Letter to Mom, February 26,1986

Let me relate how Jackie and I coped with her sickness.

You may remember us talking about "wa," the Japanese term for a hard-to-define sensation of personal grace, an area within you that harbors the soul from the awful mordant surprises of life. It's there in all of us, by degrees larger and smaller depending on how much it's exercised, like a muscle. It's not there to deny one's pain or fear but to defuse it, to render it manageable, isolated, contained and ultimately powerless. It somehow ties us in with all of existence, with everything that's ever happened and everything that will happen, let's us look at ourselves from a very lofty vantage point, refreshes us like a psychic splash of fresh spring water.

But essential to this concept is the absolute belief that our lives here are a very tiny part of an infinite whole.

I think the most virulent feature of psychic pain is its omnipresence, the way it looms over everything, travels with us like a silent enemy and lies in wait for us at every turn. But that's only because we let it. In isolating it we've beaten it, like a vicious criminal behind bars without possibility of parole. No one can deny he's still there and as vicious as ever, but we no longer fear him. If he'd been feeding on our fears, he'd die.

Long before Jackie was sick we used this principle to help us through trying times. On a daily, weekly, monthly basis, depending on the amount of stress, one would tell the other to "remember your wa." I can't tell you how much that helped. Blurry fears would come into sharp focus and I could see the little whimpering creature, its fangs and hairy arms and bloody talons no more than a silly costume I had wrapped around it.

When Jackie was diagnosed, we honestly believed she'd live. That belief alone carried us through the early period. But when we knew she was going to die, our concept of "wa" again became critical to us. Even then, writhing in agony and with a fear of death so strong it had an odor, she could step back from herself and regain her "wa" so the pain and fear could become bearable. Not that she could then dance and sing, but by putting the pain back in proportion to her whole being, she could dominate it, realize how small a part it played in the infinite future she could so clearly see. And that's why her "wa" helped her: she could see with more than just her eyes.

Your pain is very real and very potent. You'll never stop missing Jackie or wishing she was still here. Neither will I. Missing our loved ones is our monument to them, the highest honor we can pay them. Memories of pleasant times and wonderful places will always haunt you, as they do me, but hopefully in an eerily beautiful way. And you feel other people's pain as much as your own, a selfless and admirable trait, but one that needs tight discipline to keep it from overcoming you. You, more than anyone I know, needs to develop this sense of "wa." Put your sorrows and pain in their place, know their dimensions and the infinity inside you that- dwarfs them. Feel Jackie within you.

I’m very sensitive to your pain, Mom. I understand it. I don’t mean to preach or sound as though I have the answer. I’m just trying to tell you what I’ve learned in the hope that it may help you. There is peace and tranquility inside us and I call it “infinity.” Look for it. You are a sweet and wonderful woman and I love you.

P.S. Our figurines arrived yesterday intact. They’re absolutely beautiful and we can’t wait to display them under my homebuilt manger next Christmas. I’m going to try to rig up some subtle lighting inside the manger to cast a sublime feel to it. Thank you very much.

Letter to Mom, January 22, 1986

I just finished reading Stones For Ibarra. I understand why you wanted me to read it.

I've tried to address directly in my writing the questions that Jackie's death raised. But I've always had to stop; I can't get beyond its grisly side yet and write metaphors about the carcass that lay beside me.

For example. this paragraph:
"'Some day we'll all be unnecessary,' he thought,looking at her lying stiff-legged on the bed. It had been a long night. Where the dark had left any openings the sound of soft, guttural scratchings and mournful groans had flooded in. He had paced the room all night pleading with her to stop but she, of course, couldn't hear him, He remembered bringing his face up close to hers and seeing the hopelessly cracked lips and the short, short hair, bristly and mean, and her half open eyes staring through him. He had held a cup of water with a straw. He had put the straw in her mouth but she wouldn't clamp down onto it. He knew she needed water. He had to keep the fever down. He had screamed at her, "drink, drink, goddamnit!" but her eyes hadn't even fluttered. She couldn't hear. She couldn't drink. It was Easter Sunday and the smell of fresh flowers and warm earth was in the air."

And then...where could I go from there? Though I wrestle with trying to bring to print the… the what? You see, even here, I can't describe what it was she went through. I'm still too close, the range of emotion is too wide, and the underlying "meaning", if there ever was one, is still obscured by an impenetrable barrier of disintegrating flesh. Life is more dear to me than ever but that thought alone isn't enough to send me into paroxysms of inspiration. So I sit here, frustrated, having to approach by oblique metaphor an experience I'd rather tackle head on, then pick it up off the ground, shake out its meaning and stare at it until it lowers its eyes and submits.

Harriet Doerr wrote about death as if she were a stone that could speak. I don't see any other way it can be done. Death silences its victims and numbs its survivors, leaving around the body an anesthetizing haze and a vacuum that leaves all breathless. Her matter-of-fact tone was so right. When death looms we talk about it in everday language, as though we're planning a vacation or a trip to the store. And everyone knows how absurd it sounds. Jackie’s statement, “I want to go home to die," is so taut, the underlying psychology so confused and brokenhearted, the true meaning so beyond comprehension, that it's almost imbecilic to think that those seven short words could even begin to convey what it really means. But, of course, words are our only tools for expression, however inappropriate or inadequate they may be. Maybe if telepathy were possible and our emotions could flow between us like tides, unsullied by the mechanics of language, we wouldn't cry anymore frustrated by our inability to show truly how much we love someone. Maybe that's not so good.

We are doing well in Wolftown. As I told you before, every time I look at the pineapples in the foyer I think of you. That's a lot of thinking. I reckon we'll have to wait and see about the launch. We're planning on going down there anyway to go sailing with Bob. Since you'll probably hear something before we will, please let us know. Corey is doing very well. We still chuckle thinking about her experience with Santa, her unabashed joy, and her question, "How did he know?!"

Mom's look...

...the one at the moment of her death, when she lifted her head slightly, grimaced, and sank back to the pillow with a last breath and a sigh. I think it about it every couple of days. It always brings me up short. I honestly don't know what to make of it. I can posture about it; that it was like the frisson we get at the top of the roller coaster just before it falls, or it was her fear of entering the vast unknown ignorant of what is about to come, or just her mouth muscles contracting in a death rictus -- and nothing more. Or my discomfort may be rooted in what happens to those who witness the act of death when life seems to escape into thin air. I will never know or, if I do, won't be able to share what I learned. I think my distress stems from the fear that at that supreme moment, when every sentient being who has ever lived with a generous heart surely must earn the right to die in peace, she did not. But that must be wrong. It must be.

Mom is gone

Mom died peacefully yesterday at 6:21pm in her home surrounded by family. Lori, our hospice nurse, said that even though Mom wasn't responsive near the end, she could hear us. So we talked to her a great deal as the hours winded down. I was giving her morphine to ease her breathing and later atropine drops in her mouth for the growing congestion. We would stroke her hair, hold her hand, and occasionally swab her drying lips with a soothing solution. When she no longer responded to the knuckle-in-the-chest stimuli, we knew she was almost in the next place. Her breath grew more labored and slowed. Only minutes remained. We told her it was okay to go. Her eyes began to open and she slowly scanned the room, looking at everyone. She looked directly at me for some moments. I whispered in her ear, "it will be wonderful. It's okay Mom. You can go now." Soon, her breathing slowed and stopped momentarily. She then raised her head slightly and with a slight grimace that trembled with determination and sadness, she closed her eyes, lay back on her pillow, and was gone. Aside from the muffled sobs of our family, all was quiet. Dad sat on his walker, tears streaming down his face, and blessed everyone in the room for being there for Essie. In that small room, Grant, Louise, Susie, Corey, Rachel, Justin, Dad, and me saw Mom go peacefully and with great dignity exactly where she wanted to be.

Later, after we had cleaned up the room and the funeral people had removed the body for later cremation, we went out on the balcony overlooking the city. We could see and hear the July 4th fireworks at McIntire park, cheering what we saw as a colorful and noisy celebration of Mom's life. We all agreed that such a day is a fine one for a loved one to go. As it happens, our dear Nora's mother died eight years ago on July 4th at about the same time of day. Now, when the next July 4th rolls around, we can think of both of our moms enjoying peace as we celebrate the life they shared with us. That's a nice gift.

Mom is dying II

As I entered their apartment for my daily visit, Dad was sitting a the kitchen table, a half-eaten sandwich by his elbow. He was reading the paper waiting for our hospice nurse, Laurie, to arrive. He was in good spirits as always, but frank in his assessment at Mom's condition. She couldn't turn the light on last night to go to the bathroom, became disoriented, and sat on the floor not knowing where to go. He had helped her up (I didn't want to know how).

I went into their bedroom to see if she was awake. She was laying asleep on her side, her left hand cramped up like a claw. Her breath came in shallow, irregular gasps, and she had a pained look on her face and a light bruise on her upper arm.

Laurie arrived and we talked about the course of treatment so far, and then visited Mom. Laurie explained to Mom how they will keep her comfortable. She explained why the cancer was so evidently painful right now. Mom watched her intently, flat on her back, her eyes still alive with movement, the rest of her body lifeless. She has gone downhill very fast. She speaks only in whispers, and it comes out unintelligible at times. I followed Laurie out of the room when she went to make some calls to get more supplies. I asked her, what did she think. Laurie gives her less than month, especially since we will be using morphine for pain and respiratory help. That tends to put the patient on the quick road to the end.

During all this, I at times stroked the bottom of Mom's feet, and the top of her head, and she held my hand tightly when I stayed by her side. As usual, she worried about what food we will have this weekend (Grant, Louise, Corey, Justin, and us Wolftownees will be there) and that she was interrupting our schedules. She is Mom to the last. I told her that SHE was our schedule and to not be with her would interrupt it. Waves of weeping kept trying to break through the thin membrane of my eyeballs; with great difficulty I pushed them back.

I don't think she will last much longer than a week. I called Bro to let him know so that Hilary could get an earlier plane here to see her before the end. I think she plans to be here on Monday to  join Corey and Rachel visiting with her.

"Another A-Plus Day"

That is my dear, sweet father describing this day. The hospice people visited and officially brought Mom into their program. "Another" refers to yesterday when her oncologist assured us that Mom would feel no pain as she deteriorates, would have no putrid exterior tumors to befoul the air around her, and that hospice would indeed be available.

First, this shows my father in his true light. He sees nothing but the best in people, he feels nothing but the deepest love for his family, he generates happiness to everyone around him. He bounces with energy, even with his recent broken hip that had to be surgically reconstructed. Second, his true nature represents the very essence of the human spirit, if allowed to roam. We can find joy even in our darkest hours if we only allow ourselves to see it. Imagine for just one moment that you are ecstatic because you won't have "putrid exterior tumors befouling the air around you." WooooHOOOO! Does it get any better than that?

So, what were you just worried about?

As Mom dies, she and Dad teach me. Death itself, life's best teacher, is teaching all of us.

Mom is dying I

Last Friday, tests confirmed that Mom's earlier breast cancer has metastasized. It is now in her lungs, liver, bone, and lymph nodes. Already suffering from COPD and tired of living, Mom sees the diagnosis as a form of relief. Before, she could see no end in sight, other than one self-inflicted. COPD does not kill. It maims, slowly and relentlessly. Now, she is on a path with a more definite outcome, both in terms of cause and date. She has become more focused. She is not afraid of dying. She repeated that to me yesterday, but she about broke my heart with her next sentence. Speaking in a tiny voice, her lower lip trembling and eyes moistening, she said only, "But I'm sad." I stroked her head, pushing some strands of hair off her face, my own eyes tearing up. I could only respond, "I know." And I do. She is already missing her full life, her loved ones, the boys she loved and raised, the whirlwind world tours with Dad and the deep love they share. I know that the same kind of sadness will likely engulf me when my time comes. Her simple statement confirmed that. It resonated deeply.

I see as if yesterday her brilliant smile, the young, stylish, beautiful, vivacious mother, her reddish-blonde hair blowing in the breeze on the shore of the Long Island Sound. I see her profile in the driver's seat as she drove me down Route 11 deep into Virginia and Briar Hills, and feel the homesickness as she disappeared down the dirt road on the way back. I can chuckle at her contrariness that lurked barely beneath the surface of her suburban housewife facade. She is a brilliant woman who, had she lived in a later age, could have become a respected professional in any number of careers. She knows that, and it has rankled her for as long as I can remember. Sometimes the resentment would bubble up, but her love for Dad and his for her always won out. It was the salve that soothed the abundant inequities she endured as an accomplished woman in a man's world.

Rachel's first song

Racheo just recorded her first song, yet to be named, and one that the two of us will be working on once she gets home for the summer. The chord progression --D Asus Em G Em D -- makes nice use of a "sus" type chord which begs for resolution from the fourth to the third. It's both sweet and longing, and very satisfying. And this is her Itunes album artwork, taken some years ago, where she presciently strums a D.

On Barack

Last summer, I cut a path around the perimeter of the property as a walking trail. My GPS receiver logged the distance at a little less than a mile. To keep in shape, I walk the perimeter four times every other day or so. It is a nice heart pumper with great ups and downs. I listen to a book tape on my Ipod, breathe in the air, and gaze at the distant mountains from which it flows. It's one of the profound joys of living here. I think about it every day as I walk out the door; how lucky I am to be here, both in Wolftown and on this pretty blue/green planet suspended like a bauble upon the torqued ionic skeleton of the universe's dark matter. Our cosmic neighbors, such as they are, will never know us unless through a worm hole. Newtonian point-to-point distances, even at light speed. simply won't allow a living organism to visit us, much less find us. So, we're pretty much alone. Since we have only each other as company, shouldn't we try to do a better job understanding that?

Which brings me to Barack. He called me last night. This is Virginia after all, and we're kind of important to him right now [Primary day - ed.]. I listened to his message, his intonations, the unadulterated humanity in his voice. For some reason, it made me think how we're too often caught up in our own daily lives to remember a fundamental fact. When you match the squabbles of the human race with the size and scale of the universe in which we live, our monumental pettiness (great oxymoron, eh?) clearly emerges. Our successes, our failures, our wars and peaces, our structures and cities and political divisions mean nothing in comparison to the simple fact of life itself; that great ongoing experiment that unites every living being throughout the universe in a common experience, whatever its corporeal reality, wherever it may be. That's what all great religious traditions understood before their adherents screwed it up over time. It is only our dreams and visions that link each of us to the other, however distant in space/time. In fact, the only thing faster than the speed of light is the life force itself, which doesn't move at all. It just is, everywhere, and it serves us well to experience that every so often. Look deeply into a wildflower and feel the emanations of life eternal.

Now, I don't mean to wax too philosophical about Barack, although it looks like I already have. But I do believe he has a perspective broader and wiser than any leader that I can remember. I think he understands "life." It's not his resume' or his record (however important) so much as it is his words, and eyes, and tone. It's more what I feel rather than what I think (though I clearly favor his platform and progressive agenda). I've forgotten who an ancient Roman was comparing to Cicero, but he said something like "when Cicero speaks I marvel at his oratory; when <insert name> speaks, I want to march." That's what Barack does for me. I want to march And it's what he has done for others his entire life. He's not a flash in the pan.

I voted for him today. I hope he sweeps these primaries and the others leading up to Texas and Ohio. I think if he does, and even if he loses slightly in Texas and Ohio, the momentum will force the super delegates to abandon the Clinton campaign and acknowledge the obvious. He will have proven to be the best nominee the Dems have, and he will overwhelm McCain. I look forward to the debates about the war and health care. McCain's position is simply unsupportable in the face of reality and the desires of the American public. He will get crushed, and only the "dead-enders" (to throw back at the Republicans the phrase used by Rumsfeld, the prick) will agree with him.

But even more, Barack will be a leader who will elevate the conversation, who will inspire America again, and who will show the world that we're not dark, paranoid, torturing douchebags. Only the Bushies were, and they will be gone.

Corey Couch Sethi

Corey and Justin married this past weekend. I sit here, tears coming down my face this Monday morning. Susie is taking Racheo back into town after we capped off the weekend with an Indian ceremony at Justin's mother's house in Fairfax.

And it's all hitting home right now. I'm remembering so many sweet moments of unutterable beauty about my girls, Susie, Corey, and Rachel growing and loving here in Wolftown, but I weep inside an enveloping sadness about times gone by. Perhaps its elusiveness is beauty itself. We can grasp just a piece of it as it flies by and experience not so much its essence but its passing; that it is forever out of reach but we can, at times, ensnare it inside an amber moment of our own creation.

The wedding itself generated magnificent energy, with about 140 different and wonderful people joining together in a spectacular celebration. We held it outside, the weather crisp, colorful, and smooth as velvet. My aging parents did finally make it and we were all so happy they did. They sat in the front row with us and my bro officiated. He was his usual loving, funny, serene voice of authority delivering beautiful words that fit the occasion perfectly. The breeze blew across the couple, lifting Corey's veil over her right shoulder; Rachel tucked it into her dress. The Blue Ridge behind them glistened in the slanting rays of the late afternoon sun, their colors hightened by rain the day before (during our golf match with Sunny, me, and the rest Justin's friends and groomsmen, 13 total). It couldn't have been more beautiful.

My main job was to welcome everyone, as I did happily but with the usual nervous anticipation. I wanted to get it just right. I wanted to do my very best for Corey's sake. As it happened, it was a transitional moment for me, and I felt it to the very core of my being. I had thought about it a great deal, thinking of some phrases but it was only in a mid-conscious dream a few weeks before that the phrase came to me, "a moment when all things that have ever been come together with all things that will ever be" which then launched the perfect follow-through, "just as Corey and Justin have come together today to become one, to become a singularity." The rest, the lead-in and summation, hung on that concept. And this is what I said:

Welcome, friends and family. Welcome

It's always good to cherish each moment for what it is, its own truth, its own beauty. But some moments carry more meaning and memory than others.

This is one of those moments.

I can remember our little Canarybird, our little tow-headed Coreycouch, traipsing out into the front yard shepherding her imaginary pupils into their imaginary seats inside her imaginary classroom. A big, summery Wolftown sky above and the Blue Ridge in the distance, while Susie and I sat on the front porch watching her and chuckling about how cute she was.

And then, in what seemed to be just one existential moment, she blossomed into this extraordinary young woman with the kind of skill and passion for teaching young children the world sorely needs. Quite literally, Coreycouch was born to teach.

I am so proud of her. Her mother, Susie, is proud of her. Her mother, Jackie, would have been so very proud of her.

But it gets even better.

On the way, she meets Justin and together they fall in love.... Justin, as fine, and honorable, and smart...and funny...a young man as I have ever had the good fortune to meet, to get to know, and finally, to love.

I've also learned over the past couple of days that he needs some work on his golf game, but who am I to talk?

And Corey becomes part of Justin's family, and he becomes part of hers.

So we are here, now, at this moment when all that has ever been comes together with all that will ever be.

Just as Corey and Justin have come together today, in front of all of us, to become one, to become a singularity.

So thank you for being here, and let's celebrate together Corey and Justin's moment, the first they will experience as husband and wife. And what a great joy, and a a deep honor, it is for you to be here with us to witness it.

Now I sit here alone as the memories flow by. Wedding boxes and ribbons sit on the dining room table; the porcelain couple that adorned the cake at our own wedding, a framed invite to Corey's wedding, a photo montage of our Brownsburg marriage. It shows Reverend Tom Biggs gazing at Susie and me holding our flower girl, Coreycouch, who many years later would wear Jackie's pearl necklace at her own wedding. All represent a beginning begetting new beginnings, the cycle of life getting ever more profound with each passing moment.

Letter to Mary

When we were in Nepal, sitting around a fireplace on chilly night, Stephen Batchelor said something I've never forgotten: "Buddhism is something you do, not something you believe in." It follows then that he doesn't even call himself a "Buddhist." Nor do I. It's a meaningless label. As are all the different schools of Buddhism, or the eight-fold this, or the three precious that. Much like Christians could rely on the Beatitudes alone to understand the meaning of their own religion, "Buddhists" can read the heart sutra, contemplate its profound meaning, and have all they need to understand the Buddha's teachings. Read it. Think about it.

And certainly don't worry about being "wrong." What can be wrong with having compassion for all sentient beings, even your enemies? Or being kind, giving, nurturing? Or taking care that your acts don't cause harm to the environment or others? Do that, and the rest takes care of itself. Even if the hereafter, whatever that may be, rewards only Christians (which is really too ludicrous to even write but I do so for the sake of argument), would it be because of their label or of their good works? If just the label, then the hereafter is hell, not heaven, and no place I want to be. Can you imagine spending the rest of eternity with the likes of Pat Robertson and Jerry Falwell? Jesus, take me somewhere else.

So forget the labels! If somebody asks you what you are, use the label you're wearing. "I'm a...let's see here. I'm a Nike." Maybe then they'll get the message.

And you can't worry about your family. If they worry that your path is leading you away from their own belief system, be kind and understanding but firm. You might even relate to them what the Dalai Lama told the National Council of Churches when he addressed them. He said in his own humorous way that Buddhism was not trying to take "market share" from them; rather, Buddhist thought and practices can make someone a better Catholic, Jew, Muslim, Protestant, whatever. One can practice Buddhism within the context of any faith because, in fact, it's not a faith. It's a way of life.

Returning to Batchelor, it's what you do, not what you believe. And "doing" compassion is how you get there. It is good in and of its own. It is also the effective tool used to peel away the self to find the true nature of reality. And that's the deep irony of Buddhism; being selfless is ultimately a form of selfishness, too.

Be purposeful, but without hurry. There is no "answer" to find, only an emptiness full of no obstacles. A path never trod before, a lit darkness, a night bright as the first day of summer. The seeking and the awareness you develop to do that is life itself. Enjoy.

WSJ. Lame-o.

The Wall Street Journal news operation is the best in the business (well, for now , anyway, what with Rupert about to give it his inimitable beating), but their op-ed, certainly editorial, is a joke. Case in point is this piece from Ion Pacepa, former KGB operative and now U.S. citizen (beware the zealotry of former smokers).

With this subhed, you get an idea:

"Propaganda Redux - Take it from this old KGB hand: The left is abetting America's enemies with its intemperate attacks on President Bush."

At this point in our political dialog, those who no longer support Bush are, prima facie, leftists. Doesn't matter if you are a Republican, a conservative (whatever that means today), libertarian, evangelical, whatever...you are now a leftist. Criticism of Bush is a scurrilous leftist campaign to undermine America. So let's ask you leftists once more: Why do you hate America?

Back to the article. Aside from so many other things I could say, I'm not sure that Pacepa realizes the profound difference between the propaganda spouted by European lefties in the thrall of their commie overseers and the loud, boisterous, and freely expressed opinions held by the American people. I ask, if millions of us, and I count myself one of them, have on our own come to the conclusion based on abundant facts that our president is indeed a "liar," a "deceiver," and a "fraud," are we just supposed to shut up? I don't think so. If we are, then this isn't the America I remember. If our publicly expressed distaste for our president causes the rest of the world to think that we're weak, or headless, or smelly, then so be it.

The WSJ didn't run any such op-eds during the Clinton administration when we had troops in Bosnia. In fact, I recall quite the contrary: their intemperate attacks on Clinton. But I must be wrong. That would be abetting America's enemies, and if the WSJ isn't always consistent in their principles, they are always patriotic.

Dems and taxes

Now that Rupert has sealed the deal with the WSJ, watch it go south in the next few years.

But even before that happens, Republicans will claim that lower taxes are spurring economic growth and we need them for the sake of the Republic. But the prescription for economic growth is far more complex than the tired mantra about lower taxes being the cure-all for everything. What actually IS our economy? Does it include the intangibles, like the actual costs of gasoline, health care, energy use, national security, education, cigarettes, obesity, or the myriad other things that cost real dollars? Or is it simply the balance sheets of raw numbers that make up the GNP? And what is "strong economic growth" (does that include the deficit we are handing down to our children?). Do lower taxes have any effect at all on those intangibles that Republican propagandists ignore?

As the country now faces new enemies who defy easy definition and targeting, I hope the country has finally shaken itself free from the juvenile either-or analysis of life that has become the legacy of the Bush Republican party (and which has hopefully sunk its electoral chances for a generation).

I am profoundly suspect of ANY single issue politics and the inane tactics they create. They have weakened us profoundly. The way we are all woven together resists our undoing by the unraveling of any single string. Yet, for some reason, the Republicans have tried, and in many ways succeeded in doing that. We need new leadership and new ideas desperately to restore our strength. Bring on the Dems. Please. Anything but these idiots now in charge.

Service calls

Repairmen sit around the company store until about oh, say, 10:30 every morning before they set out on their service calls. Of course, their company says they will arrive sometime between 8 and 5. Never happened for me. Show up first thing in the morning to do the job? You kiddin' me, bub?

I've taken a day off work to wait for the satellite tv guy and the phone guy, both of whom need to fix damage from yet another line of thunderstorms that struck the house two days ago. It's now 10:30 am, so they're just now getting up from their chairs, taking a last sip of coffee, stubbing out their smokes, and ambling off to the trucks chuckling amiably with their pals. "All those fools have been cooling their heels now, for what, the last few hours, thinking -- hee hee -- that maybe, just maybe, we would show up ON-TIME!? Gawd-damn, but ain't that the stupidest thing you ever did hear?"

On the other hand, chilling for a day at home ain't so bad, either.

Bittersweet

Life. Bittersweet. I first experienced it when my brother moved away to college. I wasn't aware of the bargain that I had made, but I soon learned what it was. In return for his daily brotherly love and companionship, I had to pay for it with its inevitable absence. I was bereft. I thought my world had ended. Our house was utterly empty without him there. But eventually, I rebounded and moved on, chastened by the experience.

I didn't know it at the time, but such life changes add bark to the soul, both sustaining it and walling it off. And that''s the trick: to accept the sustaining quality of the experience while preventing it from walling us off from new ones. That is wisdom, to learn from past experience and use it to live more fully in the present moment, the only one that matters.

Buddhism calls dwelling on or living in the past (or worrying about the future) a delusion, an unhealthy attachment to illusory things. Everything changes. Nothing is permanent. Attaching oneself to such impermanence, depending upon it for happiness and contentment, can only cause suffering. It's not a matter of "if," but of "when." We must not forget the wonderful moments (or the not-so-wonderful ones) or deny their reality. But we should let them go, or put another way, let them inform but not discolor the full wonder and majesty of the present.

Melancholy shades the moments behind us. Their increasing distance brings nostalgia for what can never be again. But it shouldn't be that way. Indeed, those moments shaped us into the sentient being that we are now; our perceptions of this moment are in many ways guided by them. They will both always be with us and will never happen again. That's life.

Because I can

Since blogs are the electronic form of ego, I thought it most appropriate that I post these comments from my two daughters on the occasion of Father's Day. They represent the thoughts of two young, beautiful women who are on the cusp of a new direction in their lives, and are good life markers to remember. Both are from the cards they gave me.

From Corey, who will be marrying Justin this coming October:

Happy Fathers Day, Dad-O! You deserve this day and 100 thousand more for all you've done for me. A girl couldn't ask for a better, more supportive (and, of course, more handsome and cool) father than you. I so appreciate you and all you've done and I'm very happy to have you. In short, you are awesome. I am lucky, and I enjoy living in every moment with you. Thank you for being you.

From Rachel, who will be entering her first year at UVA this fall:

Dear Daddy,
As I've always told you, you're my favorite father! Seriously though, I feels so incredibly lucky to have you. Some of my personality is due to my independent thought, but it is impossible to imagine that I would have been 100% the same person had it not been for you. You've taught me so many things over the past 17 (almost 18) years of my life. I've learned how to think critically, be self-aware, be honest, be curious, and not afraid to think about things that challenge what I believe. I've come to appreciate these things (lessons) even more, two months before I head off to college, because they will be challenged like never before. I really feel confident about the person you've helped shape me to be, even if I have my moments [grin], and I could not be more proud to have you as my father. I love you.

I'm as lucky a father as they come.

Hitch on His Holiness

Here's Christopher Hitchens on Tibetan Buddhism and the Dalai Lama (my emphasis):

The Dalai Lama claims to be a hereditary god and a hereditary king. I don't think any decent person can assent to that proposition. You should take a look at what Tibet was like when it was run by the lamas. Buddhism has some of the same problems as Western religion. Zen was the official ideology of Hirohito's fascism that was used to conquer and reduce the rest of Asia to subservience. The current dictatorship in Burma is officially Buddhist. The Buddhist forces in Sri Lanka are the ones who began the horrific civil war there with their pogroms against the Tamils in the 1950s and 1960s. Lon Nol's army in Cambodia was officially Buddhist.

In all fairness to Hitchens, the inertial imperative he creates in his book God is Not Great simply sweeps him into a reckless indictment of Buddhism. Certainly Buddhism is a religion to the monastics who practice and live its rituals. But for everyone else, it's a way of life, a perspective on reality that clearly distinguishes it from the classic world religions. It's existence isn't invested in some dogma that it must protect at all costs. In fact, it is quite willing to discard any teachings if shown to be clearly in error. A case in point is its cosmology. The Dalai Lama has said many times it doesn't hold up in the face of modern discoveries. Further, what some dictatorships do in the name of Buddhism shouldn't reflect on Buddhism itself. If someone were to murder another in my name, I shouldn't be held accountable for that.

Worse though, Hitchens here simply misstates what the Dalai Lama claims. He does not claim to be a hereditary god or a hereditary king. His only claim is to be a humble Buddhist monk. True, he is also the Dalai Lama and the de facto head of state for the people of Tibet. It is a role he had to accept as a young child, and one that has been a huge burden on him his whole life. Certainly, millions of Buddhists treat him as a god or as a king, but he has never claimed to be either. That they do so is more a recognition of what a truly remarkable human being he is. Anyone who has spent time with His Holiness knows that there is no more humble person on the planet. He is a world treasure.

Pittsburgh Airport

Trying to pull from life.
Still trying to sketch in lines
peace.
Seeing glass holding air;
Will I know I was there?

The trickle of life

Mom and Dad managed to make Rachel's high school graduation; a truly supreme effort on their part and for which we are truly grateful. It meant a great deal to all of us. Poor Mom is really struggling. Dad talks quite a bit about how much weaker she has become and how life has lost its allure (well, I'm paraphrasing here). The slightest effort tires her out. The one thing that she still does is paint, though not as often as I would like. It gives her focus and meaning. It requires little physical effort. It takes her mind off her infirmities. When she's not painting, she is often in bed. It's not at all unusual for me to arrive on Tuesday's lunch with her there, either asleep or too weak to get up. I live in perpetual unease about another pratfall by either of them. That alone could end it. They have both had close calls. Dad is getting better about using his cane, but he remains cavalier about it.

Life trickles out of the elderly in spite of all the patches we use to stop the leaks. Death by old age is inexorable and utterly predictable. It is devoid of the red-hot anguish that turns the death of younger people into occasions of such abject grief. Instead, we just sit with our aging parents, hold their hand, and wait for the Bus. Meanwhile, I question how I will grieve when they're gone. I'm doing that now in the occasional melancholy I feel when I visit them inside their slowing orbit. But I know only the red-hot version of grief, so it's hard for me to tell what the cooler one feels like. Is this it?

Brain dead

I think the last six years have revealed two things. First, that the American definition of "conservative" has little, if anything, to do with classical political theory (probably because Americans don't accept classical conservative theory; look at the Libertarian party). Second, that in defining their philosophy as "conservative," the Republicans have ensured that "conservative" principles as understood by Americans have lost their sheen for at least a generation of voters.

We have all watched the Republican party implode, Over the years, I have learned just how far they have strayed from ALL notions of conservative principles. Moreover, a true conservative can be wary of government without actively undermining its basic functions. But not this "conservative" administration, helped along with the active and public cooperation of the entire party apparatus.

So, Peggy Noonan's attempt to separate Bush from Republicans doesn't wash with me. I need not list all the forks in the road the Noonan Republicans could have taken where they could have claimed that Bush had left them and not the other way around. He and Cheney ARE the Republican party, however much their enablers want to claim otherwise. When Rudy McRomney gets some of their loudest cheers pledging to "double Gitmo" and leave wide latitude for "enhanced interrogation techniques," you know how far down the totalitarian abyss the Republican base has plunged.

Frankly, I think the Republican movement is brain dead. In fact, it's deeply ironic that Terri Schiavo became their cause ignomie. The party's Manichean view of foreign policy and military strategy is positively juvenile. How anyone could think we should entrust them with the reins of power again is beyond me.