Musings

 I stayed home the day it happened.  My wife hurt her back the night before.  She needed me to stay home and take care of our newborn son.  He was just a few months old.  I saw the story of a “commuter plane” that apparently had crashed into one of the towers of the World Trade Center.  Nobody was sure what it was, what had happened.  There was just that plume of smoke.  A helicopter was flying around the tower, focusing on the smoke.  The feed was live.  I can’t recall the channel that I was watching, but I remember clearly standing there, attentively watching the television.  I am, after all, a New Yorker.  

I held my son in my arms; he’d woken up for a feeding.  I normally turned the TV on when I fed him.  I kept the volume low, of course, but I watched some times to keep myself occupied.  He often fell asleep in my arms, which is what he had done that morning.  He slept peacefully and quietly in my arms.  The tower with the plume of smoke was in the foreground, and the helicopter slowly panned around the building.  The second tower was behind the first, slightly to the right.  Then, out of nowhere, that second plane came, low and fast…

What have we learned in eight years?  I am not sure.  There is a video for a song called “War is My Destiny” on YouTube (http://tinyurl.com/mo4rk4).  It is a violent, vicious, brutal video.  But the story sums up what I believe we need to know.  The essence is this: revenge against acts of violence will breed the need for further revenge and more acts of violence.  It is a cycle, an ancient cycle that repeats itself throughout human history.  It pervades the history of the Middle East.  There are examples of it in the Bible.  It fed the war machine that consumed the Greek city states, Sparta, and Persia.  It is chronicled in myths and legends from around the globe.  It is a cycle that, by now, we should be able to see clearly.  Yet, as a species, we seem to ignore it…at least some do.  And it is those few who keep the cycle going.

There is no room for revenge or hatred or blood-lust in my heart.  I only have room for compassion, love, and a strong desire for peace.  I am sure that I am not alone in this.  There are many people on this planet, and many more of them would see this cycle end than see it continue.  Perhaps we will find our voice some day.  

I can only hope that my son never experiences a 9/11 like the one I did…like the one we all did.

In order to be angry, you have to be bound to a particular position or opinion that is in jeopardy.  Anger is often a response to a threat to our essential need to be right.  It isn’t anger that takes people over.  It is the need to be correct, to be redeemed, to be superior that consumes us in those moments when we succumb to this darkest of emotions.  Anger is just a symptom of something else that is eating away at our souls.

To stay angry, you have to be committed to your position.  You have to be obsessed with your correctness.  You have to be dedicated to emerging victorious over the opinions and views of others.  But the perceived wrongs upon which we become fixated can be buried deep if left unresolved.  The anger may subside.  We may superficially appear to have gotten past the momentary flare-up.  The reality, though, is that negative emotions buried under the surface will slowly erode the foundation of who we are.  Like a fungus or a plague, they will envelop and engulf us, rotting us from within.  Then, with little provocation and with seeming randomness, the unresolved issues come percolating to the top, and we reveal the extent to which the hidden injuries have affected us by displaying anger.  

My unsolicited advice to you is to embrace your emotions when they hit you.  Feel the anger of the moment.  Embrace it.  Allow it to reveal itself fully.  Then, consider the “why” behind your anger.  Consider what it would mean to your essential, spiritual self if you simply accepted the wrong against you as a manifestation of someone else’s hurt.  The vast majority of the time, the things others do to make us angry are much more about that other person than about us.  Understand that it is THEIR pain to deal with and that the wrong is their attempt to transfer that pain, to suck you into their misery.  Don’t allow yourself to be a victim of someone else’s injured, angry ego.

Someone gave me the following advice:
  
Focus on the injury
Send it your purest, most sincere love
Tell it that you are sorry
Ask it for forgiveness
Thank it for the lessons that it taught you

Then, release it.

Love is more powerful than hate.  Compassion is more powerful than anger.  Love and compassion directed at the self are the highest sources of healing.  

As with all healing, it begins with our attitude towards ourselves.

 “Life can only be understood backwards, but it must be lived forward.” –Soren Kierkegaard

Better yet, life must be lived in the NOW. The past does not exist, and the future does not exist. Both are mental constructs that are used to envision and describe states of being other than the NOW. They are illusions. Neither can be sensed in the present moment. They can only be glimpsed in their ephemeral, nebulous form. In focusing forward or backward, we deny what is right in front of us, what IS.

Fixation on past and future imply that both or either are better than living in the present moment, the NOW. How can that possibly be?  Fantasy is better than reality?  I cannot fathom this.  Yet, I fall into the trap all the time.  The possibility of what may come can never be more glorious than the here and NOW.  The memory of what was or could have been can never be more delicious that the experience of the present moment.

I had this very conversation with my oldest son the other day.  He soaked in the concept.  He had been angry at himself for messing around too much with a friend of his at school.  They had been warned, but they could not “help but keep talking with each other.”  So, they were separated.  My son was beside himself.  It had ruined his day.  He told me, “I’m so mad at myself for not listening to Mrs.Smith.”  He paused, then asked, “Dad, what was the Universe trying to teach me today?”  

Great question.  I thought for a moment.  I responded, “Perhaps the Universe is trying to teach you to not beat yourself up for something that has already happened and cannot be changed.  You are missing out on this time with your family because you are thinking about what is already done and allowing it to poison the present moment.”

He considered that.

I added, “When you are at school tomorrow, make sure you are present enough to think about how you want to spend your day with your friends.”  

He smiled.  “Thanks, Dad,” he said.  “I think that helps a lot.”

By our very human nature, we contemplate the past and plan for the future.  We always do so at the expense of the moment.  The best times of our lives are not the moments we spent remembering other moments.  The best times are those for which we were fully present.  That’s ironic, isn’t it?  Consider that we might have more memories if we just stopped remembering so much.  And if we spent less time looking forward to things that may or may not happen tomorrow, we might find that cool things are happening right now.

We miss out on a lot when we look everywhere but right in front of us.

It can’t be any more clear to me that the true nature of existence is masked so thoroughly by all the insanity in which we have chosen to submerge ourselves. Someone close to me has the opportunity of a lifetime, an opportunity to pursue what she KNOWS is her calling in life. It will cost her thousands of dolares americanos to do so.

But…can you put a dollar amount on spiritual fulfillment? On service to humanity that aligns to the core values of your soul? If you could pay $20,000 USD to get into Heaven, wouldn’t you do it? Twice that amount? Three times? I don’t mean to be sacrilegious. I simply mean to point out that there is no amount of money that we wouldn’t pay in order to achieve spiritual realization. Who cares about a few thousand dollars?

Easy to say, of course, in certain circumstances. My point, though, is that aligning heart and soul in service to humankind is not something that has a monetary value. It transcends legal tender. If it means that my loved one has to work a little harder to push imaginary numbers from one place to another in order to satisfy an organization’s need to acquire funds, then so be it. When we are all ground to dust, it won’t make a difference, anyway. So, with some planning and fiscal responsibility, this issue of money can be all but eliminated.

And that brings us back to the opportunity itself. Most of the things that matter in life can be achieved and experienced without spending a dime. Some require a nominal fee. Others might cost quite a bit more, but they are no less “worth it.” And we often get hung up on the specific event we want. That’s a matter of the ego. Once we get beyond that, the Universe will provide precisely the opportunity we need to move us down that path towards further enlightenment.

Sounds like New Age hooey, I know, but it’s true. Spiritual fulfillment and achieving life’s purpose are not tied to the world of form and the ideas that we and others hold about the value of a dollar. If we can look beyond that, then we can have everything we need. Like Cheryl Crow once sang, “It’s not having what you want, it’s wanting what you’ve got.”

Amen, sister.

Imagine that you’re a dude. You’re a prehistoric dude, hanging out with your tribe. You are dressed in animal hides, many of which you procured yourself. You’re pretty good at making scrapers, small stone tools that are used for scraping the flesh off of animals skin and scraping bark off of trees. You make your own scrapers, of course, because you’re old enough now. Not only that, the tool is customized to your grip. They just work better when you make them yourself.

You used a scraper when you fashioned your spear. A scraper helped peel the bark off of the long branch that eventually became the shaft of the spear. You took great care in removing the bark. You made sure that the bark came off in long, thin strands. Your grandmother showed you how to make a kind of rope by braiding strands of bark together. You made a rope and used it to affix the tear-drop-shaped stone to the business end of the spear. You split the end of the branch and wedged the round end of the stone in it. You used the thin rope to secure the stone in place. This spearhead itself was made by using a smaller stone to knock flakes off of a larger stone. You took your time and created the shape you wanted. All along the edge, you flaked the stone on both sides. You made sure the edge was sharp. The spearhead ends in a sharp point. The point can pierce tough skin, and the edges open the wound wide.

Your spear is a precision weapon, and, in your expert hands, it is deadly.

When the sun rises, you and several of the hunters in your tribe set out on a hunt. Today, you mean business. Today, you will take down a mastodon. You are scared. But it is a fear that you have overcome before. It is… exhilarating. With your emotions in check, you and your tribesmen are singularly focused on the task at hand. It has been so for many hunts before, and it will be so for many hunts to come. The hunters who came before you had this skill, and your bloodline will give rise to many men to come who will also share this ability.

Concentration. Focus. Single-minded determination to take down one of the greatest mammals that ever walked this Earth.

So, if you want to know why I can’t multi-task like my wife can, blame it on my ancestors…the hunters who came before me. Men just didn’t have the luxury of being all distracted during a hunt. I can’t help it if the men who came before me weren’t picking berries. I’m just a victim of The Mastodon Effect.

I get that nothing lasts forever. That’s an easy to understand. Shit breaks. Gotcha. But…what exactly am I supposed to do with the concept of impermanence in a spiritual sense? I think it’s supposed to help me in my pursuit of further enlightenment, but all it has really done is given me a headache.

The “I” that I think I am is really just an ego that is experienced by the consciousness that is the true “I.” My consciousness is a piece of the source manifested in this physical body. It will return to the source once this body has expired. The false “I,” the ego, will cease to exist, and it will be as if it never existed.

Or something like that. I don’t know. All I know is that a skunk started visiting my yard a few weeks ago. I wonder if that really does have anything to do with walking the talk.

“Son, where’s your buddy?” He likes to go to sleep with the same buddy every night: a cuddly white stuffed animal he’s been sleeping with since he was an infant. We tracked down an exact duplicate in an attempt to mitigate the risk of losing his buddy and his never being quite the same. We tried to integrate the new buddy one night by swapping old and new. We woke up to buddy entrails strewn about his crib and bedroom floor. He was 2 years old at most at the time.

“I don’t know. I haven’t tried looking yet,” he replied, busy with his wooden train set. I was laying down on my back on his bed looking up at the ceiling.

“Maybe,” he offered, “it’s up your butt and around the corner.”

He kept on playing, not so much as pausing to glance back at me. I stared at the back of his head. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t snicker.

I just about lost it…with laughter. I think I felt tears streaming down my cheeks. I can’t be sure as I started to lose consciousness from holding my breath. I am sure I was beet-red from trying to suppress my laughter.

When you aren’t paying attention, kids begin to turn into you. Provided you’re a primary caregiver, that is. I haven’t measured what my kids have picked up from their grandparents, for example, but I can tell you that my observation is that my boys are chock-full-o mannerisms and such that come from both their mom (ex: up your butt and around the corner) and their dad (ex: yeah…not so much). Most of them, you tend to overlook or not even notice, but some…some are just worth writing about.

There was nothing up my butt tonight. His buddy was sitting on the couch. She looked relieved.

What is a bird, anyway? I mean, what precisely makes a bird a “bird?” How do they earn that label? Is it a set of anatomical characteristics that define the creature? How about the chemical composition? How about some other obscure set of genetic information? My littlest knows nothing of these things, yet he knows a bird when he sees one. He says so. “Bird!” Simple cognitive test.

Cognitive. I think that’s the right word. Or, better yet, “cognitive construct” is the right phrase. Yes, that is what a bird is: a cognitive construct. It is culturally influenced. The word that is used is based on the language of the speaker. There may be more than one word to choose from, and they are most often chosen based on context. The audience or listener can influence word choice. There are a myriad different variables that affect which word is applied to the sensory input we label as “bird.” And the input can be visual, auditory, tactile, or olfactory. For those inclined, it’s also gustatory. You put all those fancy cognitive thing-a-ma-bobs together, and you come up with “bird.”

And we do it in a fraction of a second, without thinking.

Instantly. Mindlessly.

That doesn’t sound like a way to live life, now does it? When most people put pencil to paper and draw a face, their brains instantly begin to call pre-determined shapes. It’s as if our mind’s eye already knows precisely how to put a face together based on shapes and arrangements from the past. So, often, something like a self-portrait comes out looking nothing like the artist. Why? Because we draw with our memories, not with our eyes. We draw what we think a face should be and not the face we are looking at in the moment. Daniel Pink explored this phenomenon at length in his book “A Whole New Brain.” Our inclination and almost uncontrollable need to label everything around us works in precisely the same way. Once we hear/see/smell/touch/taste something, we know precisely the cause of the stimulus.

Or so we think. How often are we wrong?

When I was recently walking in the woods, I heard a beautiful bird song. It was high-pitched and melodic. It was the type of song you could imagine coming from the throat of a gorgeous Blue Jay or a regal Cardinal. We heard the call often as we walked. Towards the end of the hike, I noticed the sound coming from somewhere close to the path and very low down. It was so close, I could zero in one the approximate location of the bird. I looked and looked and strained my eyes, looking for the blue and red colors of the birds I suspected were singing the song. So, of course, I totally missed the chipmunk that was less than three feet away from me.

A chipmunk…a chipmunk was making that sound.

So, what exactly is a bird if nothing more than the label I apply to a stimulus my brain has processed. If I can instantly and mindlessly attribute a chipmunk’s sound to a bird based solely on experience and NOT direct observation, then how many other times do I do that each day and miss out on something special or magical? How many times do I judge without assessing truth in the moment? These cognitive processes serve us, for sure, but there is something to be said for not becoming blind to the times in our lives when a bird is not a bird.

I’ve learned that another one of my friends from high school is in the Middle East. He’s not a tourist. He’s not there because he’s a venture capitalist. He’s there because his government told him to go. And he serves.

I originally intended to sit here and type some leadership stuff, but I don’t know if I’m feeling that vibe any more. I’m sensing more like “philosophical shit” is brewing inside me. It reminds me of a conversation I had with a Buddhist today.

He brought up the topic of race in America. Heavy duty. He observed some one-on-one violence this weekend while in downtown Chicago with his family. A young white man and a young black man were fighting. I guess my friend and his family stumbled upon the crowd dispersing after the first round of violence. The young white man was picking up his backpack and walking away from the altercation. As he walked away, he yelled back over his shoulder, “Have a nice day, n****r!” He took a few more steps and hollered, “N****R!” Again, “HAVE A NICE DAY, N****R!” I guess he did this a few more times. Eventually, the young black man, clearly enraged, ran off after him. My friend grabbed his young son’s arm and his wife’s hand, and he led them down the street in the opposite direction.

In America, we can only talk about race and racism in very controlled circumstance. It is almost taboo to do so in public. We can only do it occasionally. We can only do it superficially. We can only do it when it’s a news story that gives everyone the opportunity to say, “Look at how bad racism is. Good thing I’M not that way.”

If none of us are “that way,” then how come so many of us are that way? It’s not just about “The Big Two,” either…White and Black. My Buddhist friend is from Asia. He’s had his fair share of pointless, hateful, racism sludge slung his way. All because…well, there’s no hiding that he’s Asian.

But there’s hiding for me. That is an odd feeling…to know that I can effectively skirt the race issue, if I wanted to. I was at a university in Florida the year some police officers beat a young Cuban boy to death. They kicked him in the face to hard and so many times there were shoe prints in his skin. I was at another University the day the verdicts in the Rodney King police trials came in and stirred up riots across the country in 1992. There were so many students protesting in the streets that the police took two steps back and just prayed. All the white kids stayed in the dorms, in their apartments, and in their frat and sorority houses.

Me? I went out into the street.

I got a lot of looks that night. See, I wasn’t of the appropriate ethnicity. At the time, I remember feeling disgust and outrage. I remembered how that beating in Florida made the Hispanic community there feel. I remembered how some local kids thought I’d make a good target since I wore a small leather flag around my neck that advertised my parent’s country of origin. So, in my brain, I felt that a part of me understood the anger they were feeling.

That night, I learned that empathy and brotherhood are two very different things.

I was with two friends. Eventually, standing out like sore thumbs got us noticed by the wrong group of guys. They walked up to us and said, “Hey! MOTHERF****RS! What do you think about THAT shit?” My friends froze. Speechless. Me…I just opened my mouth and hoped that what I felt would strike a chord. I talked about growing up Gringo in Mexico; about all the applications for which I never received callbacks when I looked for jobs; about the beating in Florida…I said some other stuff, but I was pretty scared myself. Whatever I said…well, they just looked at me. One of them said, “RIGHT ON!” And they kept going. My friends and I slipped off the main drag and all but ran back home. We didn’t say much else that night. We probably had a few beers and retired to our rooms. Something like that.

Racial tension is always just below the surface in America. Personal experience and simply paying attention to the world tells me that it’s not just here. It’s all over. And it just doesn’t make sense to me. If, one-on-one, everyone just wants to live their lives in peace, then why do we do the things we do? We either lie when we are facing each other or we lose our minds when we are in groups. Either way, I just don’t understand why. Pretty soon, I’ll have to explain it to two little boys. I guess I need to work with my wife and formulate a response. That’s a lot of responsibility. It’s one message we need to get right.

That’s a lot to ask from a philosopher in the basement.

I can’t help myself. The keyboard calls…

Last night, I spent the night in a hospital. It’s the first time I’d been in one of those because I was the one who required that kind of medical attention. Mercifully, even when admitted, I was the kind of patient who may or may not have REALLY needed to be there. But, if you had something spreading in your body that looked like what I had spreading in mine, you might have made the same decision I made. In the end, I am certain that I did the right thing. I use as evidence the fact that I am sitting at a computer in my own hope typing these words.

I can’t sit here long because my arm starts to feel warm and “not right” pretty quickly. I don’t think hacking away at the keys was what the doctor had in mind when he told me to keep my arm elevated and rested. Still, I felt compelled to sit down and write. A lot of things go through your mind when you’re sitting in a hospital bed alone. I’ll have to jot down some ideas so that I don’t forget some of the things about which I thought I should write. Maybe later…

More than anything, I just want to express my gratitude to the Universe and its many agents. You know who you are, and I love you all for doing your part. Without you, I am quite certain that I would have spent another night in that bed. I felt you with me last night, literally. I was enveloped in the warmth of your comfort and love. And your very, very hard work. I owe you.

I am grateful that I am home. I am grateful that I got to pick up my kids after school. I am grateful that we had dinner together tonight, preserving our Friday “Family Night” tradition. I am grateful that we all cuddled closely on the couch and watched “Ace of Cakes.” I am grateful that I put both of my boys to bed tonight. I am grateful that my wife is waiting patiently for me, allowing me to satisfy my desire to write. I better not push it. Before I know it, she’ll come barging in here, insisting I get straight to bed like the doctor ordered.

Doctor’s orders.

Fortunately, doc, nobody will be coming in to take my blood pressure in the middle of the night. Nope; not tonight. It might be my little guy exercising his right to make a midnight visit, but…you know what?…nothing would make me happier. I’ll gladly live with that “burden.”