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.