know, I know ... it's not something to point out ... it's too contrary to what anyone might just know to be true.
One day I'll learn to hold my tongue.
.
To my right along the peace picket line that was sweltering this morning, a grey-haired man with a guitar was talking to a white-haired woman who was clearly a pretty good friend. And I caught a snippet of conversation:
He: How can he say he does not believe in God. Saying you don't believe in God is like a fish saying it does not believe in water.
She: Nods with an appreciative smile.
It was a cozy little exchange -- friendly, agreeable.
But later, after the man with the guitar had moved on to an appointment and as I was about to head home for lunch, I couldn't stop myself from commenting to the white-haired woman: "You might tell your friend to consider: A fish that does not believe in water is precisely the same as a fish that DOES believe in water."
Belief -- so inviting, so convincing, so agreeable. And yet what is it that belief and disbelief accomplish beyond all doubt? Belief and disbelief separate one thing from the next. From the get-go, separation is the DNA of belief/disbelief.
And is separation the sort of peace that is A. True or B. Most healing?
I know, I know ... it's not something to point out ... it's too contrary to what anyone might just know to be true.
One day I'll learn to hold my tongue.
.
your're out!
.
A flood of public support has descended on the major league umpire who made a bad call and cost a pitcher a coveted "perfect game," a feat that has been achieved only 20 times in major league history according to Wikipedia.
A perfect game is a game in which a pitcher pitches a victory that lasts a minimum of nine innings and in which no opposing player reaches base.
On Wednesday, umpire Jim Joyce cost Detroit Tigers pitcher Armando Galarraga his "perfect game" when Joyce mistakenly called a runner safe at first base ... and later admitted he had been wrong.
According to an Associated Press story:
Support for the umpire who goofed came from as far away as the White House, where admitting mistakes is not often viewed favorably.
All of this may be very heart-warming, even to people like me who are only mildly interested in baseball. To die-hard fans for whom baseball may be something shy of God Almighty, it is nothing short of miraculous.
Miraculous on the one hand and yet when you think about it, why should it be miraculous that a man should recognize there are things that are more important than his status ... as for example, his honesty? Am I wrong to sense a far-reaching relief -- almost to tears -- that someone in the public eye should take the responsibility for what I think everyone knows in their heart is the right thing to do ... to put ego aside and, just this once, tell the truth?
What does it say about any of us that we should feel this out-pouring of affection? Doesn't it suggest we -- whether in the public eye or not -- have been on a mistaken course ... covering up, spinning the facts, trying to look good, putting the best (instead of the true-est) face on things?
Clean and clear is just plain better for the heart. Evasion has a sloppy, somewhat cloying feel to it, like bubblegum stuck to the sole of the shoe on a hot day ... tendrils trailing behind, sticky, heavy and yet lacking much weight, annoying and keeping laughter at bay.
I guess we've all done it, but perhaps we can take a lesson from a major league umpire or from our own hearts. There is a difference between being a good person and bringing evidence to bear that we are good people.
The difference lies in the laughter.
.
A flood of public support has descended on the major league umpire who made a bad call and cost a pitcher a coveted "perfect game," a feat that has been achieved only 20 times in major league history according to Wikipedia.
A perfect game is a game in which a pitcher pitches a victory that lasts a minimum of nine innings and in which no opposing player reaches base.
On Wednesday, umpire Jim Joyce cost Detroit Tigers pitcher Armando Galarraga his "perfect game" when Joyce mistakenly called a runner safe at first base ... and later admitted he had been wrong.
According to an Associated Press story:
Replays later showed he missed the call, and Joyce admitted he blew it.
He was devastated, and apologized to Galarraga in person and hugged him after the Tigers' 3-0 win. Galarraga was also supportive, saying he respected Joyce for apologizing and admitting his mistake.
Support for the umpire who goofed came from as far away as the White House, where admitting mistakes is not often viewed favorably.
All of this may be very heart-warming, even to people like me who are only mildly interested in baseball. To die-hard fans for whom baseball may be something shy of God Almighty, it is nothing short of miraculous.
Miraculous on the one hand and yet when you think about it, why should it be miraculous that a man should recognize there are things that are more important than his status ... as for example, his honesty? Am I wrong to sense a far-reaching relief -- almost to tears -- that someone in the public eye should take the responsibility for what I think everyone knows in their heart is the right thing to do ... to put ego aside and, just this once, tell the truth?
What does it say about any of us that we should feel this out-pouring of affection? Doesn't it suggest we -- whether in the public eye or not -- have been on a mistaken course ... covering up, spinning the facts, trying to look good, putting the best (instead of the true-est) face on things?
Clean and clear is just plain better for the heart. Evasion has a sloppy, somewhat cloying feel to it, like bubblegum stuck to the sole of the shoe on a hot day ... tendrils trailing behind, sticky, heavy and yet lacking much weight, annoying and keeping laughter at bay.
I guess we've all done it, but perhaps we can take a lesson from a major league umpire or from our own hearts. There is a difference between being a good person and bringing evidence to bear that we are good people.
The difference lies in the laughter.
.
Friday, June 4, 2010
hopes
.
I once heard on the radio that in China the newspapers favored students who had done well academically and that less attention was paid to athletic prowess. My local newspaper -- which survives for the moment -- is filled with athletic achievements by local kids: Not "Johnny got an A in chemistry," but "Suzy scored a goal in the third period."
Generally, I feel that, starting anywhere, a person is capable of going anywhere...that wisdom can grow even between the cracks in sidewalk cement. But the privilege of education is likely to give more bang for the buck...make more likely the understanding of possibilities. The fact that some smart people are dumber than golf tees doesn't erase the thought.
I guess my older son's graduating from high school tomorrow brings this to mind. I guess I hope that whatever he has learned will serve him well and keep him safe. But since there are no guarantees, I guess I'd better take a look at my hopes.
.
I once heard on the radio that in China the newspapers favored students who had done well academically and that less attention was paid to athletic prowess. My local newspaper -- which survives for the moment -- is filled with athletic achievements by local kids: Not "Johnny got an A in chemistry," but "Suzy scored a goal in the third period."
Generally, I feel that, starting anywhere, a person is capable of going anywhere...that wisdom can grow even between the cracks in sidewalk cement. But the privilege of education is likely to give more bang for the buck...make more likely the understanding of possibilities. The fact that some smart people are dumber than golf tees doesn't erase the thought.
I guess my older son's graduating from high school tomorrow brings this to mind. I guess I hope that whatever he has learned will serve him well and keep him safe. But since there are no guarantees, I guess I'd better take a look at my hopes.
.
Thursday, June 3, 2010
"In the beginning was the Word..."
.
"In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God." John 1:1.
I don't want to start a Christian kerfuffle -- the lines just crossed my mind tonight and I wondered about them ... wondered whether they spread more light than darkness, more clarity than confusion, more lightness of being than befuddlement.
Without explaining those words, do they make much sense? I mean do they really make sense? I don't know and I do pray to God that no biblically-inclined text-ologist will explain it to me. Though I wouldn't mind hearing from someone with some experience.
I will say this for the words: If I were a writer in a Chinese fortune cookie factory and I came up with those words, I bet I'd get a raise. Either that, or fired. :)
.
"In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God." John 1:1.
I don't want to start a Christian kerfuffle -- the lines just crossed my mind tonight and I wondered about them ... wondered whether they spread more light than darkness, more clarity than confusion, more lightness of being than befuddlement.
Without explaining those words, do they make much sense? I mean do they really make sense? I don't know and I do pray to God that no biblically-inclined text-ologist will explain it to me. Though I wouldn't mind hearing from someone with some experience.
I will say this for the words: If I were a writer in a Chinese fortune cookie factory and I came up with those words, I bet I'd get a raise. Either that, or fired. :)
.
your life in days
.
A friend sent this to me in email -- totally useless information which still has a certain in-your-face poignancy:
How many days old are you?
It does make you wonder -- what the hell was I doing all that time?
.
A friend sent this to me in email -- totally useless information which still has a certain in-your-face poignancy:
How many days old are you?
It does make you wonder -- what the hell was I doing all that time?
.
nothing to be done
.
A note from Hughie's daughter Claire informed me today:
Fed up and frustrating -- that describes a lot of things that happen in life. There is nothing that can be done. No words can salve. No hymns can assuage. Where there is no "better," there simply is no better. And yet, of course, we may wish things were better -- for ourselves, for those we love, and, when we're feeling expansive, for positively everyone.
And still there is nothing that can be done. It's hard. It's true. And it's an opportunity. Living a life dedicated to something else, some better way, some Elysian Fields that have been or will be.
Still, there is nothing to be done.
And this goes not just for the 'bad' stuff, the old age, illness and death. It is also true for the 'good' stuff -- the stuff we might love or delight in.
I just think we all short-change ourselves and our lives when we decline the invitation to enter and survey the fact that there is nothing to be done. The twitterings of anguish and delight are human enough ... and yet where there is nothing to be done, is twittering a solution?
.
A note from Hughie's daughter Claire informed me today:
Basically both the arteries in his neck are blocked up by over 70%. This is probably what caused the clot so obviously they want to do something to make sure it doesn't happen again. They have agreed to operate but they said he's too poorly at the minute. He's ok but seems very fed up.
Fed up and frustrating -- that describes a lot of things that happen in life. There is nothing that can be done. No words can salve. No hymns can assuage. Where there is no "better," there simply is no better. And yet, of course, we may wish things were better -- for ourselves, for those we love, and, when we're feeling expansive, for positively everyone.
And still there is nothing that can be done. It's hard. It's true. And it's an opportunity. Living a life dedicated to something else, some better way, some Elysian Fields that have been or will be.
Still, there is nothing to be done.
And this goes not just for the 'bad' stuff, the old age, illness and death. It is also true for the 'good' stuff -- the stuff we might love or delight in.
I just think we all short-change ourselves and our lives when we decline the invitation to enter and survey the fact that there is nothing to be done. The twitterings of anguish and delight are human enough ... and yet where there is nothing to be done, is twittering a solution?
.
second-hand stuff
.
I read this morning on a BBC internet bulletin board:
Lately there is the habit of looking elsewhere for something to consider, something to munch, something to expatiate about ... find someone else's wisdom or conviction and then chew on that.
It's a bit like picking gum off the bottom of the cafeteria table -- seeking flavor in something second-hand that is then sanded and refinished to a lustrous sheen, something re-chewed into a revised 'importance.'
Second-hand stuff is interesting, I guess, but it's still second-hand. When I want to consider the first-hand, I find the grey sky and the cardinal's song more inviting these days. Second-hand, perhaps, and yet somehow closer to the mark. Old chewing gum has a way of tiring the jaws...not to mention the germs. :)
What isn't second-hand? Doubting something else. Rechewing something else. Elevating or dismissing something else. And all the while, before picking that old stuff off the bottom of the nearest cafeteria table, there is something which lacks all doubt and certainty, is easier than re-chewing, has more flavor.
Where the cardinal sings, the universe is at ease. Where a sneeze explodes, all need for flavor or doubt is erased ... or perhaps just explains without explanation what requires no explanation. Breath comes and breath goes. Wily and wise explications rise up and fall away. And those muttering "this moment" are forced to stop trying.
What a relief.
.
I read this morning on a BBC internet bulletin board:
Doubt means that you have not yet finished thinking. That the subject matter is ‘a work in progress’.
Lately there is the habit of looking elsewhere for something to consider, something to munch, something to expatiate about ... find someone else's wisdom or conviction and then chew on that.
It's a bit like picking gum off the bottom of the cafeteria table -- seeking flavor in something second-hand that is then sanded and refinished to a lustrous sheen, something re-chewed into a revised 'importance.'Second-hand stuff is interesting, I guess, but it's still second-hand. When I want to consider the first-hand, I find the grey sky and the cardinal's song more inviting these days. Second-hand, perhaps, and yet somehow closer to the mark. Old chewing gum has a way of tiring the jaws...not to mention the germs. :)
What isn't second-hand? Doubting something else. Rechewing something else. Elevating or dismissing something else. And all the while, before picking that old stuff off the bottom of the nearest cafeteria table, there is something which lacks all doubt and certainty, is easier than re-chewing, has more flavor.
Where the cardinal sings, the universe is at ease. Where a sneeze explodes, all need for flavor or doubt is erased ... or perhaps just explains without explanation what requires no explanation. Breath comes and breath goes. Wily and wise explications rise up and fall away. And those muttering "this moment" are forced to stop trying.
What a relief.
.
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
critical thinking
.
A lot of years ago, when I worked at a book publisher called Doubleday, I had a co-worker named Susan who came from England. Susan was about four times as smart as any six other people I knew. She would also admit, when drunk, that she wanted to be the first female prime minister of England ... a post I thought she could fill with ease before Margaret Thatcher took those laurels for herself.
Susan and I went out for dinner one night and as we were chatting, she said that one of the problems with American education was that students were not versed in the art of debate -- a skill that was taught in English universities.
"Adam," she said as we both downed what was probably one too many drinks, "I could sit here right now and prove to you that a chocolate milkshake was vanilla. And you'd believe it." Her announcement came as part of a conversation that was simultaneously light-hearted and serious and, since I didn't especially want to feel any dumber than I already did in her presence, I asked her sincerely, not to do so. She was decent enough to comply and it was a perfectly pleasant dinner.
Why is it that critical thinking or critical argumentation gets such a bad name. I think it must be because the people who are called critical thinkers are too often intellectual or emotional half-pints -- strutting their stuff as a means of elevating their status but offering little light to or love for the issue at hand.
I miss people who either love the issue at hand or, boldly and baldly, state their prejudice as regards that issue ... without any hope or fear that others would agree with them. "It's just how I feel," they seem to be saying between the lines. "It's just what I think." And you get the sense that they are keeping a critical eye on their own feelings and thoughts and not trying to become the metaphorical prime minister of England.
Critical thinking ... oh well, "It could be worse," as Mel Brooks observed, "it could be raining."
.
A lot of years ago, when I worked at a book publisher called Doubleday, I had a co-worker named Susan who came from England. Susan was about four times as smart as any six other people I knew. She would also admit, when drunk, that she wanted to be the first female prime minister of England ... a post I thought she could fill with ease before Margaret Thatcher took those laurels for herself.
Susan and I went out for dinner one night and as we were chatting, she said that one of the problems with American education was that students were not versed in the art of debate -- a skill that was taught in English universities.
"Adam," she said as we both downed what was probably one too many drinks, "I could sit here right now and prove to you that a chocolate milkshake was vanilla. And you'd believe it." Her announcement came as part of a conversation that was simultaneously light-hearted and serious and, since I didn't especially want to feel any dumber than I already did in her presence, I asked her sincerely, not to do so. She was decent enough to comply and it was a perfectly pleasant dinner.
Why is it that critical thinking or critical argumentation gets such a bad name. I think it must be because the people who are called critical thinkers are too often intellectual or emotional half-pints -- strutting their stuff as a means of elevating their status but offering little light to or love for the issue at hand.
I miss people who either love the issue at hand or, boldly and baldly, state their prejudice as regards that issue ... without any hope or fear that others would agree with them. "It's just how I feel," they seem to be saying between the lines. "It's just what I think." And you get the sense that they are keeping a critical eye on their own feelings and thoughts and not trying to become the metaphorical prime minister of England.
Critical thinking ... oh well, "It could be worse," as Mel Brooks observed, "it could be raining."
.
"Nothing east of Suez"
.
It may have been something of an overstatement even when it was published, which was in the early 1960's, but I once read a book (name forgotten) about the religious convictions of the West and how they viewed the East. It was a fairly scholarly book, closely written and not just some aerated panegyric for western approaches.
In the midst of which came a quick overview of the book's general thesis:
"Nothing east of Suez."
What a lot of changes.
How few things change.
Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose
.
It may have been something of an overstatement even when it was published, which was in the early 1960's, but I once read a book (name forgotten) about the religious convictions of the West and how they viewed the East. It was a fairly scholarly book, closely written and not just some aerated panegyric for western approaches.
In the midst of which came a quick overview of the book's general thesis:
"Nothing east of Suez."
What a lot of changes.
How few things change.
Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose
.
numero uno
.
Israel is in hot water after raiding, in international waters, a flotilla of ships bringing aid to the Gaza Strip, a place full of Palestinians over whom Israel has exercised a choking grip. About ten people were killed Monday in the raid and there has been much condemnation from the rest of the world...a condemnation that, I suspect, will soon be forgotten by Israel and its allies even as it is remembered and festers among those most affected.
I once heard the argument made that one of the reasons Adolf Hitler singled out the Jews for extermination during World War II was that -- aside from finding a convenient whipping boy -- Hitler saw a challenge to his own vision of Aryan superiority. The Jews, after all, called themselves "the chosen" and there was no way there could be two bests-of-the-best: There is only one best. Ergo "die Endlösung," the "final solution," from Hitler's point of view.
I wonder how many nations or groups around the world have looked at themselves as the best, as the preferred among all peoples. Was it the Cheyenne, the Hopis, the Navajo (among American Indians) who referred to themselves as "the people?" Maybe all of them, I honestly don't remember. And you can see the social cohesiveness that such an approach might foster.
And yet life has a way of being more diverse and more interesting than the social cohesiveness it can encompass. If I am a "Zen Buddhist," isn't it to be hoped that at some point I will step back or reflect and see that that's not quite the whole story? If I do not step back from the cohesiveness of my clan, how can it be possible that I too will not become party to some Endlösung, some little or large massacre, whether of Jews or Palestinians or Germans or ... well pick your group or philosophy that isn't as best-of-the-best as you are ... or I am?
.
Israel is in hot water after raiding, in international waters, a flotilla of ships bringing aid to the Gaza Strip, a place full of Palestinians over whom Israel has exercised a choking grip. About ten people were killed Monday in the raid and there has been much condemnation from the rest of the world...a condemnation that, I suspect, will soon be forgotten by Israel and its allies even as it is remembered and festers among those most affected.
I once heard the argument made that one of the reasons Adolf Hitler singled out the Jews for extermination during World War II was that -- aside from finding a convenient whipping boy -- Hitler saw a challenge to his own vision of Aryan superiority. The Jews, after all, called themselves "the chosen" and there was no way there could be two bests-of-the-best: There is only one best. Ergo "die Endlösung," the "final solution," from Hitler's point of view.
I wonder how many nations or groups around the world have looked at themselves as the best, as the preferred among all peoples. Was it the Cheyenne, the Hopis, the Navajo (among American Indians) who referred to themselves as "the people?" Maybe all of them, I honestly don't remember. And you can see the social cohesiveness that such an approach might foster.
And yet life has a way of being more diverse and more interesting than the social cohesiveness it can encompass. If I am a "Zen Buddhist," isn't it to be hoped that at some point I will step back or reflect and see that that's not quite the whole story? If I do not step back from the cohesiveness of my clan, how can it be possible that I too will not become party to some Endlösung, some little or large massacre, whether of Jews or Palestinians or Germans or ... well pick your group or philosophy that isn't as best-of-the-best as you are ... or I am?
.
prom night
.
Everyone's teeth were white, the boys all seemed to have rented their patent-leather shoes in the same place,
and it was almost impossible to get a candid photo since everyone was in a glistening mode.
Last night was prom night for my older son and his classmates. Parents and students snapped photos and called out to each other and posed and swirled in eddies of one configuration and then another. The bonhomie was both enjoyable and had a quality of mixed messages ... a ritual to mark the almost-end of high school, the attendant pride of accomplishment and the edgy just-below-the-surface question, "If this is the end, what's next?"
Parents wondered how their children had ever gotten so big, so ... ummm... adult-looking. Some had the half-proud, half-stunned look ... as if in recognition of (was it?) Beatle John Lennon's observation that "life is what happens while you were busy making other plans." All the students had such seamless, assured faces -- the kinds of faces parents recognized as once having been their own.
And after the pictures and the swirling in the gymnasium that became the gathering place of choice after rain made a nearby park impractical, the students loaded into buses and limousines and were off to dinner and dancing while the parents headed for home and their own dreams of past and future.
.
Everyone's teeth were white, the boys all seemed to have rented their patent-leather shoes in the same place,
and it was almost impossible to get a candid photo since everyone was in a glistening mode.Last night was prom night for my older son and his classmates. Parents and students snapped photos and called out to each other and posed and swirled in eddies of one configuration and then another. The bonhomie was both enjoyable and had a quality of mixed messages ... a ritual to mark the almost-end of high school, the attendant pride of accomplishment and the edgy just-below-the-surface question, "If this is the end, what's next?"
Parents wondered how their children had ever gotten so big, so ... ummm... adult-looking. Some had the half-proud, half-stunned look ... as if in recognition of (was it?) Beatle John Lennon's observation that "life is what happens while you were busy making other plans." All the students had such seamless, assured faces -- the kinds of faces parents recognized as once having been their own.
And after the pictures and the swirling in the gymnasium that became the gathering place of choice after rain made a nearby park impractical, the students loaded into buses and limousines and were off to dinner and dancing while the parents headed for home and their own dreams of past and future.
.
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
memories
.
Memorial Day Weekend -- the weekend during which people remember and honor those who sacrificed in war -- is now a thing of the past. I will take down the flag today and the TV may be less full of war movies.
But yesterday, there was one war movie after another on several TV channels. Some were better than others, some more grisly than others, some more flag-waving patriotic than others, some filled with more cardboard characters than others.
It made me wonder: Does any veteran, anyone who has actually gone in harm's way, watch this shit? I watched some, but I have never been shot at, never been bombed, never lost a near and dear friend, never been scared out of my wits in inexplicable circumstances, never been soul-seared beyond sorrow, never gone numb by necessity to the whatever humanity I possessed, never begged within for something -- anything -- that would get me out of here, never been forced to look within and be appalled, never....
Do veterans watch this shit?
I can imagine longing to have memory serve the truth, but after enough frustration, enough half-baked, technicolor stories ... why try? Why lie? To share the memories that count is impossible. And the same can probably be said for any memory, though of course it may not be socially de rigueur to say so.
Do veterans -- the people with experience -- relive or find relief in the silver screen or the 500-page novel or the television with its ads?
I once sat across a grey, Formica-topped kitchen table from a vet and asked him questions in my role as a reporter. At first, the questions were easy -- name, birth, brothers, sisters, education, etc. But when the questions took him back to his time in Vietnam, it got harder and harder and finally ... he broke down and cried the tears of a man who remembered all too well.
And I, the reporter and movie-goer and TV-watcher and American voter ... was profoundly ashamed.
.
Memorial Day Weekend -- the weekend during which people remember and honor those who sacrificed in war -- is now a thing of the past. I will take down the flag today and the TV may be less full of war movies.
But yesterday, there was one war movie after another on several TV channels. Some were better than others, some more grisly than others, some more flag-waving patriotic than others, some filled with more cardboard characters than others.
It made me wonder: Does any veteran, anyone who has actually gone in harm's way, watch this shit? I watched some, but I have never been shot at, never been bombed, never lost a near and dear friend, never been scared out of my wits in inexplicable circumstances, never been soul-seared beyond sorrow, never gone numb by necessity to the whatever humanity I possessed, never begged within for something -- anything -- that would get me out of here, never been forced to look within and be appalled, never....
Do veterans watch this shit?
I can imagine longing to have memory serve the truth, but after enough frustration, enough half-baked, technicolor stories ... why try? Why lie? To share the memories that count is impossible. And the same can probably be said for any memory, though of course it may not be socially de rigueur to say so.
Do veterans -- the people with experience -- relive or find relief in the silver screen or the 500-page novel or the television with its ads?
I once sat across a grey, Formica-topped kitchen table from a vet and asked him questions in my role as a reporter. At first, the questions were easy -- name, birth, brothers, sisters, education, etc. But when the questions took him back to his time in Vietnam, it got harder and harder and finally ... he broke down and cried the tears of a man who remembered all too well.
And I, the reporter and movie-goer and TV-watcher and American voter ... was profoundly ashamed.
.
the commander
.
The front page of the newspaper announces the weather for the day: "Unsettled" was the word chosen for the little box that added references to sun, clouds and perhaps a thunder storm. "Unsettled." I guess in one sense, readers would understand "unsettled" -- it would contrast with days when there was nothing but sun or rain or snow. And yet in another sense it was ridiculous ... is there a time when the weather is actually settled somehow, when it won't, as in the past, change into some other configuration?
In Buddhism, there was a line that seemed appropriate to me: "If you want to know about Buddhism, watch the clouds." It's probably too simple and too open and too direct a line ... so there are weather forecasts and holy books to encourage and explain what it means to "watch the clouds" or what it means when something is "unsettled."
In a war novel I read once, a general is told by a subordinate that he cannot take a particular action, that it would be against regulations. And the general explodes with an icy fury, saying, approximately, "Regulations are for the guidance of the commander. I command this unit ... which is a hell of a lot different from shuffling papers."
What effort in life does not have its rules and regs -- its directions and imperatives; its exercises and learning curves? Math, psychology, love, buying and selling stocks, NASCAR driving, carpentry, religion, origami ... the list is endless. Learning takes practice and practice is based on the suggestions and observations and rules set down by those who practiced before you. Only a fool does not learn the rules, the skill sets of a chosen line of endeavor. No need to make things more difficult than they have to be.
But a lifetime dependent on regulations is not the same as a living and skillful commander. It is stale and fearful and bound. So at some point -- and the point is simply the point anyone chooses -- the rules become a guidance for a commander and are no longer the touchstones of a life. Leave the rules too soon ... and screw up. Never leave at all ... and screw up. It's a command decision, one made only by commanders, not by paper pushers.
And who, in the end, is not the commander?
.
The front page of the newspaper announces the weather for the day: "Unsettled" was the word chosen for the little box that added references to sun, clouds and perhaps a thunder storm. "Unsettled." I guess in one sense, readers would understand "unsettled" -- it would contrast with days when there was nothing but sun or rain or snow. And yet in another sense it was ridiculous ... is there a time when the weather is actually settled somehow, when it won't, as in the past, change into some other configuration?
In Buddhism, there was a line that seemed appropriate to me: "If you want to know about Buddhism, watch the clouds." It's probably too simple and too open and too direct a line ... so there are weather forecasts and holy books to encourage and explain what it means to "watch the clouds" or what it means when something is "unsettled."
In a war novel I read once, a general is told by a subordinate that he cannot take a particular action, that it would be against regulations. And the general explodes with an icy fury, saying, approximately, "Regulations are for the guidance of the commander. I command this unit ... which is a hell of a lot different from shuffling papers."
What effort in life does not have its rules and regs -- its directions and imperatives; its exercises and learning curves? Math, psychology, love, buying and selling stocks, NASCAR driving, carpentry, religion, origami ... the list is endless. Learning takes practice and practice is based on the suggestions and observations and rules set down by those who practiced before you. Only a fool does not learn the rules, the skill sets of a chosen line of endeavor. No need to make things more difficult than they have to be.
But a lifetime dependent on regulations is not the same as a living and skillful commander. It is stale and fearful and bound. So at some point -- and the point is simply the point anyone chooses -- the rules become a guidance for a commander and are no longer the touchstones of a life. Leave the rules too soon ... and screw up. Never leave at all ... and screw up. It's a command decision, one made only by commanders, not by paper pushers.
And who, in the end, is not the commander?
.
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