Yesterday I walked in a sunlit drizzle, wondering what the forecast would bring. Would the sky open up into a warm spring day? The temperature was about 70 degrees. Or would the clouds convene into a darkened shroud and unleash a downpour? There were already reports of flooding in my area. The northwesterly winds that normally bring our cold winter rains had ceased for the last two years, leaving most of California in drought conditions. But the clouds that hung over my landscape on this day came from the more tropical south, carried on a Jetstream that has wreaked havoc for the entire United States. Our normal winter pattern has been interrupted by this Jetstream which has carried our winter north, where the polar front bounced it southward to entrench the eastern half of the country in rain, snow and ice. Whether I was to be drenched or warmed, clearly my only choice was to walk in a sunlit drizzle. Life has its risks, including everything from a rare spring deluge to death itself.

Our species has lived on this planet for a very brief part of its history. Yet we have developed timeless world views to explain our place within it. In much of human pre-history, our forebears believed that life never ends: the cave bear returns as does the buffalo; life extended beyond death, ever to return in various forms. With the advent of agriculture, the cycle of planting, harvesting and seeding brought the system of death and rebirth into our world view. Nearly all our orthodox religions have mythologized these two perspectives into their structure and organization. We either believe in immortality of some sort and/or the need to surrender to death in order to be reborn into new life.

It has long been believed that only humans are aware of their own mortality. I’m not sure this belief is valid, since we cannot get into the mind of other animals. Elephants, for example, recognize themselves in a mirror. The ability to objectify one’s self is the first step to visualizing your future self—and therefore your death. Whales clearly become kamikaze when a whaler kills their mate. Life without this lifelong bond seems not worth living to them. Choosing death over survival presumes acceptance of death—and that acceptance seems to presume awareness. Nevertheless, it is clear that animals have not developed world views or religions to help them deal with life’s uncertainties or even with their own mortality. We have. But have we cheated death, the mysterium tremendum?

The word “religion” comes from the Latin verb religere, “to bind or link back.” Like the word “yoga”—which means “yoke” or “bind”—religion is the experience of connecting to the source of life and consciousness. What else could a sentient, self-conscious being connect to, other than to all that is? For in our minds we can conceive all that we observe and conjecture the rest. We can relate to things, because we share their substance. We can relate to living organisms, because we are the same. We can relate to the patterns we find in nature—the laws and organization of matter and energy—because we pattern our lives and societies after conventions and laws we create for ourselves. My point is that religion is not a static belief system, but a living experience. The belief systems of organized religion may differ on particulars (and you are free to believe in any one of them), but they cannot exist without the experience of connection to the world we inhabit. Intrinsic to that connection is foreknowledge and acceptance of death.

And so I continued my walk yesterday, pondering life’s many uncertainties. Like the weather, I suddenly realized I had very little control over much of my life, including my death. All that I am or will be is no more than the flicker of a candle that will eventually burn out many eons after my time. And yet I was walking in the midst of it all, alive and aware of what overshadowed my every step. But this was not the time to entertain anxieties and fears. There may be devastating floods or springtime birdsong. It is all the same. The Buddhists say one must participate with joy in the sorrows of the world. Likewise, I think it best to walk blithely in a sunlit drizzle.

Why do dogs show such little interest in TV? My dog used to sleep at my feet while I watched the screen. Her only reaction to the set was an occasional show of irritation at its noise. What did interest her was a patch of grass or bark where she seemed entranced for extended periods. My initial assessment of her was that she would rather smell than see, until one day a nature program explained the mystery about my dog’s peculiar perception apparatus. It seems that dogs process images much faster than us; and, of course, their sense of smell is several hundred times as sensitive as ours. The latter knowledge did not surprise me. But the fact that she did not share my view of TV was a revelation. She saw a slide show where I perceived moving images. Suddenly, the references to “dog years” made sense: my dog lived more in the moment than I—at least when she wasn’t snoozing. Although I have already outlived her in human years, she lived longer in the moments of her life then I have in dog years. My life term has yet to reach a conclusion whereas hers has. By this yardstick, she lived a fuller life then I have as yet.

So why should I take notice of this difference between our species? Well, it turns out that many species have more acute senses than us. And in that fact lies a lesson for human kind. Have you ever noticed how time seems to fly by, especially when you are caught up in your daily activities? You rise in the morning, go to work, and return at night day after day. We often pass our time like a metronome, repetitive, non-stop, ever advancing towards tomorrow’s yesterday. Of course, we can’t hold back time’s relentless progress. But we can slow down the metronome, take in more of the moment, and, in effect, extend our lifetime.

My dear reader, hug you child, smile at your coworker’s silly joke, hold a sunset in your gaze, inhale deeply life’s invigorating air, and live the moments of your life. I wish you all well!

Often in this blog, you have borne with me as I assumed that individual differences were beneficial to human progress. America, in particular, is the grand “melting pot” where peoples from other lands and cultures intermingle, creating new energy, innovation, a broadening social awareness, and an expanding workforce. But I have also written about the failure of legislators to find common ground, about the absence of dialogue in debates at all levels in our society, and the illusions we create to preserve our self-image as a people and as individuals. What is the basis for this disparity in my view? Well, I think I can best explain myself by recounting what I expect is a relatable experience: watching a football game with a relative.

My father spent the better part of his adult life in the Los Angeles area, whereas mine, was in the San Francisco Bay area. Our sports’ loyalties seem to have been formed by this divergence. After my mother passed, Dad moved to northern California to be closer to his family. It was a blessing to spend time with him on a regular basis, including the ritual of watching Sunday football games together. The problem, of course, is that we viewed the game from different perspectives, especially when our team loyalties conflicted. Arguments constantly arose over which team was more brutal, what penalty was justified, or what foul was missed by the referee. The psychological term for these disagreements is cognitive bias. We were not alone in seeing the world as defined by all our previous perceptions and experiences. The human brain fills in the blanks in our limited view of the world from its reservoir of past experiences, some of which were freely chosen and some, merely conditioned by society and circumstances. What happened between my father and me on those Sunday game days is reminiscent of what we see around us every day. Politicians, for example, only see scandal in the opposing party. In the business world, corporate “culture” can determine a person’s work appraisal and promotion eligibility. When an outlier in these circumstances proposes that our diversity is our strength, that we are one nation united by a common bond, or that an individual’s contribution to an organization can’t be measured solely by some generic yardstick, those proposals can fall on deaf ears. To some extent each of us is deaf and mute, for we naturally tend to hear and speak past each other. This is the curse of our unique perspective on the reality that surrounds us.

Those football arguments with my father were a source of embarrassment for me. I loved my father and couldn’t understand how I allowed myself to be pulled into those trivial disagreements. Of course, our meetings always ended with hugs; our affection for each other could not be altered by personal team alliances. But love alone did not prevent these mini-brouhahas on game days. Eventually, I did find the remedy: I pretended to root for my Dad’s team. In other words, I tried to see things through his eyes. Suddenly, my team seemed to deserve more penalties; and my Dad’s team sometimes seemed more sportsmanlike than mine. Watching a game with my Dad became much more enjoyable without the embarrassment and stress that I had previously brought to our shared time together. A side benefit was the fact that I became more appreciative of both sides in the football game. Even a bad call by the referee did not unnerve me, for I realized he was just as limited as I was in my perception.

We are not born with intact egos, but grow into them. Once we discover ourselves as “subjects” in a world of “objects,” we become the epicenter of all our experiences with the world around us. The problem, of course, is that this personal prism through which we see everything can be our prison. The world is in fact multifaceted. Its many refracted surfaces should offer us clues to the mysteries we leave undiscovered. To embark on that journey of discovery, we actually have to move beyond our limited perspectives and engage with the “other.” But how does one move beyond personal ego? Well, in order to see and live the game of life from another perspective, one must first admit our own propensities and exclusiveness. Then one must “tune in” to other viewpoints—truly listen, not just to others, but to the reality that stands outside us. Transcending an egocentric perception can become a mind-boggling experience, where, like a gymnast, you can leap from one position to another. The world becomes a diamond of such brilliance that it dazzles differently with every turn of the mind. The ego is diminished by its luster, while life becomes a learning experience—an adventure into its unfolding mysteries. We learn to value only what we can personally conceive, rather than what we have assumed from past conditioning. Our individual perception becomes self-transcendent; and our values evolve as our own rather than as the unexamined prescriptions of our past experience.

Most often we tend to interpret our differences in terms of values. For example, Fox and MSNBC news subscribe to opposing political positions. Christians and Muslims seem unable to reconcile the difference between social justice and Sharia law. Jews and Arabs disagree on the one true God and His chosen people. But, if you look beneath the surface, we find these differing values represent justifications for limited views of reality. News outlets report the same event from totally different perspectives. Christians and Muslims can live together in harmony whenever they rid themselves of the conditioned viewpoint that defines each other as enemy combatants. And the fight between Jews and Arabs is really over land rather than principle, so their struggle has more to do with occupancy than religion. So at all levels of society, our disagreements are more about facts than values. The latter serve as faux justifications for myopic perspectives.

To conclude, self-awareness is not only the beginning of wisdom, but the necessary steppingstone to a collective awareness. Without this step forward in our individual lives, it will never be possible to extend the moral boundaries of our value systems to include every human being on this planet. Whether human perception is a curse or a blessing depends upon the ability of individuals to break the bonds of ego and to live in the collective as a true participant in our common progress.

Since Americans believe in the pursuit of happiness, the expression “Happy New Year” should seem especially appropriate. We are the “can do” people of our time. But to the “old world” colonial powers, we often appear naïve. To the rest of the world, we appear willing to solve international problems that are intransigent, even to the extent of engaging our economic and military power. When faced with failure, we abandon the field to others and reengage elsewhere. In this iterative process, we don’t lose colonies we never established or imperial prestige and power we never sought. We simply regroup, sometimes after a period of withdrawal from the world stage, and reengage elsewhere. When one travels to the imperial cities of Europe—London, Paris, Vienna, or Rome, for example—the sense of awe can be equally tinged with nostalgia for what has been lost. For, in those cities, there must be an undercurrent of sadness below the surface of pride in place and origin. We Americans have for the most part been immune to such feelings of great loss. In general, we anticipate better days ahead, without remorse for past failures. Civil war, economic traumas, civil unrest, disastrous foreign interventions seem unable to unhinge what others might term our naïve faith in our future happiness. The French, perhaps understandably, may feel ennui; and the Germans may show some regret for past excesses in nationalist fervor. But we Americans are just simply optimistic about our future.

Many magazines publish specialty issues at this time of the year around the same topic, a forecast of the New Year. The year 2014 is predicted to promise another NASA mission to Mars and several resupply missions to the international space station, including the first manned flights in rockets not made and operated by NASA, but by private companies. In fact, the future of private enterprise is touted in many financial publications: 2014 promises an expansive and profitable global economy led by the American market. There will be new breakthroughs in genetic research, possible cures for specific cancers, growing energy independence, continued reductions in Federal deficit spending, and the promise of new labor saving inventions that will further ease the mundane burdens of everyday life. Of course, there are those negative forecasters who remind us that the hourglass continues to run down on issues such as global warming, the impending time bomb of economic disparity, desalination of our oceans, and the loss of ecological diversity, arable land and drinking water sources. These latter issues seem not of immediate concern and can’t compete with the prospects for better economic news on the horizon and with projected American achievements in space, in the global market, or even in the upcoming Olympic Games. Our myopic view of the future reminds me of the words of a very astute senator of a bygone era. Although satirized by Juvenal, I believe it was Cicero who first decried the Roman Senate’s policy of assuaging the masses with panem et circenses (bread and circuses) while busying the legislative agenda with short-term, often self-serving policies, in lieu of the republic’s future interests and actual betterment. In our time, the Roman Senate’s influence is reprised not only by our government, but by our free press. Moreover, that influence often abets a basic aspect of our national character: we Americans tend to be optimistic. We believe we can solve any and all problems, even those that seem endemic to our way of life: stress can be relieved by medication; (mainly) urban violence, by incarceration; marital problems, by divorce; social alienation or personal limitations, by money, title and/or power over others. But these bromides are not the solutions that touch our daily lives and cannot be a basis for personal optimism.

It is not my intent to demean anticipated American achievements in space, economic dominance or the Olympic Games. These endeavors are promising and truly laudatory if realized. But they are not sufficient justification for a naïve and stilted vision of future prospects for Americans. In fact, they have little or no bearing on our individual success or failure in the game of life. They are merely contexts, along with everything else not directly connected with the daily choices we make in our lives. Is context important? Of course it is. But there are happy and fulfilled people living in our slums and in the war torn countries we’ve vacated (I’ve met more than a few personally). Their optimism is not based upon things outside of their control, but upon themselves. Certainly, like all of us, they hope for a better future. But they rely on their individual abilities to learn how to adapt to their circumstances, to create value and meaning in their everyday activities, to connect with and love the people in their lives, and to discover the uplifting virtue of gratitude for the experience of being alive. In the end, optimism is not something given to us by government or circumstances. It is a right we have to claim for ourselves. Otherwise, that right will be usurped by a sham.

Our lives are short, but the process of human evolution continues. Each of us is a seed—part of the new crop and the next harvest. So I remain optimistic and wish for you all a very happy new year.

Today I had to bundle up for my daily stroll, still eager to encounter what changes nature had prepared for me. The sparkle of summer has long since gone, and fall’s promise of winter haunts the cold air. Skeletal branches face the Artic draft stiff and leafless, and the mildly ruffled bay waters mirror a darkened sky. I walked alone to my favorite bayside spot, my self-proclaimed hidden cove, where I often keep lonely vigil. One day past I was greeted by a seal that suddenly broke the water’s surface and stared at me. Perhaps he was surprised to see a human so close to his natural habitat.

Two days ago, I was the one surprised to find another human near my little “cove.” He was sitting on a bench, reading a book, his bed roll and rucksack beside him. I had walked past him, not wanting to disturb his concentration. A few feet away, I stopped at the water’s edge. Looking across the bay at the dominant presence of Mt. Tamalpais, I was content to let the moment have its way with me. Then his words broke into my reverie, “What’s that you’re reading?” He had noticed the book I carried in my hand. And so we began a dialogue about many things—about books, world affairs, politics, and the state of America. His perspective was that of a homeless man, like an outsider peering through a crack in the wall. Given his point of view, the world seemed ruled by an evil force ruthlessly persistent in maintaining his estrangement from it. He blamed the Nazis for most everything. They were the evil force that explained it all. After about an hour, I was beginning to feel chilled and told him I had to leave. He rose and warmly shook my hand. It was only at that moment that I noticed his bare, sandal-clad feet. We parted on a first name basis. His name was Thomas, reminding me of his namesake in Shakespeare’s “King Lear.” In the words of Poor Tom, “Who alone suffers, suffers most in the mind.” But who am I to judge: I may be one of Thomas’ Nazis.

Yesterday, I returned to where I had met Thomas. As I approached the same bench, I noticed another man stretched across its full length. He was asleep. Most of his head was covered by a furry hood; his body, by a heavy parka; and his feet, by hiking boots. What caught my attention was the contentment that seemed to infuse his face in repose. Perhaps he was dreaming. If so, his subconscious was rewarding him with a tranquility rarely found in waking states. I remember walking away unable to shake his countenance from my mind. It made me wonder what places or experiences filled my dreams. Unless awakened while dreaming, I rarely remember “what dreams may come” out of my subconscious. If not in purgatory, maybe I frolic in Elysian Fields. But how can one know what passes unawares in slumber: I may be very like this dreamer in quiet repose.

Today I walked the same path and steered myself to the same bench. There was nothing there to arrest my attention or spur my imagination. So I walked on where the paved walkway becomes a dirt path bordering the water. Ahead I saw a man standing on a rock. He appeared from my vantage point to be levitating over the water, standing so precariously on the precipice of the rocky breakwater that holds back the bay. Drawing near, I quietly made to pass him when he turned his head and smiled at me. Without aforethought I said, “You’ve chosen a good vantage point.” He responded, “Yes, I have.” I made another innocuous remark and moved on, but the look on his face stayed with me. He had the same look of peace I saw on my dreamer the day before. But he was fully present and so totally connected that he seemed integral to the scene before him. As I reached the end of the path, I wondered about the nature of my connections. The only meaningful part of my encounter with “Poor Tom” was our warm handshake. The dreamer in repose showed me there was a state of consciousness in which one can find peace and contentment. But his was not a waking state. It offered nothing I could connect with. But the man on a rock was fully aware. His smile seemed to emanate from an inner serenity. The simplicity of his response offered no insight into his thoughts.

Turning around, I was determined to engage him in conversation. I walked quickly back to his vantage point until I could see clearly that he was no longer there. I stood before that same rock and weighed the whim that floated in my mind. Then I stepped onto the rock. It swayed a bit, for its base was not level on the ground beneath it. Momentarily I glanced at the rocks six or seven feet directly below the tips of my feet. Should I lose my balance, I would either have to step back off the rock or, falling forward, be compelled to push off clear of the rocks, diving for the safety of the water. I quickly refocused my wayward thoughts. As I looked out over the bay, my body calmed and steadied on its perch above the water. The ground beneath me seemed to fall away. I floated on the swell of the bay as the rising tide found its course between moon and earth. The air that gently brushed my face pushed the clouds ever so slowly along its northwesterly direction, bringing with it the promise of winter’s rain. I soared with the slow movement of those clouds. I hovered there, caught in the midst of countervailing forces, drawn into a limitless horizon, and lost to the benchmarks of time.

Was it the flash of eternity I felt or merely the presence of silence? Whatever it was, I know that many have shared my experience. These words are but the empty echoes of that silence.