I admit it – I am one of those old guys who loves watching weather.  I have often turned on a channel that runs 24 hour displays of the radar, and pondered it for minutes on end – and then returned to it minutes later to see what has changed.  I look at the sky, sense the air pressure, see what the birds are doing, all that stuff that may give a hint to the upcoming weather.  But I have taken for granted the daily forecast, knowing that they are great for 24 hours, good for a few days, and then are often spectacularly wrong in the long-term forecasts.  I didn’t know why, only that it was so.  Now, after reading Bill Streever’s book, And Soon I heard a Roaring Wind, I understand far more why we don’t understand the weather: chaos theory.
 
Although the term and the physics were there already, it was a man named Edward Lorenz who first made that phrase applicable to weather in the 1970’s, and who also made the “if a butterfly flaps its wings in the Amazon, it can cause a tornado in Texas 3 months later” phrase popular.  And it all started with a computer.  A big, desk-sized computer that weighed over 700 pounds and was run with hundreds of vacuum tubes, and had the calculating capacity far smaller than a hand-held IPhone of today. 
 
The story of computer evolution is well known, but back in the 70’s, Lorenz, having his computer, was able to put in a vast amount of variables into his device to maybe come out with mathematical certitude about the weather.   At one point, he re-fed his computer with numbers already generated, but put his numbers in only to the 3rd (if I recall right) decimal point.  The original data was put in to the 6th decimal point.  Lorenz naturally thought that what would come back would be nearly identical to what he had originally gotten, and this was true in the initial numbers.  But with time – going out to, say, 3 days of forecasting, he found that the second set of numbers came up with radically different readings for the upcoming weather.  With more experimentation, he discovered that the slightest discrepancies in data would, over several days, bring dramatically different results.  The conclusion was obvious – minute differences accumulated over time to great differences, and these differences were impossible to predict.  Impossible, because all data could never be taken (every atom, etcetera) and that each small difference would result in great divergences over time.
 
That is not to say that this chaos was completely chaotic – there were limits.  In fact, we find that the differences fan out and curve back within certain boundaries, and when graphed, look for all the world like butterfly wings. Thus, the poetic applicability of the butterfly to chaos theory.  However, within this discovery we find the idea, still accepted by science as well as the author, that the weather always follows physical laws, and as such, is theoretically predictable.  This has generated the expression “Laplace’s Monster,” named for the early 19th century French mathematician who stated that, if all information were known, we could perfectly predict ALL physical phenomena.  The monster, of course, is All Information, and all information could never be known.  With chaos theory, we now know what that can mean – huge differences rendered from small initial differences. 
 
 
Which is not to say that more and better information doesn’t make for better predictions, for it does: reliability for short-term forecasting has shot up from 50% in the 1960’s to over 90% (for 24 hour forecasts) today.  Not bad.  But I have a bone to pick with Laplace’s Monster.  Although the math is waaaay beyond me, quantum theory clearly states, and has been proven again and again, that the observer effects the action of the observed.  The observer – the human – behaves according to thoughts.  Thus, Laplace’s Monster must then have as a part of its measurements the thoughts of all people – never mind that of all animals, simple as they might be.  And we don’t have to go to complex theory to show this: human thought leads to all kinds of physical changes, from cutting down forests to driving a car to the grocery store for items necessary for something as unpredictable as sex.  Thus, it is not even necessary to speculate that our silent thoughts cause atoms to act differently – our expressed thoughts will do this just fine.   And no computer made by Man can ever know all the thoughts of Man, or even a small bit of them.  Thus weather will always remain, in the long run, an unpredictable monster. 
What this says about current notions of weather – from theories about desertification to Co2 levels – raises one necessarily to the level of skeptic.  But in finding that the smallest changes can make for huge differences over time, we must rethink the amount of power that each of us has over things as vast as the weather.  Could a reverent approach to nature change the course of weather history, and thus human history?  Although not certain, it is absolutely possible.  More so, if I can make the jump from physical laws to human laws – which in this case I believe I can – isn’t it possible that small changes in thought can have huge implications for changes of thought world-wide?  Even if we take out some sort of ESP effect, these thought patterns would change physical actions, which we know can lead to greater changes later on.
 
It is odd that chaos theory can contribute to what the great sages have been saying for centuries – that we can change the world, not just by the might of a Genghis Khan, but by the peace of a saint or monk.  Further, I do intuitively agree with those quantum theorists who think that even silent thought, without actions, affects the physical world.  What are thoughts?  Are they not, in some sphere, tangible things?  The thought that went into writing this blog was there before it was written, and even then, it was something, somehow, somewhere.  Could it be that those thoughts were already having an effect?  Jesus, among other wise beings, claimed that we were all of one body (an idea contained in quantum theory that spreads out to ALL things and intentions).  Would not every thought affect that body?  Wouldn’t it then be true that, if the kingdom of God is within us all, that this realization among even a few could bring it too all of us?
 
Of course, in chaos theory, nothing is predictable within the parameters.  A butterfly flapping its wings might cause a tornado, but it might stop a tornado, or do nothing at all.  Still, more and more evidence is pointing to a directed universe, one with a driving intelligence that has led, for instance, to the development of humans and self-reflective thought.  Couldn’t it also mean that, eventually, the realization of heaven on earth by one or a few, like the flapping of the butterfly’s wings, could be the force that drives us to a greater, even the greatest, future, one that is intended for us if we so decide?    

​Weather – I’ll be looking at you differently now, but with even greater interest.  Just like any old fool, surely, but now with eyes further opened, even though there is a lot more to weather than meets the eye.  FK
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

​ 
Ya never know what’ll happen at the dentist. 
 
While chewing a bagel – always a bagel – something hard appeared on my tongue, and I knew what it was instantly: another broken crown.  This would be my third in a year, and of course I had to go to the dentist to have it checked out.  The other two were found to have remained more or less intact, and all the dentist had to do was file off the sharp edges, but this one, she told me later with sadness in her eyes, would require a replacement.  I soon found out her reason for empathy – it wouldn’t be cheap.  But do it I must, and an appointment was made for a week later to get the imprint and a fake temporary tooth while they made the real thing, which I was assured would be with me long after the flesh had melted off my bones. 
 
I had assumed that having the old one taken out would be painless, but the dental assistant, a young Mexican woman (she was actually Mexican born, having moved first to Texas at age 4) first asked me if I wanted the Novocain or whatever shot.  “What, is it going to hurt?”  “It all depends – what is your pain tolerance threshold?”  That was enough for me.  The shot went in, which hurt, too, but nothing like the real - deal dental pain, which is one of the worst in the world (see Marathon Man with Dustin Hoffman for a painful reminder).  We had to wait for the numbing to take effect, and sometime later she appeared again, the time not quite up.  We started to talk.
 
I don’t recall how it started – I think she asked me what I did for a living, and I went through the sad, tragic, comical, stupid and whatever track of my anthropological career, which then led to writing books.  I told her that I was about to publish my second book, one of essays that took events from my life and of those around me and found the deeper spiritual meaning behind them (FYI, hopefully, at last, this book should be published for Amazon and Kindle by September).  She asked me what I meant, and I told her, “There is much more to life than we usually think.  We are part of the cosmos, and everything that happens here is a reflection of the greatness of this cosmos, filled with a meaning that is deep and hard to grasp, but directed.”  Finishing, I noticed a change in her attitude.  She had been stoked, and soon after came her story.
 
“We’re from a small village in central Mexico and my grandmother and mother were into the spirit world.  My grandmother did terrible things……(ah, said I, showing I understood – she was a bruja – witch, not simply a curandera - healer)……but not my mother who only healed people.  In two weeks she cured three people with supposedly incurable cancer.  She said that she had to let go of all bad feelings before she did a healing.  Now she can’t, so she can’t heal any longer.”
 
Pause.
 
“I see spirits all the time, especially when I was younger.  Good spirits and bad spirits too.  I have dreams that always come true.  My mother says that I should be a healer, but I’m afraid because I can’t handle the bad spirits.  If I don’t think about them, they usually don’t come.  My boyfriend (a “white man,” she told me) has seen me go through all this and he knows.  Sometimes I think I’m going crazy.”
 
I told her I had lived in Mexico as well as other places in Latin America and that I have read a lot about this, and that she was not going crazy, to which she seemed both relieved and scared.  Relieved for obvious reasons, and scared because she really didn’t want this stuff to be true.  It scared the crap out of her.  She had a prescription medication for anxiety, and that seemed to help.  I told her that she was probably stuck with it and would have to face her “power” sooner or later (maybe I was wrong to say this.  It just came out.)  And that she should get a teacher to help her.  And that she should never do anything for pure gain, or for evil.
 
“I know,” she sighed, having probably heard it all before.  “I can’t avoid a lot of this   Just this week I made three stop lights go out when I drove up to them.  It’s the power coming out.”
 
She told me that she was interested in writing, and I pushed her to do so.  “You learn so much about yourself and what’s going on,” I said, and continued. “We usually have this face, not on purpose, that we take to be the real “us,” but it’s only a superficial mask.  Beneath it is an infinity of self, and writing helps it to come out.  I often surprise myself when I write.”
 
She look at me bewildered at the idea that we have a mask that is unconscious. One that we put on on purpose to disguise our feelings, yes, but not one that operates outside our conscious will, and for her, she might be right – for her, maybe her closeness to the spirits doesn’t allow her to get too lost in her mask. 
 
But then she went on.  “I know.  I think everything is done for a bigger purpose, and little things are all big things.”  I noticed that her voice was shaking just as she said, “this is all giving me goose bumps.” 
 
Alarmed, for at this point the old tooth had been drilled out (by the dentist in between our talking) and she was preparing to paste in the temporary, I said, “Ok, OK forget it!  Concentrate on my tooth!”
 
She continued working, but didn’t stop the conversation.  To date, the tooth has held up.  I think she might begin to write, or at least to look at her talent in a different way.  Which, I think, she has too.  I do not think this stuff goes away, not if it follows you into full adulthood, and not if you’re a Mexican raised with such beliefs, and you have a very strong maternal tradition for such stuff as well.
 
I had told her that I did not have such gifts.  I didn’t tell her that I was glad that I didn’t, but I am.  I understand this stuff from the edges, just enough to get the goosebumps myself, but not enough to cause me to run to the doctor for tranquilizers.  At least not yet.  It is a burden and has traditionally been understood as such.  Some people are predisposed for such insight, and with the help of a traditional culture, it grows in them, but it is not wished for by others.  They know the burden and don’t want to be woken regularly by spirits and ghosts, or even angels.  We are delicate little things, we who are trapped in our “faces” and we would usually rather live a dull life than one on the edge of the cosmos – where we really already are.  We are like people on the edge of a cliff, with all of us yelling collectively, “don’t’ look down!”
 
I might see her again next visit, and who knows?  Maybe she’ll have found an answer to her problem gift.  But remember, the next time you go to the dentist – or anywhere else that seems uninteresting – the attendant just might be seeing spirits and perhaps even your own future.  She or he might know a lot about you and everyone else that is never said and you should probably be glad in this.  It is a fearsome thing, this life when looked on full, as are the gifts that allows one to see deeper into its maw. 
 
Thomas Cahill, a researcher and writer of many historical books, has written one called How the Irish Saved Western Civilization.  It is about how the monks of the Island saved the many books and liturgy of the west from the barbarian hordes after the collapse of the Roman Empire, but it is this point in it that I will never forget.  Says Cahill, (my paraphrase) “The Irish were persecuted by spirits everywhere they went, and terrified of them.  They would drink themselves into a stupor at night to get rid of them, but back they would come, everything and every occurrence connecting them to a frightening spiritual realm.  When Christianity was offered to them, they alone of all large cultures welcomed it with open arms, casting aside their torturing spirits as fast as they could.”  Should I tell the dental assistant this?  I don’t know –as an anthropologist, I don’t want to destroy her gift.  But the fear, the fear…
 
I supposed she already knows of such alternatives as religion and will decide for herself.  Good luck to her - really.  All in all, you never know what will happen at the dentist, or, come to think of it, anyplace else.  FK
 
 

​I have to admit, the ocean terrifies me.  For readers of many of my past essays, this is obvious – Lake Superior is an ocean in looks and feel, and I fear it, but love it because it is so fearsome, so vast.  Mostly in Long Island Sound, I have sailed in it, swam in it, been stranded on a sailboat without motor in it, been lost in it at night, paddled in it with an inadequate canoe, almost been hit by a barge, been caught in storms, come close to wrecking – all sorts of things, on and on.  But always, I have known that it could kill me in a minute.  Always I have known that there are little crabs that would eat me, and when swimming off the boat miles from shore, have known that big things underneath could at any time come up and eat me.  And always the tides and the waves and the weather, which have killed more people over history than most wars, are just a moment away from washing me into dark, cold oblivion.
 
            I often have felt something of a coward over this.  My mother, who grew up on the shore, always claimed to have loved it in a maternal way- mother ocean, peaceful, embracing, cup of life, poetic, the source of her joy and inspiration.  For me, it has been Shiva, mother of life as well as taker - fecund, yet deadly.  When I would say this to my mother, she would titch.   Why, you just have to understand her moods!  Nothing to fear once you have the basic knowledge and respect.
 
            So she said, but I have seen her scared on a sailboat tilting a little too much with the wind, so I suspect maybe she was not facing a deeper fear.  Still, her embrace was always much wider than mine, and I thought maybe my imagination was too large (and my manly courage too small) until I read the quick true-life thriller, A Speck in the Sea by John Aldridge and Anthony Sosinski, who were the prime protagonists in the book.  They were (and still are) fisherman and lobsterman out of Montauk, Long Island, which lies directly across from my own ocean stomping grounds in Ct. and R.I.  Montauk is where Jaws was set, a small fishing village at the east end of Long Island that becomes a tourist mecca (or hell hole , depending on point of view) in summer, with rich people and celebs galore both there and in nearby Fire Island.   It was just during the tourist season in July of 2013 that John and Anthony and another crew member took off at night to check their traps some 60 miles out into the North Atlantic – an area that is the most dangerous place to fish in the US, fishing itself being the most dangerous profession in the world (the next is lumbering, a no-brainer if you’ve ever toppled trees before).   They were to arrive at dawn at their traps, so Johnny tended the boat, running on autopilot, while the others slept into the night.  At 3AM he started to ready the freezer, and to do so, he had to move several 200 pound coolers also set to hold lobster and fish.  While moving one with his fishing gaff, the handle broke off, and he was flung back – and out of the boat, as a lobster boat will often have no wall in the stern, to allow for pulling up the traps.  And there he was, all of a sudden, dressed only in fishing boots, shirt and shorts, watching the boat go away on autopilot while his mates slept.
 
            They could not hear him yell over the boat engine, and Johnny knew he was, as he repeated to himself over and over, “fucked, fucked, fucked!’  He was forty miles out from the tip of L.I and left to ride the current.  He upended his fishing boots after filling them with air, and that is all that kept him afloat.  In the dark.  Utterly alone.
 
            We know right away that he made it, for how else could he be a co-author, but he candidly told the world what he thought after going over.  Panic, despair, terror.  Yes, this seasoned, life-long fisherman felt terror.  He knew the ocean and its ways, from the constant presence of predators – it is only near beaches where they are rare – to the shifting tides and rolling waves.  He knew that he was invisible in the vastness, a small head bobbing occasionally above water.  He knew his chances were slim, and what he had to do to even have a chance for survival was to not think of his situation, for that would bring panic, and panic would bring death.
 
            But for me, the big thing was his terror, this man of the sea.  I was not such a coward after all.  Rather, fear of the ocean is the only sensible thing to have.  It is treacherous no matter how inspiring and beautiful and life-giving.   And, more than any other regular thing in our lives, the ocean represents the totality of being for us – from its life to the endless, dark unknown of death.
 
            When I think about, I do not fear driving in rush traffic at 60 or 70 mph, where any mistake by anyone of thousands could mean instant death or agonizing, life- altering injury.  I do not fear some hunter’s bullet in the woods, and only fear a little the possibility of running across a bear, which I do from time to time up north.  But I fear the ocean, even from the safety of a decent ship, like I fear heights standing against a window pane at 80 stories high. 
With only a little thought, I know why - the open space and the great depth both remind me of the ultimate helplessness of being alive.  I can raise a shudder thinking of either, but mostly of the ocean, because it is teeming and chaotic, like the universe, and reminds me constantly that we will someday be swallowed like Jonah in the whale – all of us, regardless of strength or ninja prowess – holey, entirely.  Inevitably, unavoidably.   Into the black and cold of the unknown. 
 
            But the fisherman of the boat, of most boats in the US, fish because they want to, not because they have to.  I know that feeling, too – that love of something you fear.  It is not only because of its beauty – the sense of this beauty itself hung deep in the unconscious – but because of its indomitable vastness.  No matter how we despise our small lives trapped in our small rut, the sea tells us that we are not little robots caught in a meaningless social network.  It tells us that we are a part of this vastness, and in that, of great, infinite depth ourselves.  It tells us that, as small and insignificant as we seem, we share in its mystery and indefinable awe.  That we are alive in such a way as to ponder that presence is the greatest miracle of them all. 
 
            Fear, terror - thank God for the merciless sea!  For without such a vastness at our touch, we could lose the very meaning of our being.  But with, we cannot.  No matter how jaded a man might be, stick that man out as a speck in the sea and see how significant and meaningful and awesome – and terrifying - life becomes to him.
 
            Within days after Johnny was rescued, he was back at sea.  He had put a removable wall at the stern, but all else remained the same.  He could not give up the sea, for it was here that he saw his meaning - just as all of us who have the courage find their meaning through and beyond their fear.
 
Courage to be afraid, that’s what it is.  It might be the cornerstone of human life, for without the courage to be afraid, to step before the unconquerable vastness of reality, we sink into our interior selves, living lives of quiet desperation. 
 
I know you really feared the sea, Mom, just like me.  I know because that is where your joy and art came from.  It is where it comes from for all of us – at the threshold of fear, where we are opened to the terrible yet wonderful fullness of our being.  FK
 
 
 
 
                        

​It is tiring to hear complaints about our culture nowadays, as it has become so habitual and nearly automatic – why, I could even complain about how much we complain!  But Alan Watts, in his book “Tricksters…” strikes right to our root when he complains about our obsession with death – or rather, our obsession with hiding death.  That we hide it is understandable, for dying hurts, death’s qualities are unknown, and what is does to our formerly beloved bodies is not pretty.  But from this, we have made an obsession with living longer, and the obsession has turned into a competition of age – which does not improve the whole dying business one iota and is downright obnoxious.
 
            What do we first think when we read or hear of someone who has died before, say, 70?  One, that they might have had bad genes.  We often hear ourselves or others talk about the longevity of parents or grandparents and so on, finishing with, “so I guess we have good genes.”  Not “longevity” genes but good genes, as if longevity itself is a virtue, the Castro brothers and Chairman Mao notwithstanding.  And two, that to have died younger than average probably entailed bad habits.  That is, when we read that John Smith has died at age 63, we think, well, he probably smoked or drank too much or never ate his greens.  As if, that is to say, we can all live a long and comfortable life if we have good genes and good habits.
 
Every day on the Today show, Al Roker shows us pictures of centenarians on the labels of Smucker’s jam and congratulates them on their longevity.  Each woman (and most are woman) is said to be beautiful, which is a lie because no one is beautiful physically at age 100 and we all know it, but that is a little white lie.  But we are often told what they attribute to their great age; “And Mrs. Rosenkrutch attributes her longevity to a glass of wine every Saturday night!”  We like that – she has a little fun, but not too much.  She is moderate and deserves her long life because of this virtue of moderation.  Thus, if we have good genes and a good lifestyle, we will be given a long life.  Thus, virtue is found in living longer and living longer is a virtue.  Thus, as the competitor in us thinks, “I’m going to outlive you, sucker, and show you who’s the better man!”
 
            Of course, the health care people will tell you that this is statistically so, but none of us are statistics – each of us has a God-given time limit, or a fate if you prefer, about which we can do nothing.   Says the Gospels (my paraphrase): “Don’t build up your barns for storage, for death is like a thief in the night and may come at any moment.  You fool, for God has chosen to take you this very night!”  It is, rather, a virtue to live as if one will die tomorrow and be judged on one’s actions, rather than to count on having plenty of time to do the right thing later on.  Now is the time, and life is for relationships, with others and with God. Longevity is simply a quality like black hair or straight teeth.
 
            The Christians, then, would have us believe that it is not the quantity of years that we have, or the size of our barns, that make us virtuous, but how we live those years that we do have.  For Alan Watts, the vicar-turned-Buddhist, it is something a little different.  We are like the waves of an ocean, each crest dependent necessarily on the trough, each life on death, each thing on empty space.  We cannot have one without the other, and so neither is by itself a greater virtue (we cannot even have right behavior without wrong behavior, but that is another and thornier issue).  But here the Buddhist and the Christian coincide: right living is not for tomorrow, or for the past (in memory of failures and successes), but for NOW, for that is the only sure time that we have.  For the Christian, he may look to his relationships, and for the Buddhist, to the NOW, but for both, they should be aware that they are part of the same ocean; that one’s crest depends on the trough or crest of another; that is, that all is relationship. 
 
            Further, whether one’s wave is larger or smaller than the other is immaterial, for life is flux, and the big wave will becoming the bigger trough – which might become the small wave later on.  To brag of living long is to brag of being the bigger wave – an absolutely ridiculous idea of virtue in the concept of the forever changing ocean.  Also, to be smug about one’s good genes and good habits is to build the barn for tomorrow – that is, it allows one to hold off on living in true virtue with one’s fellows until later, because, what the heck, one has the time. 
But as Jesus said, “You fool! God has chosen to take you this very night!”
 
            It is up to us in some ways to live longer, but living long is not a virtue itself, at least according to more than one sage.  In the end, I think what the competition for living longer is all about is control over death, which is just another form of denial.  We cannot stop death, no matter our way of life.  We should try to see, I think, that death is not pure evil, but the other side of life, which is undeniably true.  Not that this gives me ultimate comfort - I still eat my greens.  But in the end, what the sages say is beyond doubt: we are not in control over the long term, but are simply crests of waves in an ongoing pattern of relationships.  In this we should not worry.  Instead, we should live for the day, as if every other person, every other wave, were connected - as they really, ultimately are, regardless of the  size of their barns or their eating habits.  FK   
 
 
 
 
 
                       
 
           
                        

​With the stifling heat, the horde of mosquitoes, and the rumblings of thunder, the past few days have been great for reading.  After all, reading does not require one to stand outside, nor to expend any noticeable thermal energy, although it often requires thought – the kind of thing few people were paid for, or perhaps even cared to do, until a few thousand years ago.  Thank goodness for progress. 
 
            And so I read, nearly two books in fact, and one followed the other almost as if in answer, as if the two authors were standing before an audience arguing their philosophies for a debate team.  In my mind, it was the second book that won, hands down.
 
            The first was by psychologist Steve Taylor, titled The Psychology of Spiritual Awakening.  Taylor is an acolyte of Eckhart Tolle, who is one of the better known figures in New Age thinking, and Taylor’s ties to the New Age soon became abundantly clear.  That does not mean the book is stupid or useless, however, for the New Age is more than crystals and eagle feathers.  Here, Taylor brings forth the testimony of several people who have become “awake” and then goes on to explain their experiences and tie them together into a cohesive view.  To become awake, one has first to be asleep, and that (according to Taylor) is the state in which most of us find ourselves: lost in the humdrum world of adult existence, suffering internally, chattering to ourselves incessantly to keep this fragile “sleeping” perspective alive.   The awake perspective, on the other hand, dazzles with the brightness of existence, both through the eyes and mind, bringing us closer to the truth of ourselves – that we are miraculously conceived into a miraculous world.  The awoke person, then, loses the dominance of the ego, which is useful only as a tool for practical tasks, and so loses all anxiety – about social standing, wealth, health, death – all that stuff that keep us “sleepers” sleepless at night. 
 
We read of them and want to be of that number, and Taylor is more than obliging.  We find that some people – he uses Walt Whiteman and Wordsworth as two examples – were born naturally awake, while others were simply granted that elevated status later in life.  Most, however, became awake through spiritual practice or after suffering a crises, such as a great sickness or the death of an important loved one, whereby the egos were rendered mute, allowing the flow of our natural state to come on through.  And it is our natural state: according to Taylor, we were all awake until about 6,000 years ago, when all but a few took part in the “Fall” into ego.  Only those primitive tribes that were fortunately isolated from civilization maintained their openness, and these, as we all know, have since mostly met a horrible fate at the hands of us, the civilized.
 
Taylor goes on and on, and much of what he says is very worthwhile.  I found that after reading the book, I wanted less to do with feelings of guilt or social inadequacy, which was worth the price of the book itself.  However, there was an all-pervasive theme in the book that became annoying, and then led to almost destroying all the good points.  You see, according to Taylor, our entire culture is a disaster, and by living in it, we’re klutzes.  We SHOULD be awake, we poor fools, and we should run to our guru as soon as possible to do so.  Taylor has even ranked gradations of awake-ness, and at the end of the book gives a test that scores us on just how awake we are.  The questions themselves are sometimes blatantly political – heaven forbid that one has any conservative views – and, of course, we are supposed to try to fit ourselves into the awake category as well as we can by proper thinking – to be, what?  Culturally acceptable to the New Age gurus? 
 
Which reminded me of the term “woke” which is now used to extol those who clearly see such things as “white privilege” and patriarchy.  It clearly represents an obnoxious moral self-righteousness of the politically correct, and is every bit as grating as the self-righteousness of the old-fashioned Bible Thumpers.  Same dance, different tune (no insult intended towards the Bible or even some current PC ideas – rather, it is the exclusionary self-righteousness that is so distasteful).   And on the noble savage, I believe I have the right to question the veracity of some of that, beginning with the terrible and constant warfare that most primitive peoples were involved in – for matters of social prestige and for “us vs them” thinking, among other things.  We can certainly turn the table here and talk about New Age egoic myths in this book if we wanted to. 
 
Then, on to Alan Watts, a former Anglican priest who became something of a trickster guru when he got into Zen and moved to California in the 1950’s.  In his book, Tricksters, Interdependence, and the Cosmic Game, he tells us much the same thing as Taylor when talking about our ego selves and the culture that helped spawn them.  In fact, it was Watts, as much as anyone else, who informed the New Age philosophy back in the ‘60’s and 70’s.  But there is an enormous difference here: Watts doesn’t care, and doesn’t think the universe cares or that we should care, either, about whether we are “awake” or not.  His point is that regardless of what we think, we are a part of the God-stuff of the universe.  That we don’t know that this is a game that we ourselves have made to grant greater perspective on the universe – for to be an undifferentiated part of it would bring no perspective at all – is ultimately unimportant.  In fact, we need the bad to know the good, the dark to know the light, the ignorant to know the truth.  We are all connected in the game, the wise and stupid, evil and saintly, and are all part of the shared God that keeps everything going.  Deep inside we know it’s a game.  We can wake from it anytime we wish – which we all do on at least some level at death. 
 
So we remain ignorant because we choose to, and that’s OK – as parts of God and his plan, how could it not be?  In fact, according to Watts, religion is a trick to show us just how ridiculous our questions are about the meaning of it all, because we know it already and are hiding it on purpose.  We cannot be told that because we choose to believe something else, and so religion is meant to throw us back onto the impossibility of our questions.  From the Zen koans to the Son of Man, we are meant to be bamboozled until our folly is shoved into our face.  And then, we are supposed to laugh.  Be joyful.  It is a game and behind it all is what we have always wanted – and always have had and always will have, even during this game of hide and seek.   
 
Watts doesn’t answer all of MY questions, and of course would not think to do so.  It is enough for him to let us know that this is a game.  But he gets to the nut of “being awake” without the status, without the holier than thou spirituality, and without politically correct thought.  “Don’t worry, be happy” might be his motto, and in times of great fear and pain – no matter how invented it might really be – I don’t think this would grant any great consolation.  But the essentialness of the universe, and of our being, IS answered, albeit in a necessarily slippery way, and we don’t have to worry about it at all.  We don’t have to feel guilty, we don’t have to feel any more or less holy than someone else, and we are free to think and live our lives as we choose.  We are always children of god, no matter what, and when the time comes, you will bring yourself to know that.  Until then, love and laugh.  Not that I will fully let myself be that way, nor would I want to always be that way, but it’s a darn good start.  FK
 
 
            

​I used to get a magazine called “The Quest” put out by the Theosophical Society that at one time was a great discovery in my life.  Up to then, I had no idea that many other people had had mystical experiences that far exceeded the sudden jolts of revelation sometimes caused by hallucinogens.  Here, people expounded on these experiences and gave deep philosophical meaning to them – and, for me, gave to my own occasional experiences a reality that was then important to me.  I was not crazy after all – at least for that – but instead had been given a great gift that was shared with thousands of others. 
 
It all seems so common now, either because I have become aware of so many more books on the issue, or because so many more have been written recently, or (most probably) both.  But something I saw on Ten Mile Beach on Lake Superior brought me back to that magazine and its most significant message: that we were all born with an exceptional talent.  Many would disagree: Leonardo Da Vinci towers over just about anyone in his display of magnificent artistic and intellectual gifts, as do so many others.  Most of us, in comparison (certainly me) are such small fry.  And yet, I am convinced that we all have gifts.  I have seen them up close and personal recently in my dealings with people doing things for the church I attend.  And I have seen it more than once at that same beach.
 
It is this: almost every time I go up to that beach, which is isolated from humans off-season, and never  crowded in more than a few spots, I have seen impressive works of  art that people have made in the sand from articles in the natural environment.  Because the beach is strewn with stones of many shaped, colors, and sizes, they always include those.  Often, wood that has been carved by the waves is included as well.  Some are pretty good.  The one I saw last weekend was better than pretty good.  It was a snail- spiral (nautilus) made of smoothed stones that increased and then decreased in size in just the right way with just the right colors.  More than that: under each stone was put a tiny leaf from a small plant, and on top of each was puts its small, conical maroon and white flower.  The effect was truly beautiful, and what made it special was that it was put there for all to see without the presence of the artist, with the knowledge that very soon someone, or some wave or wind, would soon wipe it away.  It was put there for enjoyment without ego glory or money involved.  It was simply that person’s gift on display. 
 
The Quest came to mind because a famous artist of the mystic, Kaminsky, had done something similar years before, and it had been put on the cover of the magazine.  So that picture had come around full circle: the magazine talked of our special spiritual gifts, Kaminsky’s had been put on display, and I had seen it recapitulated in an uncelebrated work of art in the sand, reminding me of the importance the Quest had once had for me – and should have for all of us, for we all share in the gifts, whether they make us famous or only delight a tourist walking the beach.  We should all understand that we are never left by the side while others are admired as they trot around the globe.   No one is ever left aside.  The Gift could be small and private, or large and commercial, but it is there nonetheless, a reminder that we all matter to the force of creation.
 
But there was more to complete that circle: a few days later, on my drive back home, I listened to an audio book named The Magic Strings of Frankie Presto by Mitch Albom.  It is a fiction about a man’s remarkable life due to his remarkable gift – he is a great singer and songwriter and guitarist.  It is Forrest Gump-like in that this fictional character, Francisco “Frankie”, was constantly involved with the great popular artists of his day, from Loui Armstrong to Elvis (and then some – I am not finished with the book) and is narrated by the personification of the angel of inspiration, or gifts.  We begin the book with the angel looking on at Frankie’s funeral, talking about his (Frankie’s) life.  He says, to paraphrase, “when we are first born, I [the angel] surround that baby with colors.  Each color is a gift, and the baby is naturally compelled to choose one.”  Frankie, of course, chose music, but the colors are many and the trajectories that these gifts give to the life of an individual are infinite, further colored by our social background, the historical period, and how we choose to express those gifts.  When a person dies, that particular gift is put back into the color pool for other babies to choose.   
 
Thus to complete the circle: a few blogs ago, Cal Roeker put out the question to me – “what evolution do you see after writing this blog for 4 and one half years?”  Clearly he sees an evolution, as do I now that I have been made to look at it. It is to become more serious spiritually.  This is part of my gift, as I learned from the Quest, brought along with an ability to write fairly well.  But I cannot fully answer that question, at least for now, for two reasons: one, that the gift has not yet been fully exploited, meaning I still don’t know where it will take me, for my gift does not include the gift of certainty.  And two: that this, my gift, is just one of so many.  I am willing to share it when the feeling comes that I must, but the world does not hold its breath.  It is just me, one of so many.  This is not false modesty – I appreciate my gift and am more than willing to share it.  But so many others are desperately trying to find their own that mine could, and often should, take second or fifth or less fiddle. 
 
For now, I hope my best effort through my gift will be this: that, as I found from the Quest, I hope the reader will understand that each of us IS born with a color, a gift.  And that to find it sometimes we need to listen to that quiet voice.  It is our choices from then on that will determine our lives.  But the gift is there.  It most certainly is, making no one in God’s eyes any more or less special than anyone else.  It is what we learn from our use of the gift, or our inability to find it, that will mark the better part of our final judgement.   FK