Of Tribes and Community

After the incident in New Zealand, I, like many people, was horrified by yet another act of violence against a group of individuals. As the news reports trickled in I was particularly struck by two aspects. First, I was drawn to the stories of those individuals who attempted to fight back, either to try and take down the attacker or to protect others who were in their path. Secondly, and related to this, was the sense of community that the Muslims felt toward one another.

As I read these stories I wondered; could I lay my life down for others in this way? Certainly, I would do so for my daughter, but beyond that, would I feel the urge to protect those in a group? Could I feel such a great sense of community? What does it mean to have community? Is the water test of any community the degree to which you would stand up to evil to protect and even sacrifice for those within?  Or is it a community which gives you the sense of courage to fight against injustice? Or is this fearless commitment to another yet again something else – a sense of tribe perhaps?

Community I understand – indeed many Unitarians will say that it is this is what they value about their ‘faith’, its sense of community, of individuals with a shared sense of the world and how we engage with it. In the best of circumstances, a community lends itself to caring, support, and a commitment to certain ideals.  But, I wonder, is that enough to drive such sacrifice? Or, is the difference in our interaction within a group a reflection the difference between our place in a tribe and our membership in a community? Perhaps what compels us to act in an extraordinary way is this sense of our tribe, but what allows us to survive day to day is our sense of community.

The word tribe translates from the Greek phyle meaning, ‘race of tribe of men, united by ties of blood and descent’ You may recall the related word ‘phylum’ from your biology 101 taxonomy class; phylum was  the level of classification below kingdom and above class (read from that what you will).  A tribe is distinct, separate, related, and shared by a few. It is a socially, ethnically and politically cohesive group. Conversely, a community is bound by association of locality, it is of the commons, it resides in the public sphere and is shared by the many. By extension it represents fellowship, union, and is rooted in the notion of a common people, that we are equal at some level. In a 2014 article by David Nassim¹ he describes a community as a group that is interest based, where as a tribe is group with an instinctive relationship.

A community then is bound by a framework which allows for both diversity and equality of its members whereas a tribe re-enforces the similarity of its members and highlights what sets it apart from others.  As human beings we may live (and need to live) in communities, but we often find ourselves drawn to tribes, to those who affirm some aspect of ourselves. A tribe provides a profound and unique sense of identity.  Is this then the root of that fierce willingness to protect? Does capacity to risk so much derive from the sense of self that is located in the tribe?  Is this why I can envision myself risking my life to protect my daughter, who is a member of my tribe, but not so much the guy who drives down the block at 4 am with his radio blasting, who may be a member of my community?

For several years now I have been friends with an Orthodox Jewish family who live in a nearby neighborhood. I have attended many a holiday and religious celebration in their home.  During these occasions I feel as though I have stepped into a different time and place; no one is looking at their cell phones, there is no television, no radio. In respect of their customs I dress modestly though they have assured me many times that I should feel free to be comfortable. I am surprised how, in an odd way for me, this mode of dress is freeing. I am not seen for what I look like or wear, but simply for who I am and what I do.  In dress, at least, I was like the other members of this tribe, even as I know that I am not of them.

Despite the oft muted colors of the women’s clothing, and the men’s dark suits and black hats the mood at these gatherings is rarely somber; indeed there is often laughter, much talk, and the men frequently break into boisterous and joyous song. Talmudic tales of wisdom are shared, and of course, there are many prayers. I have heard some of these prayers so often that, even lacking fluency in Hebrew, I can mouth the opening words; Barukh ata Adonai Eloheinu.  The soft rhythm of the words pours over me; I am transported to a sepia toned world; a shtetl in Poland, the Dohany Street Synagogue in Budapest, I am surrounded by a timelessness. 

Though I know I am not truly a part of this tribe, when I visit their home I am always greeted with joy and fed well. The Rabbi and his wife always ask after my family and inquire after my well-being. Though an outsider my presence is accepted here, even embraced. WHen I leave I carry their warmth and grace with me. 

One day, on my way home from work, the weather suddenly turned very bad. Heavy snow and ice made the roads almost impassable. I had to drive past the Rabbi's house to get home. Afraid that I wouldn't make it safely all the way home I contemplated stopping and staying there overnight. But it was Friday and Shabbat would begin soon. I hesitated, not wanting to interrupt Shabbat uninvited I struggled on. Later, when I told the Rabbi's wife that I had considered this she said to me 'But of course you should have stopped, you are always welcome here'. Her words were a gift to me. 

A few weeks ago I attended a memorial service at the Islamic Society of Great Valley Forge in a tribute to the lives lost at the Christchurch Mosque in New Zealand. Before I entered the Mosque I wrapped a shawl around my head in a poor imitation of a hijab; as with my Orthodox Jewish friends, I desired to be respectful to my hosts in their home. However, after entering the building the greeter assured me that it was not necessary to cover my head, insisting (as had the Rabbi) that I should just feel comfortable. Yet I left the shawl on and soon forgot I was wearing. In a small way my ersatz hijab connected me to the women of this tribe. 

Once inside and seated we were welcomed by the Iman, who gave a short speech. This was followed by several more presentations by various spiritual leaders, including our Unitarian minister Neal Jones, a Rabbi, a Christian minister and even a member of the school board. After several speeches there was a break for prayer and I was then invited to follow the women upstairs to be with them during prayers. 

At first it seemed slightly voyeuristic to watch others pray. After a few moments though I allowed myself to just sit there. I listened as the men's voices, coming from across a transparent divider, filled the room. Their tones were exotic, deep cries that touch an ancient chord within me. Seduced by the sound of their voices my memory took me back to Spain, to the Alhambra, the Islamic palace in Granada. I saw once again the dusty earth, the blue grey mountains in the distance, I heard the rustle of the silver green leaves of the ever present myrtle bushes. I sensed the calming trickle of the fountains, felt the steady heat of the sun and was again captivated by the interplay of shadow and light in the mosaic tiled rooms. Though I was sitting in a Mosque in Devon, Pennsylvania I felt those prayers echoing through the Spanish landscape, down into the valleys and up into the mountaintops. 

I did not know what they were saying in their prayers, I did not know the meaning of their words, yet I felt the touch of them. As with the Orthodox Jews the sounds and rhythms of the words moved, me, they resonated at a place within. 

At the end of the evening I was talking with two members of the Mosque, a man and his wife. He asked me about Unitarianism and suddenly, the little I knew of Unitarian history and the seven principles vanished from my mind. 'What is a service like?' he asked; I clumsily tried to explain 'there is music, and quiet, and a sermon'. The man continued, in deepest sincerity, to try to understand what it meant to be a Unitarian, to be of a faith with no creed. He was a hungry pupil, eager to learn another's customs - and I, a poor teacher.  

Finally, exasperated by my own inarticulateness, I shake my head and say, 'it's not about a given belief, it not about the service. It's what I hear in the music, what I hear in the songs of my Orthodox Jewish friends, in the Christian chants, what I hear in your prayers. I hold my hand to my heart - 'it is what is in here, it is this. This is what is holy, no matter what you call it, no matter what name you give it, this is what is holy. Everything else does not matter. He smiles at this and nods his head. 

I don't know that I helped him to understand a single thing of Unitarian history or background (indeed I am sure I did not), I don't know that explained anything at all about a Unitarian service. But, I think he understood what we share, I think he understood heart.

As we part ways, he says 'Come again, you are welcome here'. 

I think back on the evening and am struck by the embrace of our hosts, of that word that reverberates over and over in all these places. 'Welcome' said the Iman; 'You are always welcome here' said the wife of the Rabbi; Whatever you believe, whoever you love.....you are welcome here begins a UU service. 

Welcome; one word, two syllables. So powerful. So simple. It means to greet gladly and yet it means so much more. It is the thread that connects tribes to create community. 

Tribes are a part of human existence; it is not unreasonable to bond with those with whom we have common interests, beliefs, heritage. But we also need communities, those with whom we share laws and lands. Tribes are often insular but communities, communities must be porous. Communities can stretch from tribe to tribe, even across the globe. For us, as humans, to thrive we must allow for that kind of exchange, we must have a fluid, open and porous community. We must be welcoming, not only as visitors but as compatriots. It is only in this way, in this diversity, that we not merely survive but that we experience joy, that we heal, that we grow. 

The consort of Pericles was a woman named Aspasio, whose name means 'welcome' in ancient Greek. Her house was famous for inviting strangers in, attracting the likes of such thinkers as Socrates. To fully welcome, however, goes beyond the exchanges of the mind (though they are mightily important) - to reflect the deepest meaning of her name Aspasio's house had to also stand for the exchanges of the heart, of that which is holy in each of us. 

Welcome. Enter here, share with us, let us talk of that which is in our heart. Let us discuss the holy, let us think together, let us learn and question and break bread. Let us sing and pray (however you may pray), let us talk of children and family. of fear and hope and of our dreams. Let us speak of love and pain, life and death. Let us be together. Let us conquer the darkness as a community. 

Sometimes, sometimes, to welcome can be dangerous - to allow another to enter can be a risk. They may hurt you, they may steal from you, they may break your heart and sadly, yes, they may even kill you. I recall the words of the man who greeted guests at the Christchurch Mosque; he said 'Welcome brother' just before he was killed. But, if our answer to such tragedy is to shut our doors, to close our hearts, then we become as tribes in a wilderness, without community. We become isolated groups who look to the 'other' as the enemy and we weaken the very fabric of humanity. Worst of all, we let the darkness conquer us. 

We have a choice - we can welcome the other or we can create a barrier between our tribes. We can share our love or feed our fear. It is to us to decide. 

What do I beleive? I believe in love.

I believe 'you are welcome here'. 

1.       http://www.healthinstinct.org/images/file/Communities,%20cults%20and%20tribe.pdf

© Madelaine E. Sayko 2019, All rights reserved

New Year 2016

2016 January 1

I found myself, shortly after midnight on New Years Day, at the drugstore buying dog food - whereupon I spent the next 45 minutes or so feeding and petting three very excited dogs (2 of whom were rather large). Then, later on New Year’s morning, I woke up to the sound of a cat vomiting up a hairball on my fresh sheets, right next to my head.

So ended 2015 and began 2016.

Yet, as I went for my New Year’s run I realized how very much these circumstances were reminders of the goodness in my world; for the dogs belonged to friends who have been incredibly kind to me, a midnight emergency feeding of their pets a simple matter (and there are worse ways to start the year than petting 3 very grateful dogs). The fact that the cat vomited on the bed next to me meant that this cat, who has been so very nervous and shy, had finally, with a slow building of trust, taken his place on the bed with me and the other kitties. This small step meant a lot, vomit and all.

You see, sometimes, when we shift our perspective, we can enable ourselves to see both the blue dress and the white dress (in case you don’t get that - http://www.nytimes.com/…/28/science/white-or-blue-dress.html). 

Gratitude can be an overdone pop psych movement, and anyone who knows me would tell you I am not a fairytales and unicorns (no offense Gena, I like unicorns) sort of person but it’s easy for our amygdala based cognition to miss some of the joy and get snarled up in the grey wooliness of life. Certainly we need to reset our perspective more than once a year but New Year’s reflections are a good way to set the pace. It doesn’t eliminate the struggles, but it does provide some buoys to keep one afloat.

At any given moment I would not have voted 2015 a year of abundance, and yet, as I ran - or rather lumbered - over the familiar woodland path at Haverford I found that, by stepping back away from the grey background of the year, the moments of beauty and wonder stood out.

During the holiday season I was profoundly moved by 2 extreme and unexpected acts of kindness. They literally brought me to tears. However, throughout the year there were others, some material, some ‘spiritual’, some a burst of laughter, some a shared moment of silence, some just an ‘I love you’ - each one a gift.

I am amazingly fortunate in the good people who have come into my life. Every year I think about this and every year I am awestruck by how wonderful people have been to me. It just reminds me that kindness and caring can make a difference and encourages me to be a kinder and more caring person towards others. Thank-you to all of you who have reminded me of this.

I am grateful too for all the beauty that I have been privileged to see - whether it be art produced by friends, family or in a museum, the joy of music and of course the theater - where stories are shared, told, lived and born. Sometimes there is this utter stillness in me when these things touch me and I think ‘yes, that’s just right’. Art like this is always a connection of the human spirit.

I also thankful for those delightful moments in nature when my breath is taken away; by a ghostly beam of light in the forest, the fine filigree of a leaf’s veins, the plump juicy red and purple of berries or the fractals in ice puddles - my walks in Chanticleer, at Haverford and around the town are a feast for my eyes and my spirit, throughout the year. They are food for my soul. 

And again - as with my Christmas run - I was most fortunate that my knees let me run the path and that I was able to breathe deeply of the crisp January air. After 30 odd years of running this joy never fades for me.

My mother, at 89, still beats me at Scrabble - and it’s one of the few times in life when losing really does make me feel good. She is quite something, my mom - still painting, still the pillar of support for so many others, still reading and living deeply. She sets quite an example for life - and my love for her grows richer with time.

Good family all around - don't get to spend as much time with them as I'd like but good folks. And it matters that they are there.

And of course there are the kitties, the Bun, the Bear, and the Buf - just thinking of them makes me smile.

But, most of all, this year I have been moved even beyond gratitude for my daughter. She has taken a difficult and horrific event and reclaimed it, restored her voice and her power and done so with her humanity still intact. She has shown me what it means to be courageous, to be truly fierce and strong - and it has nothing to do with guns or violence or hate. She has held on fiercely to her spirit, to her amazing talents, to her belief that goodness is a powerful force, and she has used all of this to bring more light into this world, to reach out and help others. To turn suffering into healing is one of the greatest acts a human can do. Victoria, you are my north star, always. I am so so so grateful for the day you came into my life and every minute since then. Thank you for being you. I love you beyond words.

2015 - yup, you had your moments.

2016 - you’d better watch out, cause we’re gonna kick some serious טאָכעס

Happy New Year.

Metta,

Madelaine 2016

New Years 2015

“Dread was always with her, an alarm system in her head, alert
to her next disaster.
Despite being resigned to a life of misfortune, she became
resourceful.
She grudgingly noticed that things always worked out, even
when she claimed defeat.
An inconvenient truth, yet it was right there, in her face,
betraying her self-punishments and assumptions.
She kept overcoming things, dammit, aggravating herself.
She still felt so much joy, despite her efforts to be miserable.
Her life was full of miracles and spectacles that she was afraid
to rely on so she didn’t know how to enjoy, how to be thankful,
without guilt.
She didn’t want to win and she didn’t want to lose.
Ambiguity intrigued her and she found passion in the gaps
between hope and despair.”
― G.G. Renee Hill, The Beautiful Disruption

Happy New Year 2015

I am a person who likes rituals and traditions; to me these sorts of ceremonies ground us in heritage and community. Yet this year, for the first time ever - for a variety of practical reasons - I put up very few holiday decorations - there was a mini tree, a mini menorah, green festivus and gold and white kwanza lights, and a few non-denominational stain glass windows - by my usual standard that is very very little. 

By January 1st 90% of the holiday decorations had been put away. My daughter noted that I was a lot less stressed this year - and it was certainly true but I noticed that I was also less engaged in the spirit of it all. But maybe that’s the way things are - the benefit of something comes at the cost of something, and a great deal of life is deciding what you are willing to give up - and what you want to gain. 

This awareness came again for my annual New Year’s run - a tradition I have upheld every January 1 for the past 30 odd years - first thing on January 1st I don my running clothes and head out - no matter weather or state of mind -- and during the whole of this run I let my mind focus only on that for which I am grateful. 

As with the holiday decorations however, my New Year’s run was different; my daughter wanted to run with me and this delayed getting up and out - so I actually sat and had coffee and breakfast first - and it was nearly mid-day before we got out. Despite my grousing over the delay I considered if there was another lesson here about letting go of rigid made up rules - no question, I’d rather run with my daughter than stick to an arbitrary routine. 

Those routines, those things that we invest in to define ourselves, express our goodness, our character our virtue - sometimes they end up locking us in. Similarly it can get easy to talk about humanity, and people first and loving kindness but its much harder to put into practice in the day to day level when it means letting go of what we think defines us. 

Cutting back on holiday decorations may not seem like much but it was a powerful combination of feelings -  mix of freedom from a complex effort and the loss of a long standing tradition. While I was grateful for the ease, I missed the slightly frenzied over the top ‘glowiness’ it all created. Festive household attire was a part of who I was, people came to my house ooohh and ahhing about the little details, it evoked for me some vague notion of family and grandeur - perhaps hung over from more economically plush times when I had more than one tree, and plenty of rooms to fill.  These decorations - even the diversity of them reflected who I was on some level. Similarly the stark discipline of rising on New Years day, which was usually on the bitter cold side, to go run represented another me - driven, tenacious, and constant.

To alter either of these was to strip away a belief system, to remove some scaffolding that defined my being. And yet, I still stood - and I remained me.

We invest a lot of ourselves in our habits, in our customs, in our belief systems. No matter how much we think that we want to be valued for who we are we still worry about the cleanliness of our house, the title of our job, the car we drive (or not), the clothes we wear, or the some other marker that says ‘this is me, this is who I am’. And even as we may be grateful for people and things around us, we are not always grateful for being ourselves. 

So as I did my run I did indeed reflect on gratitude of the past year, on all the goodness I have known, the wonderful people who shared and cared and make me laugh and especially make me think, on the exciting new faces and familiar old ones and the ones re-connected and still cherished. I remember the acts of grace and generosity I have come to know and thought how I will never cease to be astounded by how fortunate I have been in having so many amazing people around me, befriend me, reach out to me, inspire me. . 

I also tried to be in the moment - to not only look backwards but to look around - and was grateful as well for the bright mustard color of the house I ran past, for the knobby branches of an ancient tree, for the squares of ice on the pond that brought to mind diatoms, for the way the sun pierced through the cold air and warmed the center of my back, for the tree filled with dozens of hidden chirping birds who flew off in a furious huff as I approached, for the honking geese paddling in the pond, for the tufts of yellow grass like waves across the field, for the purple flowers bursting from the center of the holly bushes, for the gleaming blood red berries in an otherwise subdued landscape, for the pine needles shimmering in the breeze and a nest of pine cones scattered on the forest floor. I was grateful for the hard crusty earth beneath my feet and the creeky knees that still attempted to run, for the many dogs I have met on these grounds, and of course for the kitties that welcomed me when I got home. 

But I was especially grateful to still be able to think and ponder, to have good things to think about and to still have dreams. And, though I recognized that there had been plenty of sadness and woe I was grateful that at least some of the time I had been able to recycle the negative into something useful. In this I was grateful to be me - flaws and quirks and missteps included - to be grateful that I was able to drink deep draughts of pleasure in grass and trees and kitties and friends and family and find this as delightful a repast as any food.

I am getting better at giving up the things that hold me back and in this way I am learning to be grateful that sometimes swimming in ambiguity is a damn fine place to be. Perhaps the paradox then is that it is this very acceptance of uncertainty that that leads one to seek understanding and clarity - only to come to a different place, and embrace again, the unknown.

We shall not cease from exploration

And the end of all our exploring

Will be to arrive where we started

And know the place for the first time.

                                                        TS Eliot - Little Gidding

Post Script.

As an interesting foot note - I went out this evening to walk to the grocery for dinner - its about a mile there and a mile back. It’s a cold night, not brutal but certainly cold. As I walked down the block I passed an old church that I had seen many a time - not a church I ever attended, though I recalled voting there once.  Like many of the local churches it was had a lovely architecture, the walls made of Pennsylvania granite, strong and imposing. As I passed the church I noticed a sign that it was for sale, or rather that it was being repurposed as a 4 condominiums. As I was taking this in a man exited the church and spoke to me. ‘Have you even been in this church?’ he asked. No, I said, but I see its being sold. Well come in he told me, we are taking it apart, come see it. It was late and cold and I had much more walking to do before I could eat but I followed him into the church. In side the pews and the alter had all been removed and there was mostly open space. The church itself was largely plain - the ceiling had wooden  flying buttress beams and the walls were a basic white. Yet the abundance of stain glass windows gave a glimpse into how beautiful it probably was on a Sunday morning with the strong Pennsylvania sun pouring in. There was another workman inside and the three of us started chatting. The church was almost 200 years old, but the flagging attendance forced its closure. We commented on how many baptisms, weddings, and funerals had been here, how many sermons preached and lives that had passed through. We breathed the musty air of its history and in this small way gave tribute to the memories that had seeped into the walls and stained glass and wooden beams around us. I pointed up to the balcony - is that the organ I asked. Yes, said one of the workers - I am trying to take it home with me - it’s a challenge to dismantle. I looked at him - what will you do with it? He said, quite lovingly, I wll put it in my house and play Bach cantatas.  I pondered the man for a moment - my biases about construction workers turned on their head - an organist who loved Bach cantatas? He went on to describe how he would disassemble the pipes - he clearly knew about organs. They showed me the organ pedals, which he had already removed, and we chatted a bit more.

I turned to leave and continue my trip to the grocery, smiling a bit at this delightful and unexpected side trip. Just a bit of magic to remind me not to presume things about people by their jobs or their clothes, by where they live or what they believe or the color of their skin or their abilities. Yes, the delightfulness  of ambiguity was at work once again.

A Lifetime Achievement and A Troublesome Moment

Woody and  the Academy….

Okay – so I am going to bring it up – the subject that – along with conversations about college rape – seems to piss off a number of my male friends. Woody Allen.

So I don’t know Woody and I don’t know Mia and I don’t personally know any of their kids. So I can’t say who’s a bitch or who’s an evil monster and who did what to who behind closed doors.

But I haven’t seen a Woody Allen movie in 20 years – and yes, its because of Soon-yi.

Now a 35 year age gap will give cause for questioning, sorry but that’s part of the deal. Not saying its proof of anything or that it cannot be surmounted, but just saying that 35 years is a big difference. But even that is not my issue.

My issue is about boundaries and respect. Farrow and Allen had been partners of some kind, sexually involved partners, even up to the point in time where she found photos of Soon- Yi taken by Allen. Soon- Yi was of age at that time – over 18 but Farrow and  Allen were still in a some sort of a relationship – and we don’t know when or how the relationship began.  If Allen wanted out from Farrow and decided that Soon-Yi was his true life partner then the healthy action would be to break off his relationship with Farrow, not see Soon-Yi for a year while dating others (and likewise for her) – and then, if there was still a commitment to each other start dating. Now I know – they have been supposedly happily married now for 20 years and so that’s proof that they were meant to be.  Unfortunately, no. Because its really isn’t just about the two of them.

The definition of family has changed a lot – adoption, same sex marriages, surrogacy, and other situations give rise to a much more complex set of relationships. I am all for these changes and respect the love that is inherent in most of them. But I also respect the fact that it can be confusing. If I am dating a man  - even if its just steady dating – he is my ‘partner’ and his relationship to my children is filtered through my relationship to him – regardless if they see him as a father or not.  So, even if he doesn’t adopt them or we don’t marry – there he is with ‘the mom’. If I discover he’s having a sexual relationship with my daughter – he’s violated the position of privilege he has in my family through me. And let me assure you – it would get ugly with me.

On top of that the intensity of a relationship with a man of 56 when the woman is 21 – even if it is grounded in mutual love – needs to be taken slowly and carefully. A 21 year old – boy or girl – is still formulating life choices. And they are still sorting out things – their own sexuality, their self image and identity. The relationship may end up working (as does Allens) but that is not the point.

My children should not feel sexualized by my partners – that is the one thing they should not have to contend with. I know too many women who have had to deal with older male relatives and family friends who acted inappropriately – touching, kissing, fondling, and sex – and those women paid for it dearly – telling me that they felt  shame, guilt, embarrassment, powerlessness, and confusion. Even if a 21 year old woman wanted the relationship, a wise man would give her the room to create her own identity. Surely Allen could understand the psychological implications of his behavior – for Mia, for Soon-Yi and for the other kids and for children in similar families - and surely he would consider that as a public figure being thoughtful about this might make a difference. (yes, I know – that ‘s a crazy thought – that anyone in the public eye would see themselves as a role model)

Now I thought about the reverse of this – because interestingly the vast majority of my male friends have told me that, when they were teens, they had had sexual liaisons with the friends mothers. These guys all spoke of the experience as fun, affirming of virility, hot, powerful. Maybe they are full of shit – but even so, its how they see the whole scenario – this is a notch in the belt thing and not a victim thing. Of course unless it’s a Priest who’s getting into your pants….

So the women feel victimized and the men like conquerors. Its no wonder men think that Mia is a ‘bitch’ and wink wink on Woody’s woody.

But do I really care? Hollywood hasn’t exactly acted like a moral compass in this regard, Roman Polanski wasn’t able to pick up award for director – as he is hiding out in France.  Hollywood, politics and the upper echelon (and sometimes the lower) of business are filled with trysts and assignations. Monica Lewinsky was in her early 20’s and while I thought the relationship was wrong because of Hillary I didn’t think it made him a bad President, just a typical one.

So can I separate these two things – the behavior of the person and the art they create? Allen is an unquestionably talented man, his work has gotten great praise and the last film I saw – Annie Hall – was excellent. So I began to think more on this – Nabokov was a great writer, and I read Lolita, Hemingway & Picasso were womanizers and yet I enjoy both of their works.  Balthus has an exhibition at the Met (if you don’t know of Balthus Google his name and The Guitar Lesson).  And Duck Dynasty is back on the air.

So maybe art doesn’t have any moral responsibility.

And yet we applaud those in Hollywood who stood up the McCarthy commission. And we sang Revolution by the Beatles. And the Israeli orchestra does not play Wagner.

So it looks like I will be giving Mr. Allens movies a pass still, since the last voice I have in America is how I spend my dollar. And the academy – they can do what they want. Meantime I am going to worry about the really inconsequential things like poverty, health care and climate change. Oh, and supporting women rights. 

This Day

This morning I went for a run and at 9 am I stood on an open field under a cerulean blue sky, much like the blue sky of 11 years ago. This time I was surrounded by trees and quiet. I stood there and gave of myself to gratitude – gratitude for being alive, for all that has been given, gratitude for this life, my life, a life - with sadness and happiness, boring and indifferent, glorious and hard - for all of it I give thanks,

Often I feel that I have known great troubles but in truth I have also had an amazing life full of abundance, joy and delightful surprise. And so today I am reminded of that, of having this field and this day, this life.

I am spending the day doing community outreach on suicide prevention. Every day a veteran takes their life, in my community – a place filled with wealth, beauty, opulence, and safety there is a suicide every three days (and increasing), among people with brain injury and victims of trauma suicide is double the population and in the city of Philadelphia children have twice the suicide rate of the nation. Suicide is highly stigmatized and difficult to deal so I hope that we can make a difference.

As to leaders…my thoughts return to the sea...

Leaders of states are like being at the helm of a tanker, they have a broad and slow turning radius, they are steered based on technology and data but somewhat blindly, dangerous because of their size and bulk. and though their size does not give them right of way they often take it. Yet despite all their power tney can still run aground.

Leaders of corporations are like America’s cup boats, driven to the next finish line, requiring a crew that sometimes is underwater, the captain has a few trusted advisors (if they are smart) but they rely on instinct and guts as much as standard procedure. They are always in competition, and everything can change in a moment.

Small businesses are like private yachts, the owners invest a lot and take pride but they can be costly to maintain. A good captain has patience and knows never to get to arrogant at the helm. And, while their boats represent their independence the captain often discovers how valuable it is to have a community to whether a storm.

But for most of us our lives are like the small Ideal-18’s – single handed, no engine just a tiller, we can move about quickly and do what many larger boats cannot, we have the joy of our choices and the thrill of our experiences, and together, a flotilla of such boats can change a great deal.

There is much to be learned from the water. The ocean is unpredictable and often dangerous but it is also beautiful and amazing. To harness the wind is to know cooperation and respect, the wind does not bow before man (or even women!) but it will share its power and majesty and take us the places we want to go (and sometimes to place we do not). To lie at night and see nothing but stars, to feel the surge of the sea beneath your keel, to see the world in its raw untamed state is to be both humbled and joyous and to recognize both our insignificance and our majesty.

And so it is on this day, on this day I share with all my mantra –

Memento vivere.

Remember to live.

metta. 

Something to Believe In

"believe," from P.Gmc. *ga-laubjan "to believe," perhaps lit. "hold dear, love" (cf. O.S. gilobian "believe," Du. geloven, O.H.G. gilouben, Ger. glauben), ultimately a compound based on PIE *leubh- "to care, desire, love"

A recent discussion  about belief, faith, and science got me thinking.  As I went off to bed I thought about an article I read that challenged  one of my beliefs (a belief that I rarely think about and so accept as a truth) The article asked me if I thought it ‘ok’ if a brother and sister married if they were unable to have children. 

The incest taboo is a fascinating one – without going into deep detail it is a universal phenomenon – all cultures has some form of restriction on intermarriage.   Obviously there are exceptions and variations but it is a very very strong cultural component.  There is empirical evidence that this is biologically based – after  all the children of incest would tend to die sooner and so those who are psychologically inclined against it would  survive and that trait would be reinforced.  But the taboo really relates to passing along genes. So if a couple said – ok, we will get sterilized then is such a marriage more acceptable,  more palatable? I mean think about this – marrying your brother or sister – if that were typical would that make you (especially women) feel more vulnerable around your own family? Would it change the perception of the family unit? Of the sense of ‘safety’ of a brother ? Many women say that they find having a male homosexual friend a great experience because they don’t feel the confusion of sexuality but can gain insight into a male perspective – so this freedom from sexual relations is certainly a part of this taboo.  I was very angry when Woody Allen married his adopted daughter – to me he broke  a sacred trust – and I have since then never seen another Woody Allen movie, nor even rented one.  I understand that he is happy in his marriage and I have no desire to see him punished or in jail  - but I found it a very disturbing action  because of the implications for adopted girls. 

Now lets say this brother and sister lied and didn’t get sterilized – and they decided to have a child. Is that then a crime? They cannot be stopped –so what how do we as a society address this – their belief is that there is no harm done, no foul.  They have a good solid loving marriage.  But there is strong scientific evidence to say that this is something to be discouraged as society.  Is the belief legitimate? Is it only legit if you have children? Does the science rule over the belief?

Beliefs are very important -  they impact the way we relate to the world, to society, the way we see ourselves, how we justify our existence and behaviors. They form us, inform us, shape outcomes and behaviors and as such deeply deeply held. Take two people who have similar lives and if one believes they are smart, successful and capable and the other believes that they are mediocre and plain – and you be surprised by the fact that those beliefs literally change the way they live and experience life.  The impacts of beliefs included belief in God, in science, in anything.  Beliefs make truth –they determine how we  will  see the world, including how we interpret the world – and how the world will see us.

Science is a tough business – we like to think it is totally empirical but it is not necessarily.  One cannot approach science with the idea  of proving right or wrong, of winning or losing – one must approach science with a mind of inquiry.  However this is harder than it seems – science is  filled with  folks who lie or misread results because they are so committed to an outcome.  The same mind that developed the hypothesis may have a hard time to test it. I have done IT QA for years – and I know many  brilliant developers  who create poor quality software because they cannot escape their belief about what  people need or  want or that what they built is correct.

The only way I have seen beliefs change is through 1) trauma or some major event   or 2) over a period of time from exposure and experiences. The later process only works however only if there is enough incentive to change a belief, if there is skin in the game. For example;  The PRESIDENT of Harvard in 2005 (yes, 2005) came out and said that women are just biologically less inclined for math and science. This, as you might imagine set off a storm of responses.  Now the president, Summers, could point to all sorts of empirical evidence – lower math scores, SAT scores, fewer women in these fields, fewer applying to schools with math science departments, even neurological studies. I am sure he could also point out few women in the finance industry, and even drag friends into it demonstrating that in most households he knows the man is the one who does the finances while women are better at housekeeping.  Summer’s inherent belief drives the way her interprets data – and even if he changes his position politically I doubt his inner conviction would be altered.

UNLESS. Perhaps if he was required to do the following it might have an impact. If he was told that his salary and tenure would be dependent on his setting up two math programs – one designed only for boys and another only for girls and that the scores on a final exam must be comparable for him to get tenure and receive his pay.  So he  sets up these programs and in the process initially finds the girls are not doing as well – so he changes things for the girls, allows them to work in groups, use colored pencils, more word and conceptual problems and provides a series of inspirational and sexy role model  women in math who come in to talk with them – and then he discovers that the girls out perform the boys.  But still not believing he does it again the next year – giving the boys some special attention  to balance it out – and the girls still out perform the boys.  And perhaps  over time, with more exposure to women in math, and different educational and socialization programs he discovers that the system is why and not some biological ‘fact’.  Or maybe not.  That’s the thing here –  a change in belief structure is very very hard to accomplish. But change will NOT occur simply because someone debates it with him. Even if he pleads mea culpa – what he thinks ain’t changing.

This is why I do not often spend a lot of time arguing with people who are deeply committed to the right or a conservative view – I do not think logic, reason, or any form of persuasion will change their belief. I do not debate views on the existence of God.   I do not think that you can change anyone – people only change themselves and they must be impelled. I have made significant changes in my own view but only after major life experiences – I have often said that I am so stubborn the fates had to hit me over the head with a two by four SEVERAL times to get me to pay attention.  I focus on the people who are on the fence, who are unclear.  I also think how we raise and treat our children matters – they are still forming. I did not tell my daughter what to think (at  least not too  often) but I did tell her  TO think, to ask, to question.  She and her friends and I have had many a compelling discussion – and we sometimes disagree.  For example - They do not see themselves as feminists – in part because they grew up with access and freedoms  that my peers fought for so for them these are ‘givens’.  But as they get older they are discovering some of the issues of male dominance – though I would say they still stay away from calling themselves feminists.  We disagree about several things – but inherently  I value and respect that they THINK, they inquire and they use the data and their own life experience and they make me think.

Interestingly belief is one of the hard aspects of advocating for people with cognitive disabilities. I can tell folks ‘facts’ all I want. I can give them statistics and stories and they nod their heads – but  they do not change their beliefs, not really. They believe that if a person looks well, is articulate, has knowledge, and is able bodied then the only reason they are not working successfully is that they are not trying. They think wanting to be motivated is the same thing as being motivated.  It is afterall just a question of effort.  But when it comes to TBI all bets are off – it’s a crazy house world where the observer and the observed are different – and one may WANT to be motivated but one’s motivation machine is busted – the want and  the act become separate. Since this cannot be empirically shown, and since we have  a strong belief system in America about character equaling effort  individuals with brain injury (or other cognitive disabilities) are often seen as morally bankrupt.  We hold similar beliefs about drug addicts and psychologically challenged individuals.  These beliefs are intrinsic in the way we view the world – and it is VERY hard to give them up or alter them.

We NEED belief, we NEED faith – and we NEED science and inquiry – we are wired to define ourselves through these system and without them we have no beliefs.  In Hindu (I believe) philosophy there are certain traits which are ‘stains’  (I do not know the correct spelling of the Yoga word) that is they cannot be  removed from our existence  These stains are what give us trouble -  but they can aslo lead to good things.  Some examples are ignorance, ego and passion. Perhaps passion can also be considered a belief – the thing we cling to which can cause such grief – yet we still find it hard to let go.

Platonic thought suggests that there are inherent a priori forms that exist, ultimate truths. We want there to be ‘truths’ since we aim in the direction of truth but what if there are none, what is everything just is what we believe? Then it’s the journey or process and not the destination.

I must have some beliefs in order to structure and shape my world but I must also practice at giving them up, at altering them to accommodate new data, new facts or new perspectives.   I also must practice graciousness with beliefs I do not hold and sometimes this is a real challenge because it feels threatening to MY beliefs.  This is often what is behind the failures to communicate; our belief structures have no points of intersection.  Finding common ground often seems impossible  yet I have seen that it is possible, even if the common ground is to agree to disagree.

Faith, believe, trust. Big words, hard to change.  But enlightenment always begins at home, in our own heart.  Isn’t that what Dorothy learned? 

Aurora to Ardmore, London to Lebanon

Aurora.

I wasn’t going to pander to it because – well, because it is so personal and the press has made it so ‘newsy’ (when it really isn’t) that I didn’t want to add any more to that.

But then my daughter, who is in Scotland, writes in her blog about being a global citizen and in a Skype call with her I enthusiastically support her taking a bus to go running off to London for a day of adventure with her friend. I remember when I was 14 and I traveled by myself throughout Europe, in Greece, in Communist countries, and the most fearful thing was that someone would grab my ass.  And so I think – go, wander, explore, because that is life, that is how life should be. 

Now it does cross my mind that London is the home of the summer Olympics and  that the Olympics is a potential source of terrorism.  And it does cross my mind that she will be working the Fringe Festival which attracts close to 2 million people into the city some of whom might be 'fringe' themselves. But even as these thoughts make themselves known they are over-ridden because I believe this is what it should be like at her age; hop on a bus, ride 10 hours into London, go roaming about, work in a giant artistic event, experience the world and just keep exploring. Thus I  I bury my mother hen fears - which exist in part because I am an ocean away - and instead trust her sensibility while I recall how much I gained in self-awareness and confidence from my own early travels. She has my blessing and I am thrilled for her.

Then this; Aurora and the fragile nature of life rears its head.

I know that had my daughter been home, she, like so many other kids, would have likely been at the opening  midnight showing of a new Batman release. And, I know that, unlike her going off to London,  I wouldn’t have had even a second thought about it because I am nearby and just like in  Aurora, Colorado the movie cineplex here is in a mall - a place that is considered very safe. Her friends are good kids all and it’s just a movie,  the kind of thing you do every day. In fact, the status on Facebook for two of her friends this evening  read ‘at the movie’. Its a normal, American kid thing to do.  Between the two, given the commonplace nature of going to the theater 5 miles away my worry about her taking a bus to London seemed the far more reasonable.

But the very normalcy is just the part that gets folks about this; when the everyday stuff suddenly isn't so everyday you find yourself struggling for answers.  After 9/11 when the area where I worked in the city was under lockdown, when we had to show badges to get in and out of buildings, when I passed body search dogs on my way to the office and there were kids with AK-47’s on the street corners  I felt invaded by fear.  However my friend, a Rabbi, who had lived for a while in Israel shrugged, this is how it is he said. But doesn’t it make you crazy I asked?  God will decide my time was his answer.  Now I don’t know about that part, but I understood, he had lived with street bombings and violence as something that could happen. I lived in ignorance.

Nor is it just Israel or the Middle East.  My African American friends have a similar response – welcome to life in an urban war zone, or in a Southern town, or anywhere for that matter if your skin color or your features or how you are just doesn't blend in.

I remember when I rode the ambulance in Brooklyn – and I remember the first time we had a shooting – a drug dealer shot in the chest. I was just a volunteer, I never saw a bullet wound (or even a dead person). The medics threw me the MAST pants (military antishock trousers – inflatable pants used to keep blood pressure up when there is bleeding from the chest) and I didn’t know how to put them on. But the guy with the bullet wound did and he told me, he’d been through all this before. Even told us which hospital to take him to.  Getting shot was just part of his life.

In the year that followed that incident I got to learn a lot more than how to put on MAST pants. I remember the postman with the vacant eyes when his girlfriends ex decided this guy had no right to her, I remember sitting in the projects waiting for the coroner to come and get the bloated body of an old woman that no one even thought about while I listened to the gun fire down in the alley below, I remember the bar in Red Hook awash in blood and bodies after a bar room dispute, and most of all I recall standing in the ER watching a doc hold a woman's heart in his hand trying to restart it after someone shot her. I heard the momma's in the waiting room crying, and seen the life leaving as a body turned into a carcass. Getting shot got pretty real sometimes.

But for most folks in America, the possibility of getting shot in the middle of a movie theater in a suburban mall exists so far from the reality of their lives that imagining it feels like the end of reason. The violence stuns a lot of Americans because we believe violence in a theater is only supposed to be on the screen. Personal violence is supposed to be removed from our daily lives; sanitized.

So it is that we live in a strange dichotomy; aware of violence through media news clips and movies but the sharp pain of it is once removed. We manage mostly to remain oblivious to the impact it has on people's lives. We are  ferocious about freedom, self righteous in our ideas of justice and and ignorant about what's brewing in the house next door. And,in the end, we are unwilling to address the problem that exists until it lands up on our doorstep.

I have friends and family who own guns; and  the vast majority who do have been trained in their use and have a deep realization of what they can do.  As for myself, I shot a gun once and then for lots of reasons, mainly  because I understood how powerful it could make me feel, I knew that I would never own one. Turns out that I was a pretty good shot, and I even liked it, but I didn't like how it made me feel so strong. To this day I have that bullet to remind me.

Now I do appreciate and respect that  some folks feel different, I get that for them having that gun is important. Yet even the ones that have those guns have licenses and not a one is an assault rifle. And most of them embrace the idea of some sort of regulatory process.

But for me the bottom line is when someone’s right to have a gun comes up against my right to go to a movie, that’s when I say enough.  We are quicker to imprison someone for shooting heroin than for shooting a kid walking in the street.  

Yes, I agree and understand the old maxim, it’s people who kill people – its just that a) they use guns and b) there’s a lot of that killing stuff going around.

No matter what, and I will leave the debate on gun control to the pundits, it still comes to this, it still comes down to the fact that I cannot understand why we do this, why are we, with all our knowledge, here - with guns and arsenals and assault rifles. Why do we have such a love affair with the gun as an answer, with destroying each other. Why do we increasingly move toward militarization as a solution to every problem. And why do we believe that we have the RIGHT to kill another person, and not just in self-defense or protection but because, just because.  Horrifyingly there have been a few comments in the social media ether in SUPPORT of the killer - and I just stop and think - huh?

We have tapped into this part of ourselves and now we cannot let it go. And that's what make me weep, that is what breaks my heart - because if we believe that a gun is the answer to differences then we have no answers. Yes, I agree, more regulation won't fix things because so long as we think that power over can bring peace we will keep destroying.

Think on this - prior to 1900 disease and pandemics were the largest killers of human beings. After 1900  war and democide became the chief  destroyers of human life - interestingly right around the time we used our amazing human intellect to invent the automatic rifle. And it's gone downhill from there.

Now, it's not like we have nothing else to do, it's not that as though we have already conquered all illness and can prevent pandemics - no, we still have plenty of those.  Even more there is plenty of the basics that still need our attention - every day  50,000 children die from  lack of clean water, it is estimated that 15-30 million people will die of poverty annually, and 10 million children will die before the age of three.

One billion people cannot read or write – with less than one per cent of what the world spent every year on weapons we could  insure every child was educated – and education is the first step to better health, reducing poverty, and improving quality of life. But it doesn’t happen.

These are all things we can do something about – access to water, eliminate poverty, educate people – we have the tools, we have the ability. But we don’t.

Instead we make more guns, bigger guns, more deadly guns. And we argue about regulation.

And this is where I am stuck.

There are 10 firearm deaths per 100,000 folks in the US.

There are .58 and .46 deaths per 100,000 folks in Scotland and England respectively. (that is POINT 58 and point 46). 

So I let my daughter get on a bus in Edinburgh and go to London in search of adventure. And its safer than going to a movie in her home town.

The lust for violence is great in America but in truth the problem permeates the world; Syria, the Congo, Tibet. It is as though there is some perverse belief that calculated destruction is an answer in a world were there is plenty of suffering without any human made violence needed. I have thought, perhaps foolishly, that our highest aspirations as humans was to make the world a better place, not a defeated one.

I sign my notes to people with the word 'metta' - and so far no one has ever asked me what it means. Maybe they looked it up, maybe they know. It is an ancient word from the Pali language - an Indo-Aryan tongue that is used in Buddhism. It's mean is 'loving kindness' - the love of all others, without bitterness, in fellowship, in sympathy, a love which overcomes social, religious, racial, political and economic barriers. I don't have it but I strive for it, I strive to be accepting, I strive to create a world that is more interested in providing water, food and education than guns.

And tonight it is metta that I give for the folks in Aurora, Colorado. It is also metta that I give for the world as a whole; from Aurora to Ardmore, from London to Lebanon.

It is time for us to put down our swords and ask ourselves what we are doing.