Four years later...

I just found my blog again, four years after my last post. I think this is a good time to start it up again. I think. I will.

Factoid of the day

The top 5% of households in America account for 74% of financial wealth (total net worth minus the value of one's home). So, why are we so worried about civil service salaries again?
 

Fwd: Dirty Rotten Scoundrels Part Deux

Just read this legislation: it is an astonishing giveaway. It allows no bid contracts to sell public property at whatever price the agency feels proper without any approval and such sale to be automatically deemed in the public interest. Where the hell are we going!!??

 

 

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Dirty Rotten Scoundrels Part Deux

via Balloon Juice by E.D. Kain on 2/21/11

Ed at Gin and Tacos gets into the less-discussed weeds of Scott Walker’s budget [pdf].

Apparently, governor Walker likes his union-busting to come with a side of crony-capitalism:

16.896 Sale or contractual operation of state−owned heating, cooling, and power plants. (1) Notwithstanding ss. 13.48 (14) (am) and 16.705 (1), the department may sell any state−owned heating, cooling, and power plant or may contract with a private entity for the operation of any such plant, with or without solicitation of bids, for any amount that the department determines to be in the best interest of the state. Notwithstanding ss. 196.49 and 196.80, no approval or certification of the public service commission is necessary for a public utility to purchase, or contract for the operation of, such a plant, and any such purchase is considered to be in the public interest and to comply with the criteria for certification of a project under s. 196.49 (3) (b).

Ed writes:

If this isn’t the best summary of the goals of modern conservatism, I don’t know what is. It’s like a highlight reel of all of the tomahawk dunks of neo-Gilded Age corporatism: privatization, no-bid contracts, deregulation, and naked cronyism. Extra bonus points for the explicit effort to legally redefine the term “public interest” as “whatever the energy industry lobbyists we appoint to these unelected bureaucratic positions say it is.”

In case it isn’t clear where the naked cronyism comes in, remember which large, politically active private interest loves buying up power plants and already has considerable interests in Wisconsin. Then consider their demonstrated eagerness to help Mr. Walker get elected and bus in carpetbaggers to have a sad little pro-Mubarak style “rally” in his honor. There are dots to be connected here, but doing so might not be in the public interest.

I wonder if Walker was hoping all these protests would deflect scrutiny from the rest of the budget?

 

 

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Good times

The U.S. has the lowest income tax rate since 1950, private unions have been all but obliterated, Citizens United allows unlimited corporate mischief in political campaigns, the regulatory environment is about to be undone, the richest Americans are not coincidentally enjoying a new Gilded Age, and the Koch brothers have bamboozled millions of ordinary Americans into carrying their water with their astroturf tea party groups like Americans For Prosperity. 

Which makes me think this statement in a letter from the Koch brothers asking their gazillionaire friends to attend a retreat designed to keep the good time rollin' sounds somewhat hyperbolic (my emphasis):

"If not us, who? If not now, when?" said the letter, which invited other conservatives to a retreat in January in Rancho Mirage, Calif. "It is up to us to combat what is now the greatest assault on American freedom and prosperity in our lifetimes."

Unnnnhhhhh....

This is a great article about the constipated world view of originalist theory, as outlined by Justice Souter in a commencement speech to Harvard. Scalia's hemorrhoids are as big as his brain.

Roaring Cliche (but useful nevertheless)

I’ve often cited Andy Rooney’s metaphor for life: a roll of toilet paper that keeps going faster the closer it gets to its end. But (poseur alert), I'll instead use a cliche rushing headlong toward its sea, buffeted by the rocks of days, sometimes dammed up, but then bursting through with unstoppable energy, racing and then meandering through all terrains, from the still spring of its mountaintop to the coastal plain below, its roar now quieted, its pace slowed, depositing into the delta all the nutrient rich detritus accumulated during its journey, yielding new life as it joins the great ocean beyond.

But seriously….

During the last several years, the days and weeks and months and years do indeed seem to roll by ever faster. It could be a function of working in a stimulating job, but more likely it’s the simple and profound fact that I’m embraced by a warm and loving family every day that I come home. That’s something many others do not have. Yes, I have experienced grief without depth (but who hasn’t, or won’t?), but when profiled against the utter misery and despair visited upon millions of people throughout the world, my life is beyond good, beyond anything I could have ever hoped for.

That gives me the luxury of contemplation which, if you were to ask my family, I do in great quantity. Sometimes, the wonder and the magic of life can literally take my breath away. There are moments of such spacious and transcendent beauty that I just know, know, that I’ve tasted a tiny dollop of the nectar. In those moments, one understands how ill-equipped and unprepared we are as humans to fully grasp such boundless clearness without being blinded in all of our senses. There really aren’t words that describe what we would be blinded by. But getting a glimpse of that clarity surely means that one is not simply imagining things. One is experiencing them, albeit in necessarily small doses, but enough to make the logical conclusion that something is truly there. It’s like my West Virginia forebears who would go down to the railroad tracks and scoop up coal spilled from the passing coal trains for their fireplace. Even if they didn’t see any cars or any locomotive, there was a track and there was coal along it. So, there must be a coal train.

ISS Brat

I am completely spoiled now. I have seen the International Space Station (ISS) and the space shuttle in trail, on a cloudless clear night. They crossed the dome of the sky, traveling NW-SE, about a 3 minute track across the sky. A recent Touch app alerted me to it. It predicts when, where, and at what intensity the ISS will cross the sky in your area. By a stroke of good fortune, the space shuttle was disengaging from the ISS after a weeklong (or so) attachment. Wow. As I said, spoiled.

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.