Trump as Buddha (Or Christ, Muhammad, Krishna, Others), But Not In The Way You Might Expect

Morally, politically, and psychologically reprehensible though he may be, Trump embodies much of what is thriving in the shadows of the personal and social psyche. Yes, I want to wag my finger in accusation of how embarrassingly wrong he is as a human being, but deep down I know he reflects back parts of me I don't want to own, and owning them is part of  my movement forward, spiritually speaking, of making the "shadow conscious," as Jung says. I am not saying that I want to act of impulses of greed, narcissism, sexual predation, and ego run riot, but I am saying that he is a teacher. He is the me I don't want to be. "Everything is the Buddha," said my now deceased friend, Ken B. He meant that the world offers up a rich buffet of stimuli that I can either learn from or react to or both. The reactions are as much about me as them. Yes, there is much to revile about Trump and his behavior, much work to do to remedy the consequences of his political achievements, but, ultimately, he is a product of fear, pain, and human suffering. If I am to find some solace from the rage he inspires, I have to turn the guns around to see that inner work is part of the lesson here. In Twelve Step parlance, Trump is a call to do a Fourth Step, a "fearless and searching moral inventory," not of him, but me. Inner work, yes, but outer action, too, in love instead of righteous indignation.

The Real Bucket List

As the years go by, and the body gets slower, stiffer, and weaker, the question of how I want to spend my remaining days becomes more urgent and critical. Like most of my peers (and the advertising aimed at people in my Boomer demographic) I want to do things, go places. I want to play music so well that people can't help but dance, to publish that prison book, to ride my bike along the spine of the Rockies, drive off into the sunset in a new camper van, and to see the stone towers off the beaches at Phuket. Given the consumerist cultural narrative that happiness is dependent on conditions being perfect and pleasurable -- external circumstances, in other words -- it is no surprise that this bucket list is about having things a certain way, doing things that I have always wanted to do. These things are both wonderful and ephemeral; material goodies and rich experiences are fine, but the goal of acquiring them as the sole purpose of my remaining days misses the real point of what I want to accomplish before I expire. What I want is to learn to be happy no matter what. I don't want to need to burn up fossil fuels flying around the globe or be recognized for having done art, music, or writing that makes people swoon (though all of that would be a nice by-product) in order to feel fulfilled, at home, at peace; what I want is to feel happy with my life, content that I am alive and able to drink in the beauty of every passing moment. That's the real prize, the bucket I want to kick before the curtain comes down. Just sayin, that's all.

He Is What He Is

Half wild, half lap-sitter, Pierre baffles me with his behavior. He goes out into the freezing darkness in search of prey knowing well, here in the remote high desert, that he is on the menu of coyotes, bobcats, and cougars (yes, we are in the territory of a mountain lion). 

But then he comes home and won't take no for an answer when he wants to curl up close and purr, or help me run power tools, or follow at my heels across the yard, or fetch (yes fetch) an old sock. One minute I can't find him, the next I can't get rid of him so I can get some work done. Such is the way of this cat, this stranger and friend of many faces. I don't know if this time is the last I will see him in this life, so I have to give him what I've got and hope that is enough. No guarantees here in this life of flux and constant change. Carry on, cat: watcher, pouncer, comfort, assassin, messenger from the wild. Our relationship is ambivalent, a desire to hold you close and the need to keep you at arm's length. You are a piece of work, a teacher of contrasts,  a glowing orb of exuberance, a companion beyond control, flying headlong into a life and heart on fire. 

The Reason Why

Mark Twain wrote that the two most important days of one's life are the day one is born and the day one remembers why. Well, I have been sitting with that thought for sixty some years, the last two of which have been mostly alone. In that time, some of the silt in my little brain has settled, leaving clearer views of things. Rather than the turbid mess of busyness, I have been doing a whole lot of nothing but asking the question why. The answer is not one that I can think through, but rather one that has to come from hunches, attention to what makes me feel full and alive, little palpitations of the heart. I had to learn to see the objects of my heart's desires. What has been emerging is a trust in dreams, imagination, adventure, vulnerability, and generosity. It is in dedication to an art, in surrender to a creative urge, that peace resides. It is in submission to craft, patience, teachability, and practice that my restless heart finds a home. The unfettered joy of childhood fantasies are what I try to remember now, and that fills me with forgiveness for all of my detours. It really is that day that I remember why, and begin to live that purpose, that will be the other most important day of my life.

The Problem With Bill Gates and Other Corporate Philanthropists

The scenes are nightmarish: clogged public toilets running over and into streams, latrines so appalling that people piss in the streets to avoid the stench. There is no arguing that the slums, favelas, and shanty-towns of the "developing world," part of our planet, need better toilets and systems of sanitation. The issue is one example of complicated challenges facing all of us. Bill Gates threw his economic muscle into solving this problem by opening a competition to build a better toilet, one that would use less water, not need an infrastructure of sewage pipes to move the waste to treatment plants. And people responded. The winning toilets cost between $50k and $500 each. Poor countries can't quite afford such things. That's the problem; the solution doesn't go far enough to address political and economic institutions. The system that created that massive poverty, dislocation, environmental crisis, and sanitation problem is the same system that made Bill Gates a billionaire; his solution does nothing to restructure the system, to level the playing field, to lift people up and out of squalor. And his solution is primarily technological -- gadgets -- that require massive engineering and skilled workers and spare parts to maintain. His solution doesn't empower people living in poverty, doesn't equip them to care for the toilets he might provide. Yes, doing something is better than doing nothing, and, for that, my hat is off to Bill and his projects, but his solution is not the one that's going to save us, to relieve the misery of the planet's underclasses. Technology is part of a comprehensive response, for sure, but only part, and the hype and fanfare around techno-fixes implies that they are all that's necessary. That's a problem. It's not an either/or, but more of a both/and: both technology and socio-political change. That will require some real work, real innovation that goes beyond merely technical, innovation that overhauls the system that created such abject misery and inequity. 

The Blue Jug of Albuquerque

The land flowed then, in the magic years, with milk, honey, and plenty of water for overnight primitive camping. All was right with the world. Then the bright blue jug was taken from them, and darkness joined chaos to rule the land. Camping trips became a dry search for life-giving water. Only the legend of the jug survived, and with it, one clue. That clue pointed east toward the Watermelon Mountains of Albuquerque. Only a pure heart, in search of the One True Love, would be worthy of finding the Holy Jug. The seeker would have to endure many trials and disappointments in his search. He would fight traffic, go to REI, Sportsman's Warehouse, Ace Hardware, Walmart, Big 5, only to find empty shelves and stories of where The Jug might be found. Many would point the way, but their offers of help would prove fruitless and would lead to dead-end promises. Only after all others had given up the search would the seeker become worthy of The Jug, the Oracle told him. The last stone of a final phone call would be the one with the answer, and the Angel of the Jug would open the door, lift the veil, and reveal the shining, blue, seven-gallon wonder, complete with a "hold" tag with his name on it. With the Jug held close to his heart he made his way home, home to fulfillment, peace, joy, and plenty of water for the next adventure.

When You Boil It Down

Poetry, real Poetry
Does not ask
In clever verse
What's in it for me?

Rather it is generous
To a fault
And gives you the shirt off
Its back
The best last piece of delicacy
Even when it too
is hungry.

It does not judge
Nor does it step over
Ones who have fallen
To gain an advantage
Or a better view.

It sees what is shared
Between living things
Beings dressed in light
And mystery
And shooting stars.

When it is time to
Say good bye
It shivers
In that cold wind.

It delights in
Meeting
And does not
Fear falling in
Love.

It knows that not knowing
Is greater
More powerful
Than pride or power
Too wise to
Take a side
When we're all standing
On the same Earth.

No Recipe

Energy pulses beneath me as swells rise and then drop into troughs and then rise again into a breaking wave that rushes foaming up to the shore. I try to figure out how to do this, how to catch that wave, to learn how to ride it rather than roll and tumble into the sand when it crashes over me. I listen, puzzle out the methods that others have used to master the challenges that never seem to end. I watch and learn and practice. I pay attention and work to assimilate what I need to know to rise and master the chaos. "There is no recipe," he says. "But you have to learn from the masters and then practice." I have to jump in, mess it up, wrestle with all of it: painting, music, writing, love, money, dying. No recipe I think. At first I don't like that irrefutable fact and try to copy what others have done before me. But then I surrender, seize the scruff of light that pulses around and within, and then I release the brakes of reluctance, hesitation, and fear. It's one of a kind, this ride, and there ain't no way to know where it goes or how to ride it unless you jump on in and make it up.

Spring Comes to the High Desert

Spring has begun its return to El Morro. The canyons here on the Colorado Plateau are running cold and high with snow-melt; waterfalls thunder away in the deep woods. Ramah Lake is filling up, and snow drifts are shrinking into the shadows on the north side of Inscription Rock.

George noticed the first fly of the season on a hike around the lake. A family of flycatchers arrived on the same day and began building a nest under the deck. Bull snakes are sunning themselves and lizards have emerged, doing their push-ups on warm rocks. Ewes are lambing in Zuni and Navajo flocks, the parturition dabbing flecks of white against the dun-colored sage and chamisa.

Mud still comes and goes with snow squalls, but the sun has taken the upper hand. Grass grows in the ditches while humming bird feeders sprout from porches and overhangs.

It's a good time of year for residents of El Morro to think about festivals, May poles, green houses, and International Naked Gardening Day. It's time to doff the down jackets, put on the wide-brimmed sun hat, prep the soil, and clean out the pickling jars.

Love is in the air, and romances have sprouted along with the verbena. Couples sip coffee at the Ancient Way Cafe. Tandem kayaks are gliding across the surface of the lake.

Of course, there is still frost on the cars in the morning. We know that snow will fly again, that winter will visit the ridges and chill the wind. We can feel winter in the shadows before the sun goes down, and then after sunset under a cold moon,  but the warm-up is happening.

Spring sits on the wires and sings along with the blue birds, the grosbeaks, and copper-throated Rufous hummers. It's time to take up a spade, in the altogether, soak up some vitamin D, and endure the goose bumps. 

Billionaires Want to Eat Your Lunch

If you are not a billionaire, a member of the super-rich, an international kleptocrat, or money-laundering Russian oligarch, and you still support Trump, his handlers, and his greedy policies, you are either deluded, in great denial, blind, brain-washed, or reality impaired. Billionaires don't really care about you or your family or your neighborhood. Your interests are not their interests, but they will make you think that you might be one of them, someday, and they will hold out that carrot to distract you, keep you from seeing their true intentions. They will glad-hand and hobnob with you if you flatter their conceits, kow-tow to their beliefs, stick up for them, bully their opponents. Trump and his agents of corporate greed are robbing you of your birth-rights of natural resources, health care, retirement, education, protection from poisons, and opportunity to build a life. As we speak, they roll back protections of water, air, land, and sea. They will destroy the places you fish, hunt, camp, hike, or do anything in the natural world. They will dismantle and pulverize every democratic check on their power. They will watch your every move and track you down in order to sell you all that you don't really need. They have and will trail in the dust every rose of founding father freedom. It matters to them that they gain complete control of the only thing standing in their way: government. They will tell that gull dang big gummint is the problem. They are running us off a cliff into climate disruptions that will touch every aspect of your life: money, health, peace of mind, hope; they are preparing us for a state of constant war, ignorance, and distraction from what really matters. They create a worldview so narrow that you can't imagine anything beyond the thin gruel of possibility that they deem safe. Yes, it is that bad. The billionaire world-view will stop at nothing to perpetuate itself, and as it consumes more and more it eventually comes for you and yours. It thrives on division and pits those who should be allies against each other. It is insatiable, can never get enough, lives like a cancer cell, and only your actions can change its course. It's time to join together and act as if your life depends on it, as if a hungry dragon is closing in on you. The billionaires and their goons will stop at nothing less than snatching the sandwich out of your hands while rifling through your pockets for your last dime. But hey, why worry? That video game is waiting and the TV tells you they have your best interests in mind, so let them figure it out. Let them make all the decisions. The only thing they worry about is that you might wake up, see through the veil, stand up, talk back, and step up to the plate.  

The Page With His Name on It

It was that day, the one he looked back on it all. From the luxury of age, distance, and a broken heart, the angry, frustrated, misunderstood music he had lived by went mute. It didn't matter anymore. He saw what had been for the dream it was. Instead, he was grateful for the life he had lived. Simple as that. And the moment took on the pleasing distance of a drama he watched as a spectator. He saw himself there, riding off into the sunset he had made for himself, his desires fulfilled in way that he had failed to imagine and to appreciate -- or even see -- before. It was the page in the book that pointed to his work. The page, the entire page, held him in its embrace. He felt seen and heard and acknowledged. That was what he had been waiting for, though he did not know it at the time. Snapped to attention, weak in the knees, feeling a bit the fool for being so blind, he was free at last.

Fragments

The pieces wait to join each other in the magic of completeness. Separate, they are nice baubles, but together.... oh, together, my friend, they throw sparks of wild energy that grows and grows. Too much of one, and you get solipsism -- stuff, nouns, ideas -- that just sits there. Too much of the other, and all you have is action -- empty-headed car chases, wild leaps, extreme x-things with no reason or sense. It is in the union of being and action that the story begins, that the sentence begins to breathe. Character and action: that's the ticket, the creative tension between unlike, but hungry-to-join diversities. Do-be Do-be doo.

One Foot Over the Edge

Sometimes I wish I had said no, had turned away from the shimmering imperative to follow the call, to say yes. Those are the dark days, the ones where energy hides out under some rock, and my tired bones just want to lie down and sink into the earth. Those days come more often now that can't move as fast. Until the dragon catches up to me though, I'll keep throwing one foot over the yawning chasm of what I don't know and hope that some support extends from the unknowable to catch my weight and give me a place to stand so I can swing the next foot forward, again over emptiness that somehow becomes something, even when no one seems to care where it is that I walk. Certainly no one reads what I write. So I just keep moving, placing one foot in front of the other, trusting that my weight will be held, until it isn't.

When the Waters Recede in Tucson

            It is Sunday night in our little mesquite bosque. I grab a Key lime soda from the fridge and find a chair on the porch next to Megan. We can hear the highway up the hill behind the house, but the light of the setting sun and the breeze off the mountains – a breeze still carrying the chill of last night’s snow – honeys the light, quiets the drone of traffic.

No gauzy film, billboard, corporate-sponsored dreamscape, or media hype could capture this subtle shift of the season, this last, cool, goodbye kiss of springtime that spills over and through us as we sip drinks and make small talk.

            The last of the snow runoff is withdrawing back to the high country. Clear water still runs over the sand at the foot of the mountains, but has disappeared just today here in the valley. I followed it upstream as the mouth of our winter creek retreated, growing silent, its piece said, overtaken by the thirsty sand.

            Shadows lengthen. Trees have gone opaque with blossom and leaf in this last week. I watch my wife read, study her crossed legs, and wonder how many times I will see her again in a light like this, a breeze like this, my shoes wet with the last drops of a vanishing desert river. Once more? Twice? Not more than a few, if any.

            The shadows overtake the light, and the sounds of the highway come down to us, no longer held at bay by the breeze. She gets up. It is too dark to read, and friends are coming over. I sit and listen for the sounds of coyotes, somewhere.

Crescent Moon

It's still dark, and a crescent moon hangs over the horizon with Venus beaming next to it. Saturn is right there in line. A cold stillness sits on the snow and trees, and even the coyotes are quiet. The air is like a knife. It cuts through my jacket and sizzles against my skin. The world sleeps, but I am sharply awake. Everything is clear and crisp with edges. For just this snapshot of a moment, the stars look still, but I know they are up there spinning away, lit by fusion and matter that will run out eventually. Maybe it has already, and what I see of them is the light they sent out while they were still young with so much time and light and gravitational attraction ahead of them. 

Teachable

What would you do if you could? she asked. No limits, no obstacles, no barriers. Well, I said, something creative -- like music, or writing, or art, and certainly some exercise. And why would you do that? she asked. Because I want to keep learning, I said. And creativity, by definition, is new, out-of-the-box, giving birth to something you didn't know before, that maybe didn't even exist before. Now that, she said, sounds terrifying. You'd have to leave the well-trodden, sleepy, checked-out way of being and actually be present with the effort to learn a new lick on the guitar, a new technique with a brush, or a twist of phrase on the page. That's real work, she said. I had no idea what she was talking about until I actually tried to leave the auto-pilot way of being and throw myself to the wolves of learning something new. This old dog has found himself at square one: a rank beginner, know-nothing novice, a clumsy, awful-sounding, mess-maker. Of course, practice plays a role in polishing new skills too, but that being teachable is a tough one; real work it is to clear away the habits of knowing and try something fresh. But that attention thing -- that looking hard, staring at my fingers as they stumble all the frets of the guitar and persevering... that takes effort, and guts. It aint easy being teachable, says the die-hard, humbled, suddenly young-at-heart teacher.

A Thin Line

There you are, cruising along, heat pumping out of the vents in front of you, tunes wafting out of the speakers, engine purring along like a happy cat. Then you hit that rough patch, that stretch of slick-as-snot ice that sends you spinning like one of those Olympic ice skaters, and you watch the fields and snow and trees and mountains play across the screen of your windshield like some amateur music video, and you watch as the ditch rushes up to you and takes hold of your forward momentum and uses that against you, like some perverse martial arts master, and then the force of you moving forward turns into a gravity-defying lift upward, and you watch as the cab tilts and all the pens, coffee cups, notepads, and book bags you have in the console and on the seat next to you suddenly lift off and fly across your field of vision as you slam into the door and come to rest on your side, music still playing, engine still purring away, dirt now blocking your view out the driver's window as sky fills the passenger door window, now above you, and you realize that you live by grace, a fine line between all that is necessary to hold the parts of you together, working in concert to keep you breathing, living, loving, and the dark night of mystery. This time, though, you take the hand offered that lifts you up, away from that precipice, and rise back up, into this the light of living, and, for this moment, out of danger.

The Dark Part of the Story

They met at night, when the hassles, chores, and anxieties of money and making a living and all the pressure to look good and follow the rules died down enough to let a person think. And feel. Darkness helped too. Not seeing anything but the colors of touch and the waves of passion were more than enough to fill the senses and satisfy that hunger that never seemed to abate. The age difference between them didn't seem to count for as much either. Skin was skin, whether taught and smooth or less than perfect. And breath was breath. He was a she and she was a he, and black was white, and I was you and you were me, and all that mattered was the electricity of the heart. Of course,  all of that changed when light crept between the curtains, and the distinction-making began to divide the known universe into this-and-that, categories and differences, taxonomies and hierarchies. It was like that in the mind, the ruler of the light, the rest of the story, the part that weighed down on you, crushed the living breath right out of you.

He Would Be 90 Today

If he were still alive, he would complete ninety years today. If he were alive, I could call him and tell him happy birthday. I could ask him how his day was going, listen to him talk about what he had learned from ninety years of living. If he were on the same trajectory he was on when he passed, likely as not he would talk of love and how much he cherished his children of his first family and his second wife and her family. He had morphed from a soldier into a philosopher in the last chapters of his life. He spent his mornings quietly, for the most part, with his companion sipping hot water while she had her coffee. They watched the birds and squirrels in the back yard. He found comfort there. Because I loved him I wanted to hear about that new life, to see for myself where he had gone, how he was doing, even if that meant that I had to accept that things were not as they had been. He was softer in his old age. Many did not like that, and wanted him to be what they knew of him before. I went to see him alone. And that's the way it has stayed. I live in no man's land now, between tribes, because I followed a father who changed. He did what he did and found love but paid a price. I saw him -- and loved him -- as he was, not as I knew him to be, and, for that I am not forgiven by those I left behind.