Looking Back...

There was of course one signal event in the year that draws to a close at midnight tonight: the election of Barack Obama to be President of the United States.  A great deal of my own energy, and Ellie's--psychic, emotional, and otherwise--went into the effort to make this possible and, hopefully, to open the door to some radical changes in the way we humans inhabit this planet Earth.  My fear is that we have already taken things too far, that the corporate, economic, military and political worlds are now so deeply and nefariously intermeshed that there is no stopping them in the suicidal path down which they have been leading us for too many years.   

I keep hoping that my sister is right, along with others of like mind who believe that we are on the cusp of a planetary shift.  The upheavals of the past year--from the massive earthquake in China to the aborted revolution in Burma, from the events in the Middle East to the unending crises on the troubled African continent and the world-wide financial meltdown--might well be seen as signs that we are out of balance, as a species, with our natural environment.  Would it not be wonderful if 2008 proved in historical retrospect to be the tipping point, the moment at which we finally hit bottom in our drunken need to exploit our planet and wreak havoc on our fellow human beings?  Looking back on the year, I'm tempted to paraphrase Charles Dickens, who refused to be blinded to the dark side of that Victorian era of splendid "growth" for the British Empire: it was the best of years, it was the worst of years... 

It's a misty morning in Laguna Beach.  I sit and look out over our beautiful back patio and the neighbor's eucalyptus trees and am grateful for the great good fortune I have to be here at this place and time.  I am driven to "think globally" because I care very much about the greater issues that affect us all.  I can't help but wonder why it is that I have been granted the privileges I enjoy and by which I frequently feel humbled.  "Karma" seems to me an awfully convenient and self-congratulatory explanation for the mystery of the lives we are each, individually, given to lead.  We have witnessed, this past year, the inordinate suffering of many millions of beings all around the globe.  I feel the obligation to do those things that are within my power to help relieve that suffering in the year to come.  

  

Frost/Nixon

I mistrusted Nixon from first sight. He just looked shifty. Something about the eyes, the bearing... I could never understand how the American electorate could have chosen him over McGovern. I could never understand how the man could have been trusted by enough voters to be re-elected for a second term. Come to think of it, I could also never understand how Reagan could have been elected, then re-elected. Not to mention the current, soon to be former occupant of the White House. I still can't het my head around the Reagan hagiography. It was the Reagan policies, far more than Nixon's, that brought us to our present plight.

All of which brings me to Frost/Nixon, the movie. It's one terrific piece of work, not least because it makes us believe in the power as well as the pathos of the only man ever to be compelled to resign from the American presidency. Frank Langella turns in a magnificent performance. At first sight, because of the physical differences, I had doubts that he could bring it off; I kept seeing the real Nixon--or my clear memory of his face--and making the comparison. But Langella moved me rapidly beyond that doubt and had me convinced by the intensity of suppressed emotion, the commanding rhetorical skill and, yes, the shiftiness he managed to convey. By the same token, Michael Sheen was a pitch-perfect David Frost, at once cocky and self-assured, dapper and glib, at times impish and narcissistic, yet proving eventually capable of serious concentration, matching wit and intellectual intensity with that of an old pro. I had seen Sheen previously in his excellent portrayal of British Prime Minister Tony Blair in The Queen, and was equally impressed. The supporting cast was also impeccable, especially Kevin Bacon as the steely, protective Nixon aide, Jack Brennan.

The success of the movie clearly, depended on the reconstruction of the famous interview, presented as a a battle in which the heavyweight Nixon, in the first two rounds, was able easily to toss the seeming lightweight Frost around the ring. His politician's skill in taking a question and turning it to his advantage left Frost gaping in amazement and grasping for something solid to hold on to. This Nixon managed to look, well presidential. Frost looked like the talk show host he was, out of his depth in challenging this titan. The turning point--brilliantly captured in the film and presumably based on the actual fact--was a late-night telephone call to Frost, in his Beverly Hills hotel suite, from a different Nixon, one softened up by a few too many shots of bourbon and ready to reveal his vulnerability--a sense of social insecurity, victimhood and self-pity. If we're to believe the story the director, Ron Howard, tells, Nixon later had no recollection of this call, but it gave Frost the edge for the third and last round of the interview.

The subject, here, was Watergate, and Frost came armed with information from the Oval Office tapes that left Nixon bereft of prevarications and confronted him with the unpalatable truth that had destroyed his presidency. Langella and Sheen play out this act with devastating drama, switching roles from victor to vanquished and vice versa. To watch this Nixon collapse into defeat and to be brought to admit to the historic consequences of his actions and his betrayal of the trust of the American people is to begin to understand the tragic complexity of the man and even to sympathize with his downfall. In a poingant final scene, we end up aching for the man we always thought to have despised.

It's a compelling story, superbly told. Despite the fact that we know the outcome in advance--if only for having seen so many teasers in the television ads--there's not a moment in the movie where the attention wanders for lack of suspense or visual interest, and the dialogue never loses its confrontational edge. And then, too, the history lesson is as valuable and relevant today as it was in its own time: the lies and deceptions to which we have been subjected in the interest of political advantage in the past few years have proved no less damaging to our national integrity that were Nixon's. "Frost/Nixon" comes as a reminder--as though we needed it--of the urgent need for a radical change in the way we do our business as a country. The kind of deception, obsessive secrecy and obfuscation that characterized the Nixon presidency have brought us once again to the brink of disaster. It's time for some transparency, honesty, and fearless truth-telling. I'm hoping that our soon-to-be President Obama will be up to the task of putting us back on track in the coming year.

The Writer, the Artist...

Here's one of those things I would have loved to have been able to say with such eloquence and simplicity. It's something Harold Pinter said--perhaps in an interview--and it's quoted at the end of the long obituary for Pinter in today's New York Times. He was talking about writing, and this is what he said:

I find at the end of the journey, which of course is never ending, that I have found things out. I don't go away and say: 'I have illuminated myself. You see before you a changed person.' It's a more surreptitious sense of discovery that happens to the writer himself.

Precisely. That's the joy and the importance of it, a reward in itself.

Happy Christmas...

... everyone. I've no idea why we Brits say "Happy" and everyone over here in the US says "Merry," but there you have it. Must be a Victorian hangover. Merry Christmas is something I can't quite get my tongue around. It's like bath. I still say ba-a-ah-th. Can't get that short "a" right. Ah, well. It's good to be here. And you don't want to hear about our plumbing. Happy Christmas!

Update on George

I'm pleased to be able to report, this Christmas Eve, that our George is back in the fold, minus three teeth but otherwise none the worse for wear. Well, he was not quite himself last night, a little slow on the uptake. But then who wouldn't be, after a day of anesthesia and surgery? He slept well, on our bed as usual. And we slept a lot better for knowing that he had survived his ordeal and was back home.

The prospect is for a busy day today, getting ready for the celebration. And for rain. We're caught between wishing for a good one, to test out the work that has been done in the past few days to prevent the flooding in our basement/studio; and wishing for a fine Christmas Day. Here at the beach in Southern California we don't expect it to be white and cold, but it's great to have a cool, crisp for a long walk along the shoreline.

It may well be that I miss my entry on The Buddha Diaries tomorrow, so here's my opportunity to wish everyone the best of all Christmases. May your days be merry, as the song says. And bright. Love and blessings...

A Fool For George

I'll admit that I'm a fool for George.



I lost sleep last night because he has to go in to the vet's this morning for a tooth-cleaning job--and they say they need to put him under for the process. We worry about this because his breed is susceptible to heart problems, and we know that he has had a faint heart murmur since puppyhood. It seems like an unkind Christmas present for the poor lad, but we have been postponing it for reasons that have had more to do with us than with his health.

So... today's the day. It's seven-thirty in the morning and he has been wondering what happened to his breakfast. Not an auspicious start to the day, for one who has a healthy appetite. However, he does seem to accept things as they come--in good Buddhist fashion--and is now making his customary nest for himself on our bed as I sit here, propped up against the pillows, writing this entry. All too soon the dreaded hour will come, and we'll have to pack him up in the car and drive him to his date with the drill and, quite possibly we understand, with the extraction forceps...

Here's a request to all you animal lovers out there, reading these words: send a good thought out in George's direction. I'm sure that he'll do fine...

Meditation/Contemplation

Very

This very
morning
as I sat
in meditation
I heard the very
first tiptoe
of the rain
drops as they
fell, a very
lovely sound


Sangha, yesterday. Always a joy, to sit in the company of our band of meditators on a Sunday morning. It's a different feel from the lone weekday sits, a common energy generated in that hour of delicious silence.

Afterwards, in our discussion, I picked up a useful piece of guidance, relayed on to us by one of our number from a conversation with our teacher. There are times when the contemplation of an issue becomes an important part of a meditation sit; it's not always just a matter of training the mind to steady its attention on the breath, because we each have hindrances that stand between us and that desired goal. Sometimes it becomes necessary to examine what it is that distracts the mind and prevents us from achieving the serenity and the equanimity we strive for.

At such moments, a focused, thought-ful contemplation is what's needed to help sort things out, to come to an understanding that can release us from the grip of unhelpful patterns of mind activity. Now, I have made a practice of starting right in on that process after my few minutes of metta--sending out goodwill. Not the best way to go about it, says Than Geoff (that's Thanissaro Bhikkhu). Better to prepare the matter for examination before the sit and have it in mind as one goes about the meditation in the normal way, excluding thought where possible and, when the matter at hand comes up, postponing it gently with a simple "Not now," as one redirects the mind's attention to the breath. Then, later, toward the end of meditation only, one can allow the thoughts to surface and explore the associated thoughts and insights them at will.

A fine clarification. What is likely to happen, of course, in following this process, is that the unconscious mind will get to work while the consciousness is observing each movement of the breath. Much of the work, then, will have been done by the time I get around to that contemplation I have determined in advance to be needed, and insights are more likely to follow effortlessly when the moment comes. The hard part of course, as always, is the "Not now," because the mind is a stubborn faculty that delights in going its own way, no matter what I ask of it.

Slumdog: A Film Review

We went to see "Slumdog Millionaire," the new Danny Boyle movie that has caused such a stir and proved such a surprise hit in the theaters.



Deservedly so. I had heard only the light part of the story--the poor boy from the slums of Mumbai winning millions on a television game show. I had read no reviews, so I was unprepared for the dark side: the police brutality, the slum children eking out a living in the filth of garbage dumps, their exploitation as beggars and prostitutes by unscrupulous men, the murderous underworld of mafia-like gangs... At this level, the movie is a story of survival against all odds, the street smarts of bright young "artful dodgers" who learn how to trick the system. It's also the Cain and Abel story of two brothers, themselves the reflection of the dark and the light--the one who from desperation turns to crime, the other incorruptible. And on a more sentimental level, it's about the triumph of impossibly romantic love.

The movie is intricately constructed out of several interwoven threads: the television show, with its scheming, ego-driven host; the police headquarters, where officials try to wring out from the hero a confession of cheating, first with torture, then beatings, and finally with the slowly dawning realization that he had earned the knowledge of his answers through the experience of his life; and the story behind each of those answers with flashbacks to his childhood and young teenage years. The scenes of the game show itself, as the young man moves from lucky naive to idolized folk here, are actually gripping; while we know in advance that his answers will be the right ones, we're held at the edge of our seats with the suspense of waiting.

We know, too, that our hero will get his girl in the end. How could he not? They have been "meant for each other" since childhood, when violence and brutality brought their lives together with all the strange inevitability of randomly clashing forces. The sentimentality of the lovers' eventual, improbable reunion in the movie's closing scene, despite all obstacles along the way, is tempered by the unexpected explosion of a credits sequence in which Hollywood transmutes magically into Bollywood in a scene of wildly choreographed ecstatic dance on the platform of the Mumbai train station--ah yes, alas, that same one where gunmen came a few weeks back to randomly unload their assault weapons into crowds of commuters... But that's another story. Or is it?

A finely-constructed narrative, great parts played by a terrific cast of actors... (take a look at these beautiful young people!)



along with action and suspense, all freighted with a serious undertow of social criticism and personal inner conflict--these make for a rare and rewarding experience at the cinema. I say, go see, if you haven't done already.

No Accidents

I was writing just a couple of days, if you remember, about my belief that there are no accidents, that those things we like to call coincidences or accidents are often no more nor less than signs along the path we are given to walk in life. I was writing also about my sense that I had become inattentive to those signs that I believe in, and about my intention to re-dedicate myself to some kind of service.

Imagine my surprise, then, when I received a telephone call the following morning from a friend to whom I had not spoken in some time--and whose name I had "just happened" to write down on my "to do" list for that same day. He had called to invite me to take a key staff position at one of the weekend trainings offered by that men's organization I had referred to. (It has been more than three years since I last worked on staff, and I have frankly distanced myself from the organization: I had been finding more fulfilling return--and greater serenity--in my meditation practice.)

First response, then, a rush of fear and rejection. This was the last thing I wanted coming along to disturb my life. A rush of judgment about the always challenging, sometimes confrontational aspect of the men's work from which I have learned so much, and which set me on the path that I follow to this day. An immediate recoil from accepting the serious responsibility involved. A surge of self-doubt and fear of exposure...

Had I listened to my instinctive response, I would have responded with an immediate and resounding No.

And yet... I had--coincidentally!--written that piece just a few hours before. I had reminded myself to watch out for signs. I had announced my intention to watch for opportunities to serve, and here was one handed on a platter! How inconvenient! How precise in its challenge to my natural laziness, my inclination to withdraw into solitude, the comfort with which I could write those words without the slightest inkling that the universe might be listening--and take them at face value.

So now I must spend some time paying attention to this unmistakable sign. I must take the time to listen to my heart and come up with an answer to my friend's invitation before too long has passed. Truth to tell, I think the decision has already been made. I'm just allowing myself the slim possibility of an out.

Ponzi

Could somebody please help me? I'm no mathematical genius, and I STILL don't get it. Where did those fifty billion go? I keep hearing that they "disappeared" or "vanished", but surely, like that pea under the shell, all that money has to be somewhere. Does fifty billion simply evaporate into thin air? Could it be that Bernie stashed it away in some Swiss bank account? Under his mattress? By the same token, if I "lose money" from an investment, where does it go? Into someone else's pocket? Forgive my stupidity, but it's a mystery to me.

Unless... Of course. I guess the Buddha was right, again. It looks real enough, but it turns out to be nothing but an illusion.

A Celebration of Celebrity

We rented Annie Leibovitz: Life Through the Lens and watched it last night. I'm caught between huge admiration for her extraordinary skill and artistry as a photographer and deploring everything she represents. Most of her pictures, as I see it, celebrate the worst aspects of the so-called American Dream--celebrity, excessive wealth, material surfeit, success, complacency... (Just my judgment, is all!) All this without a trace of irony or hint of social criticism. Ah, well, I suppose someone has to idolize the idols. I'm just in a curmudgeonly mood. It must be Christmas. Or "the holidays"!

Service--and Charity

In my morning meditation today, I came to a profound and necessary insight. I have recently been experiencing a feeling of persistent malaise without having been able to attribute it to any particular source, and my insight has finally brought me a glimmering of understanding.

The insight was provoked, in part, by having sat down, yesterday afternoon, to finally read a book that had been recommended to me long ago, but which had for some reason never called to me: Paulo Coelho’s The Alchemist. Now it did. I found a copy lying inexplicably on the desk in Ellie’s office, and I picked it up. Without much else going on in the afternoon, I sat down in a comfortable chair and began to read… No accidents.

I have not yet quite finished but am close, and I need to say first that there’s a lot about the book that does not appeal to me. A natural-born pragmatist and skeptic, I generally recoil from what I judge to be “New Age” stuff—a kind of ethereal mysticism and non-sectarian God-talk, with an admixture of airy exoticism and a touch of romance. I found a lot of it in The Alchemist. But there was also a core of truth that put me back in touch with much of what I have come to believe in recent years.

I do believe, for example, that each of us arrives in this world with a purpose. I believe that we are given repeated opportunities to recognize that purpose—call them signs, omens, callings—and that we ignore them at the risk of experiencing precisely that malaise I mentioned earlier: the discomforting feeling that I’m not doing what I’m supposed to be doing with my life. I believe that there are no accidents, no coincidences; that those things that might appear to be accident or coincidence are nothing other than the messages to which I should be listening. I believe that there’s a path I have been given to follow, and that these events or images are the signposts, telling me which way to turn; and that when I’m on the path, thresholds appear and are crossed effortlessly, everything falls into place, obstacles simply vanish. You might point out that, if all this true, it was no accident that I should happen upon that copy of The Alchemist, whose hero finds himself upon such a path, and you would be right.

Because if I’m to be honest with myself I think that feeling of malaise is a sign that I have lost my way. I have had that feeling strongly at times in the past—when I realized, for example, after twenty-five years in academia that this was not what I was supposed to be doing with my life. I was doing it for the income, the security, the social propriety. Yet I had always known, since childhood, that I was supposed to be a writer. I just wasn’t prepared, as a young man, to face the risks involved in taking that path. Having come to that realization, after long years of finding excellent reasons to ignore multiple unmistakable signs, I quit academia cold turkey. That was more than twenty years ago, and I have not regretted the decision once. There have been difficult times, to be sure, but I have never had cause to doubt or second-guess my action.

There was still a piece missing, however. I was supposed to be a writer, but to what end? The story of the calling and the events that led me into serious men’s work—the work of healing and the discovery of purpose, focus and dedication—are told in the book I wrote about the experience called While I Am Not Afraid. It’s out of print now, and because it has meant so much to so many people, not only to men but also to the women who loved them, I have been thinking and actually strategizing recently for a plan to put out a revised edition. No accident.

I should have been listening with closer attention. Like many of us, I suppose, I tend to close my ears to those things I choose not to hear. I look back over the topics that have attracted me in recent weeks and months and I find countless pieces about sometimes powerful men who have fallen off the path, or have chosen one that leads them—and others—into pain, conflict, and delusion. I think, for example, of George W. Bush, who allowed his ideology to blind him to the truth (my judgment, of course), and who mistook macho posturing and ill-considered aggression for the attributes of manhood. In my more charitable moments, I see him as a little boy who never learned what it meant to be a man.

I have been writing, too, about Robert Mugabe, a one-time pioneer of post-colonial politics whose leadership contributed to the building of a thriving nation, but now a man gone wrong, a man whose ego blinds him to the ruin he has created everywhere about him. I have been writing about those misguided boy-men who brought death and destruction to Mumbai. I have been writing…

I wrote a couple of days ago about my Sunday sit, and the question I brought to our teacher, Thanissaro Bhikkhu, about healing. I did not, until this morning’s moment of enlightenment, fit the question into the greater picture I am beginning to paint. I recalled my father’s belief in the healing properties of the laying-on of hands and now, as I think back, I recall to feel of his hands on my forehead, as a child, as I knelt at the altar rail while he served communion to his congregation. That blessing, long submerged in the memory but occasionally remembered in between times, has the weight of both a gift and a charge: it asked to be passed on.

I have been fortunate, in my later years, to have been given the opportunity to pass on this blessing—though it sounds presumptuous to me, even as I write the word. In the work I have done with men in The ManKind Project, I have seen the need and felt the trust and gratitude. I have seen men healed—not by miracle, of course, of some physical disease or affliction, but as a kind of relief, a release from the particular burden they may have been unnecessarily carrying. It has been a humbling experience, and one that I myself have never fully trusted. It has been hard for me to listen to its truth, and I have tended to pull away from it.

Writing, I realize now, and have always realized, at heart, is in itself not enough. There is a need for service. (No accident, either, that we have just elected a President whom I believe to be the epitome of this concept!) Sitting here at my computer, I recall those years when I was active in the men’s organization that helped me find my way, and recognize that this is something that has been missing, that I have avoided in recent years. As a result, perhaps, things have not been falling into place, doors have not been opening, and the obstacles have been many in my path. I have been exercising one gift, certainly—but at the expense of another, perhaps more important one. It is time to set a new intention to return to service. It may not look the same as before, but it’s something I need in order to achieve that feeling of fulfillment.

As well as the gift of writing, I have the gift of listening—which I understand to be the gift of helping others to listen to themselves. My intention is to foster that gift. It is no accident that this very afternoon I have a date to listen to a young man in Morocco, an artist who needs help in listening to himself. I met him at a workshop last summer, and we have been in touch since then. We will talk via Skype across the Atlantic Ocean. With this entry in The Buddha Diaries, then, I am putting out that intention to make myself available to men who might be looking for a sounding-board, to help them to listen to what’s happening in their heart.

As a part of my work in The ManKind Project, I discovered, many years ago, a mission: to “mediate harmony in the world by getting to the heart of the matter.” I have tried to do that, I believe with some measure of success, in everything I write. Time, now, to translate it into the action that is service.

*

I invited my online friends, the other day, to join me in supporting those who are engaging the fight against cholera in Zimbabwe. There are so many demands on the charitable dollar, especially at this time of year, it's hard to make the choices. Two others attracted my attention recently. The Fresh Air Fund sponsors opportunities for inner-city kids to find relief, during the summer months, in fresh, clean-air, unthreatening environments. And the US Campaign for Burma works for respite from the oppression of the long-standing, repressive military regime in that sadly neglected country, where brave Buddhist monks last year attempted to face down the tyrannical generals. If you're anything like me, you don't know where to start; but when I get a person-to-person appeal, as I did in both these cases, above, I find it hard to resist.

Slapstick

I'll confess I took a little un-Buddhist pleasure at the "Size 10" shoe attack that made a world-wide hit in the media and on the Internet yesterday. And I'll also agree that the recipient took it, apparently, with good humor. Although, when you think about it, this is the President of the United States, for God's sake, subjected to an insult whose implications he barely understood except as slapstick, pie-in-the-face comedy. It also seems a curious irony, doesn't it, that the assailant was thrown in jail for exercising one of his newly-found, Bush-facilitated freedoms. He had these ungrateful words for his liberator: "This is a farewell kiss, you dog. This is from the widows, the orphans and those who were killed in Iraq." The miscreant, apparently, is not without support from those agitating for his release.

A friend, meanwhile, sent me a link to this other attack, which I think you'll enjoy just as much.

A Sunday Sit

What a pleasure to be sitting once again with Than Geoff (Thanissaro Bhikkhu) late yesterday afternoon, after a long period of absence. Than Geoff (more properly Ajahn Geoff, since he has been for some time now not just a monk, but the abbot of the Metta Thai Forest monastery in Valley Center, north of San Diego. Long-time readers of The Buddha Diaries may recall that he comes up to Laguna Beach on the second Sunday of each month to lead and teach our little "Laguna sangha." Ellie and I have been away so much in the course of our remodel, and often simply unable to spend our weekends down here, that we have missed his regular sessions, as well as his occasional weekend retreats. And while I have been able to maintain my own daily sits, the sangha sits each Sunday and the monthly sessions with Than Geoff have been an important part of my practice since the mid-90s, when I first joined the group.

A glorious pleasure, then, to arrive at sunset for our hour-long sit and to be enchanted, first, by the lovely spectacle at the wide window across from where I sat, of the red glow of the setting sun over a deep purple ocean. Dark clouds and the outline of the eucalyptus trees gave depth and contour to the vista--a sight to rouse the soul before even closing the eyes for meditation. Eyes closed, I found it easy to be guided by Than Geoff's steady, familiar voice, the depth of his calm, and the knowledge of his long dedication to the practice. As usual, he guided us through the observation of the breath for a half hour, then left us in silence for the remainder of the time. It has been quite a while since I reached so intense a meditative state and so profound a relaxation.

Our hour's sit is followed by a question time, and I led off with a question about healing. During meditation, my mind had wandered off frequently to a friend who is fighting off a severe attack on her health, and had been formulating my question despite my best efforts to keep it focused on the breath. Addressing it to Than Geoff, I gave that context, along with the memory of my father's powerful (Christian) belief in the laying-on of hands and my understanding of the Tibetan healing practice of tonglen, and asked whether, in his own tradition, there was any similar healing ritual and, more particularly, whether there was anything I could do in my practice to be of benefit to my friend.

I could actually have predicted Than Geoff's response before I heard it. To his way of thinking, it's more about the state of mind than it is about the illness. Healing, then, is about developing a state of mind that serves to reduce the suffering rather than cure the disease. The practice of metta--sending out thoughts of goodwill--can facilitate the more peaceful state of mind required for a return to health. I responded that it felt somehow impertinent, to me, to wishing happiness for a person experiencing so much pain, but he reminded me that "happiness", in its broader context, embraced the notion of physical well-being, of health itself.

Still, I wondered, were there any rituals in his practice related to the healing of the sick, as in so many other spiritual beliefs? Had he himself had any personal experience of healing? Than Geoff smiled as he recalled an episode when, during meditation, he felt the pain of a bite on his finger. In the dark, he was not able to see what creature had bitten him, but within a few minutes his finger began to swell, then his wrist, then his arm... In some alarm, he consulted with his abbot, who gave him an amulet blessed by his teacher, Ajahn Lee, to place against the wound. In short order, the swelling was reduced.

Amulets, then. I suppose it is the blessing that infuses such ritual objects that is the source of their power.

As usual, though, Than Geoff had neatly turned my question back into myself. The mind, certainly, is the most powerful weapon that we have in and and all contingencies--a weapon that we too often forget when pain comes along and we turn to others to relieve it for us. It happened, yesterday, that I had put my back out earlier in the day, and I found the meditation period useful in relieving the pain. It was afterward that it began to make its presence known again. Ironically, I have found that sitting is the very thing that is the worst for a bad back--especially when the time comes to attempt to stand! Better to keep it warm, I find, by keeping it in motion. Thus it was that I decided to leave the session before the whole two hours were up. But I was extremely glad that I had decided to go.

There He Goes...

Again. Can you believe this monster? How does he get away with it?

The Criminal Mugabe

My liberal bleeding heart is bleeding horribly for Zimbabwe. This horror story in the New York Times describes the explosion of the cholera epidemic and the resultant death, in one instance only, of a family of five children in a matter of hours. It's all too reminiscent of the book I have just finished reading, "The Ghost Map", by Steven Johnson, a gripping account of the 1854 attack of the disease in London's Soho district. (I wrote first about this book a couple of days ago, while I was still just one-third into it. It did not disappoint. A great read, full of relevance for today's world, its cities, and its future.)

As Johnson's book makes clear, the cause, course and cure of cholera have been well known for over one hundred and fifty years. Why, then, this outbreak? It can be attributed to one man, the criminal Robert Mugabe, whose cruelty, greed and incompetence, along with his stubborn refusal to step aside, have led to the ruin of a once thriving African nation. The schools and health systems are no longer functioning, the nation's economy is in chaos. The Times report notes that "Inflation officially hit 231 million percent in July, but John Robertson, an independent economist in Zimbabwe, estimates that it has now surged to an astounding eight quintillion percent--that is an eight followed by eighteen zeros." The cholera epidemic is caused and rapidly spread by the disintegration of a sanitation infrastructure that is no longer capable of preventing the overflow of human waste into the drinking water system. Budidiro, the Harari suburb that is the epicenter of the outbreak, sound eerily like that SoHo district in mid-Victorian days.

It's a disgrace--and, worse, an entirely preventable disgrace. The Times reports that 780 people have already died unnecessarily, and tens of thousands more infected. One half the country's population of 12 million is at risk.

What's to be done? Does the rest of the world sit by and watch as this new tragedy unfolds? It appears that even Mugabe's military is showing signs of revolt--a glimmer of light on the horizon. But as yet the police remain powerful and loyal, and Mugabe's hold on power is not seriously challenged. It seems to me vital that the nations of the world find some more effective means than the United Nations to intervene in situations of this kind. The saddest thing of all, however, is that nations can't rally to a common cause cause even when the situation is dire--witness the obstructive positions of Russia and China in the Sudan, where genocide appears to continue unabated.

I'm one person. It galls me to feel powerless. I feel foolishly inadequate, sending wishes for goodwill, sanity and peace as I sit comfortably in meditation. I can send money, and did so this morning via the "causes" opportunity afforded by my Facebook page. I can even ask you to join me. Here's the Save the Children site. And here are some other sites where you can contribute specifically to the fight against the cholera epidemic. Please help...

Simplicity

We watched a truly wonderful movie last night called Simplicity. Ellie brought it home on loan from her Wednesday morning art teacher and, since it's a movie about artists made several years ago, we were surprised that we had never heard about it before. If you're interested in the creative process and what it means to be an artist, this one's for you.

(Please note that the images below are pirated from the internet without the artist's specific permission. I trust that I'll be forgiven for reproducing them on this small-circulation site.)

The key to it all is suggested in the title: simplicity. The artists are extraordinarily diverse, ranging from the late minimalist painter...



... Agnes Martin--aged 86 at the time of the movie--to the wild, cartoon-based maximalist, Robert Williams; from the bare-bones tinkerer, Richard Tuttle...

... to the man widely known as the mentor of California conceptualism, John Baldessari (look for "image results"; the East Coast painter, Joan Snyder (ditto); and the much younger, relatively new arrival on the "art scene," Amy Adler (ditto). If this list of contemporary artists sounds unfamiliar and possibly elitist, please don't let it put you off watching this introduction to each of them and their work.

I have worked closely with artists and have written about their work for many years, and what struck me most as I watched "Simplicity" was the clarity these fine creative people have about themselves and their lives. While critics bloviate and museum-goers sometimes scratch their heads at the spectacle of much contemporary art ("You call THAT art???"), what's remarkably similar about these very different people is their uncomplicated dedication to what it is that they do. In the words of the dreadful current cliche, they "just do it."

They do it because they know, as Agnes Martin is seen saying at a particularly poignant moment, that this is what they are given to do with their lives. It's no more complicated than that. Even Baldessari, whom many would suspect to be "difficult" to understand as an artist and complex in his thinking about art, declares what is obvious about those famous colored dots that cover the faces in photo-based collages like this one...


They hide the face because the face is not what's important to him. He wants the viewer's attention to go elsewhere. It's no more difficult than that.

Richard Tuttle achieved notoriety with works of astounding and evidently disconcerting simplicity: a short length of rope, a few inches only, attached with a nail to the wall; a wire bent in the rough shape of a rectangle... Others, critics, fuss about challenges to the whole idea of what art is about, or castigate him for making a mockery of it. To the artist, it's all about making things, putting things together, pretty much to see what they look like. It's as simple--and as tough--as living out on the edge of the desert in New Mexico, as he does; it's as vast as the unending landscape and as intimate as the crack in the floor.

These are all artists who have met with considerable "success" in the art world, but seem utterly unfazed by their success. What's clearly--and exclusively--important to each of them is to have the kind of space that is conducive to the doing of what they do, and the time in which to do it. It's a very practical matter, and you leave with the sense that they lead the most practical sort of lives. They seemed to be notably lacking in pretension, or even particularly ambition. They just do what they do because that's what has been given them to do.

There's a lot more that goes on in the artist's mind, of course, than they may be willing to share in ways other than what they make. I have always felt that the "artist's statement" about the work--which seems to be a requisite today for anyone seeking gallery representation, and is taught as a necessary skill in graduate schools--is a really bad idea. All it succeeds in doing is reducing a complex of thought, feeling and action in the world to an oversimplification of the experience that the finished art work offers. All I want from artists is to show me what they've done and let me have the adventure of discovering it for myself--an experience that, like much human experience, is both irreducibly simple and incredibly complex all at once.

Chutzpah

That Illinois Governor, boy! Another male ego run amok! It seems to be the season... But actually, no. Regrettably, there's no season on this one.

Cholera: London, 1854

It's curious how these things happen. My mention yesterday of the cholera epidemic in Zimbabwe set me off on a journey that led all the way back to mid-nineteenth century London. After making my blog entry, Ellie and I joined our neighbor for the morning's exercise walk around the hill and it turned out that she had just finished reading this book... I asked if I could borrow it, and I'm already a third into the fascinating story that it tells.

"The Ghost Map," by the journalist and popular science author Steven Johnson, is a scary and totally gripping ride into the past--and one that makes you glad to have been born into a place and time where flush toilets and good sewer systems make life infinitely more livable, in the quite literal sense of that word. I spent the afternoon yesterday wandering the streets of a London whose stench and squalor is barely imaginable today, though Johnson does almost too good a job in helping us imagine it. It's, um, vivid. The descriptions of the biological waste of two and a half million human beings jammed into a small space--and of the primitive methods then available for its disposal or recycling--leave the reader holding his nose and gasping for a breath of clean air. Drawing liberally on the resource of work by Dickens and other contemporaneous writers, Johnson takes us on a tour of the riverbanks and the overflowing cesspools that were the primitive and ineffectual sewage system in those bad old days, and introduces us to the "night-soil men" whose (relatively well-paid) task it was to collect the human waste and transport it out to the countryside to be recycled by farmers in the form of manure. These descriptions, while offered with great zest for the telling detail and a wry sense of humor, are certainly a challenge for the squeamish.

They're also a lesson for the contemporary world, since Johnson usefully wanders off to explore their meaning in the broader, continuing contexts of ecological science and urban planning. I've just arrived at the point where he begins to discuss the relationship between sanitation and health. By today's standards, the paucity of medical and pharmaceutical knowledge at the time of Johnson's story is nothing short of astounding, with opiates being the favorite means of treating all kinds of ailments and disease. Letters from newspapers of the day suggest that home remedies, folklore, and simple quackery vied for medical credibility, along with academically trained physicians and workman "surgeons"---who operated until well into the 19th century without the benefit of anesthesia. One particularly hair-raising passage narrates the performance of a mastectomy in agonizing detail.

This being a story about a cholera epidemic, Johnson is at pains to prepare the reader for its onslaught with a brief and pithy introduction to the microscopic life of bacteria and their skillful work of survival in biological environments, drawing the parallel between the action in this infinitesimal micro-world and that in the macro-world of human beings and their crawling cities. (The effect of the cholera bacterium, as I understand it, is to deprive the intestine of its normal functioning to preserve water and thus to drain the body of its liquids, leading to a rather swift and nasty death from dehydration.) Nothing of this is understood by the scientists and medical professionals of the time, leaving them defenseless in the face of imminent disaster.

Thus far in my reading, Johnson has introduced the reader to what I take to be his two main protagonists, a doctor and a clergyman, whose observational powers and devotion to empirical method will--I presume--pave the way for an eventual understanding of the disease. I have to say, despite the intestinal discomfort as I read, that this is a totally compelling story, a page-turner, rich in historical, social, and scientific information and in evocative description. Its subtext is as relevant today as it was some one hundred and fifty years ago: the interdependence of all living things--including those sneaky bacteria--and the absolute necessity of vigilance when it comes to the survival of our species in a world of infinite and often dangerous complexity.

There, more than you ever needed to know about nineteenth century London. Now, back to my book...

One Man's Ego

Even if the ego to which we attach so much importance is nothing more than a delusion, as the Buddhist teachings suggest, it still manages to create enough havoc in the world!

Case in point: The reports arriving via the news media from Zimbabwe about the growing cholera epidemic there are a tragic reminder of the destructive power of one madman's megalomania. It is unquestionably Robert Mugabe and his incompetence that have laid the groundwork for the current disaster. The economic chaos, with the percentage of inflation in the multiples of thousands, has left his citizens in abject poverty and bereft even of clean drinking water. His stubborn hubris in refusing to relinquish power even after this year's election results were an indisputable signal for him to do so, along with his betrayal of promises to share power with his rival are the direct cause of the misery from which his country suffers today. Thousands have already died from the cholera epidemic, and the lives of countless thousands more are threatened. And still he will not leave, preferring the sacrifice of the lives of others to that of his willfully blind ego.

Let's not be pointing fingers, though, when we have our own example of this folly in the White House. This ego-driven presidency has caused enough pain and suffering in the world to earn its own black mark in history. And I'm not thinking only of the foolish misadventure in Iraq. I'm thinking of all the ripples that have proceeded from that point throughout the Muslim world. I'm thinking of the denial of simple birth control methods and education to too many women who have died in childbirth, or to the children they have brought into the world without the means to support them and protect them from the ravages of hunger and disease--all because of the arrogance of one man who believes the Almighty speaks directly in his ear.

The toll of human life that can be attributed throughout history to the ruthless masculine ego is incalculable, unimaginable. It's a powerful force, both in the world at large and in the small world of our individual lives. I should know. I'm a Leo. I have my own past ego-driven actions to atone for, come karma-time, and my own current battles with this relentless monster. And I continue to struggle with the understanding that a great deal of good can come from the strong ego, in ways virtually indistinguishable from the harm. Therein lies another of those enigmas of the human nature that will never be resolved.

O J Simpson and the Mumbai Warriors

I was teaching at the University of Southern California at the time that O J Simpson was its star running back, and I remember those heroic days when the young man seemed unstoppable, spirited, gifted beyond most mortals, and destined for a charmed life. What a sad sight, then, to see him a couple of days ago, in shackles, claiming innocence and pleading pathetically for mercy in a Las Vegas courtroom. His pleas were rightly dismissed out of hand by a clear-sighted judge.

I guess there can be little doubt but that Simpson committed the grisly slayings of his wife and her friend, Ron Goldman, back in 1994. His attorneys turned his "trial" into a public spectacle that lasted months, an agonizing farce, and eventually a genuine American tragedy as it turned from a judicial hearing into a racial outpouring of grievances. That so much of black America needed to rally around this fallen hero said much about our history and the then current state of affairs between the races. The jubilant crowds that celebrated his acquittal provided the image of a perverse reversal of the archetypal story of the black man lynched for far less grievous offenses to white womanhood than the brutal murder of Simpson's former wife.

This time around, there has been notable silence from the American community at large, whether black or white. Aside from the not-unanticipated personal remarks from Goldman family members, who have suffered much from the murder of their son and brother, there has been no jubilation or sense of public retribution from fair-skinned Americans, nor protest from their dark-skinned brothers and sisters. My as yet rather tentative hope is that we can take this as evidence of a great cultural shift, where both personal and judicial judgments are removed from any racial concern; and that our recent election process and our brilliant new President-elect will prove us more mature, more inclusively human in our attitudes than in the past.

I myself have feelings of compassion for Simpson, not on account of who he has allowed himself to become but because I remain convinced that the Simpson we saw on the football field had something going for him other than false charm and (back then) appropriately channeled aggression.  It's my belief that he has spent his life in pursuit of a false illusion of manhood--an illusion fostered by our heritage and culture.  We men still carry within us some significant remnant of an ancient warrior gene, and properly channeled it can be a powerful force for good in the world. Trouble is, the contemporary world has no room for that old spear-chucker warriorhood. Those ten men in Mumbai last week were the epitome of the warrior spirit gone grievously amok; dreadful though it may be to say, they fulfilled, albeit perversely, the ultimate power fantasy of an uncomfortably large number of young males, to walk into a crowd with a fully loaded assault weapon and let loose... What else are all those video games about, and why else are they so wildly popular?

We do have room for the warrior spirit, though, when it's pursued in service of the greater good of humanity, and for the sense of mission that gives it purpose and direction. I differ with those who say that the world would be better off run by women, even though I grant them an important point, because I believe that the peculiarly masculine energy has a vital part to play in the balance of our natures. Sun Tzu's "The Art of War" is a key text in the understanding of both our geo- and our gender-politics, and its wisdom is as applicable today as it was when it was written, in the 6th century BC. What a terrible irony, in Mumbai, to see such discipline and such physical and mental courage perverted into acts of profound cowardice.

My wish for Simpson is that he rediscover, in the time of his imprisonment, the dedication that characterized his power on the football field. I have read that he has gained popularity among his fellow-prisoners by buying candy to pass out to them. Wrong. He's misguided if he thinks that rehabilitation has to do with popularity. It was this false sense of himself, in my judgment, that set him off on the wrong path in the first place. No, if he's ever to redeem himself as a man, he must first acknowledge some unpalatable truths about himself and drop the false protestations and pretenses that have clearly served him badly until now. He must accept unqualified responsibility for his actions, and cease claiming innocence as he continued to do most recently in court.

That done, and honestly done, this man must find within himself the source of some act of service to which he can dedicate himself without thought for profit, popularity or advancement and into which he can channel the energy of what remains of his life. Perhaps then this sad remnant of what was once a hero would stand to recover his profoundly misunderstood manhood as well as his lost soul.

War Victims

How many living beings died in the wars of the 20th century? How many had their lives destroyed, both military and civilian? How many lost sons and daughters, mothers and fathers? How many lost limbs and bodily functioning? How many lost minds? Incalculable, I guess. And how many more have suffered similarly, already, in the twenty-first century?

These thoughts were prompted the other night by watching the recording we had made of The Rape of Europa, the documentary film that tells the story of the looting of Europe's private and museum art collections by the Nazis during World War II. This part of the story would have been horrifying enough by itself, but the film goes further: it also tells the story of the vast numbers of art works and irreplaceable architectural landmarks that fell victim to Allied bombs and artillery, and of their wanton, systematic destruction by retreating German forces. It includes amazing footage of the hordes amassed by Nazi leaders--Field Marshall Goering for his own aggrandizement, Hitler in order to fulfill his overweening ambition for a "Reichsmuseum" in Linz, Austria, the modest town of his birth.

That some significant part of the European patrimony survived is thanks to the efforts of many who risked their lives to pack, remove and hide the treasures from the Nazi invaders, and to those who prevailed upon the Allied armies to respect, where possible, the artistic heritage of the countries they liberated--no easy task, as the film makes clear, when infantrymen in the field, under attack from fortresses like the monastery at Monte Cassino in Italy, were forced to make agonizing choices between that heritage and their own lives.

It's an inspiring and, in may ways, a horrifying film, in which we learn much about the boundless greed and vengeful fury that warfare inspires in the souls of men. To steal or destroy a country's art is to disempower it by draining its cultural lifeblood: the toppling of that Saddam Hussein statue in Baghdad is but one recent example of the powerful symbolism involved. So, too, sadly, was the destruction of the Bamyan Buddhas by the Taliban not many years ago in Afghanistan.

And yet... and yet... From the Buddhist point of view, of course, all these things are just that: things, no matter how beautiful or filled with symbolic or spiritual value. Transience, in this view, is a relative term: even the mountain crumbles in the course of the millennia. Life, on the other hand, transient though it might be, is the ultimate value. Given the choice between art and life, I assume that for the good Buddhist there is no contest. But the great achievement of "The Rape of Europa" is in reminding us just how morally complex and emotionally agonizing those choices can be.

Re-Birth

This morning, instead of my own entry, I'm posting this link to an elegantly-argued essay from the blog ThinkBuddha, because it says very precisely what I have tried to say many times in the past in my own imprecise way. I hope that my Buddhist-leaning friends will find the time to read it. I wish there were one who could give me a coherent answer.

What it takes to get past this point, I suppose, is faith--that leap beyond reason that I'm unable to take. I also think that it's the point at which a philosophy, or a teaching, becomes a religion. I'd be interested in what others think of this unusually lucid piece of writing. Will you let me know?

Vengeance

Last week's dreadful events in Mumbai had me thinking, in a previous entry, about death. They also triggered some thoughts about vengeance. Thus far, India has been commendably restrained in its response--at least insofar as action is concerned. There have been the press reports about high officials laying the blame for the attack on Pakistan but, to my knowledge, no rattling of sabers or deployment of troops to the border as in that earlier incident, back in 1992-93, when terrorists attacked the Indian Parliament. The exchange of angry words is inevitable; the return of violence for violence is not, if reasonable minds prevail.

The desire for revenge is understandable. Humanity 101. You slap me in the face, my hand itches to hit you right back. The Mumbai incident, obviously, provoked memories of the attack on the World Trade Center on September 11, and of the American response. Most of us, including my not-quite-completely Buddhist self, could not but feel that urge to respond to bloodshed with further bloodshed. The attack on the Taliban leaders in Afghanistan, whose support and training had enabled the 9/11 hijackers, seemed to me justified as an effort to protect ourselves from further harm.

In retrospect, though--and particularly in view of the current deteriorating situation in that unfortunate country--I question whether the American initiative was either practical or necessary. It has certainly proved ineffective in the long term. My sense is that the practical necessity for self-protection was so clouded by the spirit of revenge that intentions became unclear and confused, with the result that the real mission was left incomplete. The return of the Taliban today surely gains strength from that same spirit of revenge. The cycle is tragic and unending.

Insult to mind or body offers opportunity, however. I can respond in kind and give myself the momentary, illusory satisfaction of having repaid the offense; or I can swallow my pride and, in the words of that other great prophet, "turn the other cheek." In the latter case, I risk appearing weak in the eyes of the world, and of showing myself as a person to be taken advantage of--a risk not to be taken lightly in today's dangerous world. The risk, though, is perhaps even greater and more imminent if I choose the other path, returning violence for violence, satisfying my ego but opening myself to further retaliation.

I hope that India will seize the opportunity with a measured response and an invitation to continue along the path of peace. Under our current reckless leadership, we set the worst of examples. Had we responded soley with our attack on the Taliban and the terrorists they harbored, we might perhaps have stood justified in the eyes of the world. In following that up with the invasion of a country in no way related to the provocation, we lost our moral bearings as a country. An eye for an eye is poor policy for a great nation. Two eyes for one--and more--has proved an unmitigated disaster. Let's hope that India chooses a wider path than we did.

The Buddhist teaching is pretty clear: in exacting retribution, I am likely to do more harm to myself than to my enemy. As always, though, it is easier in the theory than in the practice. To follow the teaching requires some honest and fearless inner debate.

Drums

Sometimes I come across something so amazing online, I just have to pass it on. The guys at Adgita Diaries posted this. It's worth five minutes of your time. Thanks, MandT...

Blogging: The Buddha Diaries

A couple of responses to my entry yesterday (thank you!) set me to thinking, not for the first time, about what I'm doing here on The Buddha Diaries. I have thought about it primarily as a "writing practice," not unlike my meditation practice: something I just do (almost) every day without having to worry too much about what I'm doing or whether I have anything "to say." It has been a great way to be the writer I have been throughout my life, minus the concerns about publishing: where to publish, who the readers are, how much to get paid--most often barely, or not at all. The Buddha Diaries--and The Bush Diaries that preceded it--have given me the opportunity to be the amateur, in that good, old sense of the word: a person free from any and all obligations, who does it simply out of the passion for getting it done.

But yesterday the word "wondering"* came to mind. I like the two associations of the word: To wonder means not only to ask questions but to stand in awe. I have known since leaving academia twenty years ago that I am not a teacher--or only incidentally. I do not set out to tell anyone what I know, or think I know, because they don't know it. I tend instead to marvel at the world and the fact that I have some small place in it and ask my questions not out of existenial angst, I think, but out of curiosity about my own humanity and that of those with whom I share this planet; and out of the sense that, through honest and scrupulous self-examination, I can become a better, perhaps even a wiser human being and thus live a fuller, more rewarding life.

What appeals to me about Buddhism is less what it teaches than what it asks me to learn. I love its practicality and practicability. For me--and perhaps this is why I resist embracing it as a religion--it's not about shoulds and ought-to's, beliefs and tenets, but rather about what works and what doesn't, what produces healthy results and what leads to more unwanted suffering. As I suggested yesterday, there are realities with which I continue to struggle: even though I "know" the answers, I keep struggling with questions. I learn, and something comes along to remind me that I have forgotten what I learned, and I have to learn it all over again. It seems to me that this is simply human.

The Buddha Diaires, then, at its best--for me, at least--offers me a place where I can look out at the world and my own place in it, and ask those questions, and learn those things about myself and about the world, and forget them, and learn them over again. It's a place where I don't want to pretend to "know" anything, but where I can find provisional understandings that serve me for a moment; a process that uses medium (language) to find out what it is I need to say, with the understanding that I may easily contradict myself the following day. It pleases me more than I can say to know that I have friends out there who want to read this stuff and who take the time to think about it and respond. It's the ultimate reward for any writer, and I am happy to have found a place where I can be true to myself without constraint or embarrassment and still find those who are willing to go along the path with me.


*In this context, a note: My nephew, Naftali, now approaching his mid years, has just started a blog called The Wandering Jewish Dreamer. It was originally called "The Wondering Jewish Dreamer"--I suspect a typo, but I liked the confusion of the two ideas, one an old cliche, the other perhaps a truth about the author... Naftali, an Israeli sabra by birth but American since schooldays, has always been a wanderer. At present, he's in Prague, thinking about returning to Israel for a spell, then back to Prague before coming "home" to the United States. I'll be interested to see where his wandering--and his wondering--takes him!