I have been slow to realize something, which has been staring me in the face. Everyone around me is angry now. My oldest son has been angry for days. We confronted each other on the stairs today, staring each other down. I can’t even recall why, but I do remember each of us was spitting mad. Probably I was angry at him for being angry.
I realize this is a time of war for all of us.
But who are we angry with? What are we mad about? Who is the enemy? How can we find him? Does he have a name? Where does he live? Do we know his neighborhood?
Could it be, we are angry at the idea of war? We don’t quite know how America got into this mess. It seemed to happen quickly, a few people shouting, the President, some of his secretaries. I'm mad about that. Video clips of the leader of Iraq brandishing his weapon made me mad—and probably did the same to others as well. So, I was mad at George Bush and Saddam Hussein and probably most of their cabinets and advisors.
I’m mad at the idea of this war. People tell me it’s all about oil. So I’m mad at oil. I want to boycott petroleum and use vegetable oil in my car instead. I’m mad at the fact that young men and woman are dying. I’m really mad at that! And another thing, let me tell you what really gets me angry…
…just about everything, right now.
"What do you think we should DO to end this insanity if not protest?" Lee Flemming asked me this question as part of her comment on my last blog, "Letter to My Country." Lee’s question gets right to the heart of the matter. But I am not quite sure what we should do. I don’t claim to have the answer. I had to write two books just to begin to answer the questions I had about Vietnam, and having done that, I still don’t have all the answers.
The only thing I am sure of is, this thing called war is way, way bigger than any of us. A week ago I was being interviewed on a local news show when the anchor asked me what was the main thing I remembered about being in the Vietnam War. The answer shot out of my mouth like an artillery shell, completely bypassing my thought process. "The noise." I went on to say, "Whatever a person's expectation, war turns out to be much, much bigger and more powerful."
War is frightening. War is awe-inspiring. War is bigger than any one of us. War is like God because it has the power to change the lives of anyone involved. It has power over life and death. The word "War" should be spelled with a capital.
And it is because of my awe of it, that I cannot get it out of my mind. Although I hate the idea of it, mainly because I know what it does to people, the only way I can imagine avoiding it is by finding Love in my heart, not War.
I know that within my own heart that I can either be at peace or at war. If I choose peace and learn to live in that peace, I am not contributing. And that is my contribution, "not to contribute."
I firmly believe that human actions are infinitely powerful. If I am promoting peace in my heart, that has a powerful effect on the universe. It is more powerful than if I protest because if I do that then I am contributing to protest or resistance.
Until I find a better way to end war, I'm going to continue to look for peace in my own heart where I know I can find it.
Because of the growing intensity of the war in Iraq, I feel the need to take a break from "Letters to Myself" to write what is in my heart right now. My first newly written entry in awhile is a letter published in my hometown paper, The Westport News.
Early one rainy morning in November of 1967, my father drove me from our house on Bradley Street in Westport, Connecticut to the railroad station in New Haven where I met up with about 50 other recent draftees about to be inducted into the U.S. Army. I was a shy young man who had quit college knowing that I would probably end up in the Army and would probably end up in Vietnam. Both were self-fulfiling prophecies because, after all, there had been a huge troop build-up that November, which in fact turned out to be the single largest number of men (boys, really) drafted into the Armed services in any one month.
So, by quitting college, I ostensibly knew where I was going to end up. Now, as I think of it 30 years later, I went because I wanted to find out for myself what the truth about the war was. Ironically, the day I showed up in New Haven, the Reverend Daniel Berrigan was holding the largest peace rally to date, in front of the New Haven train station. So we, the inductees, had to be escorted by the police through the line of peace marchers into the station.
What happened that day is a metaphor for what I've been thinking is making me an extremely uncomfortable and unpleasant person to live with in my home these days. As the writer of a daily on line journal I have, in the past few months, been a proponent of peace. I have written a couple of entries teasing the President -- one insinuating that he has "an anger problem," a problem I clearly recognize because of my own. The point is, I've been dredging my heart, day and night wondering what is the right thing for our country to do. There just doesn't seem to be a simple answer.
My personal notion of how to create peace in the world departs somewhat from the norm in that I do not believe that marching with a peace sign in hand, shouting "make love, not war" is actually going to make peace.
In my mind, peace is something that must be created in the heart; in mine, in yours, and in the hearts of marchers before any of us even thinks of taking to the streets. My reason why is simple: a line of angry marchers creates a "side" as in battle. We don't need any more "sides" in this world. Instead what we need is exactly the opposite -- a lack of sides. The solution to ending this war -- to ending any war -- is something simple and yet more powerful than even a march. We need love. We need to dig down deep inside our hearts to find that feeling and act from it.
And at this moment in time, the people we need to show our love to is our fellow men and women who have gone off to fight for us. This will be a real display of peace.
Not more than a few days ago, I was racking my brain for ways America might have out of this war, ways NOT to engage the enemy. I listened to David Cline's, President of Vererans for Peace, speech in Washington yesterday. I heard his impassioned call for Veterans to March to the White House to show our disapproval. I've listened -- as most of us undoubtedly have -- to many arguments against the war including "it's all about oil." There are a lot of convincing arguments against the war that I'm much more likely to believe than the ones for it.
But, something has changed my thinking in the last few days -- and I believe it's important for all of us to be willing to change when it's in our conscience to do so. What changed me is my memory of 30 years ago, of being a soldier returning from Vietnam. I was three days out of the field and on the last leg of my trip home during which I experienced the heights of the two emotions I'm talking about in this letter -- love and hate.
In October 1969 I left my mountain top, LZ Bayonet, by jeep where I took a hop aboard a C130 Cargo plane down the length of the country to Cam Ranh Bay and then a commercial airliner from there to Seattle. After cutting my way through all the Army's red tape and my final Army physical, I found myself in my brand new tailored dress uniform at the Seattle airport, nervous, afraid, and alone. So I went into a bar for a drink, as much to quell the non-stop tremors in my hands as to fight the fears. With my drink in hand I headed for the one empty seat remaining at a table when suddenly, inexplicably, the people sitting there lifted their drinks and moved to another table. None of them spoke to me, so for the moment, I didn't understand. Although soldiers in Vietnam knew there was a faction of our country that was against the war, we had no idea about the level of animosity which existed "back in the world" as we called our homeland.
Until that moment, I'd been proud of the couple of metals on my chest for the hour or so I'd worn them, most especially of the Combat Infantryman's Badge, which holds a special place of esteem among soldiers. But as I walked down the aisle in my plane back to New York, I felt that my medals and my uniform had suddenly become objects I could no longer afford to feel proud of. If I'd had another change of clothes I'm sure I would've changed into them.
But on the final leg of my journey back from my mountaintop near Chu Lai to my parent's house on Bradley Street, I experienced the other emotion I'm talking about -- the one capable of healing and overpowering the hate.
I arrived at Saugatuck train station late at night. There was only one cab so I shared the backseat of a Teddy's Taxi with an older man. I remember how very strange it seemed to see the Bridge Garage and the Mobil gas station where I'd worked in high school having just been in the jungle for 365 days. The cab crossed the blue bridge and then headed under the thruway down South Compo Road. The man beside me remained silent until the cab pulled into our driveway. He waited until I'd opened the door and stepped outside before extending his hand. "Thank You," was all he said.
The man's simple act of kindness has stayed with me all these years. It is important now that all of us find the love in our hearts to thank our fellow Americans, our soldiers, for risking their lives. Whether or not we believe in this war is no longer the point. We can still disagree, if we want to, with our country's reasons for being there -- and keep in mind, this is the right our soldier's serve to protect for us! What is most important at this time is to remember that the troops who are fighting for us, are men and women -- boys and girls -- just like us. Even if we don't know any of them personally, take it from me -- from someone who has been in their position -- they need our unconditional love. It is not the time to hold that back, let's give it to them.
You made me crazy.
It was not your fault, but mine, for trusting you. For giving you power over me. Even when I was drinking, I sometimes had a moment of clarity when I would say to myself, "people like me shouldn’t drink," people like me who are willing to let go of their own personal power and hand it over to another entity, alcohol.
I seemed to be so ready to give up so much of myself--including my sanity. Since I believed there was nothing inside myself worth much, I looked for something outside myself to fill the void. There was a huge empty space in me, which I tried to fill up with drink. The emptiness went so deep that the hole seemed bottomless. The liquid simply drained through the sandy bottom. There was no filling the void I had. Instead it was a case continually needing to find you, for your momentary fix, Dear Alcohol, to pour you into my emptiness.
Pour and pour more until the insanity set in--then, in that divine state of false truth of "in vino veritas", the insanity would feed on the warm breath of your drink. Then the chemical would transform my state of mind until I became lost to the world and to my sane self. I would fall as if from ten thousand feet from an airplane and tumble and spin, wildly performing the most irrational acts, spurred on by the courage of the liquor. Until after a dizzying and terrifying last few seconds I would die a bone-splattering death where I would crash once again onto the hard truths of reality. With the chilling knowledge that I couldn’t stay high forever, I finally realized, in the death I died each time I drank, that I would be unable to travel any farther away from myself.
Dear Alcohol, I’m guessing that every drunk like me sooner or later either arrives at this conclusion or dies. Having been somewhat close to death, I learned that even death itself couldn’t carry me any farther away from my pain. There was a finite distance I could go and you, alcohol, could carry me there but no farther.
After each drunk I on my own would have to make my own way back to sanity. But this became more and more difficult each time. It seemed I was slipping backwards on a river of alcohol carrying my whole life with me, a weight which held me below the surface of the alcohol I was drowning in.
And though I’m not now in that river I still feel your nasty breath on my neck, oh alcohol, and I do know you want me back and that you would love me to pick up that first drink--a fine and expensive glass of wine. What’ll it be?
You certainly were who I was. You fit me like a tailored suit. I listened to your song, reveling in the words and dancing to your music. I identified with you completely--with the feeling that I was not good enough. You and I became one and the same. I was not good enough for you and not good enough for me.
Imagine how this felt? To honor the hurtful words that had been told to me so many times that I took them into my heart where they became my manifesto for life. It sickens my heart to think of it now, that not so long ago I had given myself up in your favor like a player on the losing side of a game stands on the field long after the game’s over and stares, idolizing the star of the winning team.
I have no one to blame but me. I cannot blame a feeling called Not Good Enough for ruling my life for so long. Since I was the one that let you into my life, I take responsibility for what you did to me.
You ruined my life. You caused me so much pain, in so man guises. You stole from me, taking away my self-esteem and my pride in being the man I am. You stole years from my life. You wrenched life itself from out of my chest. You have taken away love and loves and destroyed my innocence when I was young.
I now want nothing more than to push you away. To see you stand, lonely and unforgiven by me, in the middle of a desert of sand. I will bring a shovel, take off my shirt and dig a deep hole to bury you in. And once I have shoved you to the bottom I shall hurriedly push back the sand, cover you up and let you die, screaming and tortured so you can hurt me no more.
I never again want to feel you breathing down my neck. I have no more use for you. None at all.
About the happiest I’ve been in recent history is the moment I realized what I was not. I heard it said that we are not perfect beings and that it’s quite all right to be at home with all of our small imperfections.
So it is time to write you, imperfections, and tell you I accept you in all your guises in me. Yet I now know you are in me but not part of me – though you’d like me to believe you are.
What is important is that I no longer pretend to be something I’m not--which is perfect.
I have spent too many years studying spirituality, listening to someone else’s ideas of how I was supposed to be. As if I was not good enough as I was. I was told to act like I was something of an ideal me--someone who was better than me. A more perfect me.
I can’t tell you the unbearable pain this caused, living this way, so falsely, so unlike me, so very far from myself. For what part of me is not okay to be me? There is certainly not a single molecule of mine that I cannot at least try to accept as me.
I may not always be happy being me. Or proud even. But, as long as I accept that I am this being with all it’s wrinkles and warts and imperfections, I am just fine, thanks. It’s much too difficult a task--probably impossible--to be someone, something other than who I am.
Now is one of those times when my feelings seem to be soft and quiet. As if I were sitting on a bed of moss on a quiet corner of a calm lake. There is much to be said for this state of mind because it allows things in--it allows me to receive. I’m feeling the gratitude which is possible when I’m aware of life moving through me and thus feeling a part of it.
I feel calm and connected to the earth and to every one of its inhabitants.
Tonight while I listened to a sixth grade band concert and I saw the youth which resides in my son, I knew I must write you, Dear Youth, on my behalf and talk to you as an old lost friend. You no longer live in me, in these muscles of mine which ache after throwing a football.
A playwright named you a sweet bird. And I picture you now soaring above me against a cloudless blue sky. But closer to home, I watched you tonight in the form of a girl with a loose curl dangling down her cheek who delighted in playing her violin. I watched as you played percussion with my son, banging the tambourine against his young leg. I recognized you in so many faces that giggled and created mischief.
It thrills me to see you so alive and well in so many children. For me it’s time to let you fly while I watch you act from where I sit, motionless, on my rather hard seat.
Something I am learning as the process of life beats on is that you and I are so much alike that there is no discernible difference between us.
I’m glad you’re here. I’m glad you’re with me. I’m glad I can hold your hand. There’s no one I’d rather be with. You are the one with whom I feel totally comfortable.
The more I know of myself, the more I respect you and your immense power, for healing, for forgiving. When I let you, I feel you removing all the obstacles in my path.
It is you Love who heals all my wounds from the past and present. And now that I dare to take your hand, I walk with you into the unknown--the future. I beseech you, Love, to stay with me and lift me when I fall.
There is no one I wish to be rid of more than you. I have never been your friend—I have never even liked you. I’m not sure why you exist in the world. Perhaps you are here just to be the balance for love. If that is so then I suppose it is worth it to have you around. For love is something I need.
I haven’t had much use for you. Although you have served me quickly and been gone, the few times in my life when I’ve witnessed you acting behind the face of a human being. There was a time when I used you—when I saw you in the face of a man who was hurting the girl I was with. I summoned you up to use your strength to try to kill that man. You helped me lash out at his face and I felt your power as I let you rule me for an instant. It was scary to feel the power you had and how you acted out your drama through my rage. It was exhilarating and a high.
But I have no need for you now. I have learned to live without you.
My Beloved, you held me in your warm grasp for so long. You were a giant, milky woman who engulfed me within your porous body. I lived for years within the damp space inside you. I lived for so long in the dark, feeling so safe within the confines of your bodily prison. I felt at home with all those sour memories of being told I was bad which then became my own belief. It was there that you, Dear Shame, whispered to me in the dark. I listened for your subtle, dense whine and knew you were with me when I heard it. I got to want to be with your voice, to have it affirm what I already believed--that I was a bad boy, that I had done wrong, and that it was right for me to feel the way I felt. It became my comfort to hide in your dark corners with my pitiful beliefs about myself.
I wanted no part of the light of day. So I drank the alcohol that was poison for me, that kept me within you, in that soft place where I could know I was bad and revel in my badness because you, Dear Shame, were the one who told me I’d found a home within you.
It wasn’t until I felt you so much, Shame, when you overpowered me that I needed to escape, even from you that had kept me so well. Because for me, I couldn’t imagine being that close to anyone, any entity at all--so I opened the door, just a crack, just enough for a thin ray of light to break in. Instantly the light let me see the awfulness of the place you kept me. I was living in the most horrible dungeon filled with slime and all horrible kinds of filth--I was living within your bowels.
And when the door was opened and some air came in, I smelled for the first time, the disease of Shame--the putridity of it all. But, at the same time I now knew, as I filled my lungs with air, that the disease of shame was separate from me. I had nothing more to be ashamed of. I was not a bad boy. In the light I could see--I was me and that it was okay to be me.
When I stepped out of your grasp and cleansed myself of you, I was proud of what I saw. I was proud of my body, of the clear look in my eye and no longer felt ashamed of anything I had done--most especially I felt no shame in leaving you.
I feel better and stronger with each step I take as I walk away from you, Dear Shame. I had let you, in your evilness, suck me into your grasp. But with my new strength, and with all the goodness I now feel about myself, I am happy to walk further and further away from you each day. And I don’t bother looking back.
About ten years ago when I was still fairly new in my recovery with alcohol, I came up with an idea that I thought would help me deal with all I had to deal with. I would address all the various aspects of my life that needed dealing with directly by letter. As I began to write, I was amazed to find, that the aspects themselves began to take on a life of their own. They became so real to me it was almost as if they began to live and breathe. I’ve compiled them and named them "Letters to Myself". I will reprint the letters here for the next 35 or so days. I hope you will enjoy reading them and will relate at least to some.
It seems that the sharing of these most personal letters is happening concurrent with our country going to war. The irony of this, to me, is huge—because my letters reveal the war I’ve been engaged in with myself for so many years, which has been the source of so much anger and bad behavior.
My humble hope is that others might relate to my battle. The first step in winning the war, in this case, is to be willing to admit there is a problem. It is that willingness that becomes the first ray of healing light.
My first letter (below) is addressed to my anger:
DEAR RAGE,
The time has come to finish with you—to end our love-hate relationship. You have kept me apart from myself. I used you to protect me, as a shield of armor to keep people away.
If I yelled or grew angry enough then I was safe inside the bubble of rage. By yelling I was able to keep people away from me—at arm’s length—a safe distance from which I wouldn’t be hurt. But this meant I was separated, isolated and protected in your shell.
You, Rage, kept me from the pain of feeling. You, like drink, offered me a buffer from the pains of living.
But now that I’m learning to be at home with my feelings, and now that I know they won’t kill me, I dare to feel. I know now that I’m okay and that I can live without you—so I’ve decided to let you go, Rage. I’m turning away now and setting you free.
I’m saying "good-bye" to you now. Although you served me when I needed you, I need you no longer.
Take your incredible power, swirl it into a circle; create a huge storm, a hurricane, over the South Atlantic and stir up the waves into a frenzy. Create all the havoc you want out there in the empty sky, above the sea. Spend your fury on yourself and be gone.
Good-bye, Brother Rage. Go. Be on your way.
There are a lot of similarities between George W. Bush and me. We are about the same age. We have both stopped drinking. Each of us is married and has two children—his are girls, mine boys—and our children are about the same age. We’ve both been married to one woman for about the same amount of time. I’d say we are both type A personalities, although he seems far more of the type than me.
And we both can be angry sons of bitches!
I know this, never having met George, because I recognize in him what I know to be true in myself. But what is different about George’s anger and my own, are the relative levels of danger. He’s got the most powerful army on earth under his command he can do some serious damage. "Serious damage" is of course a euphemism for being able to destroy the world.
There is simply nothing I can do about George’s anger—beyond making this single voice of mine heard. I’ve come to believe that I must find as much peace in myself as I can, as an example so that others might see. For now, I plan to continue spreading peace in this small way. At least the world will have one less angry man...
Every Saturday morning I go to a 12 Step meeting. There are many regulars in this particular group that I have been attending for more than ten years, and because we have gotten to know each other quite well, there is a definite feeling of familiarity in the room.
This morning, as is usual at the meeting, an older fellow named Don sits against the wall by the door, facing me. I sat at the table this morning, which I do whenever I feel the need to connect. In our relative positions, Don and I often make eye contact after which he questions me about how I’m doing—all with hand signals—thumbs up, thumbs down, etc. I must’ve looked fairly disconnected this morning because he gave me the "put up my hand" signal which means he was suggesting that it would be good for me to share. Sharing is the way we in this particular program, get better. By unloading what is on our minds, what may be troubling us, we are able to leave our problems there in the room. Sometimes, although not always, we’ll even get some helpful feedback.
Following Don’s hand signal, I shared. I tried to get a laugh at first, in all honesty, shamelessly wanting to break the ice and please the audience. "I feel very fortunate this morning," I began, "because I’ve met my Higher Power and have even learned His name. His name is Don!" I heard the laughter, waited for it to subside, then went on to tell the meeting that I’d been feeling a bit weird of late—a little disconnected from my Higher Power. So following the advice, which the program suggests: "Get to a meeting." I did that and then quickly received instructions to share from my Higher Power.
This procedure of sharing with others, which once seemed ridiculously simple to me, has had the power to effect huge changes in my life. It has taken me from the deeply shy and closed off person I was when I first began, to someone who is open enough to share himself with the rest of the human race. And the way it works—it remains ridiculously simple—is that a group of people participate on a regular basis—each one speaking and listening in turn and offering help to anyone there who might be in need.
So, in a nutshell, this is how God works for me: He appears sitting in a chair by the door disguised as a bald man of about 75 named Don. In order to meet Him all I have to do is show up at a meeting.
This morning as I was getting up to leave, the fellow sitting next to me, Mark, joked, "I never pictured God looking like Don."
"Neither did I," I replied.
It seems that my life has a way of continually complicating itself. Sometimes I help it happen and sometimes it happens all my itself, but—either way—it does happen. What I wonder is, how can I go about keeping things simple—at least for the things I have control over. One way is to deal with things as they come up. I know that putting off what I have to deal with today only makes those things bigger—more complicated. Dealing with things in the present keeps issues at a manageable size.
What are the other things I can do to keep my life simple? I can look inward inside myself, instead of outside, for things. If I search outside for satisfaction, it always seems that I’m adding something more on to my life. But if I just look within, the world of choices is self-contained—simpler by the mere fact that whatever is in me is something I already own.
There are activities that are simpler than others. Walking is a simple exercise that involves nothing to be added on. Swimming is much the same—some people say it is the perfect exercise. Drawing is nice and easy—and very relaxing. So is whistling, reading a book, writing poetry, playing the guitar.
But some of these things can become complicated intrinsically just because there are things that need to be learned in order to do them. To be really pure and simple, the activity I’m trying to get to here—truly Buddha-like—should be effortless.
In this light, it seems like one of the simplest and purest things to do is to watch television. I think it’s probably why so many people do it even though some people are in the habit of putting it down. I’ve had real "spiritual snobs" tell me proudly that they didn’t even own a television. Well, how hoitie toity can someone get! Watching television, while lying sideways on the couch—my favorite position—has got to be among the simplest activities available to modern humanity.
But, beyond that, my personal best definition of "simple" might be to be walking up the creek in the morning that runs through my in laws ranch, as the animals are waking up, with only a handful of human beings within a hundred square miles. There’s nothing along the creek that I’ve ever found, to brag to—at least nothing that will listen and care whether or not I either have lots of money or stuff or none at all. The rocks don’t care how spiritual or not spiritual I am—basically they don’t give a shit what I do, as long as I don’t step on them.
Out there, I can feel like Henry David Thoreau or Walt Whitman—for chrissakes—or like Tony Anthony—knowing that with each step I’m walking a little further from the petty complications that we humans seem to invent for ourselves.
Sometimes change happens to us; sometimes we have to change ourselves. It is way more difficult to effect change in ourselves.
I’ve been dealing with my anger for more than ten years and just when I think I’m rid of it, I slip back and find it’s still alive and well. Like a lot of unwanted habits, it doesn’t just go away just because I decide to deal with it—it takes constant attention over a period of time. It takes as long as it takes. So, once again I’m reminded that this life is a process—and like doing anything, painting a painting, for instance, the picture isn’t complete with one brushstroke; it takes some doing, stopping and starting over again, and again until it's right.
I think "stick-to-it-iveness" or the willingness "to be in it for the long haul" is one of the most admirable human traits. Almost any success in life, it seems to me, comes from persistence. So, I find that if I’m really going to change what I want to change in myself, my main objective needs to be determination not to give up.
OUR PRESENT ACTIONS
One thing I always find heartening is knowing what we are doing right now—right this minute—is like a filter which the past flows through. This means that our present actions determine our future. So if we are doing what is good and true, we are making for a better life ahead. Even if we are dealing with bad karma we’ve created in the past, if we are doing the right thing, right now, we are improving the future.
Change usually doesn’t happen all by itself.
I am glad to be back at this again—spilling my guts, as it used to be called. This is such a simple and innocent way for me to deal with stuff—to turn the eyeballs around in my head. Once they are focused inward it’s as if they are looking around inside just the same as they would outside. The process is one of just "looking". There needs to be some light shined on the insides as well… in order to be able to see. I guess that is what a therapist is supposed to do.
Whatever this process is, now that it has begun, I can’t stop it. I’m leaving a trail of "spilled guts" behind me wherever I go.
I find it interesting that my recent heart procedures, have "opened me up," figuratively as well as literally. When they cut me open, it feels like they also let some light in. This is really what I needed—some sunshine inside.
I remember one of the first times I heard Maharishi speak; it was at a lecture at MIT. A woman about to ask a question identified herself as an "interior decorator." Maharishi immediately went into gales of laughter—laughing so hard he was bouncing up and down on his couch. After he finally calmed down, he explained, "that’s my profession!"
I mention this because I think we all need to be interior decorators. And each of us needs to decorate only one house—our own.
Spring is nearly upon us, and it has been one of the darkest, dreariest winters in memory here in New England. It will be time, very soon, to open the curtains and let the light pour in from outside. Time for all of us to open the windows and let the air and the sun in.
This doesn’t happen often, at least not to me; a monumental change occurring without preparation, without struggle, without trying. But it has happened to me. I’ve had three heart operations that have caused a major change in me. The change was nothing I asked for not something I consciously decided to make happen. It was caused primarily from the effects of having my heart stopped for awhile and put on a pump while the doctors worked on it.
What has happened is this: Some of what I knew has disappeared—it’s gone, forgotten. The world looks different now. I have been given a new beginning, a clean slate. It is a wondrous state to be in. It feels like I’m standing on a mountaintop filling my lungs with dry alpine air. The air clears the mind. Many of my old, worn habits have inexplicably faded. Things that seemed so important and had become so ingrained in the part of me called my past no longer exist—I don’t even remember what those things were. It’s as if I’d been looking at a pane of glass but not seeing through it. Someone has taken a rag and a bottle of Windex and wiped away years worth of grime. Suddenly the window’s clean—perfectly clear. I forget that the glass is even there at all because now I’m looking way past where I was before, much farther, seeing the rays of the sun light up the snow-capped mountains in the distance.
Problems that once overwhelmed me have suddenly shrunk to bite size. I can deal with them and even look forward to dealing with them because I know there’s nothing I can’t handle.
I’ve inherited a whole new vision—one in which the world is a more peaceful place filled with poetry and art and music and people are all at one. Maybe it’s a dream in which I’ve awakened. Sometimes I think I’m seeing the world the way it should be, rather than the way it is.
Alifa Saadya (Ven. Huatou) is an American-born Israeli and student of Buddhism with the Hongako Jodo Association of America. She has spent many years engaged in interfaith dialogue, especially between Christians and Jews, and works as an editor at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem. Alifa lives in a small community in central Israel between Tel Aviv and Jerusalem.
Part III
The one thing that kept me sane in that first year after Kodesh was killed was that I believe firmly in the law of karma. The deed of murder has ramifications for so many people—the grief of family and friends, the rage and disgust, the additional impetus to turn away from any sort of peace process, and among the Palestinians, the fear of Israeli retaliation was set in motion, and so on. All these elements add into the karmic equation, and the karmic account of the murderer will inevitably include recognition of the ramified consequences of his act.
Did you know that revenge is specifically forbidden in the Bible (Lev.19.18) as part of the laws about holiness? The reason is simple: only God can look at the whole picture of a deed, the subtle and evident motivation of its doer along with its ramifications and then institute the correct and full punishment or reward. Acts of revenge only keep stirring the pot. I am not, at this stage of my life, a deist, but if you substitute the fully-developed and complex Buddhist idea of karma for the idea of God sitting in judgment, then there is some comfort in knowing that everything will surely balance out in the end. In the Jewish tradition, God is viewed as having the perfect balance of justice and mercy, and I firmly believe that you cannot have one without the other in this world. I can train myself to be more compassionate in my thinking and in my acts, but I absolutely must believe that there is justice in this world as well. Precisely because I believe in the law of karma (or divine justice), I do not have to waste my mental energy plotting revenge or letting myself sink into hatred or rage. I should add that were it in my power to arrest the murderer and bring him before a court, I would still consider that his conviction would only fulfill part of the full karmic consequences of his act.
The incredible thing to me about the human condition is that alongside the aggression and the tendency to act with hatred, greed, and ignorance, we find also a profound longing for interconnection, a built-in ability to develop wisdom, and the possibility of learning compassion. The great gift of a human incarnation is that we can choose which part of our makeup to develop. An act (karma, literally, means action ) is like planting a seed, and none of us knows at what time that seed will ripen to produce the plant, nor what the complete nature of that plant will be. Basic human wisdom from every age and place tries to assure us that when we plant seeds of compassion, just and honest dealings, attempts to bring about a better future, truthfulness and compassionate speech, avoiding as much as possible those other tendencies toward hatred, greed, and the perpetuation of ignorance, that the overall result will be fragrant, sturdy, life-giving plants that shelter us along the path to freedom.
Alifa Saadya (Ven. Huatou) is an American-born Israeli and student of Buddhism with the Hongako Jodo Association of America. She has spent many years engaged in interfaith dialogue, especially between Christians and Jews, and works as an editor at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem. Alifa lives in a small community in central Israel between Tel Aviv and Jerusalem.
PART II
For each individual "peace must begin with me", yet this concept and training are, in my opinion, not enough. I wrote previously about how difficult it was for me to maintain my sense of equanimity in the face of continuing attacks against Israelis during the second intifada. The problem is not only the sense of pain and outrage or actual hatred that may develop; there are also problems of losing the exactitude of one’s moral compass—and of watching that process occur on a national level. Peace may "begin with me", but I am also a member of various family and social circles, and I myself hold both American and Israeli citizenship. In addition, we are all, so to speak, citizens of a particular time in history, brought here by a particular combination of karmic inheritance.
There is a debate among Buddhists about being engaged in affairs of this temporary world. Some of the points made center on the idea that realistically, we can only re-train ourselves to be more compassionate, more clear-thinking, more at peace as individuals; changing the world is beyond us. There is the danger of becoming an enraged Buddhist rather than an engaged Buddhist. There is also the sense of frustration engendered by viewing the larger picture of world or even national or local events, and feeling that one’s own efforts are just too small to matter.
As a Buddhist lay nun (i.e., I don’t live in monastic community but independently), I have taken the precept to abstain from taking life. At the same time, as a nurse I am part of my small community’s Rapid Response Team in case of a terrorist attack. My task on this team is to set up the first aid station, but in addition, it means that I am sometimes called upon to do routine guard duty patrols at night, armed with an M-1. Because it is clearly defensive in a known situation of threat, I don’t have a problem with that.
Going back to the idea that "peace begins with me " I will only say that I have worked hard to reshape my thinking about my ostensible enemies. I don’t hate Palestinians in general, particularly as I know several individuals personally through working with them in factories or agriculture, at the university, or having met them at academic and
interfaith conferences. Yet I am appalled when I see news reports or read transcripts of speeches or excerpts from textbooks emanating from the Palestinian Authority or other Arab and Islamic sources that depict Jews (like me!!) as cosmic demons, fit only for destruction. The image of the Jew as deceiver is so deeply embedded in Islamic culture that I doubt it could ever be reexamined or set aside. Except in the extreme political right wing of Israel there is no similar demonizing of Muslims or Arabs. In addition, I know that the Arab stereotype of the Zionist world conspirator stems in part from propaganda disseminated in a profoundly poisonous form by the former Soviet Union in the aftermath of the 1967 war, in which Russian equipment and advisors, as much as the Arab armies, were defeated by Israel.
What this means, of course, is that often the murderers are acting out of complete ignorance of what "real Jews/Israelis" are like. Few Palestinians seem to be aware that a majority of Israelis accept the idea of having a Palestinian state—just not as a jumping off point for the destruction of Israel; not a terror state, but a state that would prosper.
How do I, in my attempt to walk the Buddha’s path to enlightenment, arouse compassion in such a difficult situation, especially in the aftermath of the murder of my friend?
First of all, let me say at the outset that there is no way I can condone premeditated murder. And I absolutely hold the religious leaders who foster it to be just as culpable (indeed, more so) as those who carry out the acts.
In the aftermath of my friend’s murder, there was the awareness that the murderer acted in profound ignorance, in its classic Buddhist sense. The murderer may have been primarily politically motivated with an added Islamic element (the Al-Aqsa brigade is a branch of Arafat’s Fatah party, not an Islamist movement per se). The man may have been a young guy setting out to prove his manhood. He was certainly viewed by his compatriots as a hero striking a blow for Palestinian independence. Perhaps he believed that he was acting for Allah as much as for the Palestinian people.
Yet he himself will never be truly free again. His crime meant that his name will be on a list of murderers wanted by the police. No matter how glorious his act in the minds of his fellows, he may have to spend his days cautiously, off the streets and out of the public eye.
Stay tuned for PART III
LET ME INTRODUCE GUEST BLOGGER ALIFA SAADYA OF JERUSALEM: Pursuing my goal of learning to become more open leads me also to want to listen to the stories of other’s journeys of personal discovery. After all, we are all on this trip together—all connected at the heart. Violence has closely touched Alifa who introduced herself by commented on a recent entry of mine about Ahimsa. I can think of nowhere on earth where it might be more difficult for a person to be tested in non-violence than Jerusalem where war as a daily occurence effects everyone. —Tony
This is what Alifa shared initially:
Sometimes I think that starting by making peace in ourselves is the only way, yet part of me says, it’s also not enough. In the past two years I’ve experienced the following: my next-door neighbor was murdered by the "Al-Aqsa Martyrs" and my two daughters were on Jaffa Road during a shooting incident. Neither was hurt, fortunately. On July 31 last summer, I ignored a loud boom, thinking it was an airplane, only to find myself ten minutes later rushing down from my office to help attend the wounded after the cafeteria was bombed.
In the face of this (and yes, I am well aware of "how much the Palestinians are suffering"), it is really hard to maintain one’s equanimity. Most of the people who are always "talking" about peace and love and all that stuff are so far away from the experiences that really challenge them to make peace. You've at least been in a real war and so I can respect where you're coming from.
I guess what I want to say is this: it’s really hard work not to fall into states of anger, hate, or simply despair. And I think it takes real courage for ordinary people to put forth the effort day after day not to do this.
After my friend was murdered, I began to say the Metta Sutta every day. After awhile I stopped, mostly out of lack of time before rushing off to work early in the morning. But I still bring to mind each day that all beings deserve peace, happiness, prosperity, and safety.
It’s a beginning, but I still say, I don't think it’s enough...
Alifa Saadya
Hebrew University of Jerusalem
Stay tuned over the next few days for Alifa's continuing story ... I'm certain that her heart-felt words will move you as much as they have me. —Tony
I am a less than perfect being but I am, little by little, becoming content with who I am. I have no desire to strive for perfection, just because that would be too difficult and I am not interested, any more, in doing anything that is too difficult. Almost every day I do something that reminds me just how imperfect I am by saying the wrong thing to someone—something hurtful—or by acting in a less than kind way towards someone. Even though my over-riding goal is to be a good person, I continually fall short. Sometimes I feel bad about my shortcomings and other times I can accept myself "warts and all".
The older I get, it seems the less I have to prove. My rules to live by are ridiculously simple: I want to do the right thing. The adventure comes in deciding what is right. "If it doesn’t harm another living thing," is a criterion I hear sometimes which seems to make sense. I’ve made over a million mistakes in this lifetime alone, and I’ve also made the decision to forgive myself for all of them. I no longer want to carry around the weight of the guilt and the shame associated with mistakes. The hell with all of that! Life is far too precious to be wasting time with that kind of useless baggage.
I’ve got plenty of living to do—miles to go before I sleep. I want to have an easy time walking the trail and I’ve found that the best way to do that is to be accepting of myself and of the others I meet along the way. If someone decides to walk along beside me for awhile, that’s fine, I can accept that. And then, if they head off in another direction after awhile, that’s also fine. Often the greatest challenge is accepting bad behavior from someone else. But until I’m a perfect being myself, it’s my job to understand their shortcomings as well as my own. I just have to remember, we’re all bozos on this bus!
I’ve been surprised by the variety of people I’ve met in the world of blogs. There seems to be no geographical, political or ethnic boundaries—or any other. The diversity gives me a sense of just how truly universal the internet is. One of the things I find so fascinating about writing an on-line journal is the totally unbounded feeling I get. It feels as if I’m broadcasting my words out into deep space. My impression is that the net goes on forever in whichever direction one looks.
Because of its unbounded quality, it occurs to me that the internet could easily be equated with the infinite mind of an enlightened being—Krishna, Jesus or Buddha. Although, I am not suggesting that the two things are the same, but I see the "Mind of Buddha" or "Buddha’s Mind" being a reasonable metaphor.
It is this endless, unbounded quality that gives the web such great potential for creating peace and goodwill on earth. I have discovered during these few short months that if I do nothing more than share my journey of self-discovery, the message reaches far more people than I ever expected without my ever leaving the old wooden desk in my office. It seems that hidden just beneath the level of commercialism that fuels the web lies the level of all possibilities—Buddha’s Mind.
It is possible that the more powerful that Buddha’s Mind online becomes, the more potential there is for the world to be transformed. I believe that this will happen when each of us begins to transform our own anger into love. We are each like individual cells in Buddha’s brain. But together we form the whole. Buddha’s Mind cannot be at peace when there is even one of us who remains angry or afraid.
It is by transforming our own anger into love that we will save the world. I need to remind myself each day to look inside myself before looking out!