Tuesday, November 2, 2010

The Sacred and the Profane

What to do when you are staring at 17+ hours in an uncomfortable seat on an airplane? One way to pass the time is write a journal of your trip. Following is a recount of my recent trip to Israel.

Saturday, Oct. 23: At the conclusion of the 10-hour flight from JFK, Tel Aviv is in my sites. The descent into Ben Guiron airport is stunning. Under mysteriously bright blue skies, there are dozens of sail boats, of various sizes, with eager revelers on board, enjoying the early afternoon sun and breezes on the Mediterranean Sea. We touch down shortly after noon local time. Emerging from the plane and walking down what seems to be an exceptionally long tunnel, passengers hit the wall of passport control. All around me are various languages being spoken; in addition to English, Russian and Hebrew. I like to see all the various colors of various nations’ passports; green or red or blue; I wonder how they choose the color. After inching through the long line and reaching the passport control desk, passing through is trivial. Then the long journey to baggage claim. I become concerned because I do not initially see my solitary suitcase; I am concerned because this said suitcase contains all my training materials for the upcoming week’s training class that I am planning to teach. Things would not be good if the training materials ended up in some unclaimed luggage facility in Mumbai (since I might mention that ostensibly the purpose of my trip to Israel is to teach said training course). When I eventually see my sole suitcase, I utter an Hallelujia, which elicits a grin from a nearby fellow who volunteers to retrieve it for me.

With luggage in tow, I head to the Hertz desk. Before embarking on this journey, I’d arranged to meet my colleague Tommi from Finland (flying in to attend my training class), at the Hertz desk. (I’d neglected to ask the agent about a GPS for the rental car. In hindsight, I could’ve really used one, as on several occasions I’d found myself utterly lost, by myself, aimlessly driving around, which frankly was scary but also had a sense of adventure to it.) I registered for the car rental and looked around for Tommi. I approached the only man in the area with darting eyes, looking around purposefully. I introduced myself, and sure enough, it was Tommi. So far, this had all gone just a little bit too smoothly, I said to myself.

We boarded the shuttle to retrieve the rental car. (This shuttle seems interminable and I wonder if we’d mistakenly boarded a tour bus for Jerusalem.) Eventually we arrive at the rental car facility and we are presented with a tiny 4-door sub-compact car. The rental car has a keypad on the dashboard, which requires the driver to enter a security code before the ignition will start. (It occurs to me that I’ve entered a whole new realm of security here in Israel.) The agent gruffly tells me that the code is 5252, and I wonder what kind of association I can make to help me remember this pertinent little code. As we pack our bags into the tiny car, I’d wondered again if we should get a GPS. We jointly decided to wing it. We’d both printed directions from the airport to our hotel in Tel Aviv. However we both immediately came to the same conclusion as we exited the airport; these directions would not help us, as the congestion and poor signage conspired to lead us astray. I then realized we’d have to rely on really primitive navigational techniques such as, North, South, East, West. I knew our hotel was at the beach, so at one point I banked left to head West. We drove around for a few miles, and it mystified us both to suddenly see our hotel on the right. I was especially impressed with our random luck (combined with a bit of primitive navigation) which led us to our hotel. By this time, it was almost 4pm. We stumbled inside the lobby and checked in. Our rooms weren’t ready yet, so we elected to hit the hotel bar. Tommi was baffled to be told by the waitress that he in fact could not order a cappuccino, as this would violate the Sabbath. Apparently the use of the espresso machine violates the tenets of the Sabbath. Who knew? He settled on a coke instead. I sipped my soda, trying to take in the fact that I’d just completed a 2-day, 10,000-mile-journey to Israel.

Sunday, Oct. 24: Due to the Jewish nature of Israel, its customs abide by Jewish law. Given that Saturday is the Jewish Sabbath (aka “Shabbat” in Hebrew), the Israeli work week is Sunday through Thursday. And so alas, there is no day to become acclimated, no time to recover from jet lag. I meet Tommi in the dining room to indulge in what’s termed an “Israeli breakfast,” which is essentially an over-the-top buffet, complete with various salads, fresh fruits & vegetables, eggs, waffles, etc., et al (except, of course, no bacon). We depart for the office around 7:45am. The office is located in a small town south of Tel Aviv called “Yavne.” I’d asked the bell hop for directions to the main highway, and off we went.

As it turns out, it’s about a 45-minute commute to the office. (I found it hard to believe that there wasn’t a more conveniently-located hotel; but I was actually glad there wasn’t. Our hotel is situated right on the beach with a lovely view of the Meditterranean to the West and the Tel Aviv lights to the East.) We arrive in what is essentially a non-descript industrial park, and locate a small two-story office building, with a Mentor Graphics logo above the front door. As we emerged from the car, Pnina and the rest of the staff came out to greet us and welcome us. She set my mind at ease; we’d found the office and she couldn’t have been more gracious. She led me to the conference room and proceeded to give us a tour of the office (two floors of cubicles and several walled offices; several kitchens; and most importantly, the bathrooms and the espresso machine). Thus launched my training class. Teaching class is my favorite part of my job, because i get to stand up there and explain things to people, which gives me a great sense of fulfillment. When I see students of mine have an “Ah ha” moment – when I see that they are getting it – it is a great joy to me. And so goes the work week, during the day: Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday. The truth is, we could’ve been in any city, in any non-descript conference room. It could’ve been Houston or Cleveland or Toronto. It could’ve been Sacramento or Denver or Omaha. But it wasn’t. It was a small town south of Tel Aviv called Yavne. And that made it seem special, even if it was just a boring little conference room with a table, chairs and computers.

So, did I do anything of interest during the evenings of the work week? Why, yes! On Sunday evening, Tommi and I strolled the Tel Aviv promenade, which is a remarkably busy strip of restaurants, bars and outdoor cafes. It’s literally spitting distance from the Mediterranean Sea. There were many revelers out for the evening, enjoying the mild fall starry evening. We’d promised one of our colleagues to look for “Mike’s Place,” which turned out to be a dive local bar on the promenade. (We walked in briefly but decided to quickly exit; we were surrounded by boisterous college kids.) Again I was reminded of Israeli security, as an armed guard checked my camera bag before we could enter the bar.

On Monday evening, one of my colleagues, Pnina, and her husband Yak, took Tommi and me to Jerusalem for some sight-seeing. I hadn’t expected this, and was delighted at the prospect. Pnina’s husband bought us tickets to an incredible light and sound show at the Tower of David (here’s a clip of it on Youtube). "”

First we walked around the various quarters of old town Jerusalem. I was haunted by the way Old Jerusalem sort of glows during the evening. It is dark, but lit in a subtle way that implies ancient history and reverence and even mystery. Then we watched the light show, which is essentially an overview of the history of Jerusalem. Phenomenal show, we all really enjoyed it. Then Yak and Pnina took us to one of their favorite local restaurants, a small locally-owned Italian place. At dinner, I learned that Yak and Pnina are Americans and came to Israel in the early 1970s, with two young children in tow, to pursue their Zionist visions and work as farmers. Pnina quickly found a job as a teacher, and Yak continued as a farmer. They raised their young family, eventually having five daughters. Today they have a total of 28 grandchildren! I asked if it was a particular tenet of the Jewish tradition that they have as many children as possible. “No,” Yak replied, “We take each child as a gift from God.” They often get asked if they actually remember the names of all their grandchildren. “Yes,” replied Yak, “except for one particular grandchild, a girl, whose name I couldn’t regularly remember. I don’t know why, there was just a block. And so I had to make an extra effort to learn this young girl’s name, and I am happy to report that I haven’t once yet forgotten Alicia’s name.”

As we left the restaurant and headed for the parking garage, I was aghast to see a brand-new, very high-end shopping mall, directly adjacent to the walls of the Old City. “What,” I asked myself, “would Jesus think of this?” The next day I mentioned this to my colleague Rachel. “You have to realize, people live in Jerusalem; it isn’t just a tourist attraction. Of course, tourists love to shop, too,” she added. Ah yes, of course we do. We need to purchase that new Rolex at the Old City in Jerusalem. The Sacred and the Profane. What would we do otherwise? The Sacred and the Profane.

On Wednesday evening, I had the good fortune of adding another experience to my list of experiences that prove what a small world it is, and that random meetings, and even semi-planned meetings, feed our sense of the smallness of the world. Before departing for Israel, I’d learned from my dear friend Alicia that one of her long-lost friends, named Evgenia, had recently relocated to Israel. Alicia had befriended Evgenia in 2004, when they were both working as teachers near the Caucasus mountains in Russia. And yes, they recently reconnected via (yes, you guessed it): FACEBOOK. So I left for Israel with Evgenia’s phone number, tentatively planning to call her and even meet her. I did call her, a day or two after I’d arrived in Israel, and she graciously agreed to meet me for dinner. So we enjoyed a light dinner at an outdoor café, and got to know one another. She and her husband left Russia to pursue opportunities, better health care, and a better overall quality of life in Israel. After her first child was born in Russia, the doctors there told her that she would never be able to conceive again; that pregnancy would be life-threatening to her. Within months of arriving in Israel, she in fact did conceive, had an event-free pregnancy, and gave birth to a healthy baby. Evgenia assured me that Israel is a fruitful place for conception; she has evidence! How is it that I could be having dinner with a friend of my friend, 10,000 miles away from home? Unlikely and yet utterly true.

During the week, my class and I had lunch in the company cafeteria. They eat amazingly good food, every day! Especially, fresh salads with varied ingredients. And of course, middle-eastern staples such as hummus, pita bread, and black olives. What I didn’t expect were the outlandishly good desserts: on Tuesday afternoon, we left the office and went on a field trip for lunch. We drove to a nearby town and visited a local café. This town happens to be one of the original towns in Israel, settled around the 1920s. This town was settled by a Russian immigrant and his wife; they specialized in assisting other recent immigrants as they made their way to Israel. They assisted them with meals, a cup of hot tea, housing, and anything they could to help ease the transition to their new country. At this remarkably low-key yet amazingly good local eatery, we enjoyed a whole variety of sinfully rich desserts amongst us; I think we all suffered from a sugar high (and subsequent low) that afternoon.

Friday, October 29th, was my first free day to pursue “tourist” endeavors. As one of my charters was to purchase souvenirs, I decided to visit the Tel Aviv artisan markets in the morning and early afternoon, and then visit the port town of Old Jaffa in the later afternoon. The artisan markets were remarkable, with a huge variety of hand-crafted religious as well as secular items; jewelry; pottery; wood-workings (made of olive tree wood); stained glass; clothing; pretty-much-you-name-it, it was there. I was disappointed that my “NIS” currency (New Israel Shekkles) didn’t stretch very far at the market, though I did manage to pick up several items for my family. The market’s items were lovely but not inexpensive. (And I have to say, as I was wandering the rows of the market, I was reminded of my own local market, the Portland Saturday Market, which – while not offering the variety of items – does offer a great variety with very compelling prices.) Then in the afternoon, I walked all the way from my hotel, along the promenade, to old Jaffa. This was a port town during the Ottoman empire of the 16th century. It is a predominantly Arab community that lives there today. There are lovely old examples of architecture here. I stopped at St. Peter’s Catholic church and monastery to say a few prayers. I sat down in a pew and then knelt to pray. I got lost in prayer, as I like to do, only to emerge when I felt that sense of losing track of time. I looked up and over to my right, to see a monk staring at me from beyond a remote door (as if, I’d pondered, perhaps nodding his approval). I took several snapshots of the interior of the church and then left. There is also something called the “Wishing bridge” in Jaffa. This is a short walking bridge that faces West, towards the sea. Adorning the bridge are bronze pieces that represent each sign of the zodiac. Legend has it that if the person puts their hands on their zodiac sign and faces the sea and makes a wish, their wish will come true. Jaffa also has spectacular gardens and views overlooking the sea to the West and Tel Aviv to the North. I collapsed Friday evening, exhausted from all the walking, sight-seeing, and photography (I’d taken about 200 photos that day).

Saturday, October 30th, was my second and final full day of tourism. The hotel offered a “free guided tour” of Jerusalem, which I decided to take. After some chaos and confusion over which bus was which (several tour guides pointing and barking commands in Hebrew to one another), I got off the bus that was chartered for the 3-day tour to the Dead Sea/Ein Gedi/Masada and onto the bus for Jerusalem. After my evening visit to Jerusalem on Monday evening, I’d really wanted to go back to that magical place. What interests me the most about Jerusalem is how it is this sacred and holy place for all three Abrahamic faiths, and the fact that these diverse communities live amongst one another. I have been told that there is tension amongst the diverse communities, but I didn’t witness any (of course, I was there for only a full day and an evening, which certainly isn’t enough time to truly understand a place). We started the tour by ascended Mt. Scopus and stopping near the Hebrew University, which offers a phenomenal photo opportunity; it overlooks the entire valley of the Old City. Then we visited King David’s tomb, which was very underwhelming (and I found it disconcerting that the viewing was segregated; the men could view the tomb from a prime location to see the tomb, whereas women were funneled to a remote corner with very limited viewing). Then we made our way through the various quarters of the Old City: there are multiple quarters. There is the Jewish quarter, the Christian quarter, the Islam quarter, and the Armenian quarter. The scale of each of these areas is quite small, perhaps smaller than you would expect. The Old City is very accessible in terms of its scale; but not in terms of its stairs and cobbled paths. The Old City would be a challenge for anyone with impaired mobility. Then we moved on to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, which is said to be where Christ’s body was laid for cleansing immediately after he was crucified. This is one of the foremost holy places for Christians, and it was utterly mobbed with throngs of people. Then we walked the Via Dolorosa, which encompasses the stations of the cross. Each station represents an event in Christ’s final few days. This walk is also very holy to Christians (and in fact several of the stations are within the Church of the Holy Sepulchre). Then we walked to the Western Wall (aka the Wailing wall). The lower portion of this wall has the original stonework from the second temple (which was destroyed in 70 A.D., by the Romans). People of all faiths come to the wailing wall to pray, and also to offer prayers of petition that they’ve scribbled on little scraps of paper. People then stick these scraps of paper into the crevices of the actual wall. There are thousands of scraps of paper in and around the wall. The authorities clean up all the scraps and bury them in a grave, as if to honor the reverence of the scribbled prayers. I’d written a prayer on a srap of paper and approached the wall. From a distance, the scale of the wall does not seem so grand, but when you are standing right next to it, it is quite grand. I approached the wall (of course, in the segregated area for women), and found a place to stand right next to the wall (which was a challenge, as the wall was mobbed with people). I opened my hands and pressed my palms against the wall. It was cold, but also, seemed sort of electric. I placed my scrap of paper inside one of the already-jammed crevices of the wall. I closed my eyes and whispered a prayer. When I opened my eyes, I looked up to see a pigeon, perched on a tiny ledge, looking down directly at me. I imagined that he had attitude, sort of like, “hey, this is my wall; I’m sick of all you tourists!” He then flew off, seemingly in disgust. The sacred and the profane.

Probably the most moving place we visited that day, for me, was the garden at Gethsemane. Some of the olive trees in this garden date back to Christ’s time. It was chilling for me to think of Christ petitioning God, the night before his crucifixion, conceding to God, “Father, I do not understand you, but I trust you.” Precisely. There is so much we do not understand, that we cannot understand; but the trust can do wonders to get us through our respective dark nights of the soul. Then we visited a kibbutz for lunch. Then we headed back to the Old City one more time, to walk the teeming markets. On our way back to Tel Aviv, the guide stopped at a local market in an Arab section of town (as several people on the tour needed a bathroom). It was here that I heard the arresting and haunting call to prayer, that Muslims hear as an invocation to ritualized prayer. I was reverently soaking in this moving and entrancing sound, and then from out of nowhere, a camel trotted by, followed by several young children, scattering after it, trying to catch it. The sacred and the profane.

When I returned to my hotel around 6:30pm, I called my colleague and new friend Rachel, an Israeli native, to meet her for dinner. She picked me up and we went to a trendy, buzzing neighborhood with lots of good casual restaurants. As had been my experience the entire week, the food was delicious. Then we went for a walk and toured the revamped train station. This train station used to be an active station for the Jaffa-to-Jerusalem journey, which has long since been discontinued, and is now a hip, gentrified place with galleries, shops, and cafes.

On my final day in Israel, Sunday, Oct. 31, I checked out of the hotel @11am and drove to Yavne for one more day in the office before my late-evening flight. I worked with the team until 6pm, said many lovely goodbyes, and then headed for the airport. Rachel told me to just look for the signs for Jerusalem, and then look for signs for the airport. Feeling sort of cocky, since Tommi and I had managed to navigate really well all week long, I started driving and just planned to look for signs. Only, I got really confused as to which road I should actually be taking, and I realized that I was lost. Really lost. Panic began to set in. First I had visions of missing my flight from Tel Aviv (this would not be a good thing). Then I started to panic even more, and had visions of newspaper headlines, “American Woman Found Dead on Side of Road Near the Gaza Strip.” I decided to get off the highway and ask someone for directions. There was an exit for a town called Lod up ahead. I exited and found a gas station and stopped. The gas station was teeming with people everywhere. I got out of the car and asked the first fellow I saw. He said he didn’t speak English. Then I asked another. Also no English. Then another. Also no English. I realized I’d stopped in an Arab town, as they were all speaking Arabic. There were dozens of people around me, but not a soul could speak English. Perhaps sensing my panic, one fellow approached me and gestured for me to go inside the store of the gas station; I took this to mean that perhaps the store clerk could speak English. The store was packed with people. I got in line so that I could try to speak with the clerk. Finally it was my turn. “Do you speak English?” I inquired to this young woman behind the counter. “Yes,” she politely replied, to my immense relief. I got out my map and showed her that I was desperately trying to get to the airport. She smiled slightly, “it’s not a problem, you are close. Just get on this road here and drive straight. You will see the signs. You are very close.” I looked her in the eyes and was then struck by her immense beauty. I thanked her profusely. She said, in only slightly accented English, “you’re welcome” several times. I thanked GOD over and over; I suddenly thought perhaps she was a guardian angel. Ironically, when I’d arrived at the airport, I double-checked my map, just to get a sense of how lost I’d actually been. Near as I could tell from the map, I’d actually taken the shortest, most-direct route from the office to the airport.

Ask me sometime about my adventure trying to get through security at the airport that evening. Let’s just say that the Israelis are rather serious about security.

Oh, and by the way, the training class went really well.

Saturday, May 22, 2010

Worrying about Too Much "Screen Time"

There is much consternation that people are too absorbed with "screen time," glued to their iPhones, Netbooks, laptops, or some other screen, as they text, write blog posts, peruse pictures, watch videos, or engage in some other occupation that involves a screen. Yes, these screens are ubiquitous. We have them in our pockets, our purses, on our desks at home and at work, and in our living rooms. We have them in our hands as we walk down the street. We even have them on our dashboards, in the form of a talking GPS, guiding us to the desired location. Even president Obama, our first "Blackberry" president (as he himself confessed that he was addicted to it), has recently openly criticized our screen addictions. One pundit even claims that "...we've become so fascinated with the means of transmission that we've lost sight of what's actually passing along over the wires and airwaves."

When I read about all this fretting, I keep going back to old adage: "moderation in all things."

Surely, "too much" screen time is potentially damaging. But just what is "too much"? And how might "too much screen time" harm us?

In my mind, "too much" screen time is simply when such screen time impinges on other healthy activities. This will vary, from person to person. For a person who is disabled and thus has impaired mobility, screen time may be a lifeline to other folks. For another person, say, a teenager, "too much" screen time is happening if homework suffers or if physical activity is sacrificed in favor of screen time.

It amuses me when people express horror or outrage about screen time, as if before such screen devices existed, people spent every minute of every hour of every day on constructive and healthy activities. Take away all the ubiquitous screens, and what happens? A vacuum gets created, that has to be filled in some way. It is not that screens and our occupation with them are inherently unhealthy or damaging; the screens themselves are neutral. Instead, it is a matter of how we choose to engage in screen activity; and what sacrifices we make to engage in screen activity.

Another adage I think of when I think of screen activity: "know thyself." To get a reality check on your screen engagement, take inventory; how much time per day, per week, do you spend engaged with the screen? What exactly are you doing as you engage with the screen? Then, seriously evaluate your screen engagement. Does your screen engagement feed your soul? Or starve it? Be honest; only a serious and honest assessment will help you determine whether you need to alter your screen engagement patterns.

Monday, March 29, 2010

The Buddha's Words on Loving Kindness

This is what should be done
By one who is skilled in goodness,
And who knows the path of peace:
Let them be able and upright,
Straightforward and gentle in speech.
Humble and not conceited,
Contented and easily satisfied,
Unburdened with duties and frugal in their ways.
Peaceful and calm, and wise and skillful,
Not proud and demanding in nature.
Let them not do the slightest thing
That the wise would later reprove.
Wishing: in gladness and in safety,
May all beings be at ease.
Whatever living beings there may be;
Whether they are weak or strong, omitting none,
The great or the mighty, medium, short or small,
The seen and the unseen,
Those living near or far away,
These born and to-be-born --
May all beings be at ease.
Let none deceive another,
Or despise any being in any state.
Let none through anger or ill-will
Wish harm upon another.
Even as a mother protects with her life
Her child, her only child,
So, with a boundless heart
Should one cherish all living beings,
Radiating kindness over the entire world
Spreading upwards to the skies,
And downwards to the depths,
Outward and unbounded,
Freed from hatred and ill-will.
Whether standing or walking, seated or lying down,
Free from drowsiness
One should sustain this recollection.
This is said to be the divine abiding:
By not holding to fixed views,
The pure-hearted one, having clarity of vision,
Being freed from all sense desires,
Is not born again into this world.

Wednesday, March 17, 2010

Pulling the Thread of Dichotomies


Ok, quick, what does this photo represent to you?

Alas, it is yet another example of a gratuitous dichotomy that only feeds stereotypes. A woman is either a whore or a virgin, right? (oh, maybe there's a 3rd choice: a whore, a virgin, or she's gone legitimate, that is, she's married - to a man.)

Uh Oh, this post has remnants of my lesbian feminist exegesis from college; run the other direction!

Seriously, we so often break down the world into 2 categories. For example:
  • man/woman
  • gay/straight
  • rich/poor
  • smart/dumb
  • black/white
  • liberal/conservative
  • us/them
  • Bill O'Reilly/Bill Maher
  • Believer of God/atheist
...and the list could go on and on.

WHY WHY WHY do we insist on creating and fostering these gross and rudimentary categorizations?

Well, the answer is, because it's the first step in making sense of the world. We want to categorize and name the parts of the world all around us, so that we can begin to understand the world. Putting people and things into nice and neat little buckets helps us process the world. The problem is, this is just the FIRST step; we have to MATURE and realize that the world is much more complicated, subtle and nuanced than these mere dichotomies might suggest. Dichotomies serve a purpose; they help to orient us; they provide us with a frame of reference. That said, dichotomies are inherently limited, because they don't accommodate the wide variety and overlap within and amongst these categories. Acknowledge dichotomies, but be sure to pull the thread and explore the nuances and ambiguities that dichotomies might expose, if only we would bother to do so.

Monday, March 15, 2010

What it Means to Become Sober

"What it means to become sober" is unique to each individual. Here is what it has meant to me:

I have been sober now since August 13, 2008. This is telling in itself; if you are sober, do you remember the date of your last drink? I bet you do. For many people, hitting "rock bottom" is a date that they remember, and it signifies the turning point. The details aren't important, but August 12 was "rock bottom" for me, and so I started this adventure called "sobriety" on August 13, 2008.

For me, sobriety has been a gift from God. I am free from alcohol. I am living a new-found liberty that I didn't know was possible. I am no longer beholden to a life centered around consuming alcohol and then recovering from its consumption.

Alcohol is rather nefarious. It is sanctioned by our culture as a legitimate drug. It is served at meals and parties and various social gatherings as the standard modus operandi. It seduces us with variety and allure. It charms us with sophistication and wonder. Its consumption charts a frequently negative course. First, it lulls us into a false sense of reality by dulling our senses and compromising our judgment. After years of regular consumption, it profoundly damages the body, the mind, and the spirit.

There are those amongst us who are able to drink "moderately." To them, it may seem silly that there are those of us who can't; it may seem to be a personal failure or simply a lack of will power. But for many of us, "one drink is too many and a thousand are not enough."

Sobriety for me has meant a life-giving freedom that enables me to devote precious time and energy to the people I care about. Since my sobriety, I have developed a profound appreciation for the preciousness of life, and I don't want to spend a minute of it under the control of alcohol. The more time I am "awake" (and not under the control of alcohol), the more time I am able to commune with God and live my life with presence of mind. It has forced me to look at why I'd been drinking and enabled me to get to the other side.

concerts...

My daughter recently asked me, "mom, what was the first concert you ever went to?"
I had to pause briefly, but then it came to me fairly quickly. "I was in 8th grade, in 1982, it was Ozzy Osbourne!" "Oh, Ozzy!" my daughter replied. She then imitated Ozzy in a drunken stupor, howling for Sharon, asking her to make guacamole. Life is strange.
Then I pondered more about the concerts I've attended throughout my life. OK, let's see, here's a random list:
  • U2 (several times; Hartford, Pittsburgh)
  • REM (I'm pretty sure Michael Stipe and I were separated at birth; oops, no, he's 10 years older than I am, oh well)
  • Hootie and the Blowfish (yes, somewhat embarrassing, but admit it; Darius Rucker has the vocal chops)
  • Heart (several times; I was so intrigued by the Wilson sisters)
  • Dar Williams (don't know her? look her up; she's amazing)
  • Indigo Girls (jeez, I know, what a cliche)
  • Tears for Fears (yep, this one really dates me, I know)
  • John Cougar Mellancamp (he had this trio of black women back-up singers - they carried the show)
That's all I can think of right now... I'll edit the list as I remember more.

Wednesday, February 3, 2010

The Many Layers of "Don't Ask, Don't Tell"

The absurd "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" policy that prevents gay people from openly serving in the military is again in the news this week. This recent visibility is actually a good thing, because the top brass and the civilian leadership are both purporting that the policy should be phased out. Well, it's a day late and a dollar short, but it's better late than never. (ugh! two cliches in the same sentence!).

The fact is, this policy has never worked and has caused great harm. (For a painstakingly-detailed account of the failings of this policy, read Randy Shilts' Conduct Unbecoming.)

The "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" policy is discrimination, pure and simple. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise.

Senator McCain has characterized the policy as "imperfect but effective." Just what specifically does he mean by "effective"? Explain to me, Senator McCain, just what the policy has "effectively" done? I'm afraid what it has effectively done is create a hostile environment within the military, harming those soldiers who have made the greatest sacrifice by choosing to serve their country.

The truth is, whenever we are dealing with human sexual orientation, things can get messy because it's about so much more than sexual orientation. It is about gender identity. It is about culture. It is about societal "norms." It is about how we construct our chosen families. Any policy that attempts to neatly define and control human sexuality and identity is doomed to fail and will probably cause great harm.

This policy makes people uncomfortable because it focuses on people's sexual orientation (which we know is not "black and white," but instead is fluid and on a continuum) and the implications of one's sexual orientation in a military setting. If we are honest, it forces us to confront the stereotypes of what it means to be "gay":

"If someone's gay, it compromises our security because they're "closeted" and so could be blackmailed."

"If someone's gay, they don't believe in monogamy, and they will try to seduce everyone in the unit."

"If someone's gay, they aren't married, and they don't care about 'family values'."

Implicit in all of these stereotypes is the notion that "if someone's gay, they're not like me, they're sub-human, and so they are not worthy to serve their country next to me."

The truth is, gay people ARE human, and are subject to all the human fallibilities and frailties that heterosexual people are. This is the radical idea; that gay people should be afforded the same dignity and respect that straight people are. The demise of the "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" policy is a nod to this radical idea.

Thursday, January 28, 2010

the "iPad" annoucement

Well, yesterday Mr. Jobs evoked a series of "oohs" and "aahhs" with the unveiling of his new "iPad" gadget. The audience at Moscone center in San Francisco anxiously awaited the unveiling, as they hung on his every word and gesture. (My initial thought, as I watched the unveiling via cnn.com, was, "my God; he's still alive! looks terrible, but he's still alive. The wonders of modern medicine; take that, pancreatic cancer! we'll give him a liver transplant!")

So just what is this new iPad gadget? In a nutshell, it's an iPhone on steroids. (no, actually, it's not a "phone" per se, but it's sort of a misnomer to characterize the iPhone as exclusively a "phone".) It's sort of a "tablet," a laptop sans a keyboard or mouse, because the human interface is your hands and fingers (rather than a physical keyboard and mouse). I won't bore you with a lot of details about the characteristics of this new gadget, because it's well-documented on the Web.

What fascinates me about the annual "Jobs Product Unveiling" is the hype and its accompanying lather amongst techo-geeks world-wide. Jobs, Apple & Co. have reached an idolatrous stature amongst their rabid fans. I've witnessed these annual product unveilings for many years now (various iPods, iPhones, and other computers). And I keep coming back to this question: what if we could channel all this rabid obsession with these new techno-gadgets into rabid obsession with the good of the Commons?

Let me explain.

Think of Greg Mortenson arousing the passion and interest of Steve Jobs.

Mr. Mortenson is author of the book, "Three Cups of Tea: One Man's Mission to Promote Peace.... One School at a Time."

I am convinced that one of the key means to achieve peace in our world is to provide quality education for EVERY child. Yes, EVERY child. In North America. In the Middle East. In the Far East. In South America. In Africa. ON EVERY CONTINENT. IN EVERY COUNTRY. FOR EVERY CHILD.

So, you see, Mr. Mortenson is my hero. And as much as I admire Mr. Jobs for his passion and showmanship, I do not consider him a "hero."

I am envisioning some sort of annual gathering at Moscone center, in which Mr. Mortenson gets up on stage to announce the latest progress on school development across the world. And then I am imagining rabid interest and obsessed hype amongst a mass of people who are engaged and contributing to this endeavor, somehow, some way.

I can dream, can't I?

Monday, January 4, 2010

My Mom, May She Rest in Peace

The following is a piece I wrote and delivered at my mom's funeral service, on December 21, 2009.

To all those who know and love Kathy:



It seems that we are gathered here to acknowledge and start to deal with her absence. And that’s true, Kathy is no longer physically here with us. But I will now say a few words to celebrate her presence.



I believe that Kathy’s presence is with us, always. All of us who loved her, we will continue to love her, every morning as we wake up and consider the day, as we navigate the day, as we say good night. Her presence is constant, even though there will be times when it seems almost too much to bear to know that she has died. I will do my best to avoid clichés; but this I know to be true: that Kathy’s spirit, her indomitable spirit, will remain with each one of us. Rather than being absent, Kathy is now present in a different way.



Presence is actually a curious thing. For many years now, my family and I have lived thousands of miles away from Kathy and Gene. This distance was difficult, but alas, not at all uncommon these days, as families make their respective ways in the world, which often requires us to go where the jobs lead us. Despite the distance, I lived with the assurance that I could call her and chat. Her voice always lifted me, no matter what we discussed. It was her sunny, cheerful, “I’m so glad you called” voice. It was her calming tone that despite daunting challenges, things are ok. And despite the distance, we did make the effort to gather several times a year, all of us keenly aware of the fragility of life. And despite the distance, there was never any question of her presence.



And now, Kathy’s presence has been permanently altered. What kinds of things might we expect from Kathy’s altered presence?



Well, we can embrace Kathy’s presence by considering how she lived. Let us consider the following ways in which she lived.



First, Kathy’s sense of perspective.



Later in her life, Kathy became fascinated with Buddhism, and she adopted one of its core tenets: that of equanimity. This sort of “even-keeled” perspective enabled her discern what matters in life (and what doesn’t). Kathy treasured her family and friends; she knew the sustenance brought about from loving our families and cultivating friendships. She knew that there aren’t many things worth getting “flopped up” about; (as she would say). That is, not many things are worth agitation. Sure, some things might warrant our stress, but her even-keeled sense of perspective was a gift to all of us around her. She knew the importance of living in the present, of being there for a friend or family member, of genuinely listening, of offering a shoulder to cry on, of extending a kind hand, of graciously offering help. May all of us learn from Kathy’s sense of perspective, which reminds us about what really matters in life.





Second, Kathy’s sense of curiosity and adventure.



Kathy never veered away from the unknown; instead, she welcomed it. Years ago, when Kathy and I were planning a mother/daughter adventure, we decided to visit Equador. (We’d considered Europe, but settled on South America when we realized that our travel budget would stretch further.) She was fascinated by the entire excursion; the art, the culture, the flowers, the rural markets with handmade treasures, the way the locals lived. One morning, we awoke to a frightening sound, which sounded like an explosion. We’d learned later that morning from the hotel staff that a group of protestors had bombed a local government building. That afternoon, the protestors staged a demonstration, and Kathy was fascinated by all of this. She insisted that we leave the hotel to see what was going on. To this day I remember the army tanks rolling towards us, the sting of the tear gas, and especially the teen-age boy sitting on the curb, anxiously poised to throw rocks at the soldiers. We emerged from this adventure with a newfound appreciation of the many things we take for granted in these good ol’ United States of America. May all of us learn from Kathy’s sense of curiosity and adventure, which yields many of life’s great epiphanies.



Third, Kathy’s recognition of the impermanence of life.



She bravely acknowledged the impermanence of life and she embraced her own mortality. The reason this acknowledgement is so important is that it profoundly influences the way we live our lives. If we lived forever, there would be no urgency or necessity to seek the things that matter: to create and love families, to cultivate and nurture friendships, to pursue various projects, to experience the inevitable ups and downs of all these endeavors. If we lived forever, we would be stuck in a grim stasis of nothingness, and we would never be called to our true home.



I often reminded her of one of my favorite quotes, this one from Winston Churchill, in which he said, “Democracy is the worst form of government; except for all others.” “Ain’t it the truth,” she’d say. So there’s this idea that something might be pretty bad, but if we were to replace it with something “better,” what would that be? This idea warrants careful consideration.



We might extend this idea to death, as perhaps, “death is the worst thing that can happen, except to live forever.” The truth is, death, as painful and infuriating and devastating and heart-breaking as it is, is universal. This is of course cold comfort for all of us, as we think about all the times we’ll miss Kathy, the phone calls that won’t happen, the visits that won’t take place, the cards we won’t receive in the mail, the innumerable instances of despair and the immeasurable loss.



And so, Kathy’s death has left a profound hole in our respective hearts. And yet her new presence augments our respective spirits.



Amen.