There is silence. Then comes a breeze which describes the stillness, just as a single mark on a canvas defines the empty space.
When there is only stillness, sometimes I grow lazy and don't notice. Stillness is easy to forget.
Stillness is like silence. When there is only silence it puts me to sleep after a time. It takes a single note, the quick song of a bird, to wake me to the silence surrounding it.
This is the difference between life and death. Death is silent. A note is awakeness--awareness.
He who is awake is alive. That is what the breeze is for. To let you know. To remind you. The breeze is a song for the living.
It was not the men who started the war: Not Dick Cheney, Don Rumsfeld, Colin Powell or George W. Bush, who I saw in the streets of Baghdad. It was United States Army soldiers. Privates, PFC’s, Sergeants and a few Lieutenants who were out in the streets of the city, guarding the street corners, trying to create order, arguing with the citizens of the city, trying to explain why the Americans were there.
These are the men and women—boys and girls mostly—who fight wars. The same young faces I remembered from Vietnam. The same young faces, often scared and confused, of soldiers doing the grunt work in any war for any country. These are the pawns that do the dirty work that the leaders would never think of doing themselves. The soldiers who come home damaged from the war, psychologically, or deaf or blind, missing limbs, or in body bags.
Standing with some of our troops occupying one of Saddam's palaces brought back feelings of another war for me. It was eerie. It was as if I could call out the names of my buddies in Nam and these guys would turn around smiling.
The following is some advice I feel I have to give to the world. Although I don’t believe in giving advice, because it is a dangerous thing. But lately I’ve been worried about the state the world has gotten into. Things seem to be getting progressively more dangerous—more heated up. What I don’t understand is how people can go to war in the name of God. It seems to me to be using the Lord’s name in vain.
So here is what I have to say:
It’s not "them" against "us". There is no them or us. We are, all of us, connected. I have met Iraqi’s and they are human just like me.
Taking a side is the beginning of war. Taking sides immediately creates an argument. Do not argue. Do not judge. Only be human. We must live within our own heart.
Do not believe voices telling us what is right or wrong. If we want to listen to what God has to tell us, listen to how we feel in our heart. What we feel tells us what is right. We must learn to trust in our own intuition—our own gut feeling.
Only melting hearts will save the world.
I feel now how dangerous the world has become. Each of us needs to melt our heart and cherish what we know is good and true.
Do not be right or wrong; only melt your heart.
What gives me great peace, these days, is sinking into my Herman Melville story, TYPEE, about his travels in the South Seas—a place where I myself think I’ll end up some day. But a scene Melville recounts, immediately and uncomfortably brings me back to the present, to the real world.
"The patriarch-sovereign of Tior was a man very far advanced in years; but though age had bowed his form and rendered him almost decrepid, his gigantic frame retained all its original magnitude and grandeur of appearance. He advanced slowly and with evident pain, assisting his tottering steps with the heavy war-spear he held in his hand, and attended by a group of grey-bearded chiefs, on one of whom he occasionally leaned for support. The admiral came forward with head uncovered and extended hand, while the old king saluted him by a stately flourish of hie weapon. The next moment they stood side by side, these two extremes of the social scale, —the polished, splendid Frenchman, and the poor tattooed savage. They were both tall and noble-looking men; but in other respects how strikingly contrast! Du Petit Thouars exhibited upon his person all the paraphernalia of his naval rank. He wore a richly decorated admiral’s frock-coat, a laced chapeau bras, and upon his breast were a variety of ribbons and orders; while the simple islander, with the exception of a slight cincture about his loins, appeared in all the nakedness of nature."
Melville reflects perfectly the way we civilized Westerners view the rest of the world. What disturbs me is that we "enlightened" Americans have not progressed beyond Melville’s 19th Century point of view.
Iraq has been in the news so much lately, and it has been such sad news, that it brought me back—mentally—to Baghdad, where I was a year ago, at just about this time. Of all the places I saw in the city, the most exciting was undoubtedly, Saddam’s weekend palace on the banks of the Tigris River.
A company of the Third Infantry Division had occupied the palace having set up their cots and mosquito nets in the various public rooms on the first floor. The showers and toilets—with their solid gold fixtures still in place—were working. The dining room with its twenty-foot tall windows afforded a beautiful view of a pathway that wound through the park-like grounds to a kind of observation deck that jutted out over the river. Someone told me that Saddam used to swim from this deck. I think I do remember seeing a photo of Saddam floating in the Tigris some years ago.
I remember, wandering through some of the rooms upstairs, littered with plaster and fallen chandeliers, trying to feel some sort of presence of Saddam. I can’t say that I did. Only when a soldier showed us Saddam’s bedroom with the unmade bed in it, I think then, I did feel something of the missing dictator.
I took pictures of the two guys I was with, and then asked one of them to snap mine. Looking at the picture now, I wonder what I was thinking. I’m not sure. I think that I was contemplating just how strange it was to have my photo taken sitting on Saddam’s bed. Nothing more or less than that.
In the photo I am looking out the window which led to a balcony overlooking the Tigris. In the backyard, there was a huge swimming pool filled with some of the furniture from the palace.
When we walked down by the pool, a soldier told us they were going to clean the stuff out so they could swim in the pool. As he was telling me that, I remember seeing another soldier step into the shower in the cabana at the foot of the pool. That was the first time in the palace I had imagined seeing Saddam living there. It was easy to picture him stepping out of the pool and into the shower.
Being there in Baghdad, back then, it felt like a sad place and, for some reason, especially in Saddam’s palace. That wasn’t the only palace we visited but that one—supposedly his favorite—was, come to think of it, permeated with sadness. I’m not sure I can explain it further than that. It was just a feeling, something beyond words.
Staring out the window from my position on his bed, did, come to think of it, give me a certain perspective—if only a tiny glimpse—of what it might have been like to be that man who, in the end, as caused so much commotion.
I had a moment today, when nothing happened. I was reading Herman Melville’s book about his travels in the South Seas: "Typee, Omoo, Mardi" which has been keeping me in as relaxed a state of mind as I’ve been in. The only trouble with that, is that in the middle of a sentence I sometimes would my mind drifting or sliding until it falls off the edge of the page and out of the book altogether.
At one point, I found myself looking—just looking—over at a rose bush at the end of the yard. I realized, that up until I had realized, that I’d been thinking nothing at all.
As soon as I had this realization I tried to get back to that place of just pure being but by then it was gone. Lost.
So I went back to reading my book, which was almost, but not quite, as good as thinking nothing.
Some words of Maharishi Mahesh Yogi’s that have made a deep impression on my brain are, "The world is as you are." Like many things I’ve heard Maharishi say, these words seem to come back to me often. Yesterday, in a conversation, I heard myself quoting them. They are for me, possibly the most profound words I know.
As simple as they are, they encompass so much wisdom. I’d leave them alone and not try to expand on them except that from this conversation I was in—it was with a remarkable young woman named Carla—I found myself experiencing them. After a session with the Spanish tutor, I stopped into the Mendocino College Art Gallery at the college where Carla is the docent.
My own state of awareness runs the gamut from being almost totally unaware, to a subtle state of awareness, to awareness of being unified with everything. Somewhere along the way in this particular conversation, I had the experience of pure self-referral. What I mean is, while speaking to Carla, I had moments of knowing who I am. Something about the dynamic of communicating with Carla kept bringing my attention back to myself. It began innocently enough with a feeling of self-consciousness and then as I began to allow myself to let go, more and more I found myself just knowing that not only was I connected inextricably to the person I was talking to, but to the room, the art on the walls, the wind blowing outside, the building—everything.
When I left the building I was in, the experience stayed with me. I met an old friend, Ed, outside, who is the gardener for the college. I realized that he was truly One with all the shrubbery and trees. I told him that, and he joked, "Oh yeah, they’re my boys!" He got it.
What amazed me was how this state of Unity—once you’re "there" is there for everyone. Carla gets it, I got it, and Ed got it.
I guess even the trees and the shrubs get it. When you’re feeling connected, you ARE connected. It’s very cool. I felt I was living Maharishi’s words, the world is as I am. And I felt I was connected with everything. And, as such, nothing but a reflection of life itself.
I am learning the possibility of "NOT". Not doing too much. Not trying too hard. Not trying to be the best or have the most. Not trying to care about outcomes.
Some people think that the most important thing in life is to be remembered. But being remembered is as fleeting, over the long run, as everything else. Because, even those people who remember us, remember only as long as they live. When their lives are ended, so is their memory of us. The point is, that even our legacy is temporary.
So why do we try so hard, knowing that whatever accomplishments we achieve—even the great ones eventually will be lost in the records of time.
There is much to be said for being humble, living small, accepting our human frailties, accepting our foibles and living with the acceptance of all our warts. It is so much easier to live like the rocks in the stream, letting time flow over us like the water flows across the rocks.
There is this thing called ego that makes us want to be the biggest, the strongest, most beautiful rock in the stream. Yet, what makes the stream of life so beautiful is the collection of all the rocks together. For individuals, it should be the knowledge of "who we are" that gives us satisfaction. We are people just like our neighbors and our friends and our family members—all of us connected in the stream of life.
Isn’t it self-knowledge that is what really counts? Isn’t it knowledge of who we are that gives us eternal satisfaction? Why is it that we must feel we are the brightest, the shiniest, the best, in order to feel satisfied. As soon as we are polished on one side with everything we learn in this life, then a storm comes along and flips us over exposing our rough underside that has not yet been polished at all. Just when we feel the pride and satisfaction of accomplishment, we are tossed around and shown that all that was really no big deal.
If we are simply satisfied with acceptance, with gaining the knowledge of who we are inside, then when we are flipped over, we don’t feel any different because we are focused within. What we appear like on the outside is no big deal.
Eventually all the rocks in the stream are worn smooth by the flow of the water. As hard as the rock is, it is formed and smoothed by the flow of life. What sense does it make to strive for perfection when we will end up a perfectly formed being anyway?
No matter how much we struggle to shape ourselves into what we think we should be, nature will shape us the way it wants.
Go with the flow. Chill. Enjoy the cool water. Enjoy the ride.
I am learning a whole new way of living here in California. It is perfectly said by the hint I sometimes get from my sons: "Chill, Dad!" This goes a long way towards reminding me that my goal should be to relax.
I need to be reminded not try to be so perfect. Not to get so caught up in the game of living that I lose sight of what’s important.
What’s important is to enjoy life—to enjoy the game. I am constantly reminded that this place does not play by the same rules as the uptight, chase-the-dollar-at-all-costs rules that seem to govern life on the streets of New York, or Westport, Connecticut where we came from. I learn something new everyday just by living here in this more peaceful world about how to enjoy life.
One thing I’ve learned of late as a writer for the local newspaper, The Ukiah Daily Journal, It is okay to be flexible when keeping appointments. I’ve learned that time can be considered more infinite than something finite. Showing up for a nine-o’clock appointment can be flexible. When the K.C. Meadows, the Editor of the paper recently asked me if we could meet around nine-fifteen, I asked, "what does ‘around nine fifteen, mean?’" She laughed and said, "time’s a flow."
What a wonderful thing it is to be reminded especially by someone whose job turns on deadlines that time is a flow. Time is infinite. There’s plenty of it to go around—so chill!