Last week James Dobson’s Focus on the Family unveiled a new video, created by Stuart Shepard who regularly makes videos for Dobson’s group. In the video, Shepard asked politically conservative Christians to pray for rain on August 28 to disrupt Barack Obama’s acceptance speech at the Democratic National Convention in Denver. Shepard called for “abundant rain, torrential rain … flood-advisory rain.” He added, “I’m talking about umbrella-ain’t-gonna-help-you rain … swamp-the-intersections rain.” This is because Dobson and Shepard are pro-life and in favor of marriage being between a man and a woman. Because Obama has a different point of view on culture war issues, they want God to bring down his wrath upon him in the form of a great rainstorm.
I didn’t see the video, which was pulled by Focus on the Family after Keith Olbermann featured Shepard on his Worst Persons in the World segment on Countdown last week.
Here they go again, the zealots of religious right. Wasn’t it just three years ago that they were blaming Katrina on the gays, the abortionists, and the other sinners taking up residence in New Orleans? Of course, many others, including supposedly rational meteorologists and TV commentators, blamed Hurricane Katrina on Mother Nature, and not God, though few of them were probably Goddess worshippers. Whenever something terrible happens it is either God’s wrath on some group some other group doesn’t like, or it is Mother Nature’s fault, because we haven’t been treating her that great either.
On September 13, 2001, Jerry Falwell and Pat Robertson blamed the attacks of September 11 on “the pagans, the abortionists, and the feminists, the gays and the lesbians ... the ACLU, People for the American Way ... you helped this happen.” Their point was that because all these people had disrespected God and his laws, he was bringing down his wrath upon us. Falwell said, “God continues to lift the curtain and allow the enemies of America to give us probably what we deserve.” When I heard this crap the first time, I couldn’t believe that responsible public figures could be that ignorant. But Falwell and Robertson never disappoint when it comes to manipulating their ignorant followers with God’s wrath.
Many months ago, the Democratic Party planned to have its convention in Denver, and months ago, Obama planned to give his acceptance speech in Mile High Stadium (I like the old name better). I don’t know if he prayed for good weather. I don’t know if he asked his closest friends and supporters to pray for good weather. He certainly didn’t go public about it if he did. However, he did have perfect weather for this event, and it went off, on schedule, on time, without a hitch from God, Mother Nature, or anyone else.
Many months ago, the Republican Party also planned their convention for this week in Minneapolis-St. Paul. Again, I have no idea who prayed for what. However, God or Mother Nature is sending Hurricane Gustav into the Gulf of Mexico and heading right for New Orleans, the symbolic site of Republican indifference, ineptitude, and failure. This natural event is disrupting the RNC, and causing the Republicans and John McCain to change their agenda. Is God punishing the Republican Party for their failure to help the people of New Orleans three years ago? Is God or Mother Nature punishing the Republican Party or John McCain for being wicked? It seems more likely than not.
If you think you know what God is “thinking” and clearly George W. Bush, Dobson, Falwell, and Robertson have at times presented themselves as being closer to the deity than the rest of us, then why isn’t what is happening now, clear evidence that God is not happy with the Republicans and the way they are doing things? Conversely, he must be very happy with the Democrats, and what they are doing.
The evidence seems clear. Good weather for Obama when he really needed it, and bad weather for McCain. Everything at the RNC was indoors, and the storm will never get to Minneapolis – St. Paul. It would take an act of God to disrupt the RNC, and that is exactly what is happening – Hurricane Gustav – Category 3 or maybe 4 - New Orleans in danger again – forced evacuations - memories of past Republican failures. How could God have done it any better? Now, I can trust that God.
Sunday, August 31, 2008
Tuesday, July 3, 2007
Greed in a Pequot Village
A week ago our Land Rover needed to have some service done in Connecticut. Rather than go shopping at one of the nearby malls while we waited, Laurel and I decided to do something we have wanted to do for some time – visit the Mashantucket Pequot Museum.This museum would not exist but for America’s compulsion for gambling, and the related billion dollar bounty provided by the ten million annual visitors to the world’s largest casino, Foxwoods, owned and operated by the Mashantucket Pequots. It is a miracle that any of the Mashantucket Pequots survived to this day, after near annihilation in the 1637 Pequot War, enduring smallpox and other diseases from the Europeans, land theft, being sold into slavery, broken treaties, and being deprived of recognition that they even exist as a tribe. There is certainly some justice in their profiting from the weaknesses of their antagonists.
Herman Melville made reference to their decimation in Moby Dick (Chapter 16, The Ship), when Ishmael first comments on the name of Captain Ahab’s ship: “Pequod, you will no doubt remember, was the name of a celebrated tribe of Massachusetts Indians, now extinct as the ancient Medes.” Most people at the time, including Melville, thought the Pequots were gone.
In 1636, 10,000 to 15,000 Pequot lived along the estuaries of the Thames, Mystic, and Pawcatuck Rivers on the Connecticut coast. They controlled the fur trade (European men loved their beaver hats) because they controlled the rivers, and because they were proficient at making wampum, shell beads, the common currency of the time. By 1974, only 44 tribal members remained.
In 1982, Congress passed the Pequot Indian Claims Settlement Act, providing money to buy land to replace what had been taken, and granting them federal recognition. President Reagan vetoed the bill, but it passed again a year later, and became law in 1983. For more than 300 years, the European invaders and state and federal governments made consistent and organized attempts to exterminate the Pequot. That's history, but I didn't learn it in school.
On this dreamy summer day in Connecticut, driving to Ledyard was uneventful, but presented us with a stark transition. One hour earlier we had been in Farmington Valley with its upscale malls, fine restaurants, spas, and luxury homes. Now we were driving through sparsely populated, old rural communities with a church and For Sale signs.
Once on reservation land, we were amazed at the size and design of the casinos, Foxwoods and Mohegan Sun, just down the road, which protrudes from the land like a huge, dark futuristic skyscraper. Past the fantastic casinos, the three story, 300,000 square foot Pequot museum reflects the tribe’s interest in creating an architectural form that merges with the surrounding landscape, and represents their history and culture.
We entered the museum at The Gathering Space, a 75 foot high glass hall, designed as offset semi-circles, referring to the palisades of the Pequot fort at Mystic in the 1630’s. Paying for admission, we were promptly advised that being over 55 and AAA members got us a double discount. We saved $8. My thought was that most folks get fleeced at the casino before visiting the museum, so saving a few of their remaining clams is a nice touch.
Adjacent to The Gathering Space is The Tower, a 210 foot high observation tower with an elevator and stairs. We took the elevator. Familiar low hills covered with dense green trees were punctuated by a sprawling blue-roofed casino complex, as unpretentious as a giant plastic pink flamingo.I have gambled twice in casinos; in 1981 with some Japanese friends in a pachinko parlor in Osaka where, after an initial investment of 100 yen and flipping hundreds of silver balls for twenty minutes, I won a carton of cigarettes and a box of ball-point pens. The other time was on the CAT ferry from Yarmouth, Nova Scotia to Portland, Maine in 2003. The ferry’s casino had 71 slot machines. By comparison, Foxwoods is reported to have over 7000 slot machines. No waiting at Foxwoods.
Talking with the ship’s casino manager, he explained how the slot machines worked and the strategy involved. He said you put in your money, push a button, and within a few moments you find out if you won anything. There is no strategy, except to keep putting in money until you win. Always open to new experiences, I put in five dollars, and watched the flashing lights and images for what seemed like too brief a time for my reasonable investment. I lost, and I left. I have spent twenty-five minutes of my life in casinos. Perhaps I lack imagination, but I think my gene for greed is impaired.
In the Pequot Museum, a time line of galleries presents their long history on this land, and the disturbing effects of the European invasion on their way of life. The most unique and impressive exhibit in the museum was a full-size replica of a 17th century Pequot village, complete with realistic humans, animals, sound effects, water, and smoke.
Before entering the village, each patron is given a listening device and simple instructions on its use. Exploring the village is self-guided, and the pathways invite wandering. The recorded explanations are told in the present tense, providing an illusion of being transported back in time and space. The contemporary world fades away. It was a rewarding experience, even for a skeptic. The village reminded me of what has been lost, and of how grateful I am that the people who lived here so well are still willing to help us find our way.Ledyard presents some strange and wonderful convergences. In the 1970's the Pequots had lettuce farms, but they had a hard time getting their produce to market. They ran a successful bingo game on the reservation to supplement the tribal income. Now the Mashantucket Pequots, nearly destroyed by the greed of white settlers, own one of the most profitable gambling enterprises in the world.
Greed brought the Europeans here, and justified their aggression. The Pequot tribe, forced from its lands, and coerced to sell off the rest, are now buying back land and developing businesses. Some people are concerned with the negative impact of the casinos on their communities, and that they may be forced to sell their homes. Others worry that Native Americans may reclaim their land. This story is far from over.
In the 1987 film Wall Street, Gordon Gekko delivered his famous greed is good speech:
The point is, ladies and gentlemen, that: Greed, for lack of a better word, is good. Greed is right; greed works. Greed clarifies, cuts through, and captures the essence of the evolutionary spirit. Greed, in all of its forms, greed for life, for money, for love, knowledge — has marked the upward surge of mankind and greed, you mark my words — will not only save Teldar Paper but that other malfunctioning corporation called the USA.
With gambling and greed often comes compulsion and desperation. Greed begets more greed, without a moral compass to guide us (check out http://www.moralcompass.org/). We lost our social moral compass a long time ago. Hidden market forces and corrupt governments feed off our greed and fear of scarcity, shape our cultural assumptions, and force us to cooperate.
The Mashantucket Pequots have a moral compass. The land is not about money, it is alive, teaching us to care for our wonderful support system, to be mindful of ourselves and what is living all around us, and to freely choose altruism and cooperation. I must assume the Pequots know this. It is inherent in their oral traditions. Makes me wonder what might be next for the Pequots.
Walking out of the museum, Laurel and I talked about visiting the casino. We decided against it. The greed would have killed our high.
Friday, June 22, 2007
Being is Believing
Some people have expressed an interest in my experience with Rangjung Rigpei Dorje, the sixteenth Gyalwa Karmapa and the spiritual leader of the Karma Kagyu lineage of Tibetan Buddhism, who died on November 5, 1981. There is a great controversy regarding his reincarnation, and two men claim to be the seventeenth Gyalwa Karmapa. For me, there is only one.
In the winter of 1976, my psychologist friend Carl Silver asked me to co-teach with him. At Antioch Graduate School in Keene, New Hampshire, the course was entitled Spiritual Seeking and the New Psychologies. Carl and I prepared a syllabus and reading list, but preparing for lectures was a more spontaneous affair. The class met for three hours every Tuesday night. Carl and I would rendezvous in Greenfield, about an hour’s drive from Keene. I would bring a pint of fresh oysters, lemons, horseradish, and hot sauce, and Carl provided a six-pack of beer or a bottle of wine. Whenever the oysters in Foster's Market looked a little tired, I bought shrimp. On the way to Keene, we ate, drank, and discussed the quality of the shellfish. Driving into Keene, we would chose a topic and organize the evening's adventure. The class contained thirty students, including some of the graduate school faculty.
Carl liked to lecture, and I led the demonstrations. He talked about the history, practice, and efficacy of the evening's esoteric discipline, and I guided the class in a related exercise or meditation. The last half hour was usually for free discussion. One of our students was an adherent of Dharmadhatu Buddhist Meditation. He announced one evening that the Karmapa, head of the Karma Kagyu sect of Tibetan Buddhism would be visiting Boston in April to perform the Black Crown Ceremony, during which he would embody the Bodhisattva of Compassion. Centuries ago the emperors of China had proclaimed the Karmapa to be their spiritual teacher, and the Black Crown was the symbol of his station. Carl and I seized the opportunity and suggested that the entire class attend the ceremony. The students enthusiastically agreed, and arrangements were made for the field trip to Boston. The timing was perfect; we were running out of new psychologies and esoteric disciplines.
To prepare the class, Carl lectured on the different practices and expressions of Buddhism, and our Dharmadhatu student described his experiences. I used my hand to explain the Buddha's Four Noble Truths. Disappointment, anger, and fear can close a mind like a tight fist ready to strike, I began. The human condition of suffering is the First Noble Truth. Filled with the pressure of its own emotion, the fist cannot feel itself or its environment. Force is its strength. Having no intelligence or relative perspective, the fist is a poor weapon, an oversimplified expression of the emotions that drive it. Desire, wanting anything in the material world, creates frustration because nothing lasts, not even time. The Second Noble Truth maintains that the cause of all suffering is grasping and clinging. As the fist gradually relaxes, it becomes more aware of itself and its surroundings. It becomes an open hand — soft, flexible, and responsive. That suffering can be ended is the Third Noble Truth. Released from desire and suffering, the hand can move and create, using the strength and gentleness of the world around it. No longer aware of being simply a hand with limitations, it becomes what it always was — a being greater than itself, in harmony with life. Can we live with open hands, hearts, and minds, giving and receiving with the same gesture? The Fourth Noble Truth is the Buddha's Eightfold Path of self-realization, the way to end all desire. It tells us to walk the noble path with right understanding, right intention, right speech, right action, right means of livelihood, right effort, right awareness, and right meditation. The ultimate goal is total liberation — living in a constant state of oneness, nirvana, the awakening, Buddhahood.
The Black Crown Ceremony was held at the Rollerdrome in Boston's South End. Laurel and I arrived early and got seats toward the front. The hall soon filled with nearly a thousand people. We faced a four-foot-high dais covered with red and gold silk and a Tibetan prayer rug decked with candles and incense burners on either side. Monks in yellow robes guarded the area and scanned the audience continuously. The Karmapa might be in danger during this rare public performance. He was Tibet's third highest ranking religious leader, the Dalai Lama and Panchen Lama being one and two, respectively.
To the right side and just behind the dais, monks chanted and played Tibetan horns, inviting us to become quiet and attentive. The Karmapa ascended the dais and sat on a pillow. When I let my eyes relax and focus on a far-off point, I could see the luminous auras of people. The Karmapa's aura was a clear and rosy white with an edge of golden light. During the ceremony, while the horns blared and the monks chanted in their deep and resonant voices, he put on the black horsehair crown. He became the Bodhisattva of Compassion, and to my surprise and delight, his aura changed. He was prismatic, vibrant with every color in the rainbow, and tinged with gold and a soft cerulean glow that expanded outward. His energy seemed to touch everyone in the hall, and beyond. I imagined compassion spreading through the city, the country, and the entire world. Everyone in the building must have felt the remarkable power and grace of the sixteenth reincarnation of the "living Buddha."
After the crown was removed and the ceremony was completed, people were invited to come forward and receive the Karmapa's blessing. We waited a few minutes then Laurel and I got in line. People approached the Karmapa with their heads bowed, looking down at his feet. He would touch them lightly on the head, say a few words in Tibetan, and they would move off to receive a necklace of string and beads. As we moved along in the line, I noticed the Karmapa appearing tired and perhaps a little bored. He was giving to each person, but there was little exchange of energy or enthusiasm. I imagined that, even for a person of his superior spiritual development, this could be an exhausting experience. I whispered to Laurel, "When it’s your turn, look directly at the Karmapa and let him see you." Laurel knew I was talking not about her face, but about her heart and soul.
I prepared for our meeting by clearing my mind and grounding myself. A few minutes later, I stood before the Karmapa and looked up into his shining face and bright eyes. I smiled and he returned it. Then we had an extraordinary telepathic conversation.
"Exalted one," I began, "the Red Sox are in town and play Kansas City tomorrow. There's nothing like a baseball game in Fenway Park. We could just kick back for a while. How about it?"
Smiling even more broadly, the Karmapa replied, "Thank you for the invitation. Though it sounds quite enjoyable, I am a captive of obligation and my protectors. The monks keep me on a busy schedule, and I have little time for myself. They would never allow such a thing as a baseball game. For me, this life is not about ordinary pleasures and entertainment. I am the spiritual and temporal leader of my people and my duties are constant. I bless your kind heart."
"Of course, you are right," I said. "How foolish of me! You seem tired, and it was the first thing that came to mind. I feel deeply touched by your compassion and your humanity. In another place and time perhaps we could be friends. Please forgive me."
He almost laughed. He felt like a dream from my childhood, comforting me late at night, teaching me about things I had yet to learn. His face filled with light, and he said, "In another time and place we are certainly friends." We spoke without sound, but it seemed perfectly natural. Then, as we looked into each other's eyes, he put his hand over my head and lightly touched my crown. I felt the exquisite sensation of lightness travel down through my body and up to my head again, and my entire body moved into an ecstatic state. I floated about two inches off the floor, and connected effortlessly to everything around me. "This is being human," I realized. The Karmapa and I were sharing, in communion and bliss. It was his extraordinary gift.
Gradually, I felt the floor beneath my feet again, though I seemed to weigh about a quarter of what I did before he touched me. I thanked him for showing me what it is to be human. As I turned to walk away, I looked back at Laurel. She was smiling, almost in tears. Silently, she knew what to do. She looked up at the Karmapa, and he saw we were mates. I stepped away, and a monk placed a string around my neck. I looked into the monk's eyes. They were strong and clear, and though I was beaming with joy, he didn't crack a smile. I was just another blissed out guy. I waited for Laurel. The Karmapa touched her head, and I saw her body become light. She appeared to gently bounce up and down, her entire body vibrating. At that moment I knew that anything was possible.
We walked away together holding hands, then sat down. For several minutes we stared silently at the Karmapa. I noticed a few people were now looking up at the Karmapa when they stood before him to receive his blessing. He appeared brighter and more energetic. We couldn't talk about our experience for hours. Carl asked us about it, but we just smiled and exchanged pleasantries. "Wasn't it wonderful?" "Yeah, it was great." I wanted to tell him what a real person the Karmapa was, and that his life was a gift and an inspiring sacrifice, but I didn't think he would believe me. It was still difficult to trust the world with my treasures, and I didn't what to disturb the feeling of his touch.
Weeks later I was telling my spiritual teacher about my meeting with the Karmapa. He explained that at any one time there are at least seven and as many as thirteen fully realized human beings on the planet. The Karmapa was certainly one of them. I could imagine what it meant to be fully realized. When I was twelve years old, Ted Williams was the greatest person in the world to me. I think he was close to being fully realized. The Karmapa never got to see Ted Williams play baseball. If he had, what would have happened when these two fully realized human beings met? They wouldn't need to talk about enlightenment. Could they talk about baseball?
Without words, the Karmapa had given me the gift of humanity and had shown me the possibility of living in light. He didn’t need to talk about rules or abstractions. He was a man of action. His way was as clean and natural as Ted Williams swinging a bat. There was no flaw and nothing to discuss — being was believing.
In the winter of 1976, my psychologist friend Carl Silver asked me to co-teach with him. At Antioch Graduate School in Keene, New Hampshire, the course was entitled Spiritual Seeking and the New Psychologies. Carl and I prepared a syllabus and reading list, but preparing for lectures was a more spontaneous affair. The class met for three hours every Tuesday night. Carl and I would rendezvous in Greenfield, about an hour’s drive from Keene. I would bring a pint of fresh oysters, lemons, horseradish, and hot sauce, and Carl provided a six-pack of beer or a bottle of wine. Whenever the oysters in Foster's Market looked a little tired, I bought shrimp. On the way to Keene, we ate, drank, and discussed the quality of the shellfish. Driving into Keene, we would chose a topic and organize the evening's adventure. The class contained thirty students, including some of the graduate school faculty.
Carl liked to lecture, and I led the demonstrations. He talked about the history, practice, and efficacy of the evening's esoteric discipline, and I guided the class in a related exercise or meditation. The last half hour was usually for free discussion. One of our students was an adherent of Dharmadhatu Buddhist Meditation. He announced one evening that the Karmapa, head of the Karma Kagyu sect of Tibetan Buddhism would be visiting Boston in April to perform the Black Crown Ceremony, during which he would embody the Bodhisattva of Compassion. Centuries ago the emperors of China had proclaimed the Karmapa to be their spiritual teacher, and the Black Crown was the symbol of his station. Carl and I seized the opportunity and suggested that the entire class attend the ceremony. The students enthusiastically agreed, and arrangements were made for the field trip to Boston. The timing was perfect; we were running out of new psychologies and esoteric disciplines.
To prepare the class, Carl lectured on the different practices and expressions of Buddhism, and our Dharmadhatu student described his experiences. I used my hand to explain the Buddha's Four Noble Truths. Disappointment, anger, and fear can close a mind like a tight fist ready to strike, I began. The human condition of suffering is the First Noble Truth. Filled with the pressure of its own emotion, the fist cannot feel itself or its environment. Force is its strength. Having no intelligence or relative perspective, the fist is a poor weapon, an oversimplified expression of the emotions that drive it. Desire, wanting anything in the material world, creates frustration because nothing lasts, not even time. The Second Noble Truth maintains that the cause of all suffering is grasping and clinging. As the fist gradually relaxes, it becomes more aware of itself and its surroundings. It becomes an open hand — soft, flexible, and responsive. That suffering can be ended is the Third Noble Truth. Released from desire and suffering, the hand can move and create, using the strength and gentleness of the world around it. No longer aware of being simply a hand with limitations, it becomes what it always was — a being greater than itself, in harmony with life. Can we live with open hands, hearts, and minds, giving and receiving with the same gesture? The Fourth Noble Truth is the Buddha's Eightfold Path of self-realization, the way to end all desire. It tells us to walk the noble path with right understanding, right intention, right speech, right action, right means of livelihood, right effort, right awareness, and right meditation. The ultimate goal is total liberation — living in a constant state of oneness, nirvana, the awakening, Buddhahood.
The Black Crown Ceremony was held at the Rollerdrome in Boston's South End. Laurel and I arrived early and got seats toward the front. The hall soon filled with nearly a thousand people. We faced a four-foot-high dais covered with red and gold silk and a Tibetan prayer rug decked with candles and incense burners on either side. Monks in yellow robes guarded the area and scanned the audience continuously. The Karmapa might be in danger during this rare public performance. He was Tibet's third highest ranking religious leader, the Dalai Lama and Panchen Lama being one and two, respectively.
To the right side and just behind the dais, monks chanted and played Tibetan horns, inviting us to become quiet and attentive. The Karmapa ascended the dais and sat on a pillow. When I let my eyes relax and focus on a far-off point, I could see the luminous auras of people. The Karmapa's aura was a clear and rosy white with an edge of golden light. During the ceremony, while the horns blared and the monks chanted in their deep and resonant voices, he put on the black horsehair crown. He became the Bodhisattva of Compassion, and to my surprise and delight, his aura changed. He was prismatic, vibrant with every color in the rainbow, and tinged with gold and a soft cerulean glow that expanded outward. His energy seemed to touch everyone in the hall, and beyond. I imagined compassion spreading through the city, the country, and the entire world. Everyone in the building must have felt the remarkable power and grace of the sixteenth reincarnation of the "living Buddha."
After the crown was removed and the ceremony was completed, people were invited to come forward and receive the Karmapa's blessing. We waited a few minutes then Laurel and I got in line. People approached the Karmapa with their heads bowed, looking down at his feet. He would touch them lightly on the head, say a few words in Tibetan, and they would move off to receive a necklace of string and beads. As we moved along in the line, I noticed the Karmapa appearing tired and perhaps a little bored. He was giving to each person, but there was little exchange of energy or enthusiasm. I imagined that, even for a person of his superior spiritual development, this could be an exhausting experience. I whispered to Laurel, "When it’s your turn, look directly at the Karmapa and let him see you." Laurel knew I was talking not about her face, but about her heart and soul.
I prepared for our meeting by clearing my mind and grounding myself. A few minutes later, I stood before the Karmapa and looked up into his shining face and bright eyes. I smiled and he returned it. Then we had an extraordinary telepathic conversation.
"Exalted one," I began, "the Red Sox are in town and play Kansas City tomorrow. There's nothing like a baseball game in Fenway Park. We could just kick back for a while. How about it?"
Smiling even more broadly, the Karmapa replied, "Thank you for the invitation. Though it sounds quite enjoyable, I am a captive of obligation and my protectors. The monks keep me on a busy schedule, and I have little time for myself. They would never allow such a thing as a baseball game. For me, this life is not about ordinary pleasures and entertainment. I am the spiritual and temporal leader of my people and my duties are constant. I bless your kind heart."
"Of course, you are right," I said. "How foolish of me! You seem tired, and it was the first thing that came to mind. I feel deeply touched by your compassion and your humanity. In another place and time perhaps we could be friends. Please forgive me."
He almost laughed. He felt like a dream from my childhood, comforting me late at night, teaching me about things I had yet to learn. His face filled with light, and he said, "In another time and place we are certainly friends." We spoke without sound, but it seemed perfectly natural. Then, as we looked into each other's eyes, he put his hand over my head and lightly touched my crown. I felt the exquisite sensation of lightness travel down through my body and up to my head again, and my entire body moved into an ecstatic state. I floated about two inches off the floor, and connected effortlessly to everything around me. "This is being human," I realized. The Karmapa and I were sharing, in communion and bliss. It was his extraordinary gift.
Gradually, I felt the floor beneath my feet again, though I seemed to weigh about a quarter of what I did before he touched me. I thanked him for showing me what it is to be human. As I turned to walk away, I looked back at Laurel. She was smiling, almost in tears. Silently, she knew what to do. She looked up at the Karmapa, and he saw we were mates. I stepped away, and a monk placed a string around my neck. I looked into the monk's eyes. They were strong and clear, and though I was beaming with joy, he didn't crack a smile. I was just another blissed out guy. I waited for Laurel. The Karmapa touched her head, and I saw her body become light. She appeared to gently bounce up and down, her entire body vibrating. At that moment I knew that anything was possible.
We walked away together holding hands, then sat down. For several minutes we stared silently at the Karmapa. I noticed a few people were now looking up at the Karmapa when they stood before him to receive his blessing. He appeared brighter and more energetic. We couldn't talk about our experience for hours. Carl asked us about it, but we just smiled and exchanged pleasantries. "Wasn't it wonderful?" "Yeah, it was great." I wanted to tell him what a real person the Karmapa was, and that his life was a gift and an inspiring sacrifice, but I didn't think he would believe me. It was still difficult to trust the world with my treasures, and I didn't what to disturb the feeling of his touch.
Weeks later I was telling my spiritual teacher about my meeting with the Karmapa. He explained that at any one time there are at least seven and as many as thirteen fully realized human beings on the planet. The Karmapa was certainly one of them. I could imagine what it meant to be fully realized. When I was twelve years old, Ted Williams was the greatest person in the world to me. I think he was close to being fully realized. The Karmapa never got to see Ted Williams play baseball. If he had, what would have happened when these two fully realized human beings met? They wouldn't need to talk about enlightenment. Could they talk about baseball?
Without words, the Karmapa had given me the gift of humanity and had shown me the possibility of living in light. He didn’t need to talk about rules or abstractions. He was a man of action. His way was as clean and natural as Ted Williams swinging a bat. There was no flaw and nothing to discuss — being was believing.
Thursday, June 14, 2007
Seeing is Believing
Our cultural assumptions and values have led us to be more accepting of what we experience through popular media on television and the internet. We experience it as compelling and authentic, even though we are severely limited in how we are able to interact and respond.
Many HDTV ads describe enhancing our reality by making it more realistic, but in fact, it is not reality. It is just a technologically enhanced image and sound presentation. Our assumptions about what is real and values about passively received information may be inhibiting the sustainability of our culture. The high value we place on popular media may make us more vulnerable to propaganda, lies disguised as truth, ignorance, and corruption.
Why do I know anything about Paris Hilton, Anna Nicole Smith, and the Olsen Twins? They are the commercial entertainment that pays for the fake news. Why do most Americans still believe there was a 9/11 connection between al-Qaeda and Saddam Hussein? Is it because there are no YouTube videos to disprove it? Are we winning the war? Are there al-Qaeda sleeper cells everywhere across America? Will Scooter Libby be pardoned? More news in 90 seconds.
About three weeks after 9/11, I talked with a friend who lives in Manhattan about his experience that day visiting the World Trade Center site. He said it made him very angry and sad, but it also gave him a better sense of the reality. He urged me to do the same, if it was at all possible.
I love New York City. My mother was born and grew up in Manhattan. Many other family members lived there and left their marks. I had enjoyed many solo urban experiences as a young teenager visiting relatives in the city. My first legal beer in a bar was in McSorley’s on the Lower East Side. Like your first high, every other beer in my life pales in comparison. I met my wife in Central Park, and we shared out first kiss under a street light in Greenwich Village. It is all good.
For a few days after talking with my friend, I considered what it might be like to see the devastation. On that September morning, I had watched the attack on television like almost everyone else. Later I went to work at the Academy at Swift River and counseled the young men and women there, many of whom were from New York City area and had family and friends who worked at the WTC. No family members of students or staff died in the attack, though there were incredible stories of coincidence and fortuity.
I realized that the events of 9/11, this critical day in American history, were not real for me or for my family. Television, even stories from others who were there and saw it for themselves, had not provided the experience I needed to suffer, in the sense of feeling, what had happened. The only way was to be there.
About a week later in mid-October, I drove to the city in the evening with my family and stayed at my friend’s apartment overnight. We did not dine out in a fine restaurant, as we usually would. We left early the next morning and took the subway downtown to Canal Street, as close as we could get to the WTC site, more than 15 blocks away.
Walking by empty office buildings with broken and boarded up windows, seeing everything covered in dust, we were awed by how large an area of the city had been affected. We could smell and taste the ubiquitous dust, instantly collecting on our shoes and clothing, and though we were relatively silent as we walked along, we were all thinking and feeling the same thing – death was in the air. No television picture or diagram in a magazine could provide the same impression.
There were other people walking along, as well as firemen and policemen. There were no cars, except official looking vehicles and dump trucks. We came to the terminus, an improvised observation site about three blocks away from “ground zero”. We saw the trucks hauling away the remains of what had been a proud landmark of American prosperity.
We bought some bottled water from a street vendor and walked to a small nearby park, Washington Market Park I believe. We held hands and in silence prayed for the souls of the dead, we prayed for healing, and for peace, and understanding. Then we went our own ways within the park and each of us found an earth spot, a place where we felt connected. We meditated, wondered, and let ourselves feel the tragedy around us. We cried. My tears felt like the dry, acrid dust in the air. They gave no relief, and could not sooth the grief and desolation I felt. The sensations of death and destruction were visceral, like nothing I ever experienced.
Clutching a handkerchief to my nose and mouth, I did recall my deep sadness visiting Hiroshima Peace Memorial Park and Museum sixteen years earlier, but that was a reflection compared with walking through the looking glass this day.
As we wandered away from the site we came across FDNY Station No 1. Inside the firemen were selling T-shirts to raise money for the families of the fallen heroes. It was an optimistic effort, and we welcomed it.
We walked back to Canal Street, noticed the Chinatown vendors selling 9/11 souvenirs, and left the city early that afternoon. We could say little about what we encountered. Words were insufficient. My family said it was very difficult, but they appreciated the experience and understood it was the right thing to do.
I am a healthier skeptic now. When I hear a politician or pundit refer to 9/11 or I read some reference to the terrible events on that day, even the conspiracy theories, I could recall how I felt watching my TV as it unfolded, but even that memory does not compare to the day we visited the WTC site. That day I became aware of the cruel reality of senseless murder and destruction. The images on our televisions and monitors look real, but they are not. They are only sight and sound – no dust, no smell of death, no ghosts.
Many HDTV ads describe enhancing our reality by making it more realistic, but in fact, it is not reality. It is just a technologically enhanced image and sound presentation. Our assumptions about what is real and values about passively received information may be inhibiting the sustainability of our culture. The high value we place on popular media may make us more vulnerable to propaganda, lies disguised as truth, ignorance, and corruption.
Why do I know anything about Paris Hilton, Anna Nicole Smith, and the Olsen Twins? They are the commercial entertainment that pays for the fake news. Why do most Americans still believe there was a 9/11 connection between al-Qaeda and Saddam Hussein? Is it because there are no YouTube videos to disprove it? Are we winning the war? Are there al-Qaeda sleeper cells everywhere across America? Will Scooter Libby be pardoned? More news in 90 seconds.
About three weeks after 9/11, I talked with a friend who lives in Manhattan about his experience that day visiting the World Trade Center site. He said it made him very angry and sad, but it also gave him a better sense of the reality. He urged me to do the same, if it was at all possible.
I love New York City. My mother was born and grew up in Manhattan. Many other family members lived there and left their marks. I had enjoyed many solo urban experiences as a young teenager visiting relatives in the city. My first legal beer in a bar was in McSorley’s on the Lower East Side. Like your first high, every other beer in my life pales in comparison. I met my wife in Central Park, and we shared out first kiss under a street light in Greenwich Village. It is all good.
For a few days after talking with my friend, I considered what it might be like to see the devastation. On that September morning, I had watched the attack on television like almost everyone else. Later I went to work at the Academy at Swift River and counseled the young men and women there, many of whom were from New York City area and had family and friends who worked at the WTC. No family members of students or staff died in the attack, though there were incredible stories of coincidence and fortuity.
I realized that the events of 9/11, this critical day in American history, were not real for me or for my family. Television, even stories from others who were there and saw it for themselves, had not provided the experience I needed to suffer, in the sense of feeling, what had happened. The only way was to be there.
About a week later in mid-October, I drove to the city in the evening with my family and stayed at my friend’s apartment overnight. We did not dine out in a fine restaurant, as we usually would. We left early the next morning and took the subway downtown to Canal Street, as close as we could get to the WTC site, more than 15 blocks away.
Walking by empty office buildings with broken and boarded up windows, seeing everything covered in dust, we were awed by how large an area of the city had been affected. We could smell and taste the ubiquitous dust, instantly collecting on our shoes and clothing, and though we were relatively silent as we walked along, we were all thinking and feeling the same thing – death was in the air. No television picture or diagram in a magazine could provide the same impression.
There were other people walking along, as well as firemen and policemen. There were no cars, except official looking vehicles and dump trucks. We came to the terminus, an improvised observation site about three blocks away from “ground zero”. We saw the trucks hauling away the remains of what had been a proud landmark of American prosperity.
We bought some bottled water from a street vendor and walked to a small nearby park, Washington Market Park I believe. We held hands and in silence prayed for the souls of the dead, we prayed for healing, and for peace, and understanding. Then we went our own ways within the park and each of us found an earth spot, a place where we felt connected. We meditated, wondered, and let ourselves feel the tragedy around us. We cried. My tears felt like the dry, acrid dust in the air. They gave no relief, and could not sooth the grief and desolation I felt. The sensations of death and destruction were visceral, like nothing I ever experienced.
Clutching a handkerchief to my nose and mouth, I did recall my deep sadness visiting Hiroshima Peace Memorial Park and Museum sixteen years earlier, but that was a reflection compared with walking through the looking glass this day.
As we wandered away from the site we came across FDNY Station No 1. Inside the firemen were selling T-shirts to raise money for the families of the fallen heroes. It was an optimistic effort, and we welcomed it.
We walked back to Canal Street, noticed the Chinatown vendors selling 9/11 souvenirs, and left the city early that afternoon. We could say little about what we encountered. Words were insufficient. My family said it was very difficult, but they appreciated the experience and understood it was the right thing to do.
I am a healthier skeptic now. When I hear a politician or pundit refer to 9/11 or I read some reference to the terrible events on that day, even the conspiracy theories, I could recall how I felt watching my TV as it unfolded, but even that memory does not compare to the day we visited the WTC site. That day I became aware of the cruel reality of senseless murder and destruction. The images on our televisions and monitors look real, but they are not. They are only sight and sound – no dust, no smell of death, no ghosts.
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
Tagged
John Robison tagged me in response to Drama Mama, so here are 10 odd facts about me.
1. In 1976 I met the sixteenth Gyalwa Karmapa, Rangjung Rigpei Dorje. He was the spiritual leader of the Karma Kagyu lineage of Tibetan Buddhism, and the brightest, kindest, most enlightened man I have ever met. He touched my head and I lifted several inches off the ground. Thinking about him still makes me smile and my heart sing.
2. I have a naturally perfect bite. It was used as the standard in a national research study on bite abnormalities in 1962. Something has to be perfect about me – there are so many imperfections.
3. I spent a year of my life, 1967-68, on the most isolated piece of real estate on Earth – Johnston Atoll in the Central Pacific. The atoll has more unique species of fish than anywhere else. Everything manmade on the atoll was removed about 10 years ago. Now it is just for the birds and the fish again. I wish them all well.
4. I will not eat lima beans. I do like Brussels sprouts, and do not judge people for not liking them, particularly people from southern California. Brussels sprouts are at their sweetest and best after a killing frost in the late autumn.
5. I have no use for hula hoops, though I have been briefly amused by watching other people use them.
6. I started the Beanie Craze of 1954. I made my beanie from 3 red and 3 green corduroy triangles. I wore it everyday and soon lots of people were wearing beanies. It only lasted for two years.
7. I once collected antique griffin and dragon candle holders. I have more than 30. I don’t know why. I just liked them.
8. I don’t like to weigh myself. I am losing weight these days through diet and exercise, but the idea of measuring my weight and keeping track of it just doesn’t motivate me at all. It feels like watching the clock, which I also do not like to do.
9. I don’t have any phobias. I did once, but they left me because I wouldn’t feed them.
10. If I know your secret, I won’t tell it to anyone. I am very good at keeping secrets.
Since I am new at this, I do not know of any blogs besides the ones that have been recently tagged. I prefer to tag at some future time, rather than randomly tag someone I don't know. If this is bad form, please let me know.
1. In 1976 I met the sixteenth Gyalwa Karmapa, Rangjung Rigpei Dorje. He was the spiritual leader of the Karma Kagyu lineage of Tibetan Buddhism, and the brightest, kindest, most enlightened man I have ever met. He touched my head and I lifted several inches off the ground. Thinking about him still makes me smile and my heart sing.
2. I have a naturally perfect bite. It was used as the standard in a national research study on bite abnormalities in 1962. Something has to be perfect about me – there are so many imperfections.
3. I spent a year of my life, 1967-68, on the most isolated piece of real estate on Earth – Johnston Atoll in the Central Pacific. The atoll has more unique species of fish than anywhere else. Everything manmade on the atoll was removed about 10 years ago. Now it is just for the birds and the fish again. I wish them all well.
4. I will not eat lima beans. I do like Brussels sprouts, and do not judge people for not liking them, particularly people from southern California. Brussels sprouts are at their sweetest and best after a killing frost in the late autumn.
5. I have no use for hula hoops, though I have been briefly amused by watching other people use them.
6. I started the Beanie Craze of 1954. I made my beanie from 3 red and 3 green corduroy triangles. I wore it everyday and soon lots of people were wearing beanies. It only lasted for two years.
7. I once collected antique griffin and dragon candle holders. I have more than 30. I don’t know why. I just liked them.
8. I don’t like to weigh myself. I am losing weight these days through diet and exercise, but the idea of measuring my weight and keeping track of it just doesn’t motivate me at all. It feels like watching the clock, which I also do not like to do.
9. I don’t have any phobias. I did once, but they left me because I wouldn’t feed them.
10. If I know your secret, I won’t tell it to anyone. I am very good at keeping secrets.
Since I am new at this, I do not know of any blogs besides the ones that have been recently tagged. I prefer to tag at some future time, rather than randomly tag someone I don't know. If this is bad form, please let me know.
Wednesday, June 6, 2007
Baby Boomers, Divinity, and Bob Dylan
I was born 11 months after the end of World War II - a baby boomer. I was fortunate to survive infancy intact and not too damaged by the fears of my parents. I soon learned that if life was a battle between light and dark forces, most things were certainly shades of gray, a difficult and depressing vagueness of color.
My journey was not unusual. Many of us were trekking along, changing darkness into light, and returning to the darkness, again and again. Schools taught us to be good citizens, obey the rules, respect authority figures, wait your turn, and don’t cut in line — perfect lessons for growing a nation of factory workers and managers. The world, however, was changing. Computers and high technology introduced the Information Age and the time of American industrial domination was nearly over. By the end of my adolescence I knew that life demanded resourcefulness and creativity. In the mind and hands of a wizard, knowledge was worth more than gold. I had learned that pain passed away and revealed a blessing to the righteous. Distress was a call to be alive and fully conscious, if only for a moment. Joy was a gift I could offer to myself and others, and not an achievement. The challenge, I concluded, was to be divine.
The first time I saw divinity was when I looked into the eyes of my newborn daughter. I could have been blind and still known it. Compelled to ignore my emotions, words, and my entire conscious history, I allowed myself to be immersed in the sensation of being. I knew she was divine.
Two years ago, I could see the same divinity as I looked into the eyes of my dying mother. She was blind and still she knew it. Again, I was immersed in the sensation of her being. Nothing else mattered. She knew she was divine.
Last fall my family went to the Bob Dylan Show at the Mullins Center in Amherst. The show was not as compelling as a newborn child or a graceful death. Bob Dylan’s poetry has been there when I needed to imagine something in more than shades of gray – the remarkable sensation of being a leopardskin pillbox hat. Bob Dylan is divine, and I'm certain he knows it.
If conscious relationship is everything, as scientists and philosophers tell us it is, then an encounter with anyone or anything could provide meaningful and essential connections to our natural world. Having been taught to categorize, consume, and control in an attempt to manage my life, I learned to anticipate success and fear disappointment. Opening up to the here and now turned my life around. My hope is that we will re-sensitize ourselves to spontaneous engagement, and learn that in an apparently insignificant confrontation there exists a universe of fulfilling possibilities. Essentially, divine nature offers itself freely to those open and willing to enter into a relationship.
Disclaimer: The “divinity” mentioned above does not represent any specific religion, hierarchy, dogma, practice, theology, real or imaginary being; nor is it a fluffy white candy, usually made with egg white and nuts. In fact, the author assumes that no common definition of divinity or spirituality exists. This is one reason why Native Americans tell stories to their children and have a rich oral tradition. They do not write their stories down. I have been told many believe that once a story is written, its truth begins to die. Divinity is discovered in the unrecorded spontaneous sensation of being. I may keep writing this blog anyway.
My journey was not unusual. Many of us were trekking along, changing darkness into light, and returning to the darkness, again and again. Schools taught us to be good citizens, obey the rules, respect authority figures, wait your turn, and don’t cut in line — perfect lessons for growing a nation of factory workers and managers. The world, however, was changing. Computers and high technology introduced the Information Age and the time of American industrial domination was nearly over. By the end of my adolescence I knew that life demanded resourcefulness and creativity. In the mind and hands of a wizard, knowledge was worth more than gold. I had learned that pain passed away and revealed a blessing to the righteous. Distress was a call to be alive and fully conscious, if only for a moment. Joy was a gift I could offer to myself and others, and not an achievement. The challenge, I concluded, was to be divine.
The first time I saw divinity was when I looked into the eyes of my newborn daughter. I could have been blind and still known it. Compelled to ignore my emotions, words, and my entire conscious history, I allowed myself to be immersed in the sensation of being. I knew she was divine.
Two years ago, I could see the same divinity as I looked into the eyes of my dying mother. She was blind and still she knew it. Again, I was immersed in the sensation of her being. Nothing else mattered. She knew she was divine.
Last fall my family went to the Bob Dylan Show at the Mullins Center in Amherst. The show was not as compelling as a newborn child or a graceful death. Bob Dylan’s poetry has been there when I needed to imagine something in more than shades of gray – the remarkable sensation of being a leopardskin pillbox hat. Bob Dylan is divine, and I'm certain he knows it.
If conscious relationship is everything, as scientists and philosophers tell us it is, then an encounter with anyone or anything could provide meaningful and essential connections to our natural world. Having been taught to categorize, consume, and control in an attempt to manage my life, I learned to anticipate success and fear disappointment. Opening up to the here and now turned my life around. My hope is that we will re-sensitize ourselves to spontaneous engagement, and learn that in an apparently insignificant confrontation there exists a universe of fulfilling possibilities. Essentially, divine nature offers itself freely to those open and willing to enter into a relationship.
Disclaimer: The “divinity” mentioned above does not represent any specific religion, hierarchy, dogma, practice, theology, real or imaginary being; nor is it a fluffy white candy, usually made with egg white and nuts. In fact, the author assumes that no common definition of divinity or spirituality exists. This is one reason why Native Americans tell stories to their children and have a rich oral tradition. They do not write their stories down. I have been told many believe that once a story is written, its truth begins to die. Divinity is discovered in the unrecorded spontaneous sensation of being. I may keep writing this blog anyway.
Tuesday, June 5, 2007
Welcome and an Introduction
This is my first blog, so I humbly ask for your understanding and patience. I am a mentor, a counselor, a husband, a father, a small business owner, and a friend. My main occupation is being a mentor to startup adults, ages 18 and up, and their parents. My business is Strongbridge Associates LLC and you can visit our website at http://www.strongbridgeassociates.com/.
My work involves helping startup adults acquire self-knowledge, know their dreams, overcome obstacles, take healthy risks, and gain the confidence, serenity, and self-determination to embrace life and achieve long-term success. I have been working with struggling adolescents, startup adults, and their parents for more than 30 years. I love the work.
Though my work is important and I enjoy it, being a husband and a father is my greatest joy. My wife and I have been happily together for 38 years. Our two children are adults now, and are doing well on their own paths.
My friend John Robison http://jerobison.blogspot.com/, author of Look Me In The Eye, encouraged me to create this blog. I am the “insightful therapist” that introduced him to Asperger’s Syndrome ten years ago. John was not a client then and has never been. At the time, we were friends who enjoyed discussing a broad range of topics over lunch or dinner, and occasionally going on off-road trips in our Land Rovers. We still enjoy the same things, and our friendship has grown over the years.
In the future posts, I hope to express some thoughts about adolescents, health (physical, mental, emotional, and spiritual), imagination, society, family, honesty, love, reality, spirituality, and whatever else seems related to the "glue" keeping us stuck together on this warm and wonderful rock. I would like to hear from you, and to know your thoughts and comments.
Healing Bear refers to the bear totem of healing through introspection and the darkness. As we look within ourselves may we discover the healing nourishment provided by Mother Earth.
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