While Donald Trump may be colossally unworthy of our trust to be president, there is one thing about him I honor: his role in making saints. (Not that he knows he’s doing so.) I’m not cracking wise here. If a saint is somebody who has compassion for everyone all the time, Mr. Trump is among the masters who serve those of us who hunger to grow that skill.
Steve Roberts – Page 11
If you’re like me, daydreaming of moderating a presidential debate, and are contemplating what questions, or requests, you might ask the candidates to address, allow me to share the first ten items on my list. No gotchas. Just simple, open-ended, non-judgmental queries a candidate can either knock out of the park or hang themselves with––depending on how well they know the person in the mirror, and how willing they are to be frank.
I was recently initiated into that exclusive club: “By Far The Worst Pain I’ve Ever Experienced Or Ever Hope To.” A few kidney stones had decided it was time leave the mother ship. I’m told some women say it’s the equivalent of childbirth. Perhaps the biggest gift of this assault (after the sweet kiss of lightning drugs) is its impact on my struggle with violence. Awakened is a new depth of reality: I would never want to inflict on another the pain of my recent trips to the ER. And that’s not always been the case.
I’m not a murderer in this life, nor is physical force my default tool for navigating the world, but its propensity, its vibration, is an intimate, familiar presence in my being from incarnations past. Going by my father and his father, as well as my mother, I chose in this life a genetic lineage that included its fair share of rigidity, rage, control, and unpredictable violence. That imprint is one of my sacred teachers, something I’ve needed to embrace and free. My wife, my dearest friend for more than 40 years, who has never come close to threatening me physically, and who regularly touches me lovingly––even she finds there are still occasions when, reaching her hand to my cheek, I flinch.
What’s special about them, given their age, is the quality of light their presence contributes. To me, experiencing that light is like a kiss from the gods.
Hanging out before a recent family wedding, I say to my 17 year-old nephew, Jordan, whom I’d seldom seen and with whom I’d never had a real conversation, “So, here’s my question to you. Let’s assume we never meet again after today. At my age, and how infrequently our paths cross, that’s a definite possibility. What I’d love to know, if you’re willing to share, is––what is the most important thing you’ve learned in 17 years?” After several seconds reflection, he says, “You can influence others a lot more with compassion than in any other way.”
I don’t know how I might have answered such a question at his age, but that sure wasn’t it. “Wow,” I say. “Good for you. How did you learn that?”
“From watching the people around me,” he says.
And so began a lovely chat I hope we continue about what it means to be an awake human being––just about my favorite topic.
In honor of the 2015 Supreme Court decision on gay marriage, an essay from 2009:
Vermont’s historic legislative affirmation of gay marriage is a beautiful thing. But that doesn’t stop me from rolling my eyes. That we debate the appropriateness of the heart’s elemental impulse to join with one’s beloved suggests just how young we are in the scheme of human evolution. Heck, a turnip should be able to marry a basketball, if such an act increases the world’s love supply.
Now there’s a dangerous possibility.
What if boosting the planet’s woo-woo quotient were indeed the criterion to marry––or, more significantly, to stay married. Given our nation’s divorce rate (50 percent, give or take), a whole bunch of us might not make the cut.
Just as we renew our driver’s license, we and our spouse would have our heart’s union assayed every so often. Don’t laugh, we have the technology. Check the book Blink by Malcolm Gladwell, or the 2009 TV drama “Lie to Me”. And if we’re not generating good vibrations, our marriage license is suspended til we wise up.
My Other Website
"The push to change the words “nigger” and “injun” in Mark Twain’s Huckleberry Finn, because the so-called offensive nature of those terms might limit today’s readership and appreciation of that literary classic, is a wonderful opportunity to reflect on how we avoid taking responsibility for our feelings––and therefore miss the chance to become more awake, more whole, more useful friends to one another."
The Essay: The Gold in Niggers and Injuns
