Head Winds...

... for Obama. The wealthy and powerful seem determined to stand in his way. May I be cynical for a moment? May I generalize? Those Republicans! What chutzpah! They vote as a bloc in the House, no exceptions, against the economic recovery bill, then turn around and start blaming the Democrats for partisanship. And now those Wall Street fat cats, awarding each other $18 billion in bonuses even as they bilk the taxpayer for bailout money. (Here I must make a confession: I have to believe that they're not all fat cats. A very close relative of mine--no fat cat!--who has a niche profession as a translator of Japanese business reports into English, was more than relieved to receive his much reduced bonus this year; his wife, in the same business but working for a different company, received none. I know that in this case, the "bonus" has always been understood to be a part of annual income.) Even so, this whole thing fails to pass the smell test, and Obama is right to be outraged. It remains to be seen what he can do about the partisanship and greed that threaten to paralyze the chances of real change.

Well, we ourselves have managed to escape the city this past week. Who can complain too much about events in the world out-there when the sun sets so beautifully every evening in clear view of our balcony?



On the other hand... they did choose just this week to finish repaving our little dead-end street. After many postponements because of weather, they arrived this morning to lay down the asphalt, so we hope that today will be the last.

Art Review

Please, today, go to my Huffington Post site for my promised review of Elias Sime at the Santa Monica Museum of Art.

Bellicosity American Style

Is it something in the genes? Does it come from some kind of national paranoia or insecurity? Is it because we are so "young" as a nation, as people keep saying? Or is it something that we share with others of our species, but exaggerated because we are so big? From the decimation of our native tribes to our rash invasion of Iraq, it seems we are prone to be quick to anger, aggressively defensive, and bellicose in our response to the least provocation. (That this proclivity is--though often inadequately--matched by a generous, peace-loving trait in our national character is not at issue here.)

These troubling thoughts were prompted by last night's special on the PBS series, American Experience, The Trials of J. Robert Oppenheimer, which tells the story of the post-World War II persecution of the man who successfully directed the development of America's atomic bomb. It was he who famously said, after the Trinity test that proved the devastating efficacy of the bomb, "You know the Bhagavad-Gita? 'I am become Death, the shatterer of worlds.'" A poet, a man of conscience, and an obviously eccentric, difficult person despite his scientific genius, Oppenheimer was one of the many intellectuals of the 1930s whose social views led them into a loose affiliation with the Communist Party. He was enlisted easily into the war against worldwide fascism, however, and was unquestioningly complicit in the use of his bomb on Hiroshima and Nagasaki.

Awed--and horror-struck--by the power of the weapon his team had created, Oppenheimer evidently listened once more to his conscience after the war, and publicly expressed opposition to the development of the even more powerful and destructive hydrogen bomb promoted by his hawkish colleague, Edward Teller. According to this version of the story, Oppenheimer's position was that this was a bomb too far, unnecessary in view of the growing stockpile of atomic weapons and the supremacy of American firepower. This view brought down upon him the ire of the hawks in the American government, who managed successfully, by deceit and merciless bully tactics, to smear him with past communist associations and deprive him not only of his security clearance but of his reputation and his standing in the scientific world.

Oppenheimer's last years, it seems were lived out as a beaten, bitter, dis-abled man. Meanwhile, our country was driven by the paranoia politicians know well how to exploit, swaggering on into the Cold War, shaking the sword of its nuclear arsenal and daring the Soviet Union to follow suit. What a shame and a waste, that so much of the 20th century, which had already given us enough death and devastation to have learned the basics of peace, should have been devoted to the enactment of this senseless charade--in the name of maintaining American supremacy. Korea, Vietnam, Iraq... How many more such horrors will it take?

I'm Reading...

... Barack Obama's "Dreams from My Father." I read "The Audacity of Hope" earlier last year, when I was still debating the relative strength of his candidacy with Hillary Clinton's. If I remember well, I wrote at the time that the book introduced me to a whole new Barack Obama than the one I had encountered on a daily basis on the television screen. Reading the book, I soon learned that the attempt to portray him as an inexperienced lightweight was absurd. I was amazed by the ease with which he drew on an extensive breadth of historical knowledge, his political acumen, his grasp of the problems facing us and the depth of his understanding of human nature--not to mention his extraordinary ability to listen with patience to opposing views and embrace well-considered compromise.

Now, reading the first of his two books, I am coming to understand something about the origin of these qualities. Since early childhood, he has clearly been a close and critical observer of the people and the world around him, a questioner who has wanted to find out what lies beneath the surface of external events. The exceptional diversity of backgrounds that converge in this one man is well-known--a diversity matched by that of his lived experiences. In this, he seems like a man ahead of his time, a truly 21st century human being, the product of a "flat world" in which individuals are citizens not of a particular city or a particular nation, but rather of the globe; and in which racial identities merge into a more broadly human one.

"Dreams from My Father"--I'm a little more than halfway through--is giving me a more personal and immediate understanding of these well-known aspects of our new President. What has remained a kind of abstract knowledge becomes concrete, intimate, and real. In part, this is because Obama is a terrific writer: his stories are vividly told, compelling, utterly believable. He is curious about everything that happens to him, and translates this curiosity into understanding, and understanding into change. He describes a constant process of growth based in experience, the epitome of an "examined life" that allows him to continually move forward. His teenage years, recalled with a compassion that does not gloss over the awkwardness, the fears and pain of adolescence, reveal a not-yet-formed individual whose rebellious missteps will be familiar to all of us who have experienced that difficult age. It is remarkable to read these pages and recall that this typically stumbling teenager is now President of the United States.

Of huge and poignant importance in his development are the difficulties he has in coming to terms with his racial identity, and with his inner drive to find some way to be of service to the world. Black, and yet not-quite-black, he struggles with the sense of aggrievement he sees in those around him--and his own--as well as with the compensatory promotion of black power and black pride at the other end of the scale. Recalling his now-famous Philadelphia speech on the subject of race, following the public revelation of the scandalous remarks of the Rev. Jeremiah Wright that nearly scuttled his campaign, I understand now that his empathy with black anger was hard-earned, through years of authentic struggle and internal debate. If he is able in his leadership to transcend the racial divide in a way no other has before him, it is not because he arrived on the political scene at a time when these issues were already resolved, but rather because he had to go through his own personal hell to reach that point in his intellectual life.

I am just now reading the long section in which he describes his arrival in Chicago as a "community organizer"--work that was dismissed with such easy sarcasm at the Republican convention--and that full first year in which he labored with only minimal success to find a place for himself, a beginner's political identity that would foster his leadership qualities. Again, as he is forced time and again to recognize his failings and re-evaluate his approach, we watch a process of continual growth and change, a deepening of experience that forges at once the steelier and more compassionate character he'll need in order to achieve his goals: his bid for the presidency is already in our minds, as readers, if not in his, and we marvel at the depth of his preparation for the path that is to follow. It is remarkable that the young man he describes, with all his uncertainties and doubts, his innocence and idealism, his naivete and his errors of presumption and assumption--that this often insecure and yet determined young man should end up in our White House.

More to come. I'm looking forward to the second half...

Today, Saturday...

... my mind is still reeling from the extraordinary experience of visiting the exhibition of Elias Sime's work at the Santa Monica Museum of Art. I mentioned him yesterday, I will be writing more about him in the next couple of days. Until then, I am content to be grateful for my health--a clean bill following my annual physical this past week; and for the gentle rain that is blessing us this weekend in Southern California...

Around the Art World

Big weekend in the Los Angeles art world, with two art fairs at opposite ends of town and any number of gallery openings. Ellie kicked it off last night at a reception for two very different artists sharing the space at the Santa Monica Museum of Art. A huge party at a large Brentwood home of contemporary design, where we ran into many old friends and met some new ones. Very old friends were one of the artists, Arnold Mesches, and his wife, the novelist Jill Ciment, both visiting from Florida for the occasion, whom we have known for forty years and more. Arnold--whose wonderful website is well worth visiting, by the way--has been painting and teaching for more years than he cares to remember. He's a painter par excellence, who wields a mean brush and has not been afraid, on occasion, to take on social issues head on. His latest series, "Coming Attractions," is a nightmarish, surrealistic look at a world in which baroque excess and real-world deprivation are contrasted in huge, exuberantly-painted canvases. You'll be able to hear more from Arnold himself on an upcoming episode of my Art of Outrage podcast series on Artscene Visual Radio.

The second artist was the remarkable Ethiopian Elias Sime, who works with raw indigenous materials like mud, clay and straw to create hauntingly beautiful artifacts that are at once raw and "primitive" and astonishingly sensuous and sophisticated. Peter Sellars, the noted impresario who co-curated the exhibition, was on hand to give a passionate introduction to the work whilst, behind him, a film projected on a huge flat-screen television monitor ran a movie of Sime's magnum opus--to date, at least--a house in Addis Ababa that evokes the off-beat architectural genius of an Antonio Gaudi(of Sagrada Familia cathedral fame, in Barcelona) or a stirringly a low-tech Frank Gehry.

Since the exhibitions of both artists do not open until today, I have not yet seen either. I'll plan on reporting on them more fully when I do. Meantime, I'll be checking in on one or both of the art fairs this afternoon.

Day One

I normally manage to remain in control of my emotions when I read the newspaper--short, in recent years, of those bouts of anger reading about what our former non-president had done, and fear about the consequences of his actions. I suppose those count as emotions. But I found myself choking up all over again as I read the New York Times report of how Obama spent his first day in the Oval Office. This is getting ridiculous. But isn't it nice, for a change, instead of turning the pages and reading about one disastrous mis-step after the next, to find oneself nodding sagely at each turn of the page: Hmmm, yes, good move. That was the right thing to have done...

There was a column that linguistically explained the likely source of the Chief Justice's flubbing of the words of the oath of office: a pedant's revulsion for the grammatical "error" of a "split verb" in the wording of the Constitution: from the strictly technical point of view, it is incorrect to split an infinitive or a future construction by placing an adverb in between. Thus, "to faithfully execute" should strictly read "faithfully to execute" or "to execute faithfully." Those founders! A strict constructionist, the Chief Justice must have been torn between the words of the Constitution and his reputed pedantry, and his confusion was reflected in his very public foundering on the rocks of mis-spoken lines--an embarrassment viewed by millions throughout the world.

No matter, Obama did the right thing (again!) by insisting that Roberts participate in the return engagement, leaving not the slightest grounds for nigglers--yes, please look again: I spelled that right--of all shades to contest his legitimacy. And isn't it good to hear a President talk about openness and transparency being the hallmark of his office? And signing an order, Day One, to begin the process of closing Guantanamo? And capping the salaries of his staff? And barring lobbyists from his--I mean our--White House?

It's enough to make a grown man cry.

Oh, and speaking of intelligence, a friend sent me this link to a video which I have not seen elsewhere, and which I found quite charming. It does put things into perspective.

Well, Okay...

... all the chliches are exhausted, all the histories recorded, all the superlatives super'led. What's Left to say? (Hmmm, I notice that I "accidentally" capitalized that "L"!)

We had a party last night, we made a cake...



... well, actually, we had it made. Ellie's idea. And invited the neighbors in. Everyone was euphoric. We watched Barack and Michelle dance--she gorgeous in her ivory gown, he, well, handsome. Our spirits lifted with the champagne... Would have done, even without!

I thought Obama gave a terrific Inaugural Address, though it sounded a bit more like a State of the Union than an Inaugural. Appropriately. Our new young President struck the right note, as he seems so often effortlessly to do. There's repair work to be done, in addition to the building. He managed, skillfully, and in the nicest possible way, to repudiate everything Bush had stood for. And not only Bush, of course: his repudiation went all the way back to Ronald Reagan, the disastrous practice of a "trickle-down" economy that predictably failed to trickle down, and the politics of the slow, deliberate strangulation of government. Mercilessly, Obama exposed the futility of these policies, and the damage they have wreaked upon the country. He did not hold back.

And now it's not just his job, as he has so often pointed out. It's our job. To judge from the crowds gathered in freezing weather on the Washington Mall and from their response to his accession to the presidency, he has us in his hands. If we allow the nay-sayers to prevail--on the left as well as the right--he is done for, and so are we as a nation. As the somewhat hackneyed but still truthful message on the cake repeats, "We Are One." Have to be. No option. And our new President makes it clear that he understands that this is true for the world as well as for the country he has been elected to lead. I wish him well.

Welcome...

... President Obama. And First Lady Michelle. I've been sitting here watching the festivities and choking up more than once with the overwhelming emotion of the moment. Forget the historical stuff, this is personal. An immigrant myself, I'm tempted to say that this is the first time I have felt... American. And today, it's a good feeling.

MLK: A Day of Service

My conscience pricked by appeals from our soon-to-be President and First Lady, I could not let this day pass without some act of service. My own was a small one, but I found that it meant something to me. I went to the grocery store and filled a box with cans and durable goods, then drove them over to what I had found advertised on the Internet as a "Food Bank" in Hollywood. It turned out not to be. I arrived, perplexed, at the appropriate intersection and cast about for the address. A car wash, a repair shop, a greasy spoon restaurant...

Finding a place in the small parking lot, I asked my neighbor parker if she knew about the food bank. Her car was a disaster, with two dogs in the front seat along with the contents of what appeared to be a homeless person's shopping cart. The woman was large--obese, I guess you'd say, to be truthful--and unwashed, but cheerful and well-spoken. But anyway, no, she had not heard of a food bank hereabouts, and was interested to know why I'd be looking for one. I explained my mission. "Oh, that's nice," she said.

The greasy spoon restaurant had a notice informing me that it was closed--and it looked thoroughly abandoned. Heavily barred windows, and a screen door that could have passed for the entrance to a bank vault, leaving nowhere for the knuckles to place a knock. No bell, either. I was about to give up hope for the completion of my good deed for the day when I was approached by a very dark-skinned man whose grin bared teeth that made me wince. "What are you looking for?" he asked. I explained, again, my mission. "No food bank here," he said, but conceded in short order that he was the cook for an operation that prepared meals, here, for the homeless, to be transported later to a distribution center. "Then," I said, "you could use the groceries I brought?" I had decided, by this time, from his slightly odd accent, that he must be either West Indian or Haitian. "Oh, yeah," he said.

I fetched my cardboard box of goodies from the car. Cans of vegetables and legumes, chili beef, chicken and tuna, packages of pasta. This being my first foray into the land of food banks, I'd been unsure what to bring--but these did seem, to my relief, like useful ingredients for a robust meal. My greeter agreed. He had warmed to me by this time, and became quite voluble in his explanations. For the first time, I began to feel that I had done some small thing that would benefit others, an act of service that did not leave me feeling utterly vain and foolish.

I drove home with a lift in the heart, glad for having done it. I recalled the times that I would go downtown with Sarah, then still a teenager, and we would work together in the soup kitchen, chopping onions with copious tears, and washing great, greasy tubs after the preparation of the food--and the sense of elated satisfaction that accompanied us on the way home. I am grateful to Obama for having nudged me into making this small gesture, and for having reminded me of the many who are out there doing greater deeds by far--as well as the many, many people who need them, desperately. I am grateful to have been reminded of my intention to find ways of being of service in the world.

Co-incidentally--well, perhaps not really by co-incidence--I was surprised to see, in my inbox this morning, a name I had not seen since I was ten or twelve years old, a school mate from the boys' boarding school to which I was sent at a very early age, during World War II. Could it be...? I wondered. And it was. I remember Ben as an exceptionally kind boy amidst the cruelty of the pre-adolescent masculine mob, and was not surprised to find out that he had later gone into the ministry and spent his life in service in various parts of the world. Past retirement age now, he found me on the Internet--wonderful, isn't it, how that can happen?--and wrote to see if I was the same Peter he had known back then. What a delight! And something of a pang, with the realization that my own journey has been so internal, so disconnected, in many ways, from the needs of those with whom I share this planet. I admire my friend for his dedication, and am happy that I chose to find some way to get the taste of it today.

Happy Inauguration Day, tomorrow, friends. Metta to Obama and his family, and metta to the rest of us, at a time of need!

That Plane...

I suppose the analogy is too obvious to mention: that plane, this country... Running afoul of nature and approaching a crash landing with both engines gone, a full complement of human beings, passengers and crew--a predicament of maximum danger...

I'm choosing to believe that our new pilot will prove as handy as that old veteran whose level-headed skill brought the plane down safely, with no loss of life. I'm choosing to believe that we passengers may lose a lot of stuff in the stowage bins, but that otherwise we'll all come out okay, standing knee-deep on the wings. Shaken, but wiser for the experience, and ready to understand that life is given to us by the day.

That's what I choose to believe, anyway. How about you?

Goodybe, Bush, The Atheist Bus Campaign, and Much More...

It was thanks to George Bush that I stumbled into this curious world that we inhabit. It was shortly after his re-election in November, 2oo4. I was appalled. I sat around asking myself, what can I do? The only thing I really know how to do is write, and it happened that on that day I fell, like Alice through the looking-glass, into the blogosphere. The title came to me without a thought: The Bush Diaries. I would write a letter to the man every day and publish it, as much for myself, of course, as for my unknowing correspondent.

The Bush Diaries survived for two years, until I grew tired of waking up with Bush in my head every day. It morphed, then, into what you're reading now: The Buddha Diaries. A much more mind-friendly occupation. However, watching Bush deliver his pathetic "Farewell to the Nation" last night, I decided to write one last entry, today's, to which I refer you, fondly.

But the blogosphere continues to thrive exponentially. I'm afraid I have been negligent, again, recently, about checking in on my favorite sites. Trying to cut down on some of the busy-ness. Then, yesterday, when I'd decided to spend a good part of the day catching up with my blogging friends--wouldn't you know it?--my computer crashed. Seriously. Started out with the email, then crashed completely, refusing even to switch back on after I had unplugged, in desperation, from the wall. I've had to take it down to the Apple hospital for doctoring, if not major surgery.

Anyway... I heard about The Atheist Bus Campaign from Richard at A Quiet Watercourse, an English blog I always enjoy when I check in there. The idea of an atheist ad campaign on the side of buses is mind-boggling to one long resident in the United States, where atheism still seems to be a new and alien concept, and which has stirred much debate in recent years. And in a part of the US where buses themselves are all too, well, underutilized. It appears that the grass-roots campaign to get the idea going resulted from someone pissed off with similar ads leading to a Christian website. Very whimsical. And nice. Thanks, Richard!

It's wonderful, the variety of experience available with a bit of clicking on the computer keyboard. I'm happy to find M and T over at Adgita Diaries busy baking bread and fending off the cold with a good winter's soup, topped off with espresso and brandy; and distressed to find my friends at the Dharma Bums ailing. May they soon be restored to health and happiness! Thanks to Bill, at Digital Dharma for alerting me to a fascinating site that details the Daily Routines of artists, writers, musicians, and other creative folk. It's always interesting--and sometimes useful--to find out how others do it. And over at Ethix Merch Blog, where my friend and sometime assistant Cardozo collaorates with others, we learn about ethical merchandise produced under the union label with environmentally sound materials. Obama, we can be sure, would approve.

I never fail to get a good atheist guffaw when I check in with the delightfully irreverent and disrespectful Gone Fishin': Postcards from God, and yesterday was no exception. Everything--and more--that you ever needed to know about breasts and bras on Guilty With an Explanation, and in the comments column. A wonderful, very human, archly humorous entry that obviously touched a lot of hearts and minds, both male and female. What a contrast with I Am Katia, who doesn't post her powerful photos of street kids very often, but makes them worthwhile, sometimes heart-wrenching when she does. I see them as lost souls, trying hard to find themselves.

I enjoy the fresh insights and personal travails posted by Lindsey of Let It Be Lindsey and Mark's very personal struggles with faith and philosophical paradox at Marko Polo Both are graduate students at a midwestern university, peripetetic bloggers, who use the written word to make some sense of this strange world we all inhabit. Mark's enjoying Vonnegut right now... And speaking of faith, there's Brian at Primordial Blog who writes from a (sometimes angrily) post-Christian point of view. A good sceptic, "a proud member of the reality based community," who derides magical thinking of all kinds, especially the religious kind.

At Principle of Uncertainty, Khengsiong in Kuala Lumpur debates the efficacy of "causes" on Facebook, and concludes they're pretty useless. I actually started a cause in the first flush of virtual "friendship"--but in fact agree with Khengsiong. I find Facebook a curiously spooky place...

There's a dozen more I should have mentioned, and would have. But this is getting too long, I'm rambling. I have to leave... and George the dog just threw up on the carpet. Geez! Have a great weekend, out there in blogland!

Intention

Ellie and I met with our artists' group on Tuesday evening, the first meeting of the new year, and started out thinking about intentions--a subject to which I myself had been giving some thought in my blog entry earlier in the day.

There are intentions, of course, and intentions. Some are lightly made, and lightly kept. I noticed, as we made the rounds, how often one of our number would speak about "trying" to do something: "I'm going to try to get into the studio more often," or "I'm planning to try to find a gallery to show my work." I hear myself saying something similar, and believe it no more than when I hear it from others. As the old saw has it, if you keep trying to feed the dog, the dog will soon starve to death.

That's one kind of intention, and clearly not a very productive one. The other kind is made of sterner stuff, and comes from a deeper level of consciousness. It's mind-altering, and life-changing. Once the seed of this kind of intention is planted, it will inevitably take a long while to germinate--perhaps even below the level of consciousness--and when it at last appears in the form of a conscious thought, does so in the form of a quiet and confident determination to make change, a paradigm shift in the mind that is no longer debatable but seems quite simply self-evident in its clarity, a confirmation of what had always been "intended" but never fully realized.

What follows in the wake of this kind of intention is extraordinary, a flow in which everything seems to fit nicely into place, to follow the right course without effort or conscious direction. Suddenly there seem to be no missteps, and every accident turns out to be a happy one. There comes an endorsement of the intention in the form of a sense of rightness and, yes, a sense of joy that pervades our every thought and action.

Such moments in life are admittedly rare. Most of the time, we hang around, trying to do stuff. One of my own occurred when I decided to quit academia and do what I was really supposed to be doing with my life: to write. Another, when I "unwrapped" myself from my old British shrink-wrap and stepped into a new life in which the emotions and the spiritual dimension would begin to play a significant part. Each intention opened to door to a wonderful period of growth, a fuller sense of who and what I am, and of my relationship with the world around me.

And now I find myself doing battle with a new one, not fully formulated, though I feel it struggling to be born. It will not come without resistance. I have many fears and doubts that prevent me, often, from seeing things as clearly as I might. It has something to do with age, aging, and the prospect of approaching death. It has something to do with needing to leave a mark, however small. It has something to do with service to my fellow beings, with whom I share this planet. I'm not yet sure what form this new intention will take, what words might come along to give it shape and focus. But I'm working on it...

That Time of Year

It's that time of year. All the causes for celebration and excess are over... Thanksgiving, our daughter's birthday, Christmas, New Years' and, finally, Ellie's birthday. A month and a half, non-stop. Then you climb on the bathroom scale and are confronted with the damage wrought. And there are no more excuses...

There's something similar that goes on with my writing practice. There has been plenty of great frivolity to occupy these pages in the past few weeks, but they have begun to feel, well, not to put too fine a point on it... er, flatulent. A lot of hot air--not to say gas--and not a whole lot of substance. My judgment. So I sit here at my desk and ponder the need to delve a little deeper into the mysteries of life and what the teachings of the Buddha can do to help us address them and, if necessary, accept them for what they are. And my mind goes blank. Freezes, as my old PC computers used to do so often, and requires a push on the re-set button before it starts to glow again. I have grown lazy, and comfortable, and fat. My judgment.

One week from today we say goodbye to our Bush and hello to our President Obama. I see the nation in something of the same predicament in which I have just described myself, although the crisis, in my case, is perhaps a little less advanced. We did, for quite a while, as a nation, grow lazy, and comfortable, and fat, but now we have stepped on the scale and, hopefully, out of denial. So will we emulate our fit and lean new President and learn to control our appetite for insatiable consumption? Will we continue to insist on our inalienable right to ice cream, while so many starve? Will we find within ourselves the will to make the necessary sacrifices, if we are to get the country back on track? Because I truly believe that this is what it will take, from corporate leaders to professionals to blue collar workers. Obama will almost certainly fail without goodwill and practical support from all of us in the form of sacrifice. I watch with dismay the signs of a return to partisanship and inflexibility. It seems that everyone insists on his or her right to be right--especially, alas, the Right.

As for myself, I intend to be more circumspect, more conscious, more compassionate to myself and others. I understand the wisdom of the Buddha's Middle Path, and intend to hew to it with greater attention to the ways in which I stray and find myself, as a result, in trouble. I realize that the Middle Path is not the Easy Way, and that I will need to be vigilant in my effort if I am to succeed. There's much work to be done. Let the new era begin!

Another Birthday Trip

Those who check in regularly on these pages may have been wondering about the silence for the past four days. I've been gone. In recent years, lacking inspiration for gifts of a material nature, I have been planning a trip of some kind to celebrate Ellie's birthday. This year, given the state of the economy--and indeed the uncertain state of everything in the world--we decided to stay relatively close to home, and my mind turned to Borrego Springs, out in the California desert, where some much valued old friends have been running the Borrego Valley Inn for the past few years. We had enjoyed our visit to Joshua Tree a while back, so the desert--a very different one, as it turned out--called again.

The Anza-Borrego Desert is best known for its spectacular wildflower season, which comes after the rains, in the early spring. January is too early for that event, but the desert proved a truly magical destination nonetheless. We drove south along the ocean from Laguna Beach, turning inland from Oceanside along Highway 76--one long development area of malls and housing tracts for many miles, but turning into a beautiful scenic road once you get past Interstate 15. These days a number of the Indian bands whose reservations dot the highway on either side have rescued their previously dire fortunes with the building of casinos--a sad commentary, I have always thought, on the erosion of proud cultures at the hands of an occupying force: our Western selves.

We stopped in Julian, a little apple town we had visited many years before, and found it little changed, thought perhaps a little more geared up for the tourist trade. We paused in our wandering at a marvelous second-hand bookstore, cleverly dispersed among the rooms of a tiny house so that everything was neatly organized, easy to find; and stopped, next, at the cottage restaurant next door for a good bowl of soup for lunch. Then off down Highway 79 and into the back country, taking the narrow S3 high up over the mountains and down to where Borrego Springs nestles on the desert floor.



After a little trial and error up and down the main drag of the town, we were delighted to turn into the driveway at our destination and find the warm, southwestern architecture of our friends' inn--basically two long-low buildings with guest rooms on each side of a carefully-raked courtyard with cactus, succulents, and a cheerfully-inhabited finch cage at the center; and a third building with a communal lounge and greeting area at one end.



The far end offers the amenity of a sun-flooded pool and spa and, behind one of the guest buildings, an alternative, clothing-optional pool area for the more adventurous souls--or the more foolhardy, like ourselves, who had simply forgotten to bring swimsuits and were grateful to have the option to enjoy the spa, appropriately for Ellie, in our birthday suits.

No pictures of those particular moments, sorry! In fact, one of the other things we had forgotten--we had a strange start, and had forgotten a number of essential items incuding this, the most important: the camera. What you see here are pictures taken with my cell phone--some of which turned out good enough for the personal memory, but this little device, though a life-saver in this circumstance, was really not up to capturing the intense beauty of the desert. Here's the area immendiately around the inn, where we took a long walk that first afternoon:




After this initial exploration of our surroundings, we took a shower and headed into town for dinner at Carlee's, not three minutes from the inn. Country music, a convivial grouping of booths around the central bar--a real American eatery. And the food was great! We each ordered a short rack of ribs--something we rarely if ever eat--and were treated to an enormous plate of truly delicious barbequed meat, far too much to possibly eat. We each took a half of our half-rack home, wondering who on earth could possibly tackle a full one.

Next day was our only full day to explore the part, and we started out at the fine visitor's center, where there was plenty of information available about the history, geography and geology of the desert, and some excellent displays. Then off to the Palm Canyon hike--a long trek up into the hills along a trail...


... that increasingly involved scampering up and around massive boulders and fording a still running stream--up to a lovely oasis at the top, a thick, almost impenetrable stand of palm trees and intense, lush green plant life stimulated by the springs.


The hike up the trail and back down into the valley took the better part of the day, and we were both suffering from sore legs by the time we returned to the inn for a nap (P) and a session with the pastels (E) before soaking in the spa.

We had arranged for an evening our with our friends, Rich and Gwenn, and were treated on our way to meeting them with the vision of a glorious moonrise over the distant mountains...



(So sad, to have forgotten the camera. I had other pictures of this spectactular event, but they are unusable!) Our first stop of the evening was an exhibition of "Paint by the Numbers" paintings from the 1950's in a shop that specializes in mid-century collectibles. Interesting stuff. The pictures were pretty amazing, ranging from the familar landscapes to religious iconography including, to my surprise, a Paint by the Numbers version of The Last Supper. Very odd, and oddly charming.

A long, pleasant evening at a local Italian restuarant, then, spent indulging in the excellent food and a couple of bottles of wine, and catching up with friends we had not seen in quite a while. Formerly city-dwellers, they have re-located to this remote area and thrive on the upkeep of their beautiful inn and on the community of which it is a part--the kind of community where you can know, and be known by everyone, and where mutal friendship, mutual cooperation and concern is the life-blood of the social organization.

I was up early the following morning and out across the desert floor, determined to catch the sunrise. Again, my apologies and regrets for the quality of the pictures, but the moment was unforgettable in its beauty. Here comes the sun...


... and here....


... reflecting its pink glow against the mountains to the west.




Sunday morning, then, and time to leave--but not before an excellent breakfast. Rich and Gwenn had chose this day to experminent with a new offering: a selection of breakfast paninis, a crisp sandwich of bacon and egg, or goat's cheese and tomato, or peanut butter and banana! Delicious, with a mug of excellent coffee. We said fond goodbyes, with promises to return, and set off back home with a brief stop in the lovely little Surprise Canyon...


... where we took a whole lot more unusable pictures. Damn! We were grateful for the remarkable cell phone camera--who would have thought it, ten years ago?--but wished we had something better to show for the incredible beauty of every corner of this remarkable landscape.

Taking the back way home, we stopped in Temecula where, years ago, we had whiled a few pleasant hours, and were disappointed to find it horribly Disneyfied, with music blaring from lousdpeakers installed on the lamp-posts up and down the cluttered streets. Then on up to Lake Elsinore, a drive along the lovely lake, and up into the mountains to the west of the lake, and down the other side to where we found the blue Pacific shimmering under beautiful clear skies to greet us home.

About My Poll

You may have noticed (I hope) the new addition to The Buddha Diaries' right-hand sidebar: my "poll."  Well, I'm no pollster, but the infamous Cardozo brought in the suggestion that we run a poll on The Buddha Diaries and I thought, why not?  The original question was whether there might be a Buddhist in the White House--these are, after all, The Buddha Diaries--but my wife objected that the scope was too narrow, so we broadened it, for the fun of it, to include those other religions.

Who could forget that during the presidential campaign--thankfully now past us--our now President-elect had to stave off rumors that he was, gasp, a Muslim!  (McCain, remember, said No, he's a good family man--as though those Muslims aren't.)  It's a battle that might not yet be over.  I caught a glimpse yesterday of the odious (sorry, un-Buddhist judgment--but uttered with compassion!) Ann Coulter airing her despicable (sorry!) views and repeatedly referring to Obama by his full name, emphasizing the "Hussein."  Would Thomas Dewey, she asked, with a splendid rhetorical flourish,  not have been questioned if his middle name had been "Hitler"?  An excellent point, to be sure.  Speaking of the appearance later, my wife expressed her outrage that this "witch" should be given national television air time.  I felt the "w" should be traded for a "b."  What have witches ever done to deserve this insulting association?   But then, of course, by the same token, what have she-dogs ever done to deserve the same?

Coulter aside, I am delighted that we will have lodging in our White House a new family that is not of the usually accepted skin color and ethnicity.  It does worry and offend me, though, that an avowal of Christianity still seems to be the sine qua non for election to that office.  Why NOT a Buddhist?  Buddhists are good people.  They are honest, hard-working, smart, compassionate... all qualities I would have thought to be essential, especially after the example of the past four years.  Jews are pretty smart too, some of them, I've heard.  And let's not get into the stereotypes about their astuteness ("astuity"?) in money matters, in the light of our economic woes.  And for God's sake--or Allah's--why NOT a Muslim?    

(As aside from the question of religion, it goes without saying that the office still remains open only to heterosexual males.  We got close to breaking the gender barrier, and I fully expect that one to fall pretty easily, once the right candidate comes along, with the right agenda for the country.  But how about Adam and Steve?  Or Eve and Adeline, no matter what religion they espouse, or lack of it?)

Speaking for myself, I'd generally prefer a President who defers to no God.  Atheists have values too.  I happen to be one of them.  I'm sure that some of us unbelievers have family values at least as admirable as those of evangelical Christians.  But if our Presidents-to-be do have to embrace religious convictions, I would be happier if they kept them to themselves and didn't make a public issue of them, let alone policy.   I'd also prefer it if they made a point of practicing what their religion preaches: I know of none that does not have human compassion at its core, and the principle that we should do unto others as we would have them do unto us.  (Which is a little different from the eye-for-an-eye theory that we should do unto others what they have done unto us: a subtle distinction!)  As we would have them do...

Which brings me back, unfortunately, to la Coulter, who sat there prominently displaying a crucifix at her throat, even whilst uttering the most un-Christian of sentiments.  And to our still-current "compassionate conservative" president (a small "p" for this one) who brought us bloodshed, pitiless penny-pinching for the dispossessed, and generosity for the wealthy.  So much for the love of Jesus as a criterion for the selection of our leaders.  

Anyway, please vote in my poll, just for the fun of it.  ALSO, if you other bloggers feel so inclined, I'd be grateful if you could spread the word...

Fresh Air

I just made a contribution to The Fresh Air Fund in honor of Ellie's birthday. I'd be more than delighted if fellow-bloggers would consider taking a look at this organization and supporting it in whatever way possible. Its goal is to afford at-risk inner city children the opportunity to experience the educational and healing powers of nature in the context of temporary residences with caring host families. A contribution, a banner (which I intend to add myself,) an online reference, a further referral to those who read your blog... All these things could create a small current of assistance--and I wouldn't object to a large one. Happy Birthday, Ellie!

(Please also note the informal poll, in the sidebar to the right. More about this later...)

Watching...

... The Story of India on PBS. Saw the first episode and a half last night, and am recording the series. I was born at a time when India was still a part of the British Empire (!) and most of what I knew about the country, growing up, was what I read in Rudyard Kipling and the Mowgli stories--not to mention the Mowgli films starring Sabu. It was, in my child's imagination, a country of bejewelled maharajahs and tigers and black panthers in the jungle. Much later, I learned about the Raj, the period of British rule in India, Gandhi, and the struggle for independence. Later still, with a growing interest in the spiritual heritage of the eastern world, I learned something of the traditions of the Hindu and, most recently, the Buddhist teachings.

I have never visited India. Much aware of the huge problems of poverty, overcrowding, hunger and disease, I have always found it hard to reconcile what I imagine to be the realities of life there with the humanitarian wisdom of its intellectual and spiritual heritage. Still, this current series reminds me of the appeal of the country's lush landscapes and its brilliant colors, the intense proximity of life and death, the wealth of its history. It surprises me, too, with previously unknown stories of its prehistorical past, the loam in which the teachings of the Buddha germinated. It's a fascinating overview, well worth the watching. I'm looking forward to further episodes in the series.

Gaza

So what can we say about Gaza, except that it's a humanitarian heartbreak? First off, you can't have a neighbor continuously lobbing missiles into your back yard.  It's bad enough to have a neighbor who denies your right to exist, but to have one actively pursuing your destruction by acts of terrorism is intolerable.  There is an age-old right to self-defense.  Even essentially pacifist and non-violent Buddhism does not deny this right.  And did Jesus's injunction to "turn the other cheek" envision a situation of this kind?

That said, we get into the territory of the "disproportionate response."  The killing of large numbers of civilians is equally intolerable, and the heart condemns especially the violent death of children, even unintended.  The argument that the combatants, insurgents, call them what you will, choose to hide themselves and their weaponry in homes and schools, while likely true, rings hollow beside the images of suffering innocents.  The Israeli war machine seems cruel indeed when measured by the destruction that it causes.  

At this point, the who's right and who's wrong have ceased to matter.  We have reached the point where they effectively cancel each other out.  On the one hand, it seems clear that the Palestinians received the short end of the stick when the state of Israel was carved out of the land that was their home.  On the other, their leaders have persistently chosen violence and rejection over any negotiated settlement offer that has come their way.  

It seems that in this situation, the most basic of human--one might almost say animal--instincts prevail: territorialism, mutual distrust, hatred, rage.  The veneer of civilization shows itself to be thin indeed when everything that separates us from the animal world is thrust aside in favor of brute vengeance, prejudice and inflexibility.  (And there are good arguments to be made that animals are more humane than we!)  As in most human discord, the assignment of blame matters less than the resolution, and the urgent question now is how to put an end to a cycle of violence that does no one any good.  

The wisdom here suggests the practice of mutual forbearance, the suspension of all violence on both sides, and the creation of a breathing space in which both Israeli and Palestinian leaders can reappraise the true interests of the people they serve in the context of the teachings of their respective religions: the simple, shared injunction to do unto others as you would have them do unto you would surely provide common ground.  But I fear that in the current situation, this simplicity is too much to hope for.  

Stand By Me

This link was sent to me by a friend by way of a New Year's greeting card--with only the regret that none of the lead performers is a woman. I hope you'll find it as sweet as I did.

Where's Our Compassion?

My friend will remain anonymous, so I trust he will not object to find his story on The Buddha Diaries. It's a story that we need to pay attention to. A fellow meditator and a reader of these pages, he returned a couple of days ago from a Christmas trip to London with his wife. I received an email from him the morning after their return, in which he told me that his wife had taken a fall on the steps down to the Underground at Piccadilly Circus, and had suffered two broken bones in her arm as a result of trying to break the fall.

I called at once to inquire after her recovery, and was pleased to hear that Britain's National Health Service--along with several of my (former) fellow-citizens--had proved both caring and efficient. I'm well aware that what is dreaded over here as "socialized medicine" is not without its failings, but my friend had nothing but good words for the English version. Bystanders, he said, who had witnessed the fall, had readily stepped in to help while he hurried off to summon the police from the Underground substation, and the bobbies (are they still called that, in the UK? It sounds so... well, innocent!) led her off to their station until the ambulance arrived.

At the hospital, I gather, bones were set and casts applied with professional dispatch, allowing my friend and his wife to be ready for their planned return flight--all at no cost, save that of medications. As visitors to the UK--and therefore as non-payers into the health system--they were amazed and gratified by the treatment they received.

Imagine their chagrin, then, after a long and I imagine highly uncomfortable flight back from London, they spent hours on the telephone--this on a holiday weekend, true. But even so...!--trying to set up a follow-up appointment with an appropriate American physician. No luck. As my friend explained, on the telephone, local doctors were reluctant to take time for a Medicare patient. They could probably have checked her into Emergency, but she naturally wanted the attention of someone trained in the right area of expertise.

Now, I understand, after a weekend spent with a painfully swelling arm, she is hopeful of getting an appointment tomorrow, Monday. Hopeful.

I was certainly happy to hear that the health care system in my country of origin served them so well at a moment of crisis and, while unsurprised, both sad and angry to hear that our health system over this side of the Pond provides so negative a contrast. I think not only of our friend's plight but, by extension, those millions of other Americans, many of them indeed less fortunate, whose legitimate needs remain ignored or treated with indignity and haste. I know that there are many other pressing problems on Obama's list, when he takes office in a couple of weeks. But I hope that this one remains at the top. It's a disgrace that we, the richest country in the history of the world, have been so stubbornly resistant to what every other developed country sees to be a basic necessity and a human right.

Come right down to it, it's a matter of compassion being put to work. It's a sad reflection on our culture that we lack the humanity to take care of our own.

Milk

I sat through Milk with the knowledge, of course, that this dedicated, charismatic leader would be killed before the movie ended, so there was some inner resistance to getting too attached to him. Still, the incredible performance by Sean Penn left me no choice: I was totally seduced by the man's infectious enthusiasm, his compassion and his joie de vivre, as much as by his dedication to the cause that came to consume his life. The film left no question about his historical contribution to the advancement of freedom in a country that had respected it, for many of its citizens, in name only. Alas, as the passage of Proposition 8 so recently reminded us, the truth of "Milk" is as alive today as it was at the time when its hero was triumphantly elected to the San Francisco Board of Supervisors: we Americans gladly pay lip service to ideals that, when required to practice of our humanity, we all too easily abandon.

The film, though. In part it's the story of a rocky, life-long love affair, interrupted by Milk's realization of his mission and his single-minded dedication to the cause of gay rights. In part it's the story of that movement itself, in its raucous pioneering days in San Francisco--a time when gay men and women said Enough and protested and marched their way to the first glimmerings of the victory that still, it seems, awaits them. In part it's the story of the conflict between two men, Milk and his fellow supervisor, Dan White, whose right-wing conservatism and neurotic homophobia set the two at odds and lead, eventually, to the infamous double murder of Milk and then-Mayor George Moscone.

All three stories converge in the character of Milk, and Sean Penn's powerful portrayal of the man's human strengths and weaknesses lends them compelling credibility. I realize that it's a bit of a cliche to say that a film is about "the triumph of the human spirit," but the well-worn cliche does capture something of the essence of "Milk." As a audience, we are captivated by the sheer force of this character and his beliefs. His death comes as no surprise, of course, at the end of the movie, but is no less affecting for the anticipation: there were audible sniffles in the theater all around me, and I was aware of the tears gathering in my own eyes. The solemly silent candle-light march of tens of thousands on City Hall that followed the announcement of his death was equally moving--and a vital demonstration that the spirit that was Harvey Milk lived on. And indeed lives on today. Would that he were no longer needed in our society.

I'm sitting a lot these days with that notion of service. Those who follow The Buddha Diaries will know how much it has been on my mind. Harvey Milk was by any standard a man of service, who made the most of the time he was given on this earth to create something of great and lasting value to his fellow human beings. I'm choosing to believe that our Barack Obama is a man of comparable dedication, and my hope for the coming year is that he will be able to inspire the same in the rest of us.

Happy New Year...

... everyone!  I'm feeling good about the prospects for 2009.  Things may well get worse for a good while yet.  The damage left by Bush and his henchman is incalculable.  But I'm still confident that this will prove to be a year of change.  It will involve some pain and sacrifice, and it may not come fast enough for some, including myself; but I hope that we're all ready to do whatever is necessary.  If we sit around on our backsides and leave it to Obama, it's not going to happen.  He's not the Messiah.  He has no magic wand.  But provided that we Americans are prepared to pitch in and provide support, we can at least make a start on the long journey back to sanity and stability.  

Happy New Year, everyone!  And a healing one...