African Mysteries

Pre-trip studies of African facts and figures were not helping us grasp the realities of the ground we would occupy, so we segued to books and maps. We hauled out the World Atlas and scanned maps of Botswana, Zimbabwe, Zambia and South Africa until our eyes blurred. Books on Africa helped a little better and we boned up on African history, geology, economics and politics. We gained much by reading but felt that the knowledge we gained would certainly change upon our arrival. At least our studies had given us a bit more confidence in our ability to relate to the people and conditions we would encounter. We gathered limited knowledge but avoided the assumption that we knew anything. What we did “know” would be severely tested soon.

We discovered that a few of our friends had been to Southern Africa and we sought their advice. They were enthusiastic about sharing their experiences and suggestions. Their suggestions were just that… we knew our experiences would be different but their storytelling increased our confidence and anticipation. Friends were helpful regarding photography in the bush. Linda began to acquire photographic gear at an accelerated rate. She purchased a full-frame telephoto lens, a monopod, batteries and memory cards. She took classes to improve her techniques and master the quirks of her new lens. A life-long photographer, she prepared for one of the shoots all photogs look forward to. Linda also wrestled about 30 pounds of gear without complaint.

Preparation also included physical examinations, blood tests and injections. We stocked up on malaria pills, sleep aids to help on the 24 hour flights, motion sickness patches, diarrhea pills and pain killers, we became a mobile pharmacy. Our vaccination list was reviewed to be assured of our protection from yellow and dengue fevers, hepatitis and pneumonia…we had the answer for most of our health concerns in the bush.

We did all that we could do to be prepared.

African Mysteries

“Africa has her mysteries and even a wise man cannot understand them but a wise man respects them.” – Miriam Madeba

It is difficult to understand why two septuagenerians would travel half way around the world to immerse themselves in the complex mysteries of Africa. Upon reflection, a number of possible motivations emerge. Travels earlier in life gave us reason to believe in the observation of Aldous Huxley that, “to travel is to discover that everyone is wrong about other countries.” We knew that we didn’t know much about Africa. For us, it was truly the dark continent. We also knew that the best way to gain understanding of other places and cultures was to get your boots on the ground. On a subtler level, we also suspected that a trip to Africa was a journey into mystery in a land of natural wonders that one’s “day to day USA” was unable to provide. Finally, we are great believers in the wisdom of the old African proverb: “to get lost is to learn the way.” There is no better place to get lost than Africa. We booked the trip.

Our preparations were exhaustive and often comical. I stood in our back yard spraying insecticides on shirts, pants, socks and underwear; we gathered a small mountain of batteries for our devices which included headlamps, sound machines, flashlights, and cameras. I bought a new monocular and boonie hat. We tucked in a few alcohol wipes, multitools, collapsible water bottles and power adapters. We waterproofed our travel duffle bags and laid in some camper’s toilet paper. We carried more insecticide than a soy bean farm in Iowa. After a week of packing and repacking – we felt we were ready…of course, we were not.

We sought knowledge in various places. Some of the places and sites we visited actually moved our understanding forward. First, we gathered factoids and lists. Lists were critical and everywhere available. We started with list of gear, drugs, dos and do nots and became familiar with “the fives:” the big, the small and the ugly. The big five referred to the most sought – after animal sightings and the list was: elephant, rhino, cape buffalo, hippo and leopard. Oddly, the Nile crocodile, the black mamba and the other iconic animals were not on the list, suggesting that stature might have been the determining factor. Another list manifested the “10 Deadliest Animals in Africa.” On this list, the croc and the black mamba appeared along with the puff adder, tsetse fly and the mosquito. So we had lists for the animals you wanted to see and those you wanted to avoid. The glamour guys of the big five and the deadliest 10 yielded some interesting facts. We learned that the most animal related deaths in Africa are caused by the lowly mosquito and the number four killer is the tsetse fly. The mighty lion – the “king of beasts” came in at an unimpressive number nine. These lists provided little help in planning a trip to the bush and we were left wondering if the Big Five simply included the most photogenic critters or those that were the hardest to hunt. It was true that an African safari was not considered successful if one did not encounter the Five.

Impermanence, suffering and non-self are the three characteristics of our lives that are beyond our understanding. These are far beyond the counter-intuitive, they defy us by their very nature. These are the three thing that most of us want the least …we certainly want “good” to abide not disappear and reappear like a weak radio signal. We want as little suffering as possible and most of us wish to build and empower our egos. We find transcending or minimizing ourselves inherently abhorrent. Our inability to accept the three facts of life is a good measure of how far we are from living life on life’s terms.

In our effort to accommodate the big three, we are subject to some odd contortions and distortions arise. We lose our selves in cults and bury our fears of impermanence in greed and -perhaps the most maladaptive- we become ascetics or profligate. Understanding is the hardest thing to find.

I’m beginning to believe the what we don’t do, say, think, profess and assert as truth may give us a bit of peace, a safe place to encounter ourselves. I don’t know but not “knowing ” is all part of the deal. Humility may be the path out of the cul de sac of endless striving. Samanatha is the Buddhist word for calm abiding. The old vision of the person as the mountain is instructive. The mountain calmly abides as the weather systems of loss, victory, bereavement – all of life’s situations – pass by. The mountain simply, abides.

I still strive of, course – as we all do. Forays into meditation, health regimens, therapy are all strivings to find peace while peace is already here. My new mantra is “don’t just do something, sit there.” Perhaps peace will drop into my alms bowl without my worrying about it.

I hope that the cacophony that is everywhere will morph into a low, soothing hum.

PS the next writing here will describe a trip to Africa that my wife and I took. My wife’s photos will get you through it even if the writing falls short.

Here in my valley, life is low and slow, qualities I appreciate more and more as I accumulate rings on my trunk. My time is measured by the scudding of clouds and the slow growth in the vegetable garden. Peace seems near. I wonder….

Last night I was in a discussion of current events. The first bit of clarity that arose from the give and take of ideas, was the fact that I realized that peace – like love, wisdom and courage – defies definition and when we think we have grasped its meaning, sudden factors make understanding impossible. For some, peace is merely the absence of strife, while others understand peace as a state of being unsoiled by any of life’s ups and downs. However we capture the notion of peace, we are soon aware of its nature which is random, nuanced, and stochastic. What has clarity is the idea that “peace” is always perverted by power. When power is gained the simple idea of peace is polluted by man’s greatest mistake – certainty. All subtlety, nuance and nuance in the understanding of peace dies in the hard light of righteousness.

When we seek peace through the doctrines of the Abrahamic religions, we always find the beautiful message of brotherhood that each contains. Then we are instructed by the great religions to follow the rules, control the appetite and kill the infidel. Soon adherents go forth to “civilize” others at the point of a sword. Peace for many is death. Everywhere that the path to peace is created by power, horror ensues. No less a philosopher than Jimi Hendrix stated the case clearly: “when the power of love overcomes the love of power, the world will have peace.” Power abhors complexity and stifles thought in the interest of order.

Admittedly, peace is a rare thing in the world of affairs and I find myself not taking sides in power struggles because the rage to gain territory, status, goods and personal wealth is the death of serenity. In these quests, nobody can be right. As I look at the world I seem to get peace from the profound sadness that all the striving creates. Perhaps we must accept the fact that peace will always elude us. Peace will not thrive in the climate of human nature.

it will take a massive move to the counter-intuitive for peace to exist. I hope that the message of Buddha, Jesus, MLK, Ghandi-and many others, will someday reach us and we will find ourselves in the beautiful world of Anton Chekov: ” We will hear Angels. We shall see the sky sparkling with diamonds.” This vision will only be a reality when we do a mind shift of epic proportions.

I live in the hope that such a transformation is possible.

As we pinball through the holiday season I stop for a moment today at Halloween to consider the fast roll of Thanksgiving, Christmas and the New Year that is about to begin. These hyper-commercialized dates will see us bankrupt ourselves to squeeze some pleasure from the events…to enrich our lives. Thanksgiving is the next bumper we will hit and it suggests that we should take stock of exactly what we are grateful for. The sentiments of the Hallmark card are at the surface. We are certainly grateful for birdsong, sunsets, and our health but deeper things suggest themselves.

Emerson’s quote comes to mind : ” I awoke this morning with devout thanksgiving for my friends.” This morning-and every morning- I feel the same. My friends have taught me how to work, how to grieve and how to laugh. Without my friends I would not have survived.Moreover, I would not have a sense of spirituality without the instruction and the example they have given. he spiritual way is not a theory but a practice and my friends have given me so many occasions to practice forgiveness, acceptance and empathy. At the core of their teaching is the most important lesson of all …the importance of gratitude. Thanksgiving indeed.

I sometimes look at my life as a journey that takes m e to many places and my friends as the places I have sought shelter on the trip. WhenI rest comfortably in their caring and wisdom I think of one of my favorite Yogi Berra quips, ” That place was so great . The towels were so fluffy, I could barely close my suitcase.” They have filed me up.

So I am about to carom into the Thanksgiving season with my dear ones at top of mind. Thank them for all the fluffy towels they let me steal from them.

RIP Steve, Norm, Phil , Ted and Mark.

My grandmother came from Ireland with my mother and uncle in tow in an effort to create a better life for herself and the ensuing generations. I watched her closely as a child and learned from her Irish toughness and faith. Just yesterday I was wrist deep in a meatloaf with meat onions and green peppers squishing between my fingers when I remembered the grapes.

I remembered the many times I saw this weary, questing woman bent over a bowl of green grapes like a miser staring into a cask filled with coins and faceted gems. As she slowly popped them into her mouth, I realized that that those grapes meant more than just a pleasant snack. For Nellie O’Sullivan these grapes were a physical manifestation of many things that were dear to her. They seemed to be physical proof of a better life – an extravagance – that was not readily available in rural Ireland. The grapes were clusters of validation for a move across the Atlantic to a land of abundance and opportunity. They were a manifestation of arrival and thriving.

Philip Gibbs of the New York Time once quipped that, ” there is poetry in a pork chop to a hungry man.” That about captures the meaning of my grandmother’s bowl of table grapes.

This memory led me to a question about myself and the people in my life. What are my dear one’s bowl of grapes… where do they get the physical representation of their achievements and dreams. For a woman I know it’s a closet full of marathon tee shirts and race jackets. For one man that I know it is a collection of stringed instruments. I wondered what was in my own jewel box, what bowl of fruit did I stare into with a sense of satisfaction.

Well, I stare into a bowl of words. These are my gems and as George Herbert observed, “good words are worth much and cost little.” I find myself rolling words between my fingers, placing them in arrangements and devouring them with gusto. I hope you enjoy a little word snack as much as I do and I apologize for not serving you more of them. I am back in the kitchen now and stringing the jewels together.

Let’s eat.

Two strains of thought came together recently as I ping-ponged between readings on politics and spirituality. In the political area I was increasingly interested in the idea of tyranny and autocracy and in the personal, I was interested in the idea of an autocracy that we create with our individual egos.

Given the times and the omnipresence of certain personalities, political tyranny is a normal part of current thinking. Authors like historian Tim Snyder and politico David Pepper offer in-depth consideration of the autocratic impulse. As I read, I came across this quote form Lenin: “Autocracy can not do without its twin agents: the hangman and the priest, the first to suppress popular resistance by force, the second to sweeten and embellish the lot of the oppressed with empty promises of a heavenly kingdom.” Snyder is particularly cogent about what Lenin hints at reminding us that, “you submit to tyranny when you renounce the difference between what you want to hear and what is actually the case.”

In the political sphere autocrats rarely end well. The guillotine awaits the oppressive king, Il Duce is hung by his heels in Milan, Caesar is stabbed at the senate and Hitler is left with his two remaining friends, a cyanide tablet and a pistol. Yet we seem to rush toward the rule of a single strongman like flies rush to feces. The strongman is the one who promises to make you safe if you turn a few liberties over to his control. Why not be safe? How can that be bad ?

The strongman of our ego offers us the same lousy deal.

We have said or heard many vocalizations from the tyrant. ” You can’t do that.” “Just look the other way.” “Look out for number one. ” We are told that certain kindnesses are too risky or that personal goals are too difficult to achieve and sadly that is often what we want to hear. It absolves us from trying and protects us from failure. How often have we lost liberty and safety because we listen to the autocratic voice in our heads? The tyranny of our egos is powerful and subtle.

So I shout out to those that resist. The octogenarian ballet dancer and the charitable soul that breaks free and takes action. Be brave. Break free.

A half century ago I met a man who would be my brother, the Godfather of my son and a constant source of amusement for the ensuing five decades. I was a waiter in an Italian restaurant and he was the bar manager. I was tasked with getting ice for a pig roast and I spilled a pile of cubes on the bar floor. I went on my way without a second thought. About a half mile away from the restaurant this bar man suddenly loomed in front of me and offered to kick my ass if I didn’t return immediately and clean up my mess. That’s how the friendship began and it was the first of many messes that he demanded action on. Last week, I received the news of this man’s death and it made me realize what an amazing character had entered my life in a melting mess of spilled ice.

In the years we knew each other we travelled together, got clean and sober, and shared life events: marriages, birthdays, funerals. Our paths ran parallel and often intersected. At each meeting point we simply picked up where we left off – each knew the other so well.

My friend built much of his life on enthusiasms. He segued through golf, competitive cycling, auto racing, art collecting, day trading, basketball and Buddhism. Unlike most of us he didn’t sit on the couch and wonder if he should take up archery or crocheting…he went all in. His enthusiasms were intense and all-consuming. There were no boundaries. The cycling phase required an $8,000 custom bike and a pile of gear. It also required a trip to Europe to ride behind the Tour d’ France. His car racing moment saw him buy a new Mini Cooper and a fortune in racing equipment to make the car competitive. Finally the car was entered in Cooper’s Race Across America. Many of us enjoyed a trip to Hawaii but he had to add Tonga and Tahiti to his itinerary. There were no half measures and he squeezed all the life out of whatever he did.

Like a true friend he did not hold back when I needed a swift kick in the ass. One night we sat in my car outside an AA Hall for two hours as he listened to me snort and complain. After my Jeremiad ended he paused for a moment and offered me this: “you have a beautiful wife, healthy children, a good job and many friends…YOU’RE RUNNING OUT OF REASONS TO BE AN ASSHOLE. Wise words. Two days later a package was at my front door that contained a blue tee shirt emblazoned with the message: RUNNING OUT OF REASONS TBAA. He made sure I got the message and understood the power of gratitude.

He was not without his faults.

In conversation, his stentorian pronouncements were dismissive and irritating. His jokes were often tasteless and crude and he ate a combination of salty and fried fast food garbage that was truly disgusting. He talked over you and knew just a few too many answers. But there was also an unfailing charm – an energy – that was genuine and attractive. Often, you learned something. For me he was the embodiment of the person Winnie the Pooh referenced: “I knew that when I met you an adventure was about to happen.”

His sister sent the note of his passing and referred to him as a, “pesky hummingbird.” That says it all. Great energy, attractive coloring and the occasional irritation when the bird buzzes your face.

Now there is a hole in my heart where he used to live. He taught me much about acceptance, gratitude, courage and self awareness and I will never forget the lessons. I agree with Mencius; “friends are the siblings God never gave us.” This man was the brother I was gifted with. A true friend, indeed.

Spring has returned and at this time of the year my favorite song is Sympathy For The Dibble. Gardening is back with the sun and the magic of spring bring thoughts of renewal, husbandry and joyful labors come in waves. Cicero once posited that, ” if you have a garden and a library you have everything you need.” Food and shelter – and many other needs-aside – the spirit of the quote rings true. It is facile to use gardening as a metaphor for life because those connections and evocations are readily available on the surface but I feel like doing it anyway.

Gardening is a vibrant subculture in which plants are exchanged among the like-minded, soil recipes are traded and local nurseries are reviewed among members of the mud brigade. The social aspect of gardening can not be denied. If you engage in manual labor with another gardener (digging, hoeing, weeding etc.) friendships are deepened and a vision of hopeful outcomes is shared. A sangha is formed. For my Buddhist friends, the act of gardening satisfies many of the steps of the eightfold path: right effort, right concentration, right livelihood, right intention and right mindfulness are at ones fingertips as they play in the dirt. Gardening is more than a hobby, it becomes a spiritual exercise that feeds the soul.

On a lighter note, gardening offers all the fun stuff that comes with the best activities. There’s gear, tools, clothes for the sport, gloves and the joys of the seed catalogue. The gardener is as equipment driven as a golfer who evaluates wood and irons, tees, shoes, pants, hats and carts. My little garden is my country club and after a log gardening session I enjoy an Arnold Palmer in my personal 19th Hole… a spot under my orange tree. Happily, I pay no greens fees other than the time is takes to water the lettuce and spinach… greens that I actually get to eat. Gardening has really become meditation in action and I seem to find the highest levels of mindfulness when there is dirt to play in, If you can’t afford golf, sophisticated woodworking tools or expensive tennis rackets, gardening may be for you. Of course, if you are able to do all the activities that make you happy, that is a good lie to play.

I am so happy for another spring with birdsong and brassicas and I think of the old Chinese proverb, “life begins the day you start a garden.”

Enjoy the sunny days.

A few years ago on a cross-country trip I saw this road sign: Literacy Clinic 2 Miles. The sign was all in capital letters, perhaps in the hope that people who couldn’t read would somehow understand if the letters were big enough. We often miss those that need our help most but this sign reached a new level of futility. We don’t need to ban or burn books…most of our fellow citizens don’t read anyway. Various studies yield varying statistics but one research group places adult literacy in the United States at 56% and absolute illiteracy at 21%. Apparently the remaining 23% are struggling readers. We place 125th on a world literacy list. Excepting those with real learning disabilities, 54% of us read at a 6th grade level.

Reading increases our ability to communicate, self reflect, manufacture, transact business and empathize, it is a basic building block of a vibrant culture. In addition to our own lack of reading ability we now have those who would ban the books that give our children a fighting chance to excel at many endeavors and to have a broad, truth based view of their world. Teaching about Rosa Parks without reference to her status as a black woman in the American south is an affront to the woman herself, and to history in general. We are racing to a place where truth is dead and critical thinking is downright seditious.

When philosopher Rene Descartes posited his famous assertion – I think therefore I am – the reference is to the ability to reflect on one’s own thinking. We are killing this ability by removing the tools of such reflection… we can not assess the truth of the truth without agreement on the idea of truth itself. We need to read the signs we see and not fly past the literacy clinic of advanced reading skills.

We need to ask who benefits from an effort to stupefy our children by limiting their access to the lessons of history. We need to prioritize reading skills that lead to enhanced critical thinking. Literate populations have a fighting chance to create sustainable societies and enhance quality of life and we should all be horrified by our 125th position in reading ability. Instead of banning books and sanitizing history, we need a full court press to create literacy.

I always feel a bit uncomfortable in a home that has no books (even if there’s a Kindle under a bed somewhere) because I wonder what they know abut the nature of humans and their history. The cumulative result of reading the signs is the creation of culture and by culture I mean the sense that is created by common enquiry into the nature of being human.The beauty of reading everything you can is that it can create understanding of others, their wants, needs and desires as they pursue their individual happiness. Reading is the highway to culture and culture makes us kinder and more adaptable.

The Athenian dramatist Menander said it perfectly: “culture makes all men gentle.”

Who wouldn’t want that.