Living by the Sword

Note: In response to the recent slayings In New Town, Connecticut and the subsequent announcement by the National rifle Association, I am posting this story, written in 1997 even before the Columbine massacre. If the NRA has its way, school guards will be armed in order to defend students against violence. Children, living in fear and exposed to violence as the solution to fear, will certainly not grow up to be balanced citizens and healthy adults. Children in war-torn countries have a portion of their psyche, their hearts torn out and trampled upon. We cannot, we must not, teach them, by word or example, that the way to peace and safety is through an escalation of violence or even threat of violence. We who lived through the Cold War should be the strongest proponents of peace through giving and loving rather than through grasping and ever-increasing levels of threat of violence and retaliation. 12-22-12 Seconds ticked. Time elongated, prolonged, stretched until the pause between each jump of the red second hand seemed an infinity. It paused at 25, then, eventually, ticked to 26, 27, 28. They watched, all of them. Tension filled the room, a tension nearly audible in its intensity. 33, 34, 35. The hour and minute hands so closely aligned at the vertical that human eye could not distinguish one from the other. 46…47…48… He stood closest to the clock, watching it with the concentration of one who has everything to gain and everything to lose. Convergence. Convergence of the hands of the clock, convergence of the seconds, minutes, hours and days of his life. All concentrated at this moment of time, this sliver of his life, this watershed. Nothing could stop the flow of events, now. Success or failure, indeed, life or death hinged on the few seconds remaining. 4…3….1… As if conducted by an unseen hand, all eyes turned to the window overlooking the city. A small rustle of adjusting position fluttered through the assembly, then, in the final half tick before the convergence of all three hands, silence. An almost-palpable shock ran through the assembly, at the infinitesimal jumped to one second past noon. Disappointment surged. Then, a puff of smoke, far across the cityscape, then a sudden burst toward the sky, resolving into a column a hundred feet high. Silent, at this distance and time, yet a cry of triumph shook the room, followed, a second later, by the dull reverberation that rattled the windows and sent confirming shock waves through the group. Their shout died. A solemn awareness settled. It had begun. He was dead. His death signaled a new life, a new pulse through the arteries of their country. His death cleared the way, opened the path for new leadership, changes, liberation. Liberty, at last. Freedom, at last. Time flowed, gaining, now, the speed of a swift stream. Quiet knots of discussion filled the room. Handshakes, backslaps, tears. Their time, now, they, the people, finally, in control. And he, in the center, their new leader. All eyes turned to him, expectant, waiting. Waiting for the first solemn victorious words from this planner, this architect this new messiah of their freedom. Later, much later, after the hubbub, the delirious celebration, the words of victory, the words of war, he was alone. Jubilation and fear, now, filled him. And a nagging worry. A worry kept in the background, suppressed in the excitement, the released tension of the day. Where was she? She hadn't been in the waiting group or the celebrative throng. He knocked on her door, once more, thinking she might have slipped in quietly, hiding her entrance from him at this late hour. Where could she be? This one gem of his personal life, this one survivor of his dead wife, this one seed of his own future. The streets grew silent, even the crowds of drunken revelers clearing the streets at last, tired of their own joyous rejoicing. Dew dripped from condensing surfaces, the occasional bark of a dog's disturbed dream, the passing of a distant car on some night errand the only sounds to break the night still. Outside the dark sky, speckled with the spangles of bright stars began to pale in the predawn preparation for a new day. A car's headlights turned into the street, its red taillight visible for a brief second as its perspective changed. He watched it slow then stop in front of his door. Police. How could they know? Was he still alive, in spite of the radio announcements? Could someone else have filled the power-vacuum so soon? Could they have traced him so swiftly? But, wouldn't they have sent many? Would they entrust such an important errand as his arrest to a single officer? He watched the polished boots, the hated symbol of the oppressor emerge first, followed by the head, above the door frame, uncovered by the second symbol. Then a tall thin body emerged, glancing at the door, confirming an address. He reached into the interior, retrieved the hat, put it on his head, adjusting it to just that angle that conveyed power and authority. Closing the door with quiet force, he turned to the house and rang the bell. Hurrying down the stairs, dread and fear filling him, he opened the door to face the officer. They stared into each other's eyes for a moment. He could not see threat there, could not see reason for flight or fight. A certain sadness, perhaps, but not reason for alarm. "You heard, sir, of the bomb, today, no doubt?" his words seemed an anachronism, an irony. "Yes." Cautious. "Well, sir," his voice faltered, seemed to break. He shuffled his feet, sliding his eyes from direct contact. "Well, sir," he repeated, clearing his throat. "I'm afraid." He did not finish his sentence, but thrust a purse into the gulf between them. It was battered, torn, scorched. “I'm afraid, sir, that someone from this house…." He did not hear the rest, did not want to hear the rest, could not hear the rest. His mind reeled in an agony of denial, of anger, of bitter recriminations. He opened the purse and dumped its contents to the concrete. But there, in the midst of the trappings of a young woman's life, the bracelet he had given her, the bracelet she wore as a symbol of her loyalty to him, her tie to him, her love for him. 1997

New town Connecticut

I have frequent encounters. These are not ordinary encounters with family or friends, nor are they encounters created by sci-fi movie producers with strange or cute aliens. But they are very real, nonetheless. My encounters are with trees, telephone poles, parking meters, half-open doors, wall corners, and other hard objects. And these meetings are, inevitably, painful to me. One of my least favorite close encounters is with an open dishwasher door. At shin height, it is a painful reminder to stay on task. Another frequent encounter is a telephone pole planted nearly in the center of a curving sidewalk. It is my nemesis. The curve is slight and deceptive, making me feel secure in my distances and trajectories. But, somehow, this telephone pole has a way of sliding slyly into the small space not covered by my cane’s arc. I really don’t know how it does it. But barked knuckles, and several bruised shoulders, are testimony to its skill and my lack of the same. This isn’t about clever, inanimate objects (though, sometimes, their cleverness does test my belief in animism a bit). It is about the results of these encounters. For example, over my right eye, neatly and precisely spaced as if a surgeon placed them, are a series of four scars from a certain bookcase corner. My shins have a nice set of scars and healing scabs from my forgetfulness around dishwashing time. At any time, I have one or more sore spots from a close encounter with some solid object. I’ve never been seriously wounded, just small cuts, abrasions, or bruises; things that sting when in the shower or make me wince when I bump the same place a second time. This makes me think of Columbine. I lived, until first grade, in Denver, and now live no more than two hours from Springfield. These two names, with a handful of others, have taken their places in our consciousness as places of unbelievable terror and horror, of heart-wrenching sadness and tragedy. Listening to the experts telling us what is wrong with our society, how we can identify potential perpetrators of such angry acts, whose fault and where the blame should be placed, activates my cynical side. I fear there is little or no chance of stopping this, no way to identify, to treat, to resolve the issues of these young people. There is something beyond society’s corporate coping working here. I think of the murdered ones and of the ones who wielded the weapons of hate and vengeance. And my heart weeps for both. How intense must the anger and hatred boiling within be to make killing seem an appropriate response to humiliation, neglect, or bullying? But, a part of me understands. No one feels good when belittled or humiliated because of membership status. Some are so fragile they feel the smallest pinprick of slight. Knowing this, hurting them, do I not share, to some small degree, in their pain and ultimate action? Their bruises may be as invisible as the scars and scabs of my pants-covered shins, but just as real. Their emotional bruises are painful to the slightest touch. Repeated wounds bleed with little provocation and fester deeply without a healing touch. Those who do these horrendous things are responsible for their own actions. But, do I not contribute to their anger and hatred when I hurt them. Since I can’t tell who the wounded are, I want to live life so as not to break a bruised reed or quench a smoldering flax -- to live in a way that will heal not hurt, soothe, not scar, bring peace, not pressure. It may be an impossible task, but it does start with me. Perhaps if each of us lived this way, we could prevent one school ground massacre. We could keep another town from being shredded and turned into a media circus, reclaim one more damaged life, remove one more child from the death list. And, perhaps, one road to this utopia is a generous heart. In this “I” generation, descended from the “me” generation, where success is measured in getting, where paranoia and anxiety are whipped to fever pitch by television; where all things are measured in terms of their impact on my well being, my benefit, my pleasure—perhaps giving is one facet of the gem of love that would begin the healing of our society. IN gifting, both giftee and gifter are blessed. One heart is warmed knowing the joy of giving; the other by the thought of another’s care and love. How can hatred anger and murder dwell in a land full of loving giving and with a void of greed? Perhaps, together, we could silence the evening news due to lack of content. ******** Note-This is a revision of an essay originally written in 1999, shortly after the Columbine massacre. It seems especially Germaine following last week’s horrific events both here in Oregon and in Connecticut. It is taken from a forthcoming book of essays reflections on vision and blindness written between 1995 and 2000. These essays were my therapy following loss of vision in 1995.

Dystopia

Recently, I have read some dystopian” novels, including the first, Iron Heel by Jack London (1908), Animal farm by George Orwell (1945), and Daemon (2009)and Freedom (2010)by Daniel Suarez. “”Dystopian” is the antonym for “utopian:” a view of a future society in which all is not well. In each of these novels, a small elite controls the vast majority of humankind through manipulation, monetary control, repression and distraction. Each novel is told from the perspective of the downtrodden and portrays the cause of the masses as a noble, sacred cause. In each, through superior wit, ingenuity, determination and sheer numbers, the downtrodden Overcome, at least for a while. In each, extreme conflict between and sometimes within the classes results in great human and sacrifice and bloodshed. The poor are slaughtered by the rich and in their uprising they return the favor. The author’s solution, in each case, is a revolt of the working class against the rich. Violence and destruction are seen as the only means by which the under classes can overcome. The spilling of blood is viewed as an inevitable means to a worthwhile goal; the sacrifice of the few for the benefit of the many. Among the ranks of those who believe in “the cause” are many who are nobly willing to die for the cause, so it’s not just a manipulation or coercion of the many by the few. For me, two issues stand out whether the revolution is fictional as in these books, or real, as in the American colonies, France, Russia, China, Vietnam or Cambodia: Inevitably, someone within the altruistic ranks takes control and in George Orwell’s words, becomes “more equal” and therefore deserving of more benefits than the rest. Thee second issue is related to the first and is the one I choose to address in this essay. That is, the means of revolution. Is the expenditure of lives worth the outcome? Is there a balance between the benefit of a successful revolution equal or greater than the sum of the lives sacrificed? More importantly, is there another way? My premise is: 1. No, the sacrifice of one human for the many is not balanced, even for freedom and 2. There is another way. The “other way” has been pointed to in many cultures and in many sacred texts. The wording is eerily similar. The speakers are often themselves from the downtrodden class or become one in the course of their quiet non-violent revolution. They are usually sacrificed on the altar of the rulers and are often abandoned by their own followers. But, still, down through the ages, their words ring clear and true to the listening heart: Do to the other what is in your own heart as an ideal for yourself. Impractical, impossible utopian dream? Yes and no. Yes, because we are selfish, self-centered beings and it is so very unlikely that enough of us will consider this rule of life to make a difference. No, because even one person who views the world in this way is a tiny spore, a single seed with the potential of leavening the whole lump of dough or growing into a tree which is the progenitor of the forest. It is the power of one. It is the life lived in a way that gives more than it receives; takes less than it gives; seeks the uplifting of those with whom it comes in contact and slowly, subtly spreads its anarchic message and method to those around it. It is a life worth living, this giving and blessing rather than taking and destroying. Perhaps, as we continue to see the destruction of life for doubtful goals; as we look within our own hearts, we will be drawn to this simple, profound message which all the wise men of all time have espoused: It is more blessed to give than to receive; do is your desire to the other; bless your enemy. Give without counting the cost, Love your enemies. Could we not conquer class, hoarding of resources, slavery, oppression with this gentle, destroying force? Would not the infection spread not only to peers but to oppressors as well? May it be so. 10.6.12

Buying Happiness

A TED Talk by Michael Norton demonstrates that happiness can be purchased. There are ways of spending money that do make us happier. First, having sufficient money correlates to a moderate increase in happiness, independent of how the money is spent. But Dr. Norton’s study found something very interesting: Spending money on oneself does not increase happiness, but spending on others does. Listen to the TED talk at the first URL; read an abstract of the study and its results at the second URL. TED Talk: http://www.ted.com/talks/michael_norton_how_to_buy_happiness.html Study results ((note that the link to the study results in an Adobe Acrobat document. You must have Adobe Acrobat installed to read it. Download free at: www.adobe.com) http://drfd.hbs.edu/fit/public/facultyInfo.do?facInfo=pub&facId=326229 Title of study: Spending Money on Others Promotes Happiness Dunn, Elizabeth W., Lara B. Aknin, and Michael I. Norton. " Science 319 (March 2008): 1687-1688.

Vesuvius Death

The median US family income is $48,250; in Nepal, it is $250. Owning a car, a house, having any savings and a job puts one into an incredibly small percentage of this world’s population. We in the USA protest and complain at being in the bottom 99% of the this country’s income. As wealth is increasingly concentrated into a smaller and smaller portion of our population, I find it difficult to disagree with these complaints—most of us are being pushed down the economic ladder, not climbing up it. But even our most impoverished are wealthy beyond measure compared to those living on the streets of Calcutta or in the slums of Sao Paolo. Recently, I watched a documentary on Pompeii, a city destroyed by volcanic action in 79 AD. In one underground room, a group of 52 people died from poison gas. Their bones are mute testimony to their last moments of life. Oddly, the group is divided into two groups, each against an opposing wall. Between the two groups is one lone man. His name was Crassus. With his signet ring and money box beside him, it appears that Lucius Crassus was the owner of the building and business. The building was a clearinghouse for goods coming into and out of the city. Wine, wheat and all manner of Roman necessities and luxuries flowed through this building. On one side of the death room, the bones were of the poor: the richest person clutched a small bag containing a few copper coins-perhaps the day’s receipts for a street vendor. On the other wall were skeletons of the wealthy. One woman, probably in her early twenties, her abdominal cavity containing the tiny skeleton of a full-term infant was surrounded by jewelry: rings, necklaces inset with emeralds and boxes of gold and precious artifacts. She and Lucias Cassius, have been dubbed the green man and the green woman from the stain that their jewelry left on their bones. This horrific image is not that dissimilar from today: We are increasingly divided into the haves and the have-nots. A few have, but most are barely eking out a day-to-day, hand-to-mouth existence. A shelter is a luxury; a car and unrealized and unrealizable dream; money in the bank, not even considered; medical and still more, life insurance never even heard of. Gated communities, armed guards and bullet-proof cars separate us one from another-each group on our opposing wall; with the very richest alone and alienated in a distinct limbo in between. Ronald Reagan’s fallacious “trickle-down” economics is coming home to roost. In our society, we complain, at the inequitable gulf, and rightly so. But we who are protesting need also to put the shoe on the other foot and consider those even further down the economic ranks. But rather than condemning those above, looking at my own heart, may I remember to open my wallet just a bit wider, give a bit more generously, let a bit more trickle down and nourish and sustain those who have such tiny resources. Dying with the stain of wealth on my bones is not my idea of a good death. May I die having shared so much that I die in poverty but well content with its true riches: that of a contented heart. 12-12-11

Conspiracy of Greed

The time requires it: unemployed, they risk their meager resources. They pool their experience and knowledge into a fledgling company.

Their timing is perfect. The company flourishes. Eight-hour days stretch into eighteen; nights blur into a foggy blur. The money hemorrhage reverses. They borrow and repay. A news story, a chance encounter, a product perfect for its niche, a clever juxtaposition of markets ignites their products: the latest Pet
Rock.

They hire an employee then two. they begin hiring specialist: accountant, marketing companies, IT specialist, forepersons, managers, vice presidents to handle specialized areas of the company.

They go public. Their IPO is a wild success. They have a board and are CEO and president.

Their income doubles, trebles, quadruples. They buy a new home, then a vacation home. Their cars become fancier, bigger, more expensive. They buy a corporate jet and hire a fulltime pilot. Their income reaches the seven-figure mark, then mushrooms to eight and ten figures.

The point becomes a game: making money; winning. Now the problem is too much money. They don’t know how to spend it all. They persist for the game. Perhaps their net worth climbs to a billion dollars or multiple billions. Now money is not money, it is power. The globe is their oyster and they feed on It, sucking the resources of the planet for their personal bank account. Now the challenge is to find ways to pay less taxes; to produce the product at two pennies less by moving the company and its production offshore. They close plants, negotiate contracts with employees, change partners and find even more ways to shave a few cents’ profit from their magical innovation. They create a foundation to give money away---not for compassion but as a tax shelter.

The American dream come true.

There was a time when I was convinced that behind all the machinations of the politics in this country of ours there was an elite group, a cabal who controlled everything. Some called it the Illuminati; some thought it was the Rockefellers and other old moneyed families. Their stories fueled my imagination and made me angry and yet wishful that I was among their number.

Now I don’t think that is the case at all. Now, perhaps older an wiser or older and less wise, I think the controlling factor is not a sinister group but a sinister part of human nature—a conspiracy of greed.

We are not content. Enough is never enough. We of the 99% are a minority of less than 1% in the world’s huge disparity of income. Yet we all want more; the American dream-work hard, get rich, retire to a Caribbean island with servants and luxury vehicles and more homes than we can count. I daresay that, at the end of that road, is more a nightmare than a dream. Howard Hughes, the classical rich-man-turned-greed-turned-paranoid is perhaps the most graphic example. But is not the very need to continue to amass wealth itself a sign that the dream is more nightmare than pleasure? Is it possible we pursue the dream to hide the nightmare from ourselves—a boy whistling in the dark as he walks through the cemetery at night to keep up his courage? Or are we just deluded into thinking that there is a dream—have we been sold a bill of goods, a black rainbow?

In saying this, I am not pointing fingers at those who create and grow businesses. Because we are not all cut out to brave the risks, we need someone who is to employ us. We need the dreamers and the performers and the risk takers. I never pursued business being one of the employee types. But I share in the dream. I want more than I have. I think little of those who have less. I am of the the conspiracy of greed, writ small. What I see in them, my fictional heroine and hero, is me myself without their flair, courage and skill. Yet I envy and wish and covet. “What would I do with a million dollars?” floats somewhere as an unresolved question. My answer is always, “I don’t know but I’d like to find out.”

So what is the antidote, the cure for this hard diamond stone of greed which I find at my core? Is it amassing more or is it giving more? One wiser than I said, “Give and it shall be given you, good measure, packed down and running over.” I don’t think He was talking about getting more things, more houses, land, money by giving away what I now possess. Perhaps what He meant was a different kind of return on investment—a sense of well being, a growing sense of compassion, a new joy of life, a deeper sense of my oneness with all humanity.

He was right. The transforming power of giving on the giver is reality. I know because I’ve tried it and found, for the tiny investment, a reward of overwhelming dividend. The conspiracy of greed against myself is not dead, but perhaps a bit weakened and chastened.

Just for the joy of it, try it.

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Extra Bed

Note: The following few lines were sent to me by a friend whom I highly respect. She has been my inspiration for giving for a number of years. In those years, she has traveled to Central America, Africa and Malaysia helping those who have vision problems and those effected by the tsunami. I reflect on her thoughts because the reason I don’t do many charitable things is the very thing she expresses here. Words to ponder; words to confront.

****

…And the question I wake up with during storming nights is: How did I get so lucky that I have a warm, safe, comfortable, secure place to sleep. And then I just say God, God, God, God until I fall back asleep. And I wake thinking that I have an extra bed. I could offer it to someone without a place to sleep and then I realize that I am selfish and scared.

5/9/12

Mr. Guthrie

My father was at death’s door. My mother was working and going to school. We had little but the clothes on our backs. The small amount earned by my mother was barely enough to feed the five of us.

One evening, Mr. Guthrie sowed up on our doorstep.

“How’re you folks fixed for food?” he asked.

Let me give some background before finishing the story. We were Seventh-day Adventists. This denomination owns and operates many hospitals around the world. In those days, these hospitals were not money-making operations, but centers of mission and healing. Mr. Guthrie was the hospital administrator. Today we would call him the CEO or president. He would be earning a six or seven figure salary and wouldn’t know anyone in the hospital below the rank of vice president. But things were different there and then.

We lived on the hospital grounds, in a ramshackle house that had seen its best days 30 years before. My father’s illness was contracted less than a month after he took a position at the hospital. For two years he was flat in bed while my mother struggled to finish nursing school and work enough to support the family.

The hospital was located on 100 acres in a small town south of the city of San Diego. In addition to housing for employees, the hospital grounds had a 12-grade school, a church, a store, a bookstore and a nursing school. It was a village in a town in a city. It had all the benefits and problems of a village: We kids could go freely anywhere on the grounds without fear; we could do nothing that everyone didn’t know about.

It was some time in that first year of my father’s illness when Mr. Guthrie knocked on our door. His hearty laugh, rotund figure and ruddy complexion made him the perfect image of Santa. Though I never remember speaking to him, he projected such a friendly air that I was not afraid of him.

“How’re you folks fixed for food?” he asked.

“We’re fine,” my mother answered, a bit flustered at having the hospital administrator standing unannounced at her doorstep.

He walked past her into the kitchen, opened the cupboards and the refrigerator and walked out.

A few hours later, in the dark of night, boxes and boxes of food appeared on our porch. We didn’t see them bring it, but it must have taken more than one to deliver the food.

Nearly sixty years later, my heart is still touched by the generosity and caring of this man who did not put position over need; who looked after his employees with practical love. Perhaps, today, my own joy of giving comes from the example of this godlike man.

There is a back story to Mr. Guthrie which may help explain his personal commitment and generosity. He, his wife and their children were missionaries in the Philippines when the Japanese invaded those islands. They were captured and interned for the duration of the war. Many died in their camp; others were shot. His wife, who was my third-grade teacher, described the sight of American paratroop landing a mile outside of camp. The internees were hastily lined up in front of a firing squad. They expected to be machine gunned before their rescue. But the order was never given. The Japanese surrendered and they were rescued. Perhaps, in those harsh conditions; those times of cruelty and terror Mr. Guthrie learned how to serve; how to give. His is a life I would like to know more about, but this small incident in his life was a huge one in mine. It is a smooth stone which I take out every so often just to feel its texture, warmth and shape in my hand. It inspires and ennobles me when I consider it.

One final note: that Christmas, we were inundated with gifts; far more than ever before or after. It was almost bewildering to my seven-year-old mind. On top of the fire engine someone gave me the ugliest dog I’ve ever seen-a white, short-haired terrier. But pal was a real pal to me for the next three years.

Thank you Mr. Guthrie for the memories and the inspiration.

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