Except for Aleve and Tylenol, this past week has been living medication-free. However, the deceptive nature of living with Parkinson’s, Multiple Sclerosis, Arthritis, and tumors percolate inside. If you look at me, you’d be convinced by how I look like the picture of health. However, there have been nights when I cheated on my vow of medication-free. For example, last night, I had to sleep in my recliner for two two-hour periods due to pain by downing a single tablet of Tylenol #3 (300 mg of Acetaminophen and 60 mg of Codeine). I guess medication-free is not medication-free when one has to sneak in 30 mg of Codeine now and then, but when your body gets to this stage of pain, many will do what they have to do.
Category: Religion
Captains Log, Stardate 99105.44. “Theoretical physicist Stephen Hawking warned humans must colonize another planet or face extinction. To save humanity, 500 members of humanity’s best boarded the Starship Kodesh (means ‘special’ or ‘set aside’). If you hear this message, it means the ship has completed its mission to Proxima Centauri [closest potential exoplanet to earth]. However, all proem of human life ceased. In the end, everyone died. Humanity killed us.”
Some claim solitude leaves me to wander both through and beyond a dark foreign land (death). There’s no one single road, nor is there a map showing the way. Yet, if I can pass through, will I not find peace? Maybe my answer is not physical, but the very nature of why God called me to trust. Of course, there are steps, His and mine. And therein I find spirit of life walks with me. We walk together. And until I am ‘called,’ the world moves.
Given the fact a major stroke awaits at any moment, life propels onward ‒ there is work my employer requires, conference calls, deadlines, and debts to be paid. Life goes on regardless of how much of Thanksgiving week was spent lying in bed, hobbled by hip pain beginning Monday, November 23rd. Since I had no fall, no bruising, no trauma, and based upon symptoms, osteoarthritis is the likely culprit. The right hip, yeah the one which had only inconveniently plagued me until now, decided to perform a full-on assault. Every movement was either a dull ache or produced noticeable suffering. Walking required further leverage of a cane, and sitting was ‒ as I would simply put ‒ a bitch.
A friend might say to a doctor, “He won’t tell you this, but he is suffering.” Truth be told, the past few days had been an assortment of pain. However, no such friend knows the burden. I ate even as Advil and Tylenol percolated throughout my bloodstream. Like almost all parts of this journey, I was alone when I read recent medical results. I sat alone in my favorite recliner while medication turned upside down every 6-8 hours. As terrifying as it is, it is a solitary journey. At a very gut level ‒ the soul ‒ it’s what I’ve come to embrace.
There’s some portion of every soul for which the journey must be alone. Sure, there are parents, lovers, friends, lovers, coworkers and others who can, and often will, assist, but there’s an integral part that is solely our own. No matter how much I would like to have a friend who could support me, there’s no possible way to transfer the pain. It is my ‘cross,’ mine and mine alone.
Supposedly the Buddha said, “If for company you cannot find a wise and prudent friend who leads a good life, then, like a king who leaves behind a conquered kingdom, or like a lone elephant in the elephant forest, you should go your way alone. Better it is to live alone; there is no fellowship with a fool. Live alone and do no evil; be carefree like an elephant in the elephant forest.” I think I understand the reason for the advice.
People who are on a path of spiritual growth learn not everyone is on the same path. Even though we are all, essentially on the same journey (see Falling Through the Cracks, where 90% will pass from one of six diseases), it’s important to choose what we allow into our minds. The Buddha basically says to try and associate with “wise and prudent” people, but don’t get lost following a crowd, just because you want some affiliation. Real spirituality is not a social practice; most of the time, it is a private endeavor between God and you. It’s an individual matter. I was tagged as being monolithic, an impersonal, sometimes non-political, structure that is invisible, yet indivisible. True, but not quite.
I am privy to all the thoughts and feelings I tend to hide from the world. My journey is personal, deeply personal. I am continually looking for transcendence, but I am also hoping we can look past indifference to one another. To some extent, God choosing to dwell where least likely to be looked (within the depths of my soul) is genius. And maybe, just maybe, by the time I meet God and Ms. K., I will be fully awake and the soul will fully comprehend.
Master: You see only what the eye sees. What the soul sees cannot be denied.
Student: Will not the soul, too, be denied in death?
Master: No. The soul always sees.
Student: Yet the body dies.
Master: Does the sun die?
Student: It does not shine at night.
Master: It shines somewhere. You just cannot see it.
I watched PBS’ four-part documentary College Behind Bars. The documentary tells the story of a small group of incarcerated men and women struggling to earn college degrees and turn their lives around in one of the most rigorous and effective prison education programs in the United States – the Bard Prison Initiative.
During the 4th episode, the internal reflection of Rodney Spivey-Jones challenged me to reevaluate my failures. Looking squarely into the camera, Mr. Jones reflected on his shortcomings. “We rarely get a chance to think about how we hurt the victims. And yet, that’s something that’s required of us when we go to the parole board. Once you can empathize with other people, you can realize that you’ve caused a lot of harm. If you can connect your pain to the pain that you’ve caused, there’s a responsibility there. And it’s hard to escape it.”
Over the past eight years, I revisited the concept of ‘making amends,’ a traditional term specifically designed to “correct a mistake that one has made, or a bad situation one has caused.” In May 2013, I wrote of twenty-six (26) severely painful situations that required amends. Seven (7) of the twenty-six (26) refused any communication, eleven (11) forgave, four (4) were never found, and four (4) others were works in progress. March 2019, I reconnected with a woman to whom I wrote 18 letters years prior. Despite those efforts, Mr. Jones caused reflection. Did I do enough?
What is enough? All of us are like Rodney Spivey-Jones. I have many people where I only recently thought of how I hurt them. Only a short-term diagnosis of ‘terminal’ forced me to explore the level of harm I caused? For instance, that woman in the military who I badgered for a date is ok now? Did she have a good life? That company I took quietly accepted over expensed travel reimbursements, could they have used that money to benefit another? And of the woman I married and divorced, did I leave you better, or just me?
The PBS documentary also followed former inmate Dyjuan Tatro, who was serving a 12-year prison sentence during filming. Not only did he pay for his crime, but he also made amends and laid the foundation for a better life post-prison. “It was in prison; through the Bard Prison Initiative, that I was able to turn my life around,” Tatro said. “When you’re in prison, and you don’t have any other opportunity, you have to make the most of the one that’s been given to you.” Tatro is making the most of every day.
Our lives are a collection of ‘single’ days. As such, throughout much of my life, I embraced little ‘intentionality.’ Did I amend the errors of my past? Have I transitioned through restitution? Was there an apology, changed behavior, compensation, or generosity? Or, did I play the ‘victim’ card like decades earlier? Did I lay the foundation for a better life (whether here or in the next)?
For so many years, everywhere I went before, I created a lot more damage than good. So much so, that I am unsure whether I could seriously restitute anything for past aggressions. As stated before, and as I state to God, I am accountable. Just as Rodney Spivey-Jones did on national television, the ‘buck’ drops at my shoes, and I must make amends.
Even though I am down to nine months of a two-year ‘prognosis poor’ diagnosis, I have much to give and much to offer. I will continue to show that I am capable of redemption. God knows my life has value beyond the sum of my errors. One day, I hope God will note that this man was able to reclaim his humanity rather than succumbing to ignorance.
Reclaim yours too.
Just a little over a week to surgery. Time to get some of this tumor out. I still haven’t told many people — I kind of arc around trying to find something to do. Not so much to keep the mind preoccupied, but more so because my current position is rather damn dull.
In regards to the surgery, I have no grand expectation of the outcome. Although, admittingly, I feel embarrassed. Why? Well, I think everything will come ok, that all this drama was for naught. I presume, post-surgery, some cute nurse will poke me in the shoulder and say “arise.” And just as Christ command, in awe, everyone will clap. Such fairy tales seem overrated. At surgery end, I will get up and walk. If I don’t, get me a television, a remote control, kettle chips, and a diet coke. I am ok with the outcome, regardless of the path to which God commands I endure. Sure, I wish to have tumors out. But with the diagnosis of an additional tumor, I strive to place one foot in front of the other and walk onward.
My tale of woe is nowhere near as others. Dare to think God has dealt you a lousy hand, take a look at the Kobe Bryant or the Mauser family. Sometimes comparing life’s misery keeps one in check.
I am not a true warrior. You know, the guy who saved many. Such a viewpoint should never be mistaken for me. That’s not to say I didn’t do my part. I did. But I no longer consider my sacrifice anything special. Real heroes lay enshrined in national and local cemeteries. Those heroes fought injustice, battles, defeated Stalinism, communism, and hatred. Real heroes are victims who rose against the likes of Epstein and Weinstein. We should celebrate their sacrifice, not mine.
I can’t give this tumor more power than it has. It’s a foe that has no face, no body, nor motto. It does have an x-ray, yet appears as another blob. However, the deeper foe is age. Like David in Psalm 71:9, the very passage of time is a trial, and I utter unto God:
“Do not cast me off in the time of old age; do not forsake me when my strength fails.”
I’m assured He shall not.
In more youthful days, I ignored aging. The nature of humanity eventually outstripped youthful laughter. A year post-diagnosis, I accept certain ignoble truths: I neither bought this tumor nor the second. Amazon didn’t deliver it. Neither did a stork. Accepting life and its frailty requires a different camera lens. I used to think being sick was a gift. In pure form, sickness taught many lessons. Yet I looked at it all wrong. I am a gift. I’m unsure why it took so many years to understand. Like a child, God held me abundantly. And I grew wiser and more mature. I wish more could have seen.
Nine days from now, I will walk an uncharted course. There will be new roads with new choices. In preparation, I read Chapter 64 of the Dao De Jing. “A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.”
And how will my journey begin? When I get off the operating table and walk, foot by foot — step by step.
As I write this, I have not seen the final Star Wars film: The Rise of Skywalker. Yesterday I saw its latest theatrical trailer. After viewing its sequence, I placed my pen on the nightstand, took off my eyeglasses, and rubbed my forehead.
I winched.
I watched these characters from late high school through near retirement. Each trilogy was, in effect, a story. The prequels were of Anakin Skywalker. The original trilogy seen in late high school was of Luke, Leia, and Hans Solo. And the remaining sequel is of Rey.
I winched not because the movies were terrible. There weren’t. My anguish came from the bowl of my soul. It came from the fact that in forty-years of watching, what good has “The Force” produced?
Yeah. Yeah. I get it. The movie is of good over evil — lightsabers, and light versus darkness.
I told a friend of my thought during lunch.
Without hesitation, she stated, “Indirectly, perhaps you’re asking what does the belief in God produce?”
“Perhaps,” I replied.
Maybe I’ve come to these conclusions after having only two, three, years of life. If the characters had been real, what did belief in “The Force” produce? Did the technology provide any benefit to life? Many people died. People on various planets suffered interminably, and several planets were destroyed, meaning millions, if not hundreds of millions, died. By all accounts, there is no Shangri-la, no affordable healthcare, technology is used to versus cure and idiot leaders.
At the end of Avengers: Infinity War, the villain Thanos acquired the infinity stones that let him snap his fingers and turn half the population (universe) to dust. In doing so, Thanos believed he achieved his goal, a universe free of suffering. If any one of us held such power, why is it that the first creative thing we must do is kill?
Hey! The same holds today.
Maybe Huffington Post Contributor Anamika Ojha was right. She once wrote, “The most crucial lesson that Star Wars taught was that there are heroes and villains in each of us.”
“You’ve seen God,” my friend stated.
“Yes. I have.”
“I haven’t,” she replied.
And it’s true. I have seen God. I have seen heaven, a darker side courted me, and yet embraced by beauty. And by God, I continue to question today what the hell is going on.
Yet, I believe.
Jesus said, “Because you have seen me, you have believed. Blessed are those who believe without seeing.” Maybe that’s the lesson. Belief.
The final shot of Star Wars: The Rise of Sky Walker, projects a gorgeous image of Rey. She’s the new icon of hope. Daisy Ridley becomes our sense of hope. And the voice from elsewhere in the room (or maybe from beyond) echoes some memorable lines from the first film: “The Force will be with you,” says Luke. “Always,” adds Leia.
Yes, Luke. I believe.
Treatment began early May. Two months later, I’m amazed at how much my life is tethered to technology.
For many, the smartphone is a magic wand that summons carry-out, pays for gasoline, can connect friends, track flights, make reservations and even order from the great big box store in the sky. With the exception of a few moments in my writings, I’ve focused on just how much this technology can destroy a life. Via some weird purchasing smartphone app, one could buy something from another country, make an ill-advised comment or get trolled, or get a ton of botnet emails on Facebook, Instagram or Twitter. I’ve retrieved the weather, texted a friend and checked the latest Chicago Cubs score.
Yet, it can be a lifesaver. September 14th, Siri was able to send a personal distress call. At 2:36 AM, I returned to life. My first comment was to apologize for not having this event at 2:36 PM.
In his article, In The Land Where the Internet Ends, New York Times writer Pagan Kennedy details how he drove down a back road in West Virginia and into a parallel reality. After passing Spruce Mountain, his phone lost service and remained comatose for days.
“I came in hopes of finding a certain kind of wildness and solitude. I live in Massachusetts, and I often disappear into the forests and rivers to clear my head. I’ve always loved the moment when the bars on my phone disappear. When I’m out of range entirely, floating along in a kayak, time grows elastic. I stare down into that other kingdom below me, at the minnows darting through the duckweed, and feel deeply free — no one’s watching; no one knows where I am.”
Like Kennedy, I so desperately wish to pull my phone out and hurl the damn things into the air. Yet, I cannot. My life is attached to the technology, intertwined by a host of technology genius, smartwatch, smartphone, and body. The aforementioned technology lives for me. As long as I live, it lives. Dare I pass, someone will wipe its system and become another person’s dread or wonder. Smart technology tracks everything–blood pressure, pulse, calories, exercise, sleep patterns, medications, and weight. I can communicate with my physicians, request medications, receive test results, schedule appointments, track both mood and thoughts. And, at the slightest miscue, it can notify emergency contacts and I might be afforded the opportunity to return.
Medical beeps and buzzes intricately denote bodily vital signs. And in that, I’ve noticed amazing things. For instance, April 25, on the day I learned of my tumor, my ‘Beats Per Minute” was 96. Two months later, after treatment, 66. Yet, this capability and inevitably only deepens the profound mystery of my own identity. I took birth in human form. Therefore, what force gave life? What forces allowed others the ability to create the technology that measures and assists this form (body)? And regardless of the answer, the world’s great spiritual teachings repeat I am not who I thought I was.
But does that mean there is no self or a search for true self? Or, is ‘self’ different? These are hard questions to answer. Technology can measure bleeps and blips, but identity, friendship, love and ultimately, humanity remains elusive to the critical eye. As such, the technology enhances my humanness, and the soul God hath given this vessel (me). I appreciate the fact that the best things humans enjoy (being human) is the same thing that will destroy my time here. Yet, the knowledge that I’m fully alive and awake is wondrous.
In being overly holy and righteous, we discard the wonder of humanity, of being created in the image of something beautiful and miraculous. I don’t believe such deep levels of righteousness is what God intended.
Like Thoreau, I too sometimes awake in the night and think of possibilities. I can catch an echo of the great exchange of love between humanity and eternal life. We have the ability to create an original work of art. This creation (body) does not originate from the bleeps and blips. I was not generated based upon programming. The technology connects my body to the world helps me understand and appreciate my humanity. And if I am strong enough to look beyond my own selfishness, maybe I can understand a small nugget of the divine–how spirit could become flesh. It’s not by luck. Maybe, rather, divine.
“I try to make sense of things. Which is why, I guess, I believe in destiny. There must be a reason that I am as I am. There must be.” ~Bicentennial Man~
I was dining one night when I overheard two people discussing the best way to interpret God. After a brief pause, one said, “Maybe there’s an app?“
Reflecting on my youth, I first read the Bible cover-to-cover at age 18. Having no theological training, many of the thou’s, tho’s, thus’, thereby, shalt’s, coulda’s, shoulda’s, woulda’s were way over my head. It was a weird feeling. I could take apart an M-16, clean it, and reassemble it in 20 minutes, but somehow, Biblical verbiage escaped me.
The Bible was never read in my home. As a kid, English was the only chosen language. One semester, I was registered in a French class. Any hopes for entering the diplomatic corps were dashed on the blackboard as I could barely comprehend Merci (thank you) or S’il Vous Plaît (please). I once said Merci to my father. The look on his face was priceless. To him, French was best left in school, and generally, everything outside our home and conversations of Coors beer barely registered. Foreign films, short documentaries and other attempts to introduce any ‘refinement‘ were quickly forgotten, mostly within minutes.
I was so inept at Biblical reading that I was convinced, that after prayer, God would respond, but respond in Tongues. Damn, then I would have to find someone who could understand Tongues. How would an 18 year find such a person? Place a classified ‘Help Wanted’ ad?
“18-year-old, first-time bible reader, received a message from God. Unfortunately, the message is in Tongues. Need interpreter. Will pay, but can’t pay much.”
Comprehension was always a challenge. I have to admit; I learned conversational Spanish. However, even conversational Spanish had difficulties. On a fraud investigation in Southern Chile, my driver asked if I wanted to go to the cocina (kitchen). I laughed heartily. “Knowing he did not understand English, I replied, “It’s 10:30 PM. What the hell do I want to go to a ‘casino’ for?” Wasn’t until I repeated the story to a coworker in Atlanta that I learned my error.
There were many times I thought God must believe I’m incompetent. This personal level of insecurity dates back to 1999 when I worked with a colleague who spoke 12 languages and could easily skip, with ease, between dialects. He smoothly transitioned from Arabic to Darija, to French, then Hindi, Bengal, Spanish and so on. Elderly Egyptians recount how in Alexandria, in the early 20th century, they would switch between Arabic, French, English, Italian, and Greek, depending on what they were doing and whom they were addressing.
For some time, I remained rudderless. While able to speak to God, I often did not hear the response. In truth, none of us who commit to prayer and the spiritual life enjoy those periods during which prayer, liturgy, or spiritual reading seem dry or dull. But such moments are necessary—or so it would seem—for God permits them. It turns out I wasn’t alone.
St. John of the Cross wrote of “the dark night of the soul.” So did Mother Teresa. And Terese of Avila discussed “the period of aridity.” It’s typical for the religious life, to be plunged into not knowing. I don’t lead an overtly religious life. However, what most are looking for: some way to let real life, with the pain, not blow us apart. And in the wake of such great forces, many quit.
Then again, how many times do both the prayee and responder misinterpret the message?
A rather old-fashioned lady was planning several weeks of vacation in Florida. Being quite elegant, she wanted to ensure the campground was adequately equipped with “toilet” facilities. Feeling too dignified to write the word “toilet,” she thought of an old fashioned term “Bathroom Commode,” and abbreviated it as “B.C..” Her letter included the request, “Does the campground have its own ‘B.C’?”
Upon receipt, the owner couldn’t understand what ‘B.C.’ meant. He came to the conclusion she was asking about the Baptist Church. So, he responded:
“Dear Madam: I regret the delay in answering your letter very much, but I take pleasure in informing you that the “B.C.” is located nine miles north and is capable of seating 250 people at one time.
As a Buddhist, I learned every person has a personal language which provides a unique prism through which to interpret God’s wisdom and experience. We’re not in the position, as human beings, to figure out the mind of God. It is our shared humanity and fellowship with other humans. I now believe God communicates not with mere words alone, but through culture, shared experience, laughter, tears, music, books, blogs, and joy.
It’s important to realize God shares our condition of humanity. God became one of us and poured himself into our human experience so that we are never alone, so that God is with us even into the worst of times, even when we do not know it. God is there. God will equip you with what you need when you need it.
I awoke to stifling lower back pain. A quick glance of the clock, ‘1:46 AM,’ Christmas Day.
Stumbling to the bathroom, located some Extra Strength Excedrin, swallowed three and nursed myself to a rocker overlooking the valley below. “Christmas Day!” I squinted as my eyes adjusted to the sparkling lights from the valley below.
As a kid, there were many times I sat waiting to surprise Santa. Armed with a Pentax K1000 35mm camera, surely Santa would be doomed by my conniving nature, as I would be the first in a couple hundred years to snap artwork of ol’ Santa. And like those days of yesteryear, I sat shrouded in the mystery, briefly revealed by an occasional flicker from below.
In waning decades, not much has changed from such days. Even today, adorned by all our gadgetry, motion detectors, instant photo cams, city web cams, and Ring doorbell systems, Santa remains elusive. Today, I’m armed with the best of smartphones. But age has dulled reaction time as well as my ability to capture the red guy.
“Ah,” I smiled. “Christmas Day.”
Looking back at the kid from years gone by, I was merely caught in gifts. Yet, by the age of 9, I started to keep the traditions of ol’ Saint Nick, having unknowingly moved from the spirit of Santa to a spirit of faith. What I had hoped for the world – more specifically, my world – was something bigger than just our world. I wanted to experience the beauty of love, in celebration and embracing one another. It was a world of faith that both Christ and Buddhist would have been proud.
In essence, all the presents in the world mean nothing without a faith for love and a faith for life. As such, the questions I reflect upon include ‘What difference did my faith and love for life make to me yesterday? What effect did my faith in love have on what I did yesterday?’ Much to the disparagement of some traditionalists, my personal faith is genuinely nourished by more than one religious tradition, by more than my home ‘root’ tradition.
One inquisitor queried, “What then, is your great way?”
“Love,” I replied. “Many people can follow a ‘great way.’ Only a handful understand and follow the small way.”
Just as in years before, I fell asleep shortly after my search began. A welfare check from a friend wakened me early morn. Alas, Santa silently sleighed by in the night. There was no Mercedes-Benz in my driveway, no WeatherTech Floor mats, nor any diamonds from whatever jeweler. Just a new day … and new opportunities for love.
What I’ve realized though, is that Santa is bigger than any one person. His life of love has gone longer than any who’ve lived. What he does is simple, but powerful. He teaches how to have belief in something unseen or touched. As such, all of us remain students of the real Santa, the real Christ and the real Buddhist.
And the lesson?
Love.