The Art of War

Disclaimer: I'm always the first to admit that my shamanic conversations could very well be a product of my active imaginaion. But frankly I've never thought about armies and war like this before yesterday. The conversation felt very "real" to me.

I approached them so differently yesterday. I behaved deferentially, bowing low and gazing at their chests, or the floor rather than right into their faces. Then I sat on a bench and simply listened.

What I "heard" from the infantry guys and chariot driver was all about the beauty of a well disciplined army, marching in formation, all of one mind. They compared the army to similar forms in nature, horses running across the steppe, flocks of birds flying together, schools of fish. They spoke of armies as man's birthright, a way to live in harmony with nature. But what about the violence, the killing? I wondered. What I "heard" was, At the confluence of two mighty rivers there is chaos and destruction.

Hmmm. That's pretty interesting. But I remained unconvinced, because of the violence and death. What I "heard" was There is no such thing as a pretty death. In battle, fighting for what you believe, death is fine, perhaps better than death from rotting. I think "rotting" refers to growing old or dying from disease. What do you think? Longevity is greatness, but death is inevitable. Go bravely, with honor, they said.



The archers talked to me about their art as a quest. The arrows are seekers, flying first into the air to speak with the gods, then finding their truths. Truths? Were they trying to say "targets?" Sounded like 'truths' to my inner ear, but who knows?

The generals and high ranking officials "spoke" to me about modern warfare of which they take a pretty dim view, apparently. These days we no longer fight like men, according to them, but either as animals, hiding in the trees or by pretending to be gods, throwing fire from the sky. We are no longer fighting as men which is a Big Problem.

They told me the art of war is lost, not only because of our tactics which separate us from fighting as men, but because we don't believe in what we're fighting for, we don't even know what we're fighting for. When I wondered what we're supposed to do now, they "said" that we must now find another way. The age of war is done.

I wish I wasn't the only one listening!

It's a lot to think about, but right now I'm out the door now to work on the living; I'll have to contemplate later. Happy Friday, y'all!

Clay Day

I'm off to NGS today to hang out with the Terra Cotta warriors. Really looking forward to it, too, especially in the wake of our president sending 30,000 additional troops to Afghanistan.

In spite of the admiration and respect I feel for our president, I do NOT support the "surge." In fact I sent an email to the white house to ask if he'd read the fabulous Vietnam by Stanley Karnow. All war is about power and acquisition; this one is no different than any other. His decision is so discouraging.

True, too, is that the holiday season is getting to me even though I've been pretty darn chipper about it all. Last night I watched Elizabethtown with the adorable Orlando Bloom. Such a sweet movie; I cried.

And so it goes during the month of December, same as it ever was. Que sera sera.

Naturally Altruistic

Oh man, it warms the cockles of my heart. What's a 'cockle'? - Never mind, it doesn't matter, what matters is that they've decided (they being research scientists) human beings, one of my very favorite species, is at its core, a helpful, altruistic animal.

When I read this I said out loud (to no one in particular) Who said it first? I'm always, constantly defending my fellow homo sapiens, always to other homo sapiens who believe, somehow, that we are "bad" or at least "not good enough."

Indeed if we are built to be helpful, then there's always more to be done, hence our innate self loathing makes sense as the flip side of our noble altruism. Now hold your horses, people, I'm not saying everything we do is OK, that being cruel, greedy, wasteful, brutal or thoughtless is fine by me, oh no! All I'm saying is that, like everything animal, mineral or vegetable, we are NOT perfect. Expectations of perfection are a symptom of hubris, another one of our species-wide problems.

The unfortunate truth of having not only an overdeveloped cerebral cortex but also an opposable thumb has made us perhaps too successful and therefore also spectacularly destructive in many ways. But we try so hard to be good, to be helpful, we really do. We are so adorable!

Science backs me up - again! I love science.


Logan Circle, one foot of the Masonic pyramid. (Dupont Circle is the other foot, the White House is the top of the pyramid.)

Dreamscapes

One thing I believe, in my heart of hearts, is that dreams are not just the product of my conscious/unconscious mind but rather a completely alternate reality that I visit sometimes. I can only access that reality by falling asleep, just as I can only visit New York by way of the Bolt bus or Amtrak.

That's why I love my dreams. Ordinarily, I'm quite good at remembering at least one or two when I wake up. I've trained myself over time to lie quietly for a minute when I wake up. I ask myself, "Where was I just now?" Almost always a dream scenario emerges into consciousness.

Lately - don't know why - I am having a hell of a time remembering these journeys to the land of dreams. I haven't been sleeping well, so maybe it's as simple as that, like buying a ticket that you think will take you to New York but ending up in Philadelphia instead.

Perhaps that metaphor has been sufficently played out, eh?

I've been keeping a pad of paper and pencil next to my bed so that I can at least sketch out a few scenes in the middle of the night, if I'm fortunate enough to wake up and remember anything. The idea is that these few words will jog my memory when morning arrives. Last night my dream felt So Important that I actually turned on the light and wrote the following:

Danny fires crossbow inside house. Reckless ass. No one hurt.
Boxes w/precious stones, jewels
Giant maps medieval Europe, & upstate New York
In their face (maps)
Photos horses, no New York, Mongolian

Sadly, as usual these days, I have no clue where I was last night, what I was up to. Imagine me shrugging. What the fuhhh.

Operators are Standing By

I pray every day, and though my prayers don't conform to any recognizable religious format, they are nevertheless sincere. Once upon a time I avoided the word "prayer" like the plague. Indeed, based on what came up when I googled that word, prayer is a heavy, awful thing that made me feel oppressed and frightened. Yikes! Reading some of that stuff made me feel like I couldn't breathe. My goodness! No wonder people shrink away from any mention of the process.

As far as I'm concerned, prayer is not particularly religious. Instead, for me at least, prayer is a dialogue between me and Mystery. Here I am, creature of earth, of definite shape, corporeal, manifest, following the arrow of time through my life, and yet, through prayer, I can relate to the unformed potential of the brilliant light of the unknown. Cool, eh?

I like praying. It's a part of my relationship with God, God being (to me) not the sociopath of the Torah, nor is God well represented by the deities of any of the great dramatic pantheons of myth, but rather is best described as the mystery of the way in which, as Aristotle said, the whole is greater than the sum of its parts. You know what I'm talking about? When I listen to a string quartet playing Mozart, for instance, that sound can become way more than notes on a page, stringed instruments and human beings. It's not always more than that, or at least sometimes I can't sense the divine in music, but sometimes, listening to music or gazing at art, or a sunset or feeling my love for someone, or cooking or experiencing the drama of weather (or any other thing) becomes way more than meteorology, pigment, music, or kinship. To me, that Way More Thing is God. And yeah it is a mystery, utterly unknowable, unshaped, not manifested, completely transcendent yet utterly immanent, too. It is miraculous to me that I can be in relationship to the Way More Thing.

A lot of the sites that came up when I googled "prayer" have sections devoted to making prayer "more effective." So that's an interesting concept, eh? I wonder what they mean by that. Any ideas?

I'm thinking about this today because someone I know has asked me to share thoughts about prayer. Also, a long time ago a blog brother asked me if I could think of another word for prayer. I tried, but I can't think of a better word. These days I love the word 'prayer' - it's soft and graceful, like a light breeze, like a whisper.

I find the topic endlessly fascinating and could continue writing at length, but I will spare you. After all it's Monday morning following (in the U.S.) a long holiday weekend.

Happy Monday to all. Onwards and upwards to December.

The graceful art of letting go

I love living in a landscape that experiences four very distinct and dramatic seasons. Though I loved living in San Francisco, and the natives there swear they can easily see the differences in the seasons, the turning of the year was never obvious to me. In San Francisco you might be cold enough in August to wear a winter coat, or build a roaring fire. In January on a nice day you might decide go to the beach. I found that disparity of weather with season so disorienting. I know, I know - I should have been content with the temperate climate, should have taken my seasonal cues from the decrease and increase of daylight, the position of the sun in the sky, etc. I tried, but was unsuccessful at becoming a real Californian, mostly because I was so confounded by the weather.

I'll be the first to admit I do not enjoy the hottest days of summer or the most bitter cold of winter (there are only a few of those here in the midatlantic). That said, most of the year I love the seasons and weather, especially during our lengthy fall and spring.

Watching the leaves turn color and drop to the ground reminds me that nothing lasts forever, that life is all about transformations, comings and goings. I've been keeping an eye on the beautiful ginko tree by Maury School as it changed from green to gold to empty during November. The drama of that big change reminds me that a life well lived includes the art of letting go. Clinging - to anything - goes against the natural order of things in this amazing, beautiful, frightening, spectacular world. And yet we humans continue to try to cling, no matter what. At least, I have that tendency. What is up with that?

Thinking these thoughts is what inspired me to take the above pic of Tonka, the vigorous household dog, seated as he was on a bed of fallen ginko leaves from the tree in the slide show below. Tonka is not my dog but he's lovely, photogenic, and doesn't mind having his image digitally recorded. Jake is gone, but the truth is, I like photographing dogs. Onwards and upwards, indeed.

Mystic Fire

Within, without the cosmos wide am I;
In joyful sweep I loose forth and draw back all.
A birthless deathless Spirit that moves and is still
Ever abides within to hear my call.

I who create on earth my joys and doles
To fulfil my matchless quest in all my play,
I veil my face of truth with golden hues
And see the serpent night and python day.

A Consciousness Bliss I feel in each breath;
I am the self amorous child of the Sun.
At will I break and build my symbol sheath
And freely enjoy the world's unshadowed fun.

- Sri Chinmoy