WHAT HAPPENED WHEN I WAS IN GUATEMALA

[photo by Sunny Savage; Richard Nyerges at right]

I was sitting in a bus, driving through the Guatemalan countryside when I got the call that Richard had died. I was troubled, and upset, and saddened that I’d not see Richard again. I began to think over some of our life together. I thought mostly of childhood incidents, and they mostly made me laugh.

-- The haircuts Richard and I would get from our father. My father would sit us up on highchair in the garage and the whole neighborhood could watch the spectacle of a poor haircut.

-- Or our early morning paperroutes when we were out in the neighborhood on our bicycles when everyone else was asleep.

-- Once Richard left the house when my father told him he couldn’t, and my father was so mad that he got in the car and drove over to Santa Rosa and Highland screaming the whole way. He dragged Richard into the car and was screaming and slapping him all the way home, much to the entertainment of all the other children in the neighborhood.

-- I was often surprised when Richard was overly protective of me as his younger brother. Once, while walking home from school, an older boy said something to me, and I just ignored it. But Richard went over to this boy and punched him more times than I could count, and the boy limped away, and I was shocked at his reaction. Yet, I gained a new respect for him.

But mostly, when I heard of his death, I was sad. He’d not be around anymore, even though we probably only talked once a month or so. The last time I saw him was at Jonny’s memorial. I realized that life is short and precious, and we don’t always get all the time we think we need, or deserve.

I remember many years ago when I felt bad, or had some problem, I could always call my parents and talk. I would talk for an hour or so with my mother, and it always made me feel better, and hopeful. Then both parents were gone, and I discovered that I could Still talk to them, which I do almost daily. I just don’t get the same responses anymore.

We could do the same with Richard too, and he will feel your support. Even if you don’t believe this, you can talk to him still and feel better yourself.

The following two days in Guatemala were particularly painful, not entirely but partly because of thinking about Richard. One night I spoke with a friend, Doug, and Doug told me many things, including that my pain wasn’t because of Richard’s pain, but because of my own fears about life, and that was very insightful. Doug told me that night that Richard would appear to me in my dreams. But Richard did not appear to me that night.

The following day, I was participating in our class on the meaning of the Mayan glyphs, and later did a meditation while light music was playing.

When I closed my eyes, I found myself on a large flat mountaintop, not unlike the top of one of the many pyramids we were visiting. Richard was there with me, smiling. He didn’t say anything, but we held hands and began to dance in a circle, slowly at first. We smiled and laughed as we held hands and twirled. We laughed, and Jonathan joined the circle, as we talked lightly about how much fun it was. Dolores joined, and my mother and father joined, smiling. My mother said, “Aren’t you going to invite us to dance?” and we all laughed and continued to dance in this circle.

It was such pure, child-like enjoyment, and others, seeing our delight, quickly joined. Helen joined the circle, and Tom and David and Gilbert quickly joined. Pam, Michael, and Jeffrey joined. Spouses and children joined and the circle got bigger and louder and we were singing and smiling and it was like a Michael Jackson “We are the World” songfest, except the music was more like the Jewish folk song Hava Nagilah. [If you don’t know this song, you should listen to it right now on YouTube to get a feel for my dream].

We went round and round and friends began to join – I saw the neighborhood friends join with Richard – Lee Keller, George Sotello, Babbit, Jim Billups, and I saw the many family friends join the dance – Paul Martinez and Carlos Frausto and the deFazios and people kept joining, friends of Richard and friends of his friends and the circle got larger and larger, and the music was like this celestial angelic music and we moved as one and we smiled and we felt a oneness that you just want to feel on earth but you rarely do.

The circle got larger and larger and as we danced and moved we all began to see that we were all one family, one organism, and we recognized that if I hurt you, I hurt myself, and that if I steal from you, I steal from me, and that if I cause pain to you, I cause pain to myself. We were all moving and there was no fear, no pride, no lies, no prejudice, no Democrats, no Republicans, and Richard in his bright green shirt, was smiling broadly.

As the circle continued and everyone felt their oneness with each other, and with Richard of course, I saw flashes of bright white light all around us – believe me, this would make a great music video!

While we danced, Richard was on the far side of the circle and he said, Don’t cry for me. I said, People are sad. Why not cry. He said, Don’t cry. Just live better. Live your life, and be good. Live better and respect each other and be good to each other. Do that in my memory.

My meditation ended.

So, in Richard’s name, I thank every one of you for being a part of this wonderful circle.

ON GIVING THANKS

I’ve written extensively on the contributions from Native Americans, contributions that are usually forgotten. These include foods, medicines, political ideas (including the U.S. Constitution and method of government), and much more.

Now that Thanksgiving is nearly upon us again this year, it’s appropriate to thank those people who helped the earliest settlers to survive. By “thanks,” I mean tangible forms of thanks, such as direct gifts to Native families who are still suffering from economic hardship. Look folks, their land was stolen from them as the flow of European culture rolled over them. Now they are the “forgotten minority.”

Casinos haven’t come to all the tribes, and even casinos are not the panacea that they are made out to be.

Yes, also give thanks to God! You should humbly give thanks for your bounty and your blessings. And this does not require you to consume massive amounts of food!



I gave a talk at the Sunday Spiritual Studies at WTI. I was describing the great diversity of Native Americans here in what is now Canada, U.S., and Mexico, with as many as 5000 distinct languages and/or dialects at the time of European contact. The cultural practices and religious ideas are likewise diverse. The Native Americans were never a homogenous group of people.

As a prelude to why we as Americans should give tangible thanks to Native Americans, I attempted to answer the very complicated question of “Who are/were the Native Americans?”

I hope to write this up into a full report with all the details, but for now, here is the basic outline and reference list of my report.

1. Scientific American, November 2011, The First Americans. A report showing that the “first Americans” were here far longer than previously thought.

2. “Red Earth, White Lies” by Vine Deloria, demonstrating that the “Bering Strait Theory” is just that, a theory, based on very little fact.

3. The case of Kensington Man, whose unofficial test showed that he was related to the Ainu of Japan.

4. “The Zuni Enigma” by Nancy Yaw Davis, who shows amazing connections between Japanese and the Zuni. Her theory is that Japanese Buddhists left earthquake-wracked medieval Japan and sailed across the Pacific to Southern California, eventually migrating inland to the Zuni territory.

5. “Pale Ink” by Henriette Mertz, detailing two visits by Chinese to the American west coast, one about 2000 B.C. and another about 400 A.D. She compares some uncanny connections between the Maya and the Chinese.

6. “He Walked the Americas” by L. Taylor Hansen, a collection of fables, legends, stories, and songs from assorted Native American tribes who speak of a holy man or prophet who came from the sea and spread teachings among all tribes.

7. National Geographic, December 1972, article “Mounds: Riddles from the Indian Past,” page 783. Page 794 and 795 shows a conch shell that was dug from a mound. A drawing on the conch shell shows rowers on a boat with an obvious symbol of Tanith, a Carthaginian lunar goddess of the Phoenician pantheon. How did that get there?

8. “America B.C.” by Barry Fell, a fascinating account of the many people who came to America before Columbus, and the evidence left behind.

9. “Cahokia, Ancient America’s Great City on the Mississippi” by Timothy Pauketat.



And there was much more in this fascinating exploration of the diverse roots of the people who became the First Americans. I hope that reading some of the books listed here will help to expand your perspective.

Was Jesus Black?

Christmas is coming, and soon we’ll be entrenched in all the Christmas themes. In a recent conversation, a friend casually said to me, “Well, you know Jesus was black, don’t you?” Needless to say, this led to a long conversation.

I researched this over 15 years ago, and did find that there is sufficient Biblical evidence to say that Jesus was indeed of mixed ancestry, including African. But whether or not that makes him “black” depends on whose definition you use.

Many have heard of the “black Madonna” and believe that to be a carryover from when everyone believed Jesus had African ancestors in his lineage. But that’s not “proof,” anymore than we can say it’s “proof” that Santa Claus is black because we saw a black Santa Claus last Christmas in Harlem.

Where is the proof? I have actually seen Old Testament quotes used to “prove” that Jesus was black. But you can’t use Old Testament quotes for proof, since those quotes were written before Jesus was born!

And you really can’t rely on the book of Daniel or the book of Revelation for proof of Jesus’ African ancestry either since those books are highly symbolic and prophetic and subject to diverse interpretations.

Many of the Old Testament quotes that are used to “prove” that Jesus is black are King James translations, and if you read from another Bible translation – such as the Lamsa Bible translated out of the Aramaic – there would be no “evidence” whatsoever there to suggest anything about Jesus being black.

The key to Jesus’ ancestry is to look at the genealogies listed in the Bible, specifically Luke 3: 23-31, and Matthew 1:1-17. Note carefully that most such lineages list only the male line, but there in these lineages (both a bit different, by the way), we are told of at least four of the women in Jesus’ genealogical line. These are Rehab, Ruth, Tamar, and Bathsheba. Rehab (also spelled Rahab) was a Canaanite. Tamar was probably a Canaanite. Bethsheba, often referred to as a Hittite, was more likely Japhethic, that is, not a descendant of Ham. (However, this is not clear). Ruth was in the line of Ham.

Now, who was Ham? Who were the Canaanites and Hittites?

According to Genesis 9:19, all mankind descended from Noah’s three sons: Shem, Ham, and Japheth as they spread throughout the world. Ham’s descendants became the black people who settled in Africa, and parts of the Arabian peninsula. His sons were Cush, whose descendants settled in Ethiopia, Mizraim, whose descendants settled in Egypt, Put, whose descendants settled in Libya, and Canaan, whose descendants settled in Palestine. The descendants of Cush were the main populace of the Cushite Empire, which extended from western Libya to Ethiopia and Nubia, all of present day Egypt, and the Arabian peninsula into the mountains of Turkey. They spoke several languages and had skin pigmentation ranging from dark black to medium brown.

It takes a bit of study to ascertain who these people were – and there were other possible African women in Jesus’ lineage as well – but, in general, when we are speaking of Cushites, Canaanites, descendants of Ham, etc., we are speaking of Africans. It is entirely possible that this wasn’t a big deal when the scriptures were written since Jesus’ racial background would have been regarded as common knowledge.

Still, nowhere in the Scriptures can one find definitive descriptions of Jesus’ ethnicity or physical appearance. It just isn’t there. But the clues are there. He was obviously a Jewish rabbi, trained in the Jewish ways, whose background included people from all parts of the known world at that time.

Was Jesus black? It all depends upon how you define “black.” He was clearly a cosmopolitan man.

Road Kill Bill, R.I.P.

News item, dated October 13, 2001.
“Wild Bill” Found Dead in Park Bushes Wednesday.

Christopher Nyerges at the memorial  "gravesite" for William Barrios, aka "Road Kill Bill"
-- photo by Francisco Loaiza

A transient known locally as “wild Bill” was found dead at 12:53 p.m. Wednesday afternoon in the bushes of Hahamongna Park, confirmed Sgt. Debra Herman of the Crescenta Valley Sherff’s Station on Thursday night.

“We – everyone at the station here – have had contact with him several times,” Herman said.

“Wild Bill” is formally known as 54-year-old William Pluma Barrios, who was christened with the nickname for allegedly being intoxicated in public (allegedly??) and yelling at people, which has led to many calls to the station. The park, which is right across the street from La Canada High School, was known as Barrios’ most frequented area. (His “most frequented area”?? He LIVED there!)

Barrios cause of death is still not known, as the coroner’s office is awaiting test results which could arrive in a few weeks, said Lt. Brian Elias of the county coroner’s office. However, Elias added that there is no suspicion of foul play in Barrios’ death.

[You can find a photo of Barrios on Facebook or Altadena Patch.  Use the term "Wild Bill"]

XXX      XX      XXX

I was saddened to read the above news notice – in fact, I was first alerted about his death by a phone call from Francisco Loaiza.

I encountered Road Kill (as he said he preferred to be called) about 30 years ago, when he would camp in the area around Gould Mesa about two miles north of JPL. In the last 6 or so years, he lived further south in various spots in Hahamongna Watershed Park, and we “talked” often. He would often break into poetry or wild laughter, but we had some semblance of coherency. When he learned who I was one day, he ran into his lean-to and came back with a dog-eared copy of my “Guide to Wild Foods” book, which he said taught him a few local wild edible plants.

Over 3 years ago, when Helen Sweany attended one of my classes, she left her pack behind. She called me to go find it, but it was gone. A few days later, a bus driver called Helen. The bus driver was given Helen’s pack by Road Kill, and Helen got it back intact, with nothing removed! Road Kill told the bus driver that he really enjoyed reading Helen’s notebook about wild foods and survival.

Today, October 24, I recorded a podcast in honor of Road Kill next to his last camp, where someone erected a stone memorial in his honor. You can listen to the podcast on Preparedness Radio Network, with the date October 27, 2011.

Here is the poem I wrote about Road Kill back in 2008. When I gave him a copy, he smiled and then let out a wild laugh. I think that meant he liked it.

ROAD KILL BILL

Road Kill Bill was rarely seen
He lived under a tree in oak grove park
He was maybe 50, not a teen
Whose homeless life seemed so stark

For weeks we’d see him come and go
But we never together talked
we’d hear his loud alone discourses
caused some fear, car doors were locked

But he never caused us harm
Just a man living life
Under the oak trees he lived
Coming from a life of strife

One day Helen she forgot her pack
When I went back to get it, twas no more there
Helen called me few days later
Saying her pack got back, an answered prayer
A bus driver was given it
And then it was passed to Helen
Found by Road Kill Bill, given to bus driver
Bill was an honest man, not a felon

'Well, I’m not speaking for his past
For I only knew this incident
But finally one day he talked to us
After the outing he said “hi,” coincident
With us wondering who he was
Bill’s the name, they call me Road Kill
Yes he lived in the bush, said he
A lively man, dynamic still
This large man called Road Kill Bill
A scary visage but a friendly guy
Wanting to talk with others still
Who simply asked us Why
And how, do you make fire with stick
Can you really do it
Or is it just a trick
And he told us of reading Tom Brown
Of tracking deer and shelter making
He teethless told us how to improve our fire
And he smiled to see that we were not just faking

Road Kill accepted my apple
To give to his friend the deer
“For my toothless mouth
Cannot chew it, I fear”
Said he lost his teeth
In some past jailtime fight
I wanted to ask why he did time
But feared it would not be right
To open the door of frightful fights
And memories bad and invoking pain
So I just smiled back at him
My curiosity I did restrain

I told him Helen was so pleased
To get pack back with book of notes
He simply nodded that he’d done the deed
He was not a man of many coats
Just living life under a tree
In plain sight for any to see
Wild man of the oaken land
shakes you with his strong hand

When you travel this life
Of valleys and hill
You may sometimes reflect
Upon Road Kill Bill

Food he gets from here and there
No air conditioning, not a care
Bathroom and water are nearby
Wild hair with a simple tie

Not a life that all would live
Most have money that flows through a sieve
On all “necessities” that Bill doesn’t use
Such luxuries can be a noose
Are they Right or wrong
Are they good or bad
These are things that Road Kill Bill
Hasn’t had, and isn’t mad

Lives simply under oak tree
Watches animals that he does see
Bothers no one, uses little
Why should anyone him belittle

Probably not a saint
But carbon footprint zero
His lifestyle make you faint
But could he be a hero?





Written August 23, 2008

THINKING ABOUT DOLORES

Dolores' birthday is October 2, Sunday, and so I am thinking about her death, and the memorial we held for her. I always enjoyed her mother's book, "The Winds Erase Your Footprints." It's a true story her mother wrote about her best friend who married a Navajo man and went to live on the reservation during the Great Depression.

(You can read my Memorial to Dolores at http://www.christophernyeges.com/ and clicking Memorial).
We read passages from the book when we had a "63rd birthday commemoration" for Dolores.

Here is a passage. (The book can be obtained anywhere, plus at the Store at http://www.christophernyerges.com/)

Here is what I read, from Chapter 7, The Sing:

And then Shimah was telling him about the yellow pollen. Juanita could almost follow the story by her mother-in-law's excited gestures. Shimah's face was strong and tense, no room for gentleness, and her voice carried a new undertone--like fear. Only her hands seemed natural, although excited, as she gestured. Strange that Shimah should tell about the yellow pollen, rather than ask the rider about himself, about news which he was surely carrying. Of what interest could the yellow pollen be to him?
But he was interested. He leaned forward as though better to hear her words; his eyes narrowed and his face looked very grave. He asked many questions. Shimah answered and sometimes Yee-ke-nes-bah. Through their conversation one word seemed to repeat itself until it began to echo and re-echo in Juanita's mind: ma-itso . . . ma-itso.
...And then Lorencito began to talk seriously to Luciano; Juanita heard the work ma-itso repeated again and again. Shimah sat nodding her head as her oldest son talked, occasionally adding a word to what he was saying. Luciano turned to Juanita; his face was marked with gravity as was his older brother's. "Lorencito says that it is not safe to keep this from you any longer; I should tell you now."
Juanita waited. Her mouth and throat felt suddenly dry. She could not have spoken. Her thoughts raced: this is in some way connected, ma-itso and yellow pollen. Perhaps it's all connected, all of the puzzling and unexplained things that have happened. And somehow, the looks on their faces, Shimah's and Lu's, Yee-ke-nes-bah's and Lorencito's, are a little bit frightening.
"Before we came here," her husband began, "when I tried to tell you about everything which might seem strange to you, I didn't tell you about ma-itso--the wolf clan. One reason, it no longer seemed as believable to me as it once had; perhaps all the years in school did that; anyhow, in Hollywood I seldom thought of it. When we came here, my mother told me the wolf clan was still strong in Cañoncito. I didn't tell you then because I could see no reason why they would try to harm us. But to be sure you were safe, my mother and sisters watched you every minute.
"There were times when I almost told you, those times when you were upset about things you didn't understand. And yet I hated to frighten you needlessly. Already there was so much for you to worry about. It seemed better to wait until I had a job, until we were living in town and then tell you. "But now two things have happened which make me sure the ma-itso is for some reason after us. I found yellow pollen in an X mark on my hat brim, and today my mother found pollen on our clothes. That is their warning. Lorencito thinks you will be safer if you know about this evil thing." A hundred questions sprang to Juanita's lips, but her husband went on talking, interrupted now and then by Lorencito or his mother.
"The wolf clan is as old as the Navajo tribe. From the beginning some men turned certain powers, which should have been used for good, toward evil things. Corn pollen, used for blessing, is used by the ma-itso as a warning to a person marked for death. And death does not come in a usual manner; it comes in a round-about way which cannot be easily traced. The victim sickens suddenly; sometimes his mind leaves him. No Medicine Man can cure him. Sometimes the victim meets with a mysterious and fatal accident.

Goodbye Jonathan

JONATHAN NYERGES
June 18, 1982 – September 1, 2011

Nine of us stood there at dusk on Sunday at the intersection of Baldwin and Palm in Arcadia. It was where my nephew Jonathan died in a motorcycle accident the previous Thursday.

He was driving north-bound on Baldwin when man driving westbound on Palm turned onto Baldwin. He crossed Baldwin to go south, but he probably didn’t see Jonathan. The impact killed Jonathan instantly and the small SUV was toppled, with the driver dying later in the hospital.

We friends and family members stood by the make-shift shrines erected by Jonathan’s friends. In the middle of the street, on the traffic island, were signs and letters to Jonny. On the sidewalk at the base of the traffic light were a dozen or so candles, a small motorcycle, others trinkets, lots of flowers, and many good wishes written in chalk on the sidewalk and curb.

We talked about what happened, or, how we thought it might have happened. I took photos. Then I noticed all the various colored spray paint marks in the middle of the street. They were the marks made by the police to define the accident scene. Richard and I tried to figure out what the markings meant. We couldn’t figure it all out, but we thought we recognized marks for the main part of the motorcycle. We stared at a spot where Jonny apparently fell.

The sky was red with awesome clouds, and drops of rain had begun falling lightly. Rain, any rain, was a rarity in early September in California. As we silently stood, we listened for Jonny as the cars roared by. I heard Richard continuing to describe what happened, and listened to his hopes that somehow it was all a dream and Jonny would ride up their driveway on the motorcycle. The sky began to light up in an electrical storm. These were huge flashes of multi-branched light quickly followed by the crack of thunder. I took it to be Jonny’s goodbye to all of us who stood there honoring his last stand, where his 29 years ended.

I reflected on the few but happy interactions I had with Jonathan. Helen and I last saw him at Tina Frausto’s Fouth of July party in Altadena. He was there with motorcycle helmet in hand. He was happy and we enjoyed our short talk.

I remember when I went to a mailbox shop one day in Sierra Madre when I needed something notarized. The man behind the counter smiled as he refused my money for his work. It was Jonny who recognized me. He was happy, and smiled in his generosity. He always seemed so happy to see me, even though we only saw one another very seldom. I’d always hoped that I’d have the time, or make the time, to develop a closer relationship with my nephews and nieces. Now there would be no more chance with Jonny.

I knew through his father – my brother Richard – that Jonny loved bikes and motorcycles from an early age, and that he was – like his two brothers Michael and Jeffrey – a whiz when it came to the technical things like computers.

I wish I could have known him better. Now it is too late.

I know the pain too well of losing someone we love. When my wife Dolores died, I felt empty and lost and depressed for a long time, and close friends offered me much support. Now is the time for friends and family to do all they can to offer your loving support and physical support to Richard and his family.

After Dolores died, my mentor shared with me something to keep in mind with all our living loved ones. This is an urging for how all of us should begin interacting with each other, all the time.

FARE WELL SONG TOO-SELDOM SUNG

This could be the last time that I see you;
either you or I could die before we meet again;
so please know that I deep-admire your admirable traits
and laud your ceaseless efforts to perfect your soul
and elevate your character (and that of everyone you interact with).
I hope we interact again (in this life or the next);
but if we don’t
I want that you should know
my heart has been enriched by having had you in my life
and hereby do I wish you Godspeed
in your up-and-onward sojourn through Eternity.

Labor Day 2011

A review of “Razor’s Edge”

We were in a small field and a small stream was trickling by. We created an ember with a bow and drill, and then put the ember into a wad of mugwort. We blew it into a flame, and then created our small fire between two rocks. We balanced a #10 can over the rocks, and heated water. Soon, we added coffee grounds to the water, and then strained our coffee through a clean sock into each of our cups. The hobo coffee was delicious and then we began to warm our stew made from beans and wild greens.

It was Labor Day in Highland Park, and we gathered for the annual WTI event [www.wtinc.info] to discuss the meanings of “real labor,” and to consider why we do what we do all life long, and whether or not there are better alternatives. Our focus was upon those peripatetics throughout history who could not go along with their society’s norm, who knew there was a better way, and who worked to share this insight with their fellow man.

Such peripatetics could have included Jesus, Socrates, Ghandi, Pythagoras, and many others.

As we enjoyed our coffee and beans, we moved to a nearby makeshift shelter where an outdoor TV had been set up. We sat in the shade as we viewed and discussed the original version of “Razor’s Edge.”

The story begins in 1919, post World War I, where the author Somerset Maugm, describes one of the most unusual individuals he’d ever encountered. The main character, Larry, survived the last battles of WWI, but his fellow soldier, right next to him, was shot dead. That caused an indelible mark in Larry, and it led him on his search for the meaning of life, his life, life in general. It meant Larry found himself unable to settle down, and wandered to Paris, and to a monastery in India. Meanwhile, we see what happens to Larry’s childhood friends as they pursue their ordinary life, the very life they wanted for Larry.

I first viewed this movie when it was on TV in the middle of the night, a restless night when I could not sleep and I was asking the very questions that Larry asked himself. What is this all about? Why do I do what I do? What should I do? Why is everyone so unhappy with me if I do not do as they want?

The original black and white version of “Razor’s Edge” remains an inspiring classic, and I strongly recommend that you view it, and put yourself in Larry’s shoes.
Did Larry ever find his answers? He said he found some of his answers, though not all, and that he might never find all his answers. But while in India, while alone outdoors as the rising sun made its appearance, he experienced what some would call a Oneness with The All, and felt that he were a part of God. It was an experience that he could barely describe in words, and one which he thought back to often.

That was what I did on Labor Day.

Some "Economic Survival" Considerations

Here is some “food for thought” adapted from the last chapter of my “How to Survive Anywhere” book (published by Stackpole Books, available from Amazon.com, or ChristopherNyerges.com.).

It would be the height of naivete to discuss the full picture of “survival” and not bring up money. Money is an integral, inescapable part of life in any specialized and organized society. Talk show host Tony Brown once said “If I’ve been accused of over-emphasizing money, it’s because I place money right up there with oxygen as a necessity.”

Whole libraries have already been written by the folks who live their lives 24/7 in the pursuit of money. You know, Suze Orman, Loral Langemeier, and all the folks that tell you how to make a meaningful income by investing, or buying real estate, or whatever. If you feel you are lacking in this area, you owe it to yourself to explore those who have already succeeded in this arena.

For our purposes here, let’s look at “money” in a meaningful context.

None of us really needs money, per se. We need (and want) those things that money buys for us. This means that if we focus upon the acquisition of money per se, we may simply be bumbling ahead with our lives, assuming that the acquisition of money is itself an important goal.

We should define our goals in life, and we should recognize that although money can help to accelerate our achieving many goals, money cannot replace our desire and drive to achieve and accomplish that goal. In other words, the desire to accomplish and to produce results, and to establish working networks with other people is far more meaningful to our life’s goals than is “money.”

Knowledge and self-education is perhaps the most important first step to increasing your survival awareness, and allowing yourself the possibility of making new choices. This concept was the subject of the last chapter of our Extreme Simplicity: Homesteading in the City book, where we explored the four illusions of money. Fear and greed are the primary factors that drive our economy. If you allow fear or greed to drive you, you cannot make the best decisions.

Once you recognize that much of our personal thinking, and public broadcasting, about “economics” is counter-productive to our “economic survival” (and automatically impinges upon other facets of survival as well), we inevitably look for personal solutions. What can I do? What can I do, especially if I am in a limited situation? What can I do now?

GOALS
Begin by defining your goals very specifically. Write them down. Record some short-term goals, but also your long-term goals. These must be goals that you deeply desire to achieve, and they should be goals that you can achieve. Plus, you might have a list of goals that you must achieve (e.g., I must have $1700 for my mortgage each month or I lose my home!). For each goal, you should be able to record at least three concrete steps that you can take – whatever your current financial situation – to achieve these goals. Bring other people into your analysis. Don’t try to do this alone.

Also, consider the broadest ramifications for your “goals.” Are they benefiting more than just myself? Are these goals that might facilitate friends, family, neighbors to work together (thus increasing our survival quotient)?

In “Beautiful Mind,” the movie about the life of John Nash, the mathematician who developed “game theory,” Nash quotes Adam Smith (often referred to as the father of modern economics) as saying “The best result comes when everyone in the group is doing what’s best for themselves.” In other words, your self-interest should serve the group. It is better for the society that you not lose your home to foreclosure. Nash saw that Adam Smith, while correct, was incomplete. Nash enhanced Adam Smith’s axiom to” “The best result comes when everyone in the group is doing what’s best for themselves – AND the group.” It was clear to a mathematician that thinking about others is definitely in your best “survival” interests.

Obviously, this is just food for thought. The practical applications are up to you to find, and to put into action.

Here are some financial-related principles to ponder, and to experiment with. Think of them as tools for survival and enlightened living

1. As ye give, so shall ye receive.

2. Always lead with an offer. (Don’t expect someone to care about you just because you are “in need.” Before you ask for help, find out how you can benefit the other person).

3. Make every place better for your having been there. (This is true “Appreciation”)

4. What blesses one, blesses all. (Another way of saying “all ships rise in a rising tide”).

5. Discover the “magic” of Tithing. (Even financial advisor Suze Orman suggests that you give to the church or charity of your choice).

6. Pay back your debts

7. Barter and exchange. (You’d be amazed at the sorts of relationships that can develop when money is not involved.)

In Search of Real Survival, part 2

An Interview with Vine Deloria, Jr.

I had to chuckle when I heard a “survivalist” say that he’d like to see the collapse of society so that he could start over from scratch. Really? Why would someone sitting behind a computer, driving a truck, and buying what he needs at the local grocery store want things to fall apart? Though such persons are usually clueless as to what it actually takes to start a society “from scratch,” such sentiments do reveal a deep discontent with our current state of affairs.

History is full of folks who attempted to create a breakaway society, usually in search of a better, more idealistic, maybe even utopian, way of life. That’s how our American experiment began, at the expense of the Native Americans. This is how and why the Amish live they way they do, and persevere despite the ridicule of their neighbors.

Hippies of the 1960s and ‘70s also tried to create separate communities, “communes,” where they could farm, dance and sing, and attempt to put into practice whatever religion and politics they developed. Let’s examine the hippies.

A few years ago, I had the opportunity to interview Vine Deloria, Jr. for Wilderness Way magazine. Deloria was named by Time magazine as one of the greatest religious thinkers of the 20th Century. Among his approximately two dozen books, he wrote “God is Red,” which Wilma Mankiller (former Principal Chief of the Cherokee Nation) called “the flagship book of Native American spirituality.” (Deloria passed away at age 72 in November of 2005).

Among other things, I spoke with Deloria about how hippies presumed to imitate Native Americans in both look and practices.

The reason that the hippie movement failed, Deloria told me, was not just because of drug use, though that was a significant factor. Hippies failed, said Deloria, because they failed to grasp the value of organizing tribally, and they ignored the value of customs. “I think they failed for lack of discipline and lack of commitment,” he said. “People tried to create communities from scratch and it didn’t work. People were sincere, but they often lacked anything in common except a rebellious spirit. And in fact, a lot of Indian communities today have the very same problem. Extreme individualism is chaos and unjust to everyone.”

Deloria also blames television and popular media for presenting a false picture of what traditional Indian culture was and is all about, so those who do sincerely try to pursue that end up pursuing a counterfeit.

“In the world of ideas,” continues Deloria, “Indian culture becomes a kind of deli where people pick and choose what they want to practice. Much of the appropriation is the projection of wishful thinking on different Indian symbols, such as the vision quest, sweat lodge, using the pipe, etc. My fear was that with so many Indians living in the cities with no experience with reservation communities, some of them would begin to think that the frauds actually represented the true tribal cultures. I can remember how popular the Billy Jack movies were and many Indian youths thought the ‘ceremonies’ in that movie were what people actually did. A lot of it sounded good to people who knew nothing about Indian culture. And simply being an Indian in the urban area does not somehow magically mean you know anything of the traditional tribal culture.”

It was an insightful interview with Deloria on a variety of topics where he shared – if you read between the lines – how to succeed at making a meaningful community, based upon following certain patterns from the past.

Unfortunately, the interview was never published in Wilderness Way because the owner/publisher told me that “It might offend Christian readers.”

“How on earth would they be offended?” I challenged.

“Because his book is called ‘God is Red,’” said the publisher.

I was shocked at his narrow-mindedness, and suggested that he read such books as “The Pipe and Christ,” or Joseph Epes Brown’s “The Sacred Pipe” to see that there is less dichotomy between pure tribal religion and pure Christianity than meets the eye. This is not to imply that Deloria did not criticize Christianity. He certainly did, but Deloria was an “equal opportunity” criticizer, criticizing what he saw wrong in both Native American practices, Christianity, and elsewhere.

For example, he harshly criticized televangelists such as Oral Roberts who once told his followers that he needed about $10 million for his new building or “God would take me home.” He analogized televangelists to mainstream Christianity as the travelling pop shaman to traditional tribal religion.

“Except the televangelists are much worse,” he explained. “They thirst for political power whereas the medicine men, even the phoneys, simply want some public recognition and status.”

There is no shortage of guidelines from the past or present for “the right ways to live.” It is silly to think that everything must be destroyed in order to create a higher and better way of life.

Deloria brought up just a few of the principles that anyone can work to put into practice: Discipline, organizing within a community of like-minded people, and valuing your traditions and customs.

Additionally, whenever anyone brings up “The Old Ways,” it usually refers to such things as valuing family, home, respect for elders, respect for your surroundings, cooperation with others, and the ability to adapt.

Anyone wishing to seek the meaning of Real Survival cannot go wrong by beginning to apply these simple principles into your daily life.

In Search of Real Survival

All of us who have devoted our lives to studying and applying skills of survival are well aware of the periodic events which beset us all: wars, droughts, floods, hurricanes, earthquakes, economic collapses, etc. Some are “acts of God,” and many are acts of man.

The practical skills of survival are direly needed by all of us. And yet, the media continues to serve up “reality” shows that provide little or no practical skills in our day to day living.

Shows like Survivor, Man vs. Wild, Survivorman, and their offspring can be amusing, but are designed more for entertainment value rather than providing anything of real value. These shows which often depict buff individuals in a wilderness setting often showcase the worst of human nature in order to keep us glued to our seats.

Though it amusing, and often nauseating, to see hungry men and women eating snakes, rats, and grubs, there seems to be little relevance to the millions of modern urban dwellers.

What then is real survival all about?

Our food-related survival skills necessitate our knowledge of urban food production, such as growing fruit trees, raising vegetables in limited space, raising chickens, making compost.

We need to educate ourselves to the what foods have great nutritional value, and which do not. If we cannot grow at least some of our own food, we should support those farmers at local farmers markets who are providing local quality food.

Real survival in the modern world includes practical knowledge of economics. How can you get more for less money by spending less and earning more. You can begin by separating need from want, and then you should re-evaluate everything in your life that is touched by money. Ask yourself, “How can I obtain this thing, or service, or skill, without money?” Is it possible to trade or barter?

And then there is the ages-old good advice for how to soundly deal with material things: why buy new if used will do? Don’t discard if it can be made into something else, etc.

Economic collapse of a country’s currency has happened many times, usually due to the over-extension of the leaders who controlled the purse strings, and who considered themselves more deserving than the general populace. A collapse of a country’s currency forces the people to deal with stark, basic, everyday needs and concerns in a harsh manner until something new is developed.

While it is true that learning how to trap and eat a rat means you don’t have to worry about food from the store in the event of an economic collapse, it is far better to involve yourself in the practical and philosophical underpinnings of the society so that such a collapse doesn’t happen in the first place.

As our material abundance and technological advances continue, we become more and more dependent upon things which we cannot control. We’re fast on the path to a “Blade Runner” or “THX1138” world.

If you’re worried about our future, the answer does not lie with a loin-clothed man with a spear, since a thriving meaningful culture requires vastly more than that. Real survival must encompass a working knowledge of politics, economics, ecology, health, and so much more.

Our answers lie in making the time to educate ourselves to the things that really matter in life. For that matter, in today’s information-glutted world, it’s a real challenge to discern between useful and useless information, between entertainment and education, between that which leads us to freedom and that which merely titilates.

If we desire to be a part of the solution to the ails of modern civilization, then we must choose to not live our lives driven by fear and greed. Yes, real survival means that we must change ourselves first.

Sometimes, we have to realize that we’ve been hypnotized, and that we must fight our own ignorances. Real survival means that we must become like children again, and realize that there is no dishonor in going back to Square One. By reassessing everything that we think we know, and by asking questions anew, we may discover a new found joy in our very existence.

The pursuit of material survival is too often compassionless. We need compassion for each other if we want to have a society that is worth living in.

William Blake once summed up the essence of Real Survival when he stated, “I sought my soul, but my soul I could not see. I sought my God, but my God eluded me. I sought my brother, and I found all three.”

REMEMBERING RON HOOD

[Ron Hood died in his sleep on Tuesday, June 21, 2011]


Everyone knew Ron Hood. For me, he was the one relatively local person who was teaching the survival skills I wanted to learn. I knew of Ron long before I ever heard of Tom Brown. I knew about Larry Dean Olsen from his Outdoor Survival Skills book, and wanted to attend Olsen’s classes in the wilderness, but they were a long way from home, and I had no money.

So I studied ethnobotany close to home, from whomever I could. Sometime in the late 1970s, I was invited on a Los Angeles television talk show to talk about survival. The three guests were me to talk about wild foods, and Ellen Hall of WTI to talk about survival clothing, and Ron Hood. That was the first time we met. I recalled Ron as a somewhat thin man, about 10 years older than me, who brought a scientific mind to survival topics.

Occasionally, when drought and disaster and survival were in the news, Ron and I were often interviewed for the same news items. The media called me the “soft survivalist” and Ron the “hard survivalist.” Ron’s policy was “shoot first, ask questions later,” and my policy was why kill an animal at all if you can eat plants.

Ron was a Vietnam veteran, and was teaching at Northridge when I knew him. I would hear of his Sierra excursions from time to time.

Many years passed, and I often wondered what had become of Ron Hood. I learned that he’d moved to Idaho, and was now making the Wood’s Master survival videos, and had cannily obtained the survival.com URL.

Ron’s videos went into great detail on how to make a fire, build a shelter, make traps and snares, and more. Ron was doing all this, and showing how to do it right, in the proper context, way before there were the ridiculous survival game shows (e.g. Survivor), and before the appearance of Man vs. Wild or Survivorman.

In 2000, when I began working for Fox TV’s X Show, I got many of my ideas for what skills to demonstrate to the TV audience from Ron’s videos. Some skills I learned for the first time from his videos, such as how to make the primitive cross bow, the figure 4 deadfall trigger, and snares.

I think it was 1993 when a death brought Ron (and Karen) and I a bit closer. I was leading a Wild Food Walk on Memorial Day when a close friend of Ron’s dropped dead. Ron and I shared many conversations about Martin Kruse, and Ron had told me that he wished he had been there in Martin’s final moments.

By the early 2000s, followers of Hoods on-line Forum started having their get-togethers around the country, calling themselves the “hoodlums.” I participated in a few of these, as did Dude McLean and Alan Halcon. These get-togethers segued into our annual Dirttime event, where we taught survival skills for a week in the wilderness. Ron came to many of these, the last being at Lake Silverwood in the San Bernardino Forest in 2009.

Ron inspired a whole generation of outdoor skills practitioners. His death comes as a shock to me and many others. We all send our condolences to his wife Karen and his son Jesse.

I am sure everyone has many Ron Hood stories. These are mine.

"To Sleep With Anger"

On Martin Luther King Day day at our annual WTI gathering, we watched “To Sleep With Anger,” a 1990 film directed by Charles Burnett. The film is about a black family residing in South-Central Los Angeles. One day, an old acquaintance (Harry, played by Danny Glover) come to visit the Gideon and his wife Suzie. Harry seems to be a good old friend, but always seems to stir up trouble. The family already had some conflicts but they seemed to get worse when Harry was there.

Eventually, Gideon has a stroke, and Babe Brother, the younger son, is heavily influenced by Harry. Babe Brother is about to leave his wife. The older brother, Junior, confronts Babe Brother before he departs and a fight erupts – with a knife. The mother tries to break it up and her hand gets cut, and they rush her to the hospital.

The incident brings many of the family’s conflicts to the forefront, and seems to unite them in a positive way once all recognize the negative influence of Harry, as Harry is asked to go.

To me, “To Sleep With Anger” is a classic film, full of the issues that any family faces. Indeed, much of this reminded me of my semi-dysfunctional family with our many failures and some successes.

Sometime in the mid-1990s, I went to a viewing of this film where Mr. Burnett was there to talk to the crowd and answer questions. It was a wonderful event. I’d already seen the movie but was compelled to see it where I could talk to the writer and director.

I asked him about some of the little details, like the young boy trying to play the horn, and the boy who fed the pigeons. These were little details that added a depth to the movie, though they had nothing to do with the plot. Mr. Burnett told me that that boy represented him, which made me smile. Watch the movie, and see how the boy and his horn practice somewhat frames the movie.

And Harry – who does he repesent? You have to see it and figure it out for yourself.

The movie won several awards, but I had never heard of it before a friend pointed it out to myself and Dolores back in the mid-90s.

“I think this is a great movie,” I told Mr. Burnett. “So why do you think it’s gotten so little attention?” Burnett’s answer was quick, and initially surprised me.
“Because there are all black actors,” he said matter of factly. “Really?” I said. Well, in fact, there were a few token whites in the movie, like one of the paramedics. Still, the movie was so good, capturing “family-ness” so well, that I just naturally assumed people would be color-blind and go see it and enjoy it and benefit from it.

Anyway, if you haven’t seen it, it can be rented or purchased at video places. I hope you view it and enjoy it like I did.

2011 Birthday Run

I arrived around 8 a.m. at the Lower Arroyo casting ponds to do my annual birthday run that I’ve done for about 32 years now. I mentally divided the lap around the pool into seasons, and attempted to review each year of my life with each corresponding lap.

The day was overcast and cool, and somehow I felt very much in the past. In fact, as I ran, I had the sensation of viewing a single life, in the sense that it is only one life, no more, no less, and that I should attempt to derive lessons from the life that I “take with me.”

During childhood, I realized, perhaps more than ever before, all the opportunities that my parents afforded me. While we did not have the best nor happiest family, there was a stable home and regular meals. I realized that I was hungry for something as soon as I was able to think about things. And I pursued that something better, something more, in just about everything I did, which included poetry, painting, drumming, long conversations with friends about the meaning of life, gardening, meditation, and even drugs.

In many ways, that was good, since I had the chance to attempt to think for myself, and make mistakes, and attempt to evolve my own value judgements. On the other hand, I really should have had more parental guidance. I think I wanted much more pressure, and I felt I was able to do so much more at an early age. Nevertheless, I don’t harbor a bit of resentment towards my parents. I love them more than ever, and talk to each of them daily – despite that both have been deceased for many years.

I saw my life as the pursuit of meaning, of love, and of home, though I don’t think I realized it in those terms all those years. All too often, I did like everyone else does and engaged in the pursuit of money, thinking that money would provide my life with real meaning, love, and home. I think I still battle that one, since we all need the things that money can help us achieve, but we actually don’t need money, per se.

I cried the hardest when I thought of my acts of cruelty towards Dolores before we got married. It wasn’t intentional, and we were both homeless at the time (1984), and we managed to overcome that. But it still pains me, and I vow every day to not let my darker side ever overtake my actions again. And money never can buy love. Money bought our house, but we had to make it a home, which is an art, and requires love. And therein, in the act of lovingly creating a home, we found meaning.

And time goes on. When Dolores died two years ago, I relived that pain while running, and felt her soft hand caressing my forehead, saying both hello and goodbye.

By the time I finished running, I was in physical pain. I still, as I write these words, feel in that timelessness that the birthday run afforded me.

I realized, to my chagrin, that much of my life I was a taker, expecting others to carry the ball for me. Lately, I feel I am again somewhat imbalanced, giving, not receiving as much. So my gift to myself is to continue to seek the mysteries of life, to seek meaning, love, and home, and to allow myself to receive as much as I give.

In many ways, I felt that I died today, that some part of me died away, and that I am like a new child eager and ready for a new life. Too bad I am a new child in this broken down body….

On the Road to 2012

In December, I had the opportunity to travel to Yucatan and to visit Mayan sites under the guidance of Miguel Angel Vergara Calleros, PhD. Calleros is the author of numerous books on the Maya. He was the director of cultural services at Chichen Itza for several years and is one of the foremost authorities on the archaelogical site of Chichen Itza. Additionally, he studied with a Mayan shaman for 17 years, and now continues to share in classes and seminars about Mayan spirituality.

Among other things, I was going to learn about the significance of the December 21, 2012 date to the Maya. For example, were there any actual predictions about 2012? Did the Maya predict that the world would end? Did they predict doom and gloom? Did they predict anything at all?

But I wasn’t going to learn these things in a vacuum. I was going to spend nearly two week immersed in Maya culture, learning significant aspects of their beliefs, spirituality, and monumental architecture. I would learn about 2012 in the proper context.

I arrived in Merida by airplane in early December, ready for a week of travel to pyramids and caves and cenotes.

On our first day, I was pleasantly surprised that Calleros was not only incredibly knowledgeable about Mayan history and archaeology, but was also a true metaphysician who constantly drew parallels between the exoteric world of rocks and inscriptions to the inner esoteric world of my own soul and my own body.

“As above, so below,” he would often tell us.

We began by visiting Mayapan, the last place where Kukulkan was know to reside. Kukulkan, aka Quetzalcoatl, was referred to as the Mayan Christ, a visitor who came from afar, who uplifted the people, and who created Mystery Schools whose ancient universal teachings are still preserved in stone.

We visited Izamal, where the top of a major pyramid had been leveled to create a large cathedral in the colonial days. There, on the large sprawling plaza of the cathedral, Pope John Paul II came in 1993 to ask forgiveness of the native people for the atrocities committed by the Spanish and by the Church. Ten thousand native people showed up to see the Pope and to hear his plea for forgiveness.

Later in the day, we had lunch at Mani, where in 1562 the zealous Bishop Diego de Landa ordered the burning and destruction of Mayan codices and artifacts. Even though de Landa didn’t understand what the artifacts meant, he was convinced that they were contrary to the teaching of the church.

“This destruction was akin to the burning of the library of Alexandria in the ancient world,” said Calleros. Interestingly, as an afterthought, de Landa thought there might be something of value in the Mayan writings and he saved 4 codices from destruction, and began to write down everything he could recalled in his famous document, “Relacion de Cosas de Yucatan” (History of the Things of Yucatan). It is because of de Landa’s writings that much of the Maya writings have been translated and understood.

At each site we entered, Calleros taught us how to enter in reverence, and how to depart the site with reverence, much the way a devout person would do at their chosen church or mosque. He performed ancient Mayan ceremonies at most sites – at the pyramids, in a cave, at a cenote, on the beach at sunset. When we gathered around his just-assembled altar, he prayed to the six directions, and we sent offerings of seed to the six directions.

To me, much of the ceremony was reminiscent of the Catholic Mass that dominated my childhood, though the Mayan ceremonies were outdoors, natural, and pre-Christian.

One night, Calleros and Richard Jelusich talked about the Mayan calendar. Like our own modern calendar, the Maya had different divisions of time which they kept track of. We have the day, the week, the month, the year, the millennium, etc. The Maya counted time by the number of days that have elapsed since a day that corresponds to our August 11, 3114 B.C. (The significance of that date is unclear).

The divisions of time that they kept track of were one day (called a “kin”), 20 days (called a “uinal” – roughly a month), 360 days (called a “tun” – roughly a year), 7,200 days (called a “katun”—19.7 years), and 144,000 days (called a “baktun” – 394.26 years). Thus, a calendar glyph would be represented by 5 symbols, and a number to indicate how many days in each of the periods have elapsed. The “Long Count” of the Maya calendar is the time it takes for 13 baktuns, counting from August 11, 3114 B.C. This Long Count is a period of 5,125.36 years, and that cycle ends on December 21, 2012. However. the following day does not begin the 14th baktun, but rather, the count from 1 to 13 begins again. One Long Count ends, another begins.

“The calendar doesn’t end,” says Calleros. “It just begins another cycle. It just rolls on, just like our modern calendar that never really ends.”

There are no predictions about anything at all pertaining to December 21, 2012. This is due in part because the Maya who wrote these inscriptions have been long gone. Still, there is nothing in the recorded records about doom and gloom. In fact, there is hardly any mention about 2012 at all. Only one stela mentions it.

Calleros acknowledges that lots of folks are simply making things up to sell books and fill seminars. “But, the Maya would have celebrated such a cycle ending, just like everyone today celebrates the New Year.” Calleros is aware that many are treating 2012 with great fear, largely due to ignorance.

Over the course of nearly two weeks, we went to many pyramid sites, remote villages, beaches, caves, and cenotes. One late night ceremony deep in a cenote was exceptional. Equally exceptional was participating in a Mayan ceremony on the beach of Campeche while the sun set.

We looked at plumed serpents in stone, crystal skulls, red jaguars, and living mysteries. Throughout it all, Calleros emphasized that the meaning of “Mayan sacrifices” was that we must let our egos die if we want to transform ourselves and bloom spiritually. “Don’t polish the stones of the pyramids,” he’d tell us. “but polish the stone of your temple and improve your character.” We should be less concerned about the external crystal skulls, and more concerned about the skull within. The crystal skull, we were told, represents our own Christ within.

We learned that the secret to 2012 is everywhere. The secret is within you and it is within the cross shape of every pyramid, and within every tree. In fact, there is no secret at all. 2012 is everything and nothing. It is the ending of the 13 baktuns of the Long Count as another Long Count begins. It is a time, therefore, of increased awareness and internet connections that allows us to be instantly connected. It is a time of potential, and like any other such time, it is entirely up to us to fit ourselves to be ready for such opportunities.

Note: Though there are now numerous 2012 books flooding the market, the only one I’d recommend is “The 2012 Story: The Myths, Fallacies, and Truth behind the most intriguing date in history” by John Major Jenkins.

"Merry Christmas"

“Merry Christmas!” said my Jewish friend when he greeted me with a smile. “Merry Christmas,” I replied. I asked him if it ever bothered him that nearly everyone greets with “Merry Christmas” during December.

“Not at all,” he told me. “I mean, Hannukah is over, and I recognize that 90% of Americans are Christians.”

“What do you think about people saying ‘Happy Holidays,’” I asked.
My friend laughed. “When people ask me that, I ask them, ‘What holiday are you referring to?’ Most say nothing, but some say, well, it’s New Years too.”

It was refreshing that my Jewish friend was OK with the “Merry Christmas” greeting. In fact, he liked it. “I don’t expect the vast majority to conform to me,” he explained.

Fair enough. Then why has our society become cowardly in its political correctness so that we delete “Merry Christmas”? Are we really worried that it might offend someone?

Yes, there are other holidays: the secular Kwanzaa invented by a Long Beach State College teacher in the 1960s for African Americans, New Years (though most Chinese celebrate not January 1 but the Chinese New Years which usually falls in early Februrary), pagans who simply celebrate the solstice, and the month of Ramadan which sometimes falls near December, but not often since it moves forward through the calendar.

On the radio, a Christian man told the radio host that he didn’t celebrate Christmas because it was a lie. The host was shocked. What is the lie?, the host asked. The man said that he didn’t like the tale of Santa Claus, and that Jesus wasn’t born on the winter solstice. The host, in so many words, called the man an idiot.

But the conversation brought back memories of my researching the roots of Christmas back in my teens, when I discovered that Christmas in its present form was observed in pre-Christian days. Initially, this led to my disenchanted with the social norm of Christmas celebrations. If this isn’t really about the birth of Jesus, I wondered, why should I participate in this pagan practice. But over the years, I’ve come to have a rather different point of view about how to regard this odd Christmas holiday which is really a mish-mash customs from all over the world from various times. (Read the Golden Bough if these details interest you.)

First, a bit of history. Yes, it is true that the so-called “pagans” observed the solstices and equinoxes as their high holy days. In fact, nearly all religions in the past did so. “Pagan” originally referred to the country people who lived outside of Rome-proper, but gradually became a derogatory term for non-Christians.

We do not know when Jesus was born. The scriptures provide clues but no exact dates and no indication that this followers ever made a big deal about his birthday.

Though this raises eyebrows, it is a fact that Jesus was not a Christian, but a Jewish rabbi, most likely from the Essene sect. Since Christianity had not been invented yet, he observed the Jewish holy days, such as the Passover he was observing during the “last supper.”

And for the record, his name was not “Jesus Christ.” Look up “Christ” in your dictionary. “Christ” was a term referring to the Annointed One, referring to a messiah or savior. The original Hebrew term for his name was most often translated as Joshua, but was always translated “Jesus” to differentiate him from the other Joshua. A more accurate rendering would be Iesu, or Yeshua, ben Josephus or ben Pandira depending on which scholars you believe.

His followers changed their holy day to Sunday, in part to attract the “sun worshippers,” and also to separate themselves from the Jewish Saturday Sabbath.

But by the 4th Century, Constantine had a vision and declared Christianity the official religion of the kingdom. He Christianized all the “pagan” holy days, which is how the birth of the Sun celebration at the winter solstice morphed into the Birth of the Son, which we now call Christmas.

In fact, the observation of the winter solstice has been regarded with great reverence for as long as we can tell. During this winter’s deep, the sun was in its lowest part of the sky as it rose each day. Four days after the solstice, the rising sun appears to rise further north on the horizon – the sun has risen! This astronomical event has long had great metaphysical and personal value to the vast numbers of those people who have observed and celebrated it.

Though you may have many opinions about whether or not it was fair and square for the church to have stolen and renamed the pagan holy days, that does not make it inherently wrong. In fact, there is no inherent wrongness to it at all. As with most things in life, its value is wholly up to us, to use the timing for spiritual upliftment and growth, or not.

Interestingly, Christianity isn’t the only religion in recorded history which has a crucified savior, or a “Christ.” Nimrod, Mithra, Kukulkan (aka Quetzalcoatl) are just a few of history’s other “Christs.”

If we see that “Christ” is a Principle, and not just a person, we realize that the phrase “Merry Christmas” is indeed universal, ancient, and timeless. We can then also see that “Merry Christmas” is an appropriate greeting for this season for all people, of all backgrounds. It is the ideal blessings that we need to give to each other. It is a greeting that binds us together, and shouldn’t divide. It is a greeting that tells us we are all more alike than different, and that it is each of our destinys to let the universal Christ blossom in our hearts.

CHRISTMAS INSIGHT

Sometimes we get so caught up in the problems of now and tomorrow that we simply disable ourselves to live in the moment and enjoy the miracle of life. I’d been so focussed on solving my own and other people’s problems, of growing older, of seeing friends die, of the consequences of financial mismanagement. I’d barely realized I’d fallen down the rabbit hole of not seeing the incredible that is before me.

After a late night meeting, I drove home, nearly mid-night, through the Arroyo Seco and along the Rose Bowl. The coolness of the night was refreshing, invigorating. I breathed deep and found myself looking anew at the enchanting hillside landscape that has always been hidden in plain view. I realized I’d been looking but not seeing. A lone coyote runs along the rode. Further along, a skunk hides from view by swiftly descending a storm drain. A melodic bird sings. The landscape is alive and bright, and I marvel at the late-night runners still engaged in their exercises.
Though my body aches with the scars of aging, I found that my mind was fresh, young, awakening again after a long sleep. I felt 17 again (or was it 14?) when I knew that I was immortal, eternal, a part of all things. I breathed deeply, and found great joy in the Eternal Now that was before me, the Eternal Now which always is. I experienced this same Eternal Now when running and motorcycling through the Arroyo Seco years ago, and when I would stand in the rain and feel its miracle.

I had been feeling anxious, worried, concerned, and though nothing had changed, I now felt free, hopeful, curious. I wanted to share, and I began to sing and think of poetry. But I quickly realized there is nothing that needs to be done. To experience the moment is sufficient, to go fully into the beauty of the moment, and to feel the past, and present, and future, all ripe with possibilities and discoveries, all in this moment.

I could now see the lights of the city and the peaks of the Angeles Forest with its occasional twinkling lights. I come by here every day, but somehow this was a new land, a magical land, the land of my mind. I began to wonder about the lot of man, working endlessly at jobs that are not enjoyed, to pursue more and better things, never defining real goals except maybe "retirement," which is not a real goal. I felt sad, and a gust of wind sobered me up, telling me to be concerned about my own choices, to refine my own daily actions and not to dwell on whatever it is that other people do or do not. The wind freed me of yet another pointless anchor—the thinking about what "other people" do or don’t do.

Be here now. Wasn’t that the title of an old hippie book? Be here now. Easy to say, hard to do. But it has become the main dictum in my inner religion, and though I have no church, the Arroyo Seco is the closest I’ve found. It is my homeland, my place of work and dreams, my place of endless adventures and ongoing discoveries. It is my Walden Pond, my Field of Dreams, my Golden Pond. It is simultaneously nothing and everything. It is a vehicle through which I continually find myself, still that same Self, still in that same body (for now), still eager to learn and to grow.

I finally got home and stood outside looking at the stars, feeling the cool evening wind. It felt good to be "up," and to know the fight is not over. I could feel the meaning of Bodhi-Dharma’s insightful words: "Fall down seven times, get up eight! Life starts from NOW."

And I began to realize, isn’t that the Christmas message? To rise again from the darkness, to be reborn again from the depth of the winter, to rediscover our inner self and our neighbor in this darkest time of the year? I felt a deep inner appreciation for whatever it was that provided me with this insight, this knowledge that I am apart of everything and everyone. I realized then that to truly experience the real meaning of Christmas I needed to create the environment so that the Christ-within can be born again within my own soul.

Thoughts on Giving Thanks

Thanksgiving has always been my favorite holiday of the year. Even moreso than Christmas. It is our uniquely American holiday where the family gathers, where we remember our roots, we share a meal, and we give thanks.

But look how quickly such simple and profound holidays get perverted. Today, we hardly know what “giving thanks” even means, and so the act of giving thanks is lost on most of us. Newscasters talk about “turkey day,” as if all there was to the day was eating turkey. Interestingly, most folks would not know whether or not they were eating turkey, or eating crow, and most of the time we’re doing the latter, figuratively speaking. Then, when we have barely taken the time to consider the notion of “giving thanks,” we get up early on the following “black Friday” to rush around with the mobs “looking for a good deal” to help us celebrate the consumer-driven commercial craze into which we’ve morphed “Christmas.”

Wow! How did we get here? What can we do about it? Let’s take a moment to look at the roots of Thanksgiving.

In the history of North America, we are told that the first historic Thanksgiving Day was in October of 1621. After a successful harvest that year at the Plymouth colony, there was about a week of celebrations. The local Indians and the colonists joined together, with the Indians generally showing the colonists (mostly city folks) how to hunt for the meal which consisted of fowl, deer, duck, goose, and fish. Corn bread, wild greens, plums, leeks, and many other vegetables (wild and domestic) were shared in this celebration. Interestingly, there is no evidence that wild turkey or wild cranberries (totally unpalatable without cooking and adding sweeteners) were part of the menu.

In fact, some historians question whether or not there were any religious overtones at all on this “first Thanksgiving,” citing such evidence as the archery and firearms games, and the running and jumping competitions, which they say would never be done at religious ceremonies by the Puritans.

Some say that the “first Thanksgiving” was just another Harvest Festival.
What then is it, if anything, that sets the American (and the Canadian) Thanksgiving celebration apart from any of the other myriad of Harvest Festivals?

The pilgrims experienced a severe drought in the summer of 1623. That season, they were totally dependent on wild game and wild plants, and owed their survival largely to the English-speaking Indian Squanto. In their lack, they refocussed upon their real purpose for coming to this new land. They sought to establish a time to give thanks for their spiritual bounty, in spite of the fact that they had no material bounty that year.

A harvest festival implies revelry and fun because of the material bounty; by contrast, a day of thanks is intended to remind us that there is more to life than the physical bodies and material food. The day of thanks is set apart so that we do not lose sight of our spiritual heritage, which is the real bounty.

Both Thanksgiving and the Fourth of July are the times that Americans have traditionally set aside to reflect upon the concepts of “freedom” and “giving thanks.” The purpose of such special times of reflection is to see how well we have done during the past year, and determine what corrections we should make if we find that we are veering away from our chosen path. It should not be a time of merely “having fun.”

Most of us have made the choice to abandon using the Thanksgiving day as a time of reflection, either personally or publicly. And thus, the Day of Thanksgiving continues to degenerate and we veer further and further from fulfilling any special destiny that may have been fulfilled by the people of the United States.

As long as we confuse “giving thanks” with “eating a lot of really good food,” the practical effect is that Thanksgiving today is little more than a Harvest Festival. “Giving Thanks” is a particular attitude which accompanies specific actions. Perhaps sharing our bounty with the needy would be a better Thanksgiving activity than eating large volumes of food. More to the point, perhaps we should use Thanksgiving to give thanks where it is due -- to the American Indians who have become the “forgotten minorities.” Rather than “eat a lot,” perhaps we could send blankets, food, or money to any of the American Indian families or nations who today live in Third World conditions.

To me, the essence of Thanksgiving was the coming together of two cultures, trying to work together under trying circumstances. Yes, they shared a meal. Food sustains us. But it was not about food, per se. They practiced with their bows and guns, a sign of mutual preparedness. And in their own ways, they “prayed to God,” in the ways that were appropriate to each culture.

The notion of a Supreme Intelligence was common to the Indians and the new settlers to the Northeastern coasts. That this was so is well-documented in William Stolzman awesome book, “The Pipe and Christ: A Christian-Sioux Dialogue.” He shows many of the similarities, and differences, between the native religion and the mostly Christian Europeans who began to occupy what became the United States and Canada. Similarly, these distinctions are well laid out in Vine Deloria’s classic work, “God is Red,” which Wilma Mankiller once declared to the be closest thing to an Indian Bible that’s ever been written.

By the way, much has been said about the term “Indian,” supposedly because Columbus thought he was in India when in fact he never got beyond the Carribean islands. But not everyone agrees with that linguistic conclusion. For one, India was not called “Indian” in the late 1400s. Some have suggested that it was the phrase “en Dios” (with God) that Columbus used to describe how the native, who lived simply and were perceived to be “close to God,” was the actual root of the term “Indians.” It is still debated.

Anyway, once we get to Halloween every year, we’re in the end-of-year Holiday mode that include Thanksgiving, and then Hannukah, Christmas, Kwanzaa, and New Years. These could be special events that lead to our spiritual enlightenment, and evolution, but we have to fight to make them so.

There is much to be thankful for on Thanksgiving, whether we give thanks to friends and family, thanks to God, and thanks for our relative bounty.

But we really should not forget our national roots. Don’t just give lip-service thanks to the Native Americans whose land was taken. Rather, find those organizations that are actually providing real assistance to Native Americans in poverty, such as many of those living in the third world conditions so prevalent on today’s reservations.

On Death

A STORY ABOUT DEATH

It was Memorial Day 1998, and I had scheduled to conduct a wild food outing at Pasadena’s Hahamongna Watershed Park. Since it was Memorial Day, my topic for a short discussion at the end of the outing was “death.” Hahamongna Park -- formerly called Oak Grove Park -- is the site of one of the Gabrielino Indian villages along the Arroyo Seco.

It was a cool and overcast day as participants for the wild food outing gathered in the parking area of the park. Among the half-dozen participants who showed up for the outing was Martin Kruse, a bearded, burly bear of a man who looked like he’d be more at home in the 19th century. He introduced himself and told me that he’d long wanted to meet me, that we both wrote for many of the same publications and had many friends in common, such as Ron Hood. Martin and I chatted as the other outing participants listened, and he told me about his work with archery and primitive bow-making.

I was struggling with almost-a-cold and with a stiff back, and so I felt almost not there. I wanted to just keep walking and to breathe deeply of the fresh air of the overcast day, but we walked slowly as everyone asked me countless questions about wild flowers, weeds, flowers, mushrooms, ground squirrels, and poisonous plants.

When we encountered poison hemlock, one woman seemed particularly interested. It turned out her interest was more than academic. Before her father died a few years earlier, the medical establishment managed to keep his body painfully alive for a few weeks beyond when he normally would have died. She said she wished she had known of a way to bring about a quick and painless death. I made no value judgement on her commentary, only saying that I regard each moment of life as sweet, and that death comes all too quickly for most of us. I explained that I was wholly against the idea of suicide, that I wanted to find ways to live longer, not shorter. Then we talked about other things.

We walked down in the flat area of the large expanse of the park, where the wet mud had hardened, capturing countless animal tracks. Martin told us how to differentiate between coyote and dog tracks. He identified crow and other birds, showed us how to recognize the tracks of squirrel and rabbit. He’d obviously done a lot of tracking during his time hunting with a bow.

I later learned from Martin’s father that this was a favorite place of Martin’s when he was much younger. He’d come here and spend a week or two and study nature and tracks and practice with his bow. When we saw the deer tracks, Martin showed us how the deer’s hind foot had stepped into its own track just laid by its front foot. Martin said that only the female walks this way, that the male’s gait is different. He told us that the size of the hoof print meant it was a female deer about a year and a half old. I could tell that Martin enjoyed telling us all about the track.

We walked out to the middle of the flat area to see some old shelters I’d built with one of my classes a few years earlier, though the rains had washed them away. We headed back to the picnic area with the plan to continue identifying wild greens, and collecting enough for our wild food meal that is customary on all these walks. Then I’d share my brief Memorial Day commentary that I described on the printed schedule as “Considering Death.”

I led the way back to the oak trees. Within seconds, someone in the rear called out. Martin had fallen. I first thought it was a joke, and ran to him. It was no joke. His face already looked purple. The man who had been walking with him said he’d not tripped -- he just fell. You could tell by his hand position that he didn’t trip. I tried to rouse him, but it was quickly obvious that he was “out.”

Several of us moved Martin into what we assumed would be a more comfortable position, and that wasn’t easy! Martin was a big guy. And then -- since I was the only one who knew the area -- I ran to a phone to call 911. This was before the days of ubiquitous cell phones. Within 10 minutes, before I even got back to the group and Martin’s flat body -- paramedics from the City of Pasadena were on the scene, attempting to revive him. They all worked like a highly-coordinated team, speaking among themselves only briefly and in terms we didn’t understand. They were what we call a “well-oiled machine.” They carried him into the ambulance and took him away.

I could tell that the remainder of the outing participants were in varying degrees of shock. It had all been like a dream, and now Martin was gone. When one paramedic was asked what he thought about Martin’s chances of recovery, he only said “I can’t do that.” Still, we all knew it was serious. We recalled one paramedic yelling “full arrest” to another when they arrived at the scene.

So there we stood in the cool afternoon breeze, contemplating death in the most sobering manner possible. I explained to everyone my death lesson -- which hardly seemed appropriate now. I didn’t talk everyone through the intended exercise -- I just explained a process that I’d done many times on Memorial Day.

Write a list of all those close people in your life. Then, close your eyes, and imagine getting a phone call telling you that they have just died. For most people, there are tears and a feeling of regret that they never told that person something. You write down all those things you wanted to say to that person. Then, since these folks are still alive, you then go and call them or write them or see them in person and tell them. This is a very profound exercise, and in many ways can be called “healing.”

But we didn’t actually go through this exercise. We were in no mood for an “exercise.” Someone had just died in our midst. We had to deal with it. We talked about how important it is to live each moment with intent, with joy, with soberness.

We talked about the stages that one passes through in the after death state, and how Martin will experience peace, but will also experience a life-review, a state of purgation, a state of heaven, and eventually another embodiment. One guy muttered, “I don’t believe in reincarnation.” I knew with this last point that I was treading on ground that some categorize as “religious beliefs,” so I didn’t push the matter. I just suggested that anyone interested read about it in Harold Percival’s Thinking and Destiny and decide for themselves.

At that moment, none of us knew yet that Martin would not recover, that he had in fact died, and that he died in a place he loved. Nor had we known that Martin had a heart pacer, and an artery to his heart that was narrow. We were aware that he’d had surgery -- probably to the heart -- because we opened his shirt and saw the scar. I noted that Martin had been smoking his pipe during most of the outing. While that couldn’t have been good for his health, I considered the ceremonial ramifications of tobacco smoking. What had really brought Martin there on that day? I felt goose bumps at first, thinking that on some level he wanted to be there, enjoying the natural world, meeting as two souls in the place he loved, near the old Indian burial ground, on his final day.

A German woman who’d been on the outing, Walti, told me that we should not feel sad. “It was quick,” she told me later. “What better place to die.” I could not help but agree with her. In his final moments, he was surrounded with friends that he’d only met that day, trail compadres who shared a common love of the outdoors, all brought together at this time and this place to witness his passing.
Though I barely knew him, I felt closer to him in death.

Of course, I told Dolores about this when I got home. I was a bit shaken by the experience. It was Martin’s wife who later told me that Martin died doing what he loved doing, and that it was probably the best of all possible outcomes that he died in that manner. She also said that the family felt Martin was living on “borrowed time,” that they felt he should have died (according to what the doctors said) five years earlier.

Dolores seemed very thoughtful about all this, and said that possibly Martin’s Doer (his spiritual Self) knew that his body was going to die. Coming to my outdoor outing brought him into contact with my Doer, my spiritual Self, which could have been a final uplifting act, whether or not each of us realized it.

Dolores was never one who engaged in flattery, and she always kept me humble. She knew that we were not perfect and that we had a long way to go. Yet, we continued to work at and struggle on the Spiritual Path of perfection and evolution. It was always “fall down seven times, get up eight times.” In our perspective of a morally-bankrupt, and spiritually dark world, we did feel that we represented a light in the darkness. Yes, often a flickering, barely noticeable light, but a light nevertheless. It is to that Light that Dolores believed Martin was coming to, and it was with that desire that he took his final breath. And that was good for Martin.

MOON

Self-discovery seems to be the ultimate quest for each of us. Who am I, what is my purpose in life.

I was watching a segment of “The Last Wave,” and Charlie the elder asks the Richard Chamberlain character, “Who are you?” It seemed to be a question that Chamberlain was not used to hearing, or answering.

I picked up a DVD of “Moon” with Sam Rockwell, having heard nothing about the movie. The cover reads “the hardest thing to face is yourself.”

“Moon” gives us an opportunity to look at what we mean by self-identity. It allows us to consider that much of what we call “me” is nothing but a construct, a collection of memories, but very little of what is real.

I don’t want to give the plot twist of the movie away, but I strongly recommend it as a vehicle for self-analysis and self-discovery. Don’t look at it as “just a science fiction story.”

Later in the day, my mentor asked me, “Do you believe that you are real?” Rather than glibly answer, “of course I do,” I considered what “Moon” was forcing me to consider. I realized that we never satisfactorily answer this question because we don’t delve deeply into the meaning of “me” and “I” as well as the meaning of “real.” In this case, I was considering the definition of “real” as per the writing of Percival in “Thinking and Destiny” where he equates “real” with a level of Conscious Light.

Anyway, watch “Moon” and let’s discuss further.

Death and Resurrection

During Easter of 2010, I spent the morning with a few close friends discussing the theme of the day. After we were finished with the more intellectual side of things, we viewed selected segments from a few movies to see the Death and Resurrection theme in action, either literally or figuratively.

We first watched some scenes from Whale Rider, where the grandfather does not want to acknowledge that the little girl (Pai) is the one destined to be chief. Finally, after Pai dives into the water to retrieve a whale bone (the boy who would have retrieved it earlier was to be chief, but no boy found it), she also helps a beached whale get back to sea. The whale was apparently responding to Pai, to the fact that Pai is the chosen one. But Pai goes into the deep with the whale, and is retrieved, hospitalized, and finally acknowledged as the future chief. A touching and beautiful story!

Next, we watched Powder, an incredible movie all around. Powder was born the night his mother was struck by lightning and died. Needless to say, Powder was unusual, highly intelligent, and electromagnetic. In many ways, this is a secular story of the Christ.

Then we watched some scenes from the very-moving Jesus of Nazareth, where Robert Powell played Jesus. We were most interested in the scene where Jesus went to dinner at the house of Matthew (the tax collector). Simon-Peter watches from the door as Jesus tells the story of the Prodigal Son, about the son who died spiritually and was re-born by his return to his father.

This Death and Resurrection theme is common in many movies, such as Pow Wow Highway, and Smoke Signals, and Robert Redford’s The Clearing. The Clearing is a fascinating study of the complexities of personality, but I found the final line the best: If you love me, then I have everything I need. It was beautiful, compelling, thoughtful. To understand that phrase was to understand the meaning of life, and the how the death is a necessary part of rebirth, whether we are speaking spiritually, literally, or figuratively.

Movies can be great teachers of life-lessons, if we choose the movies carefully, and if we actively seek out the lessons within.

By the way, we often view movies this way at Holy Days and holidays at the WTI commemorations in Highland Park. If you live nearby, please join us. Check the schedule on this web site, or contact me.

How I Spent Good Friday

When I was growing up, I can recall sitting in church for at least three hours on Good Friday. The large Catholic church was always packed with people, and the air circulation was poor. The aroma of incense was overwhelming and the distant drone of the priest in Latin was hypnotic. It was a solemn day and we usually fasted, but I had to nearly pinch myself to stay awake. I wanted to feel that special something, that painful and profound loss, and the coming joy; which was the very essence of the Easter celebration.

I always liked Easter, and I marveled at reports from the Phillippines where a few pilgrims every year would allow themselves to be nailed to a cross. Most could only endure the agony for three or four minutes, and they often fainted. Once removed from the cross, they would be cared for by waiting nurses and doctors. That’s certainly a far more intensive way of commemorating Good Friday than I was used to. Still, I wondered: Is there any inherent benefit in harming one’s body in that way? Does hammering nails in your palms make you more “spiritual”?

Years later, in the late 1970s, I began to attend a Survival Training School in the Highland Park district of Los Angeles. This school was somewhat akin to a martial arts school, except that we were constantly pushed in the direction of self-improvement, as opposed to competition with others. Throughout our various exercises and breathing regimens and runs and limit breaks and field events, it was constantly stressed that we were pushing our personal limits, that we were “waking up” our unused brain portions, and that we were using pain as a tool to grow, not as something to be avoided. There was constantly a spiritual dimension to our classes.

Through this school, I learned a unique way to commemorate the Christian Good Friday, and for nearly the last 20 years, I have observed Good Friday in a unique and most dynamic manner.

Students would gather at our class site and prepare themselves by doing a series of regular physical activities. Once a personal limit was broken, each student would then select a heavy log, which we referred to as “crosses.” Each student’s job was to silently carry the heavy cross up and down the dirt pathway to the school until they could no longer carry the burden. We were to remain silent during the entire time, and focus entirely on deep and regular breathing, and upon the specific martial arts-style walking that we’d been taught in class. It was called kamae-striding, a focused way of walking with knees bent, back straight, toes always straight ahead.

We were instructed to select a “cross” that was heavy so that we’d quickly go into a level of pain and exhaustion. On most years, I selected a cut section of a telephone pole, and would begin my very slow walking, breathing, thinking, up and down the dirt path.

The pain for me has usually been so intense that I could focus on nothing else. Thus, I was constantly challenged to find an internal way to deal with the pain, to breath, to focus on the fact that we are spiritual beings and not just the body.
Participants are told, “Pain is OK. Expect to be challenged by thoughts which say `I can’t’ or `I hurt.’ Acknowledge them, but do not fall to them.”

Dauring one of my past cross-bearings, the pain to my upper arms and back was unbelievably intense. I didn’t think I could continue. I wanted it to end. My arms ached. I stopped after going up and down the path three times. My intense pain had triggered an altered state of awareness, and I recall considering the phrase, “Jesus died for our sins.” I got up, continued the cross-bearing, and reflected on the meaning of those words.

As I slowly moved up and down the path, drenched in sweat, wracked with pain, I began to become one with the pain of humanity, the agony, the suffering, the ignorance, the horror of having no way-shower, no guide, being alone in the darkness. I found myself offering my pain to humanity: the mistakes, the blind gropings, the sin. It was then that I realized what Jesus meant. He literally offered up his pain, not for his personal benefit, but for those in dire need. This offering of pain was as real as if he wrote a check and sent it to someone. The giving was real, not allegory. The gift of pain served as strength to others.

Yet, this is no way meant that humanity -- that individuals -- do not need to balance inequities. We must sill pay for our debts and sins. Forgiveness is not synonymous with forgetting.

I would not have gained this insight through intellectual study. I earned this realization via the tool of controlled pain. I had made pain my ally. Obviously, pain for the sake of pain is pointless. But pain can be specifically applied and used as a tool. It can wake one up like nothing else.

As I say, this is just one of many personal insights that I have had while doing this unique cross-bearing.

When I performed the Cross Bearing today, I considered the value and power of Truth, and saw new meaning in the phrase, “What a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive.”