There are other forces at work we cannot see, but that are constantly present. The most obvious is gravity, which acts upon all matter without discrimination. When we sit in a chair, feel our bottoms pressed against the seat because gravity is “pulling” us, it is also acting upon the chair with the same force. The floor upon which the chair sits is also “pulled,” as is the ground upon which our floor is built. Every grain of sand and every mountain, every leaf, every molecule of water in the ocean and every object in space is subject to gravity. It has no color, smell, shape, or sound; what we call “feeling gravity” is feeling its effects. Gravity itself cannot be felt. Science has yet to identify what gravity actually is and how it is propagated.

We inhabit the human realm simultaneously with others, including the quantum, the molecular, the microscopic, the electromagnetic, the thermodynamic, the physical, and the metaphysical realms. The metaphysical realm is the realm of thought, and thoughts are invisible as well.

What is thought? On a scientific level it can be described as a combination of chemical and electrical stimulation of living neurons, but this is simply a description of what has been observed. Clearly, though thoughts themselves, like gravity, have no inherent color, smell, shape or sound of their own, they appear to carry or transmit these types of information and we can experience their effects. The same can be said of consciousness itself, the invisible realm from which all thoughts emerge.

We assume the realm of consciousness exists entirely within ourselves, perhaps within our heads and brains. Because we associate thinking with our brains, we place consciousness in that same location. From a biological/physical standpoint, this is observable. Consciousness, of course, can be distinguished from self-awareness; a fish is conscious, but might not be self-aware. People are both.

Might consciousness exist as a force of its own, like gravity? If so, what is it, how is it propagated and how does it work? Does the force of consciousness require a body or a brain, or like gravity is it independent of all things?

There is the view that consciousness, including human consciousness, is the expression of a universal force, and that this force underlies what we observe as a self-organizing and replicating manifestation of existence. Thus all things, though in a constant state of change, express the primordial consciousness that pervades all of existence itself. Some call this force God, others have called it The Way, The Essence, or the Great Spirit. Others yet again call everything an accident.

What is undeniable is that beyond what we can see and hear are unseen realms of great power and expression. From our ordinary thoughts, in themselves nothing solid or material, our entire universe is born.

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To paraphrase the words of the 7th Century Zen Patriarch, Seng-Tsan, “The highest realization is to be without anxiety about imperfection.” Seng-Tsan was not speaking about perfection per se, but about our nagging dissatisfaction and anxiety about the events of ordinary life. He was talking about our inability to accept things as they are and to actually relax.

Relaxation today is thought of as plopping oneself down on the couch and watching TV, going to a movie, playing a video game or reading a magazine. But this is not relaxation; it is distraction from our anxiety, dissatisfaction, boredom or fatigue. For many of us, no sooner do we turn on the TV or begin reading then we fall asleep. We awaken no more relaxed than when we first plopped down.

I would like things to be the way I’d like them to be. When this happens I feel happy. Much of the time, however, things are either not quite the way I would like, or feel terribly wrong. This, of course, is the product of self-centered thoughts. When I fixate on an event or thought, particularly one about what’s wrong with me or others or life in general, a cascade of negative emotions that feed new thoughts with energy begin and in no time I feel anxious. Feeling anxious, I get aggressive or withdrawn, indulge in harmful and self-destructive activities, or move towards distraction. In this same way, many of us navigate from moment to moment, never really finding the emotional or psychic space to feel at peace. That space is always available, but we can’t see it though the fog and turmoil of our thoughts and feelings.

The key is that we can’t truly relax until we begin to be kind to ourselves. Kindness to ourselves does not mean repeatedly forgiving ourselves for our own foolish behavior or excusing the habitually hurtful ways we think and act, it means being reflective and honest about our anxiety-producing habits of mind, contemplating their effects and actively employing some discipline to alter them. Innately, we all know when we are hurting ourselves, but discarding harmful habits and changing the way we think and act is difficult. Intention is the first step, of course, then gently engaging in practices that support abandoning negative actions and thoughts helps to open the door to true self-kindness.

If we can be kind and gentle to ourselves we can then be kind and gentle with others and the world. I’ve come to understand that others are constantly struggling with anxiety, too.  Seeing this, I’ve realized that spending time in blame and wanting others to be different just adds to everyone’s problems, including my own.

Fundamentally, people have not changed since the 7th Century or before. Letting go of trying to change others and working on ourselves is still the first step. When and if we can fully abandon fixation and anxiety about the faults of others and the ordinary events of the world, the highest realization of complete, perfect relaxation can be ours.

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At the sudden sound of rapid gunfire her eyes widen, and she opens her mouth as if to scream. He gently places his hand over her parted lips, and whispers “Shhhh.” She shakes her head, her eyes searching right and left. His grip gets firmer. “Shhhhh!” he whispers again insistently, more like an order than a suggestion.

She blinks, the screen darkens, and suddenly she is standing in a darkly paneled living room, soft amber light seeping through the mica shade of a 1915 Dirk Van Erp lamp. From another room the sound of a radio seeps softly down the darkened hallway. “Dinner’s almost ready,” a voice calls, “Don’t forget to wash your hands.”

As she turns towards the bath, a flash of light followed by a soundless concussion throws her against the wall. A wall of flame moves its way in slow motion down the hallway, a billowing golden cloud ringed with flame. As if in a dream she grabs for the door, closing it just as the first tongue of fire penetrates the room. As sound returns, it merges with the shuffle of blowing leaves and the glare of fire fades into gentle greenness and then to black.

“This is what they were looking for,” a man’s voice says in the blackness. “They won’t stop until they find it.” The scene begins to emerge from utter darkness to the glowing light of a LCD monitor. A uniformed hand reaches towards the screen, and touches a glowing dot of red. The camera moves up his arm, across medals and a rectangular name patch at his chest saying “Swanton.” Panning back, we see his face. He holds his finger to his lips. “Shhhh,” he says.

“I’m confused,” a woman’s voice this time. “They could have had it anytime. It’s not like it was hidden or anything, I mean, it’s right where it always is.” Four stern-looking male faces turn toward her. “What do you mean not hidden?” A burly, short-cropped gray-haired Colonel, beads of sweat forming on his upper lip, asks. “Wait, what’s that noise?”

A door bursts open and a thundering automatic weapon begins to spray bullets into the room. A fog of red mist travels across the field of view as one of the men collapses. Bright flashes of light create a strobe effect articulating slow-motion slaughter. The camera moves in tightly on a woman as her eyes widen, tighter and tighter, all the way in so that the screen is finally filled with just inky blackness, the pupil of her eye.

Sounds of roaring surf and laughing children arise together in brightening sunshine. A red and white checkered cloth covers a picnic table piled high with dishes of food – fried chicken, corn on the cob, baked beans, sliced bread. A golden retriever sits quietly upright on the bench, a bandana tied around his neck. Next to it an eight-year old girl is staring into the distance looking confused. A voice asks, “Have some chicken, sweetie?”

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Our sense of self is contingent, however. First there must be the mental stability and functionality that allows for “rational” thought. Lacking this, both personality and self essentially recede into obscurity, such as happens to Alzheimer patients. If mental stability and functionality are present, then sense of self is built upon frameworks of family, culture, society and all that comes with it. We identify ourselves by name and others by their names. We join people in forming networks of belief. We get jobs, have families and propagate society, all the while ignoring that apart from context, self does not exist.

The contextual self is defined and created by the continuity of environment. By environment I mean the entirety of space, the circumstances in which we live and function and the activities that take place within that space. Just as a fish is only suited to life within water, so people are only suited to life within air. This basic foundation for the contextual self is defined by the specific environment in which human life is possible. Beyond this basic foundation are the other myriad contexts in which we find ourselves and to which we respond. The narrative-self, built by ego while interacting within context, is purely fictive. It’s the interdependent contextual self that is real.

As situations change and we become a parent, friend, garden-lover, sports-lover, and so forth, the contextual self naturally evolves. Context is varied and limitless because cause and effect are constantly transforming everything. Consider people who called themselves “typesetters,” for example, a trade associated with a career and a livelihood. When computer technology replaced metal typography, those who identified themselves as typesetters lost one context of self and were established within the context of the unemployed.

Most of us spend our lives defining ourselves by attaching narrative to context, trying to transform it into a fixed reference point. Having established an illusory self-perpetuating reference point, we then cling to it tightly to affirm identity. Ego’s tight boundaries create constant anxiety, so great effort is made to sustain reference points. However, it is possible to reveal fixed reference points as ego’s false structural elements of self. Such insight allows for a glimpse of the realization of selflessness or egolessness, our true nature. When selflessness is realized, we don’t cease being, but our relationship to the world changes – one is no longer bound by ego’s fixation on illusory reference points.  Thus, though fundamentally selfless, we are awake, aware and able to engage fully and appropriately with the world. Context creation is never-ending and continuous so there is plenty to keep us occupied.

Materialistic society fuels ego-self, an attractive and convincing narrative that we are more than contextual and have a material, completely independent existence. As we age, grow old and finally die, the truth is told and our false reference points dissolve. Through glimpses of selflessness, however, life is revealed as open and workable. Instead of the artificial structure of ego’s fixed reference points, the fluid continuity of contextual self becomes the playground of joyful action.

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When I asked my friend Richard Reoch, former Global Media Chief of Amnesty International, the human rights organization, (not speaking as a spokesman) about the ruling, he predicted, “The U.S. Government, alongside many other governments, will likely violate this law. There will be times when it is thought in the national interest to do so. Experience has shown that most armed conflicts cannot be brought to an end without engaging with terrorist organizations and their supporters.”

Richard pointed out Northern Ireland and South Africa as situations where clandestine contact by governments and others with the IRA and ANC respectively helped broker an end to armed conflict. “This ruling fails to appreciate what is called “second track” diplomacy,” he noted. “Contact with paramilitary organizations often lays the groundwork for peace talks. This can include training in negotiation skills, human rights education and exploring options for a peace settlement. In South Africa, it was the business community that initiated the secret discussions that led to peace.”

Despite being the most powerful country in the world, America is terribly fearful. Because of our distrust and fear, we use our wealth and power as a tool of manipulation. Manipulation always includes an element of dishonesty, and what we often think of as foolishness or incompetence by our government is actually deceit. Historically, this is what has been behind our support of terrible and highly repressive regimes around the world (including Saddam Hussein and the Shah of Iran), governments which terrorized their own people.

It’s not difficult to see how deceitful policies lead to greater instability and violence. When we act through fear and manipulation it is the example we then set for others. Thus we see Iran developing nuclear capabilities so that they can also be powerful manipulators.

There are those who say aggression is all too human and point to examples of violence as evidence. It is possible, however, to as easily provide examples of benevolence and goodness, the actual basis from which all human society begins. That we can become fearful is also true, and very human, but what distinguishes people is our ability to understand fear and its effects, and using honesty and benevolence to overcome it. This is where the peace-makers come in.

In restricting the ability of peace-makers to mediate armed conflict, the Supreme Court has taken a political stance. In effect, it has decided that the views and opinions of any given administration in defining an organization as “terrorist” now constitute a basis in law.

“The definition of a ‘terrorist’ organization is always subject to political bias,” Richard observed, “Only those groups that are ‘not on our side’ are designated as terrorist. Those that ‘serve our interests’ are not, regardless of their atrocities. This ruling will be used in a highly selective way, and I predict that the first test case will be the result of active political lobbying by well-financed special interests seeking to punish specific organizations they do not like.”

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Molecular biology was just on the verge of unlocking the secrets of DNA, RNA and the genetic code in 1974. In the 36 years since, the genome of human DNA, (over 3 billion base pairs comprised of between 20-25,000 protein coded genes), has been determined. The fruition of 3 billion years of natural evolution, the human genome ecapsulates the sum total of the history of animal life on earth, a genetic encyclopedia of change and transformation.

Scientists, it was announced, have recently constructed and inserted man-made artificial DNA into a bacteria cell and that cell went on to generate proteins produced at the direction of the artificial DNA and to replicate itself. Human evolution is now on the brink of sudden change. None of us can predict the precise nature of that change. What we can be sure of, however, is that at some point man-made artificial genes will make their way into living animals, and eventually to human beings.

It is not without some sense of trepidation that I imagine man-made people, and in time, designer genes. Want a baby with blue skin and pink polkadots? How about hands with six fingers and eyes that glow in the dark? It may sound far-fetched, but given our proven ability to commercialize every significant scientific invention, I think such outcomes are a sure bet.

What’s less certain is what happens when we screw up. By leapfrogging over the drawn-out process of natural selection and inserting man-made genetic characteristics based on market trends and focus groups, we’re moving into uncharted territory. Nature has used an elegant, if uncompromising, methodology for billions of years: mutate, test and keep what works over a long period of time. This fiscal year’s genetic blockbuster carries with it the same risks as any other hot consumer product, and the idea of people designed according to the latest fashion trend is, frankly, horrifying.

There are few major inventions that are put back in the bottle once removed. Science has a penchant for discovery and experiment, even if that means courting disaster. The search for knowledge has produced technological miracles and the machine age is nothing short of magical. Yet tampering with the stuff of life itself makes the risks of nuclear technology seem modest. If we consider the virus and its ability to combine with human DNA in relentless pursuit of successful mutation, it is readily apparent that even a casual mistake might end up polluting both human and non-human species of animal life.

Ironically, Lewis also recounts the biology of mitochondria, the organelle within each animal cell that is essential for energy conversion. Mitochondria have their own DNA, and Lewis traces it back to the plant kingdom. The very cellular structure that gives us life may be the result of a primordial animal-plant combination. We may, in some strange way, be highly evolved cabbages, and if we are not careful, into vegetables we may yet return.

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However, I was struck by one element of the presentation, namely that the speaker referred to Israeli extremists as ultra-orthodox Jews while Palestinian extremists were referred to as Islamo-fascists. The speaker had gone to some lengths to decry the calling of Israelis “Nazis,” yet did not seem to notice that he was calling Palestinians “Nazis” by designating them as fascist. So, in the midst of attempting to draw a parallel between the intolerance of extremists on both sides of the conflict, he revealed his own prejudice and willingness to engage in stereotypical name-calling.

Name-calling attempts to frame debate linking people with debased behavior or characteristics. The linkage need not call upon facts, statistics, actual observation or documentation. As a pejorative device, name-calling exercises power by tapping into implicit or explicit bigotry, prejudice, small-mindedness and intolerance.

Whether it’s Rush Limbaugh calling women “Femi-Nazis,” whites calling African Americans “Jungle Bunnies,” Arabs being referred to as “Rag Heads” or extremist Palestinians designated “Islamo-Fascists,” the intent is the same: to diminish and objectify others in order to justify one’s own preferences, bigotry, hatred or aggression. In this way, fueled by intemperate and aggressive speech, cycles of conflict are propagated,.

Today’s speaker touched upon the torment inflicted on Europe’s Jews during the Holocaust, none of which would have happened without name-calling. Designating Jews as “vermin, pests and parasites” Adolph Hitler’s Third Reich and his propagandist Joseph Goebbels used language as their tool of choice in mobilizing German society to accept the extermination of millions. Today, language continues to be used as an effective agent of dominance and aggression.

Each of us forms likes and dislikes, some born of the senses and others born of experience; this is completely human. But as we grow older and examine our own views and attitudes, we often discover the roots of our preferences are wholly insubstantial. Upon close inspection we find all our stereotypes about others are wrong. Looking deeper, we can understand that our everyday speech reinforces our discrimination. Only by applying mindfulness can we discover how automatically we objectify others.

Mindful speech requires slowing down, creating a gap between our feelings and our mouths. It can be done, but it takes practice and is a challenge in our speedy culture. A good way to begin is with simple silence, listening to others then just watching our mind. Sometimes when I feel speedy, I count to three before speaking. In many interactions, a smile and a nod of acknowledgement are often sufficient.

All over the world, people inflict terrible pain and suffering on others every day. We let the differences between us become the excuse for terrible behavior. We cannot individually solve the problems of the entire world, but we can be more careful about what we say to and about others. Such mindfulness may not change everything for the better, but as my grandfather used to say, “Couldn’t hurt!”

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Reflecting on this brings up memories of Al Zooks, the mailman of my suburban youth. As I remember him, Al was a grizzled old guy: unshaven, white-haired, mostly bald, and sporting a semi-toothless grin. He’d drive up and down my street dropping mail into mailboxes, and chatting with most everyone he’d meet along the way. I know this because sometimes he’d pick me up as I walked home from school and let me ride along with him in his mail truck.

“Hey, Larry!” he’d shout, “Y’wanna ride?” Al’s New York accent was as thick as Molasses. I’d hop in and sit on a pile of mail – seatbelts, air-bags and Ralph Nader were many years in the future. “Sow’s the folks?” Al would ask, grinning. His missing teeth fascinated me. “Mom ok?” Al was my mother’s mailman when she was a little girl in nearby New Rochelle many years before. I imagined her sitting on a pile of mail in his truck too. In my youth trusting people you knew just seemed normal.

Around the holidays Al would attach a small plow to the front of his truck, and when we’d had a good snowfall he’d put on chains and plow a path down the driveways so he could hand-deliver the mail without trudging through the snow. He’d ring the bell on a Saturday, and my dad would answer the door. “Hey Norm!” Al would bellow, “Happy Holidays!” My father would invite him in. “Rye, right?” my dad would ask, and he didn’t mean rye bread. Al would nod his head and grin.

We’d all go into the hot kitchen where my mother would be at the stove. “Hi ya, doll!” Al would shout, and mother would give him a big hug. “Howaya?” We’d sit at the kitchen table and my dad would pour Al his shot of Rye. He’d down it with a big “Ahhh,” smack his lips and wink at me. Like our neighbors, my father would hand him an envelope with twenty bucks in it. In this way Al made his rounds, reaffirming old relationships, supplementing his salary and getting progressively more intoxicated. It was glorious.

Nowadays kids can’t ride in mail trucks, drinking and driving don’t mix, tips are not allowed, trust is in short supply, and at my house I never know from day-to-day who delivers my mail because my street has no permanently assigned mailman. The U.S. Post Office wants to eliminate Saturday delivery altogether, and most of the mail we get is junk. Our bills are paid online or by direct withdrawal, and it seems the ratio of meaningful mail to mail-order catalogs tipped in favor of catalogs quite some time ago.

Before technology, mail bound us together as a people and a nation. Though short-lived due to the telegraph, tales of the pony-express remain a romantic expression of the selfless mail-carrier braving danger and the elements to make sure people could hear from their loved ones. The personal, human to human quality of life is rapidly receding into digital networks of ever-more disembodied communication technology. The future of hand delivered mail? “Fuggedaboudit!.”

Thinking of you, Al.

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This conundrum notwithstanding, from time to time most of us would like to stop the world and get off. This is impossible, so we retreat instead to the confines of our own familiar mind-cave, creating the powerful illusion that the stuff that happens needn’t concern us. As if in a dream we watch TV, go to the movies, read books, listen to music, nibble on chips, jiggle our legs, chew gum and accumulate possessions; in short distracting ourselves in every way possible from the groundless, ungraspable experience of continuity

Moreover, our ordinary perspective is limited not only by mental and emotional distractions but also by our actual inability to fully understand what is going on around us. Although we know that cause and effect are real and comprise the essential fabric of continuity, we are incapable of fully observing cause and effect in all their subtle manifestations so it is only the grossest and most obvious forms which generally attract our attention. Much of the time, we are bewildered.

Occasionally, we find ourselves open to a wider experience of the stuff that happens. We’re caught short by a sudden flash of color, or rendered speechless by the unexpected screech of tires braking to a hurried stop. At such moments the vividness of continuity hits us and we are suddenly and fully awakened. Our preoccupations, habits and mental constructs are instantaneously dropped, and the full power and spectacle of existence rushes through us. Labeled “peak experiences,” we quickly retreat to our “normal” view of reality and get back to the business of crawling around the safe little cave inside our minds.

There are opportunities, however, to fully and intentionally engage with the energy of continuity, and practices that can be employed to encourage and sustain that engagement. Recognizing that our natural awareness, unmitigated and unmediated by thought, is always available and is essentially of the same nature as continuity, the cultivation of such engagement is the great work of wisdom traditions stretching back many thousands of years. Culture and technology have changed, but the nature of mind has not. Thus the lessons and experiences of those who have developed methods and practices devoted to the awakening of mind remain relevant and are of great value in this materialistic age.

It is taught that true awakening arises simultaneously with the awareness of suffering. If we exit our safe little cave, we experience the unhappiness of all cave dwellers, and the profound experience of that suffering is acutely painful and heartbreaking.

Thus the engaged experience of continuity is not comfortable or without great challenge. Infinite open-endedness can feel peculiarly claustrophobic, relentlessly present and completely inescapable. There is no retirement from continuity, no turning back, no stopping the world, no time off. And despite this, having tasted the truth, retreating instead into our mental cave feels insufficient, unsubstantial and false.

Making the choice and effort to be awake and engaged is at one and the same time very outrageous and yet completely ordinary. According to the great teachers, this is the only way we can be of real help to others at all.

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My wife’s sister and our niece were the first to join us a decade ago, moving to town four blocks northwest of us. It turns out she and her daughter were an advanced guard; over the last six months our family clan has continued gathering. First my daughter, her husband and our granddaughter moved into a house six blocks southeast. That happened in December. Last week, my father took up residence in a cute apartment five blocks northwest, around the corner from my sister-in-law.

Like social animals of any kind, sensitive to the environment and wired for survival, people can sense uncertainty and threat, even when the perceived nature of such threat is clouded or indistinct. Like penguins sensing bad weather, drawn together against frigid wind, families are gathering, families like mine.

Change is in the air in America, and along with it uncertainty in great measure. I’m not talking apocalypse, though there are those who lean in that direction. There are some who say apocalypse has already happened, and has happened many times before. And there are others yet again who think apocalypse is happening right now. Ask the whales, they say.

I am talking about various signs of trouble, most of them the direct result of human activity or the effect of natural impacts acting upon it. Take note: a Gulf of Mexico deep oil well blowout, volcanoes in Iceland stranding air travelers across Europe, stock trading glitches that drop the Dow Jones 1,000 points in one hour, leaking nuclear reactor water contaminating the below-ground aquifer in upstate New York, endocrine disrupting chemicals like BPA lining commercial canned goods – something is happening. We can feel it, but as Jesse Colin Young sang years ago, “What it is, is not exactly clear.”

What is clear is that a family that was spread apart, anywhere from 250 to 2,500 miles, has gathered in one little town rather suddenly. We cross paths constantly, wander in and out of each others’ homes and lives in ways that simply weren’t possible before. My granddaughter is surrounded by love spanning four generations; in my father’s childhood such a situation was not unusual, but today it is a rarity. An explicit interdependence has arisen.

There are challenges in such interdependence, of course. Boundaries are moving and changing; privacy is not what it was. But a particular kind of security is also arising. We are no longer separated ones or twos or threes, but have each other to lean on. Think penguins.

When life is easy – jobs plentiful, health fine, money in the bank – being alone in ones or twos can work out alright. But life is not so easy right now. Something is brewing, and it’s not all good. The world is in serious trouble and just as my immediate family has drawn together, so must we as the larger family of society accept the reality of our interdependence, draw together, be kind and supportive.

Like the fiercest gales or blizzards, all the terrible storms of human folly eventually blow themselves out, and together we pick up the pieces, care for each other and clean up the mess. This is the only way a good human society has ever succeeded.

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