Lecturing to Cows

By cosmic synchronicity, I was signed up to attend a five day silent meditation retreat when the congressional debt ceiling fight was entering the final stages. Normally, Buddhist retreats do not include news breaks, but I planned to take liberties. I downloaded a trusted political blog to my Kindle, my concession being that I would only check in once in the evening and not compulsively during the day.

Cloud Mountain Retreat Center can seem like a magical place, bamboo and giant fern gardens surrounded by a Northwest forest. The buildings were designed and build primarily by a master architect/owner. 

Walking path through ferns and bamboo

Mist Haven

The first day of the retreat is pleasant for me. When not sitting in the meditation hall, I'm out wandering, experiencing flashbacks from roughly twenty-five years of attending retreats here. The  dharma friends I've known now mostly exist for me in flashbacks; I don't know any of the other attendees at this particular retreat. I'm watching salamanders in the pond and raccoons on the boardwalk; politics is loosening its grip.

Salamanders rule the pond.

Completely unlike most meditation teachers, Jason Siff encourages us to allow whatever is happening, including thoughts, into our meditation experience. Once a day, we meet in small reporting groups with a teacher, but it is not a sharing group. The teacher focuses on three of four willing participants and explores in depth the individual's meditation sittings. The other students listen but do not comment. It gets very personal, but then no one is ever coerced into volunteering.

Some students report lots of spontaneous visuals in their meditations; lights, colors, surprising images almost dream like. I'm very thought oriented. My visuals are mostly memories associated with thoughts, and by the second day, I'm noticing how frequently my inner voice seems to be lecturing someone. About politics, usually. With the political lectures, or sometimes rants, comes agitation, restlessness, anger. In my real life, these rants are not always internal, of course. There is an obsessive quality about my behavior, and I see a comparison with some avid sports fans that I wouldn't want to know.

On Sunday evening, I check my political blog for news of the debt ceiling drama. The Daily Kos has the details of the final bill now, with both Harry Reid and Obama saying they would support it. I'm incredulous; in shock. Incredulity turns to outrage that the Democratic leaders could sign such a horrendous bill; that this is where we've landed. It's nine o'clock in the evening; I'm sitting in noble silence with other retreatants who are peacefully reading dharma books and sipping tea. I can't talk to anyone, I couldn't possibly go to sleep, and I have to move.

In daylight, I love walking on the boardwalk by the pond. It's dark now, so with flashlight in hand, I practically fling myself down the path, and upon reaching the boardwalk, begin to pace. And in silence, I begin a very loud, angry internal rant at all the players involved in this political travesty. At home I'd be having a stiff drink, but here I have to walk briskly up and down until the adrenalin finally dissipates, and I can sleep.

It's apparent to me that this is not a good way to run my life. As I walk and sit with my experience the next day, I'm calm and reflecting that while politics is not personal, I have made it so. I'm a play-by-play political activist, and I don't wish to give it up anymore than would a serious baseball fan want to just stop paying attention to the game. I don't "think" about a solution so much as I just sit with an intention to change my relationship to politics; to view it, perhaps, in a different mental and emotional framework.

As I was sitting in meditation on the final morning of the retreat, an entirely appropriate memory surfaced. I spent my childhood in a house on about twenty acres of land, and in the summer, the owner of the property would graze cattle in the fields. At age eight or nine, I liked to stand up on the burned out barn frame with the herd of cattle milling about below me. I would lecture to the cows. I don't remember the lectures, but I do remember that the cows were a great audience. They watched and listened to me with rapt attention; they seemed spellbound. The cows, of course, were just trying to figure out how dangerous I might be so that they'd know when to run.

Even though it is my intention to shift my reaction to politics, it has occurred to me that I might look about for the closest herd of cattle I can find near my home. Maybe I could take up lecturing cows again, thereby sparing my family and friends.

Cows listening to a discourse on the new era of hostage politics.

We Are No Smarter Than We Appear To Be

From The Devil's Dictionary, pub. 1911, a satirical "reference" book written by Ambrose Bierce.

 

Brain: noun. An apparatus with which we think that we think.

Mind: noun. A mysterious form of matter secreted by the brain.

Ambrose Bierce was an American editorialist, journalist, short story writer and satirist. He died in 1913 and had probably never met a neuroscientist. Not that no one was studying the human brain and nervous system in the early 20th century, but not with the funding and technology that give neuroscience such appeal today. At least one out of every three smart people chooses to study neuroscience, though that's just my rough, entirely inaccurate estimate based on absolutely no data whatsoever. All branches of neuroscience have impressive "certified smart person" titles: neuroengineering, neuroimaging, neuroinformatics; cognitive, computational, or molecular neuroscience. Taken together;  

The task of neural science is to explain behavior in terms of the activities of the brain. How does the brain marshal its millions of individual nerve cells to produce behavior, and how are these cells influenced by the environment...? The last frontier of the biological sciences—their ultimate challenge—is to understand the biological basis of consciousness and the mental processes by which we perceive, act, learn, and remember. — Eric Kandel, Principles of Neural Science, 4th ed.

I would think that everyone with a brain would find neuroscience at least somewhat interesting; and to some of us, fascinating. For an intense hit, I read Incognito: The Secret Lives of the Brain by David Eagleman, but for fun, I cruise around in Neuroscience for Kids. http://faculty.washington.edu/chudler/neurok.html. All the golly gee facts and miscellaneous brain trivia as well.

The statement, "We use only 10% of our brains" is false; it's a myth. We use all of our brain. Somehow, somewhere, someone started this myth and the popular media keep on repeating this false statement. According to the believers of this myth, if we used more of our brain, then we could perform super memory feats and have other fantastic mental abilities. But the physiology of brain mapping suggests that all areas of the brain have a function and they are used nearly all the time.

  So just put that 10% myth to rest. We are no smarter than we appear to be.

The brain weighs about 3 lbs. 

Read the label. Compared to most junk food, the brain is made of very simple, straightforward components; obviously completely organic and natural.

Water 78%
Lipids (fats) 10%
Protein 8%
Carbohydrate 1%
Inorganic salts 1%
Other 2%

Such a deceptively ordinary looking list of ingredients. Maybe it's the 2% Other that turns simple gelatin into the amazing organ that we take for granted until we experience a subtle slowdown in brain function; or worse. But our brains are like pie dough in that even with a short list of basic ingredients, neuroscientists inform us that each brain is unique.

•  No two brains have exactly the same outside appearance. 

• Each brain will have a different number of cells. Neurons probably die at different rates in different people. 

• Though the general circuits and connections among different parts of the brain will be fairly common among different brains, the specific connections in regard to the neurons and number of connections with each neuron will be very different for each individual, and can even change over the life of the person.

• The apparent variation in the nervous system on the molecular level is large as well. Differences in receptor distributions, neurotransmitter and neurohomone levels and perhaps even cell adhesion molecules may all contribute to the individuality of each brain and person! 

All of these variables in brain function taken together allow humans to experience an infinite muddle of worldviews whereupon everyone else seems like a fanatic. How can we be expected to compromise with other people whose receptor distributions are so different, whose neurotransmitter levels are clearly out of whack, and who don't have nearly as many neuron connections as we do?

Excessive Personal Service

Since becoming the treasurer for my homeowner's association, I'm spending more time at my local bank than I did before. I recently took Makenna on a banking excursion with me; still an exciting prospect for her.

"I'm just going to deposit a check," I told her. "Won't take long at all."

Immediately upon entering the bank, Makenna and I are approached by an earnest-looking young man in a perfectly fitting, dark suit. He is eager to help us, and leads us to his intimate little banking table. There's no line at the tellers' window but the bank guy is apparently looking for something to do.

While I'm digging in my purse for the envelope with check and deposit slip, the bank guy starts a conversation with Makenna. She tells him she's nearly five, she tells him about pre-school and how it's hard to listen to the teacher, and then about some of her misgivings concerning kindergarten. The young man is charmed and seems to forget me entirely. He calls over a fellow banker person to bring round the basket of lollipops. Makenna is clearly impressed that banks carry lollipops. She comments that her favorite flavor is pink, and that her little sister, Sophia, can not have lollipops because she might choke.

The bank guy is finally ready to take my deposit, and he now makes the trip over to the teller himself. To save me the long walk? He doesn't wait for the teller to do this simple procedure, but comes back to the table and pulls up our HOA account. He begins to advise me about things I already know regarding required signatures and such. Slow day at the bank; excessively personal service. I do have a question about online banking and we take up bank talk.

Makenna decides it's time for full disclosure.

"She's not my mother," she informs the bank guy, "She's my grandmother." Makenna is not sure he understands, so she appeals to me, "Tell him I don't live at your house; I live at my house."

The young banker is fully in banker mode now and doesn't comment on this surprising news. He remembers to take the long walk back over to the teller's window and pick up my deposit slip. My won't take a minute bank deposit, turned comprehensive banking experience, is over and we're out the door.

"Well," I said, "Now you've been to the bank."

"Yes, but there were no fish in there."

"You were expecting fish?"

"You know, swimming around in tanks."

"I'll take it up with the bank guy."

Makenna with fish at the zoo.

Scenes from a Reunion

We timed our reunion perfectly to collide with a major late winter storm that shut down the power and caused landslides and flooding, but ended the week with a string of idyllic, sunny days in the 80's. We had rented a house near Jenner, high in the hills on the Pacific coast in Northern California.

House near Jenner by the Sea

My brother, aged 75, believes he has a built-in, hard wired expiration date, but unlike the simple milk carton, that date is not in plain view. And so, with our expiration dates lurking, my brothers and sisters and I gather periodically while the circle is still unbroken. As the six of us are geographically scattered, we can only converge by strategic planning, starting months in advance.  


The designated gathering day began with news that our elegant, yet reasonably priced rental house had become abruptly inaccessible due to a wide-spread power outage; the fix-it date was uncertain. My sister, our official retreat manager, went to check out our options but dropped her cell phone in a puddle and was forced to rely on antiquated phone booth technology with the inconvenient necessity for exact change. The rest of us kept our cell phones out of puddles and waited for guidance. Off season motel vacancies in Monte Rio gave us refuge for two nights; modest accommodations, perfectly adequate for exhausted travelers. When power was restored, our classy, upscale relocation left us giddy even as the hard rain continued to box us in for another day. The summer-like days that followed were golden.

On a balmy day, overlooking the ocean.

My memories of the reunion don't fall in a straight line, of course. I experience random memory clips with a very personal point of view, and relive them as if they are happening now:

My oldest sister, brother-in-law, and I are sitting in a not cozy, supermarket coffee nook, wet with accumulated rain and snow, listening to locals talk of the storm and power outage that has temporarily derailed our reunion gathering. Another brother and his wife are in the air, out of communication, and not yet knowing we have no clear destination at this point. I am not a graceful plan switcher. I am feeling somewhat despondent as I wait for my other sister, our retreat manager, to call from yet another phone booth, scraping for coins. We decide to adjourn to the local library to wait for further instructions; we are all avid readers and libraries are soothing. It is usually my intention to make the best of whatever happens, but sometimes I feel like the sorcerer's apprentice with the lemons coming in faster than I can make the lemonade.


My two sisters and I are somewhat aflutter as we attempt to work out sleeping and eating arrangements with our affable, chatty proprietor at a wide-open, off season motel. It's been a long day with no lunch, too much coffee, still feeling cold and damp and we all forget to ask for our rightful discounts. Our brother, the horse-trader, arrives and takes up the following night's negotiations with the affable proprietor, scoring all possible discounts. "Ah, you sent your tough guy," says the affable proprietor gamely.

Dinner for eight; no problem.

It's our first night with all siblings and assorted in-laws present and I am cooking a spaghetti dinner for eight in a wee small convenience kitchen at the off season motel. Conversation in the large one room unit has the hum and good cheer of a successful party. I share the feelings of good cheer but am focused on the sauce and on keeping the dinner organized. When the food hits the table, my mind goes immediately off duty. I'm lighthearted; I'm home again. It's the rare occasion where we can reminisce about our ghost, given that ghosts are generally an awkward topic of conversation. We grew up in a very large, old brick house where a ghost we couldn't see walked about in seemingly heavy boots that we could hear distinctly. He rocked invisibly in the rocking chair, threw boxes and shoes about in upstairs rooms, and once sang with a disembodied voice above our heads. Our in-laws practice admirable forbearance; they've heard the ghost stories many times.

We've made it to the hill top house with walls of windows; the cold, steady rain persists. People talk, eat, drift off to read, rejoin the conversation. I'm photographing the readers. Later, when a friend saw the pictures on Facebook, she was incredulous. "Didn't you have a tv?" she asked in wonderment. I guess so. It was upstairs somewhere. Never thought about it.



The storm front has finally passed, the sun came out and we're free to roam about the countryside! Definitely fortuitous; I'm feeling the introvert's need for space and time alone. The rental house is part of a gated community, a pricey collection of homes scattered artfully along a steep, winding road that makes a fine morning walk. I occasionally encounter a gated community resident as I pass the homes; I pull out my relax, I'm not riffraff smile, nod, and move on. Near the top, my view down to the Pacific Ocean is unobstructed. With a reasonably short ride, I could be walking on the beach below, but I am perfectly content to wander the hills and not get into a car again until I'm forced to.

My three brothers and sister-in-law depart, to return at the end of the week. My two sisters and I amuse ourselves by doing laundry and hanging it to dry on a clothes line on the deck. Had we been using an old hand wringer washing machine too, we'd really have been reliving our childhood. I practice sitting doing nothing in particular on the sunny deck; my laptop keeps me company and I peck at it occasionally. It's a great way to run a reunion. When the brothers return, along with my sister-in-law and my younger brother's mate, there's a new round of jubilance at being all together again.


Since I have my laptop along, and therefore have access to Excel spreadsheets, I volunteer to sort out the receipts and figure out how to spread the costs among us. Should be simple; take no time at all. But it morphs into a protracted middle school reading problem and I'm at the same time frustrated and intrigued by the puzzle. I'm set up like a banker in a small bedroom, and I find myself calling in different family members to confer and help me work the puzzle at various stages. It's fitting. My brother, the horse-trader and I shared a paper route when we were kids. I made precise and careful lists of our costs, outstanding payments, and net profit. My brother had a much more cavalier approach which seemed to work just as well. He bought the candy and pop right up front, and assumed the profit would show up. We probably should have used his method.

But really, it was all perfect. I'd change nothing.

Siblings in birth order; left to right.

Birth order by height; youngest brother not with us yet.

High Decibel Dining

My husband and I and some friends were leaving the movie theater after a late afternoon matinée. The four of us are in the age group where moderate hearing loss is routine. We usually consider this when choosing a restaurant, but a very popular Afghani restaurant, The Kabul, was nearby. We were early enough to get a table without a reservation, though our table was right next to the restaurant's entry way. 

 Low decibel level room

The place is still relatively empty, we are full of good cheer, and the conversation flows easily. We begin discussing the movie we'd seen. The waiter is professional and efficient, and the ordering and eating are moving along. Our small group discussion jumps to updates on all of our grown children. The wine is lovely, the food is excellent, and the restaurant is beginning to fill.

On a scale from zero for the average least perceptible sound to about 130 for the average pain level, the decibel count in the restaurant has increased by approximately 20 decibels since we sat down. We all lean toward each other just a bit and begin talking kayaking; the the peaceful joy of being on the water and the potential for injury and death by drowning. The four of us are in the age group where problems with balance can insidiously begin to intrude on our youthful perceptions of ourselves. 

The vibrating crowd

All of the tables are taken now, the restaurant is completely full, and the noise level has increased another 10 or 15 decibels. In the rosy, dimly lighted room, everyone seems to be in constant motion; the waiters of course, but also the customers coming and going, erratically lifting forks and glasses, gesturing, bodies shifting. A loud but convivial gathering.

We lean in a little as it's incrementally more difficult to catch every word. Our friends are soft-spoken. The discourse now shifts to Israel and the upheaval in that part of the world.  I'm fully engaged, listening intently to the conversation. The decibel level continues to rise and I find I'm attempting to read lips as I strain to hear.

I'm facing the door and I notice that a small crowd of people are standing in the entry way, waiting patiently for a table. We've finished our dinner but are reluctant to leave. We all order coffee and baklava.

We're back to our discussion of the changing world order. The decibel level is now roughly equal to an intimate rock concert, but still below the average pain level.  The crowd at the door grows larger, and I begin to feel like French nobility eating leisurely in front of the starving masses. They are not looking quite as patient. 

While the orderly crowd at the door does not truly resemble a mob, these people do want a table in the popular Afghani restaurant, and are growing restive. We are abruptly done with the dining experience and escape to the relative quiet of the streets. 

Paul Haggis Regrets #OccupyScientology

Human beings fervently wish to be special. They aspire to win the trophy, claim the Green Jacket at the Masters, be the last one standing on Survivor or American Idol, be profiled in People Magazine or The New Yorker, or at least be a member of an organization that has the Truth. Preferably a Truth that is not fully understood by less special people.

Paul Haggis, an Academy Award winning Hollywood writer and director, so already special, was recently profiled in The New Yorker because he very publicly split with the Church of Scientology after being a member for thirty-five years. He wonders now how he could have failed to question not only the theology but some of the harsh rules enforced by the Church. With the exception of the particular religion you happen to belong to and believe in, all religious theology sounds rather bizarre when you come upon it cold. Scientology is just bizarre with an edgy kick. 

After obtaining Church documents submitted in a lawsuit against the Church in 1985, The Los Angeles Times printed a summary:

“A major cause of mankind’s problems began 75 million years ago,” the Times wrote, when the planet Earth, then called Teegeeack, was part of a confederation of ninety planets under the leadership of a despotic ruler named Xenu. “Then, as now, the materials state, the chief problem was overpopulation.” Xenu decided “to take radical measures.” The documents explained that surplus beings were transported to volcanoes on Earth. “The documents state that H-bombs far more powerful than any in existence today were dropped on these volcanoes, destroying the people but freeing their spirits—called thetans—which attached themselves to one another in clusters.” Those spirits were “trapped in a compound of frozen alcohol and glycol,” then “implanted” with “the seed of aberrant behavior.” The Times account concluded, “When people die, these clusters attach to other humans and keep perpetuating themselves.”

Scientologists carry a certain smugness that is personified by Tom Cruise. They have the Truth; you don't. Smugness, too, is characteristic of members of all institutions that claim exclusive knowledge of Truth. Scientology just manages to irritate outsiders more vehemently because the church intentionally cultivates celebrities and encourages them to publicly testify. A saintly, purified Tom Cruise seems even scarier than the intergalactic alien ruler named Xenu.

Celebrity Savior 

The Church of Scientology was founded in 1954 by the followers of L. Ron Hubbard, but whether a cult or a church, Scientology is just one more Only We Have the Truth organization. The common underlying assumptions of such organizations are:

• Only We Have the Truth that can save mankind; our followers are Special.
• All non-followers will suffer dire consequences.
• All ex-followers will also suffer dire consequences and we'll make sure of it.

  

Having a lock on salvation gives all such organizations the power to ex-communicate, disconnect or just in general, to cast out anyone who doubts or doesn't conform. While becoming a "lost soul" is a sort of abstract dire consequence, losing close contact with your entire circle of friends and some or all of your family members is immediate. Scientology defectors are full of tales of forcible family separations, which the church almost uniformly denies. The somewhat sanitized version written by L. Ron Hubbard is as follows:

 “Anyone who rejects Scientology also rejects, knowingly or unknowingly, the protection and benefits of Scientology and the companionship of Scientologists,” Hubbard writes. In “Introduction to Scientology Ethics,” Hubbard defined disconnection as “a self-determined decision made by an individual that he is not going to be connected to another.”

Irrespective of the religious founders' or the corresponding deities' original intent for the Only We Have the Truth organizations, the power to "disconnect" another human being, to strip them of specialness, to forever shun them, never turns out well for anyone involved. A church or cult that holds on to its members by threat invites corruption and vindictiveness. The Truth may set you free, but Truth peddling organizations are very reluctant to let you go.

Paul Haggis regrets

The Apostate;  Paul Haggis vs. the Church of Scientology.

by Lawrence Wright

Read more http://www.newyorker.com/reporting/2011/02/14/110214fa_fact_wright#ixzz1DmnDpHYz

The Unacknowledged No Makeup and Stringy Hair Award

As we move into the award season for the entertainment world, I detect a hidden subtext for the Golden Globe nominations of both Annette Bening and Julianne Moore for best actress in The Kids Are All Right. Both actresses deliver a solid performance; in this movie, or in any other movie they happen to be in. But maybe what is really being honored is the fact that two actresses in their early 50's would willingly consent to be filmed wearing no makeup, or makeup that looks worse than no makeup. Just for starters. In addition, their hair is unwashed, stringy, and in Annette Bening's case, badly chopped. Not strangely cut as in an intentionally edgy haircut, but like she cut it herself with no mirror. Both wear clothes that are unrelentingly dowdy, ill-fitting and consummately unflattering. And neither of them get a clean-up, Cinderella goes to the ball outfit or makeover to help you forget. As the award for best actress in a comedy or musical was kind of a toss up between the two, Annette Bening snagged it because her hairdo was so much worse. 

Annette Bening and Julianne Moore in The Kids Are All Right

In contrast, Jennifer Lawrence was nominated but did not win best actress in a drama award even though she also suffered through an entire movie under the same no makeup, stringy hair and unglamorous clothes look. That might be because she is 20 something and looks just great anyway. I didn't see Natalie Portman's winning performance, but I did see Winter's Bone. Jennifer Lawrence deserved the best actress award regardless of the fact that she couldn't manage to look bad even under extreme conditions.

Jennifer Lawrence in Winter's Bone

The Church of Neuroscience

Some years ago the New Yorker published an excerpt from David Brooks book, The Social Animal: The Hidden Sources of Love, Character and Achievement. The article is thought provoking and inspiring; the following paragraphs are an excerpt:  

During the question-and-answer period, a woman asked the neuroscientist how his studies had changed the way he lived. 

“I guess I used to think of myself as a lone agent, who made certain choices and established certain alliances with colleagues and friends,” he said. “Now, though, I see things differently. I believe we inherit a great river of knowledge, a flow of patterns coming from many sources. The information that comes from deep in the evolutionary past we call genetics. The information passed along from hundreds of years ago we call culture. The information passed along from decades ago we call family, and the information offered months ago we call education. But it is all information that flows through us. The brain is adapted to the river of knowledge and exists only as a creature in that river. Our thoughts are profoundly molded by this long historic flow, and none of us exists, self-made, in isolation from it.

“And though history has made us self-conscious in order to enhance our survival prospects, we still have deep impulses to erase the skull lines in our head and become immersed directly in the river. I've come to think that flourishing consists of putting yourself in situations in which you lose self-consciousness and become fused with other people, experiences, or tasks. It happens sometimes when you are lost in a hard challenge, or when an artist or a craftsman becomes one with the brush or the tool. It happens sometimes while you’re playing sports, or listening to music or lost in a story, or to some people when they feel enveloped by God’s love. And it happens most when we connect with other people. I've come to think that happiness isn't really produced by conscious accomplishments. Happiness is a measure of how thickly the unconscious parts of our minds are intertwined with other people and with activities.”

It is a beautifully written description and feels bone true. I wonder if there is anyone who hasn't experienced an occasion, not counting sexual activities, in which you are inexplicably transported to a state of euphoric well-being while completely drug free. In a religious context, such ecstatic moments are more calculated and less surprising, though certainly not guaranteed. But I am remembering several serendipitous experiences from some years back that did not involve sex, drugs, rock and roll or religion.

I was traveling with a bus load of anonymous classmates, and sitting beside a woman I knew who was more than an acquaintance but not really a close friend. Julia was very bright and led an interesting life, but she was also rather staid and humorless. The trip was part of an adult education class; I think we were supposed to be studying various eco-systems along our route. Julia was quite serious about it while I was mostly fulfilling a course requirement for my teaching credential. Our group was staying overnight at a pleasant but no frills rustic retreat center, and we were joined there by at least two or three more bus loads of complete strangers. I'm an introvert by tendency and this would not normally be a duck to water situation, but as we began to pile off the bus, a sense of joyful well-being began bubbling up in my mind. Like being pleasantly tipsy without the accompanying drop in IQ and inhibitions.

Dinner was served school lunch cafeteria style with everyone sitting on benches at long tables. The conversation wasn't memorable but I was a happy extrovert, just delighting in everyone's presence. After dinner and clean up, Julia retired to her room to read. This was not a luxury resort; there were no casinos, bars, TV's, or round the clock shopping opportunities. There was a large room filled with round tables where people had gathered to play card games. I'm not particularly good at card games. My brother insisted I play card games with him during the long summer vacations of our childhood. He always won which was a major negative feedback loop for me that I never bothered to overcome. But this night was different.

The quietly euphoric state stayed with me as I joined right into a game of heart's and played cards for hours. I don't remember winning, but I experienced a deep feeling of affection for everyone and that exuberant mood continued until I went to sleep. It was gone when I woke up. 

Another similar experience comes to mind. 

I attended a protest rally and march where the police were prepared to escort thousands through the streets of Seattle, but given the imponderables of such events, only several hundred of us gathered at the designated park. Policemen on motorcycles and on bikes were conspicuously present; it seemed like they outnumbered the marchers. The mood was friendly. We had a permit and the police were not in riot gear.

We, the people, were cold and wind-chilled as we listened to the speakers and milled about taking photos of each other. Our signs and banners were like umbrellas that are threatening to turn inside out with the gusts. As a former school teacher, I know how difficult it can be to hold the attention of a crowd, be it several hundred shuffling about in preparation for a march or thirty kids waiting for recess. The speakers lacked spirit or charisma and we were getting weary of photographing each other.

Having endured the preliminaries, we were grateful when the march began. A Dixieland band had suddenly emerged, and costumed march leaders had taken to their stilts. The motorcycle policemen started their engines and turned on their flashing lights; they roar out in the lead. Bicycle policemen pumped the hills with us and kept our stragglers contained. Traffic stopped and the sidewalk crowd was obviously entertained by the spectacle; ubiquitous cellphone cameras record our proud moment.

The sun made a brief appearance, the band played When the Saints Go Marching In and I began to dance up the street, holding my banner high for the benefit of the curious audience on the sidewalks and in the halted cars. My mood had switched abruptly from just pleasantly entertained to joyful exuberance; a much heightened Mardi Gras state of mind. I can't plan for, or force this alluring state of mind to appear, but like the neuroscientist in David Brook's story, I honor this deeply human experience.

 

Sophia's Backseat Education

Sophia gets eclectic, magpie instruction from Makenna while riding about in the backseat of the car. She likes to point out to her little sister that we can sometimes see the moon in the daytime; or, when we're barely moving in soggy freeway traffic, she reminds her that the trees like to drink the rainwater. 

Sophia rarely comments but she does seem to be paying close attention to the flow of information. I tune in and out depending on driving conditions. The three of us were out for an easy drive to the store yesterday so I happened to be listening as Makenna launched into a mini-lecture on music. 

"Do you know what a cappella means, Sophia?"  

No response from Sophia so it was a good guess she didn't know the answer. 

"A cappella is when people sing but no instruments," she continued. 

Sophia is silent, taking this in. 

"Just singing with voices, Sophia," Makenna feels compelled to add. 

That's probably the end of it. At 18 months, Sophia's vocabulary is still limited so it's doubtful a cappella is going to stick.

Sophia and Makenna side by side. 

Speak of the Devil

A Facebook friend posted stern advice:

Normally, I give the devil very little thought, but upon reading her post, I immediately wondered what kind of driver the devil would be. It seems obvious he'd be a speed demon, and would only enjoy fast and flashy cars. Those who don't want the devil riding along could stick to decidedly drab, ho-hum vehicles. While he encourages other drivers to drink, do drugs and engage in non-stop cell phone use, he prides himself on being a skillful driver and is not seduced by such habits. But I don't think the devil could bring himself to dutifully obey the traffic laws. When you hear the sirens, you'll find yourself deserted, back in the driver's seat.

We speak of the devil as if he could be everywhere at once; sort of like Santa Claus on Christmas Eve except the devil never has down time. There are, of course, the infamous devil's minions who would be assigned to carry out routine villainy. But we always speak of being tempted by the devil, not by some lesser staff member, or God forbid, some intern only recently dead and gone to Hell.

I'm trying to imagine the corporate culture of a place where everyone has a serious behavior disorder. The devil needs some competent middle managers he can trust, but he can't reward them. Probably an all stick, no carrot kind of environment. Given the constant stream of incoming souls, and no departures, I would think the devil would have long ago lost interest in corrupting the living. Sure, you could still get the devil's personal attention in biblical times; but really, I think you are driving your own car now.

CEO of Hell Inc. 

Channeling George Carlin #cannotsaythat

Toby, Christine, and their 11 year old daughter, Lila, are socially inseparable; any invitation to the couple automatically extends to the child. Lila is home schooled and her parents seemingly don’t want her to miss any experience that might include a teachable moment, so Lila comes with to parties and to dinner invitations. I don’t know how Lila herself feels about this unusual arrangement. Her mother is clearly eager for Lila’s inclusion in the conversation, and gets far more anxious than her daughter if the talk strays too far from family topics. Lila participates in the conversation when she can, and though she eventually gets bored with the adult company, she is never sullen or disrupting. She is admirably a good sport about her mother’s need for togetherness.

My husband and I get together with the close knit family on a very irregular basis, maybe once every two years. We’ve known Toby and Christine a long time, have friends in common and enjoy the reminiscences and the status updates. We recently joined them for dinner at a charming but noisy Mexican restaurant. The family was drinking tea. Steve and I immediately ordered a margarita and ramped up our energy level to conduct our conversation loud enough to be heard above the lively din in the restaurant. Maybe I got a little carried away. When we’d exhausted all of our family appropriate topics and somehow entered into politics, I forgot about Lila, the 11 year old child sitting demurely at my side.

Channeling George Carlin, I inadvertently used two of the seven words no one is supposed to say. In Carlin’s routine, he used to say that you couldn’t say these seven words on television, but that’s probably passé. Christine was shocked and somewhat upset; Lila, of course, had no problem with the language at all. She said she’d heard those words no one is supposed to say in the locker room where she goes for swimming lessons. In my defense, again channeling George Carlin; they’re just words. Toby thought the incident was amusing, Christine was still a little shaken, and Lila began paying attention to the adult conversation again. Still, I'm not really comfortable in the role of corrupter of youth. I'm definitely going to clean up my act. 

Buddhist Bumper Stickers

Serious Stuff

• Things are not as they seem; nor are they otherwise.
• Right speech doesn't just mean what you say to others, but what you say to yourself.
• Thoughts are wonderful servants, but poor masters.
• Pain is inevitable; suffering is optional.
• The mind is like the open, empty, spacious sky. All phenomena arise according to causes and conditions, and pass away. Be present.
• It is not our self that experiences awareness; it is awareness that experiences a self.   
• Nothing that happens is an isolated event; it only appears to be. The totality of life has brought this event about. It is part of the web of interconnectedness that is the cosmos.
• Whatever IS could not be otherwise.

Less Serious Stuff

• Birth is the leading cause of death.
• Death starts at birth, and is accelerated at dinner parties.

For Non-Buddhists, there would appear to be three theological options:

1) You can believe, as I do, that the universe is presided over by a being that is 100 percent malevolent but only 80 percent effective (which explains pretty much everything).

2) You can agree with logical positivists, who claimed that “God exists” is cognitively meaningless and hence neither true nor false. Or;

3) You can become a Unitarian.

From: Can You Prove God Doesn't Exist?
By Jim Holt

     But Seriously

Wisdom of Monty Python Flying Circus

In the end, the least imperfect prayer, in respect of both universality and succinctness, may well be the one devised by Monty Python:

''O Lord, we beseech thee, amen.''

From: The Other National Conversation

By Jim Holt

http://query.nytimes.com/gst/fullres=9C04E1D8163CF934A35752C1A9629C8B63

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