WHY THE STORIES OF OUR LIVES?

I can tell stories of my various life experiences, yes, but to speak of or otherwise discuss these in a philosophical or spiritual or psychological manner requires that I use the pertinent languaging or terms. But I find this approach to be very limiting and restrained and false in that respect. How does one speak specifically in vague terms? One does not. One cannot. Instead, one tells a story and thus conveys the attainment of any “meaning” to the reader. One lets the reader draw the conclusions. Perhaps even leading the reader to what one does not particularly wish to conclude. 

     And what, after all, is "true"? Are our experiences of ourselves, as we tell them, accurate? True? I would say not. Not because we're liars, but because we have our particular and literal points of view. We see in the way that we see. Which is to say that there are things that we do not want to see about ourselves; things that we avoid. Such blind spots are not so conscious to us; we just don't see them because we don't want to see them. Our stories are primarily for ourselves, even to ourselves. That someone else might listen or even hear what we say is validation to us that we are telling the truth and even that we simply exist. 

    Some of us feel compelled to tell our stories. It's not just for "attention"; it's because there are "vital human lessons" to be gained from reading these stories. There is some kind of wisdom, or at least some kind of "wider experience of being" that people should be aware of for their own knowledge of being. That's precisely why, in my mind, I maintain this blog and why I write in it. Somewhere, weaving in and out of the words, is a kind of spirit. Call it even a demon if you want to. It has power and knows things; things beyond the notions of "good and evil." It just is and is present behind the words. I have faith in this much, though it is unseen and unknown and unmeasureable. 

MY CHILDHOOD QUANDARY ABOUT THE PRESENCE OF EVIL AND HOW I FINALLY CONJURED UP A DEMON

As a child, I was never particularly afraid of the Devil or devilish things. Rather, I was afraid of Dracula and Frankenstein, whom I could see lurking in the darkness of my closet just a few feet across from my bed at night. I was afraid of some creature that dwelt under my bed as well. I went to a Catholic grade school and high school, but they never talked much about the Devil or even evil. Mostly they talked about Christ and all his goodness and love and sacrifice for our sins. My father was often physically abusive of me but I never considered this to be evil even though it engendered much fear in me on a daily basis. In high school study hall, I noticed that someone long ago had scratched “I like Eich” upon a radiator. It was 1965 and the Holocaust had ended on 21 years ago and wasn’t a focus of history yet; I don’t recall it being taught in grade school at all. But I was somehow aware of it, probably due to the fact that many of my father’s friends and associates, especially in the legal professions and judicial systems, were Jewish, and in our many social interactions, probably spoke of the losses within their own families. But I hadn’t thought about it much at all until I saw this graffiti on the study hall radiator that was put there by a Catholic boy in my high school. I was horrified that someone at my school could have written this, thinking that they must be incredibly ignorant and hateful.

I realized that what happened to the Jews was evil. The evilness of it somehow seared into me like a laser. I felt the absolute unhumanness of it, the soullessness that could take over people’s minds, and allow them to kill with passion and faith.

          At this same time, 1965, the Civil Rights Movement was happening. Blacks were being subjected to beatings and hangings and shootings, and this was appearing in the news. As I watched this, I realized that this was another form of Holocaust, and was stunned by its utter evilness. I recognized how many people were stupid and ignorant, and had been raised and trained in a stupid, ignorant culture. I could not understand how Americans could treat other Americans in this way. I saw it as pure evil.

          There was a boy in my grade school when I was in fifth or sixth grade who became my friend. We played together and enjoyed each other’s company. The other kids seemed to shun him and someone said that his father have been a soldier in the Nazi army. I didn’t know how to respond to that. I didn’t want to ask the boy. I envisioned his father in a Nazi uniform and very frightening, for he must have killed Americans, and Jews too. But the boy was very kind and sweet, and I didn’t want to be mean to him by rejecting him. He invited me to his house, over on Eileen Street, not far from my house, to play and have a sandwich for lunch one Saturday. I was afraid that I would see his father but I went. We played in his back yard and then his father called out and told us to come in a get some lunch. I was terrified when I heard his voice; it sounded very harsh and severe. But I went in the house and sat down at the table anyway. The father came into the kitchen as we were eating the sandwiches. He was small and hunched over and looked very sad. He said “hello” to me, shook my hand gently, and smiled. I smiled back. I wanted to ask him is it is true that he was a Nazi soldier but I said nothing. He was so small and gentle and did not seem like he ever could have been a bad or cruel person in his life. I didn’t hate him and I wasn’t afraid. And he was here in America, so he must be a good man. That’s how I explained it to myself.

         

How I Conjured Up a Demon

When I was a freshman at Boston College, a Catholic university, I had a old Jesuit theology teacher who was quite “old-fashioned Irish” in his passionate faith and fear of the Devil. He spoke like an old-time preacher leading a revival meeting and talked a lot about Satan and demons and the like. I think it was his fear-mongering that got me interested in conjuring up a demon so that I could find out for myself if it was true or not. I checked the archives at the library and found all sorts of Puritan books from as early as the 17^th century, all speaking of devils and demons and Satan, and in great fear of the witches who held Black Masses in worship of them. I decided I would have a Black Mass in my dorm room on the second floor of Fenwick.

But in order to actually conjure up a demon, you had to follow the proper procedure and have the necessary accoutrements. I found a store in downtown Boston, near Beacon Hill, which was called, appropriately, The Coven Bookstore. I went there and found it to full of items which were necessary to conduct a Black Mass. I was helped by a few older women who were very interested in helping me to attain my goal of conjuring up a demon. They showed me a very old, black, leather-covered book that told how to conduct a Black Mass safely and how to bring a demon for assistance. The book smelled like waxy smoke and was very heavy. In it were precise instructions on how to draw a pentacle with various symbols and a circle in the middle in which the one who was conducting the Black Mass would stand for safety. They went through the book, almost page by page, with me, and were quite pleased. They actually lent me the book to use since they said it had much “conjuring power” itself. In addition I bought a large black candle, about four inches wide and four inches high that smelled of cannabis and honey, and a smaller “dab stick,” like a narrow, short piece of tallow that was to be heated up and then dabbed on one’s forehead, shoulders, and chest in a backwards sign of the cross. They told me any good Catholic cross would be sufficient.

          While I was at the bookstore, another woman, who was probably in her mid-20s, came over to me and struck up a conversation. She was perhaps six feet tall with long black hair and very pale skin, and wearing a long black cotton shift. Her name was Cassandra. I should not reveal her last name. She asked me if I wanted to come with her to her house so that she could throw the I Ching for me. I had no idea what she was talking about but she was pretty so I went with her in her car. She lived in a large “house” which had been built among the warehouses on the docks of Charleston. The building was very old and ornate and large and dark. She told me that these warehouses had been in her family, who had been shippers, for hundreds of years. They had been among the original Puritans and that one of her ancestors has been hung as a witch in Salem. She showed me a room full of Puritan furniture, books, scrolls, kitchenware, pans, utensils, tools, children’s toys, as well as public notices. Then she threw I Ching coins and read me “my future,” which indicated that I would choose not to kill my fellow man and might go to prison for doing so. Again, I had no idea what she was talking about, though five years later I would argue my case to be a Conscientious Objector rather than going to Vietnam and partake in the killing there and be willing to go prison for my beliefs, which prevailed.

          My dorm room, on the second floor, had a linoleum floor and cinderblock walls, with a bed on either side of the room, and a built-in dresser and desk at the foot of the bed. Outside the window was a floodlight that shown brightly into the room, even when the pastel green curtains were closed. For some reason, I ended up chalking the pentacle on the floor in front of my roommate’s dresser, while my roommate and two friends sat on my bed across the room, maybe five feet away from me. It was dark and late in the evening. The dorm was quiet. I had drawn the pentacle very carefully on the floor and the instruction was to stay inside the circle within the pentacle so as not to be harmed or even be taken by the demon. On the top of the dresser, which was over four feet tall, I placed the leather-bound book, the black candle, and a four-inch cross which was upside-down, up against the shaded lamp, which was not on. Light was provided by the candle and more so by the streetlight outside the window. I stepped into the circle, lit the candle, which had an oily, sweet, marijuana, smoky smell. I began reading the Black Mass in Latin, which I could read and somewhat understood, having taken it for four years in high school and now at college, turning each page carefully. I read for perhaps fifteen minutes and noticed that the room was getting quite smoky and dark. The candle was burning bright enough for me to read but the room had become an inky black and I couldn’t see anything else, including my friends sitting on the bed.

          Suddenly, I heard what sounded like body punches and groans. It sounded as if my friends were being physically attacked. I heard them trying to get up to run out of the room. I panicked and stepped out of the circle. At that moment I saw a hideous face just six inches in front of my face. It was a demon. Its face was like a very muscular hairless black cat with bat ears, sharp features, and firey red eyes. Its mouth was small and open with no teeth but an immense tongue. The face was there for only a second, after which it moved away from me, and I literally saw a small black fist come at my face in an instant and hit me so hard in the jaw and cheek that the room spun and I lost consciousness. I don’t know how long I was on the floor knocked-out but when I awoke, the room was clear, my friends had turned the overhead light on and were coming over to me. They had been punched in their faces, which were swollen and with red marks. My right cheek and jaw were swollen and painful. When I went to the ER later that night, I was told that my jawbone had been splintered a bit but would be ok. My friends hadn’t seen anything come at them; they said it was as if they were attacked by an invisible force. The candle had burned all the way to the bottom of the wick, but the book had vanished! There was nowhere it could have fallen to since everything was built-in to the wall; it was simply gone. My friends were so freaked out that they never even talked about what happened after that night. None of us believed in demons.

THE ODDITY OF BEING IN THE FLESH

In due time, after a life, we leave our bodies, generally as old flesh rag dolls, and weep our hearts out for the “loss of our loved ones” that has just occurred. None of this is “absurd” in itself; it just all happens as it happens. It is “real” in its own way but only that. The great problem and absurdity is that WE THINK IT IS REAL. We do exist, yes, but WE THINK THAT THIS HERE AND NOW IS ALL THAT THERE IS; we fail to see the obvious: the flesh puppets are only real until they are not, which is a very short matter in the scheme of it all. I am always aware of this and, while not always, have been rather aware of it my whole life, especially since I had what might be called an “out of body experience” when I was very sick at the age of seven, and then I saw my dead grandfather’s body when I was ten. That really cemented it for me; I knew that this was some kind of passing fancy. It wasn’t something I even had to remember because it was just so obvious to me. I even saw people as somehow already deceased—not in a morbid or fearful way but simply as how it is. I suppose this created a kind of detachment and a dissociation to a certain extent within me, but even a detachment from myself as though I were not quite real and surely quite temporal in existence. Though I was raised and educated in Roman Catholicism, I never quite believed that Heaven or Hell would follow an existence, especially, at age seven, after “meeting” and getting to know the ghost of the suicide who “lived” in my bedroom, the same place he killed himself prior to my moving there. I was quite aware of what might be called “after death dimensions” of existence, but at the time really had no concept of reincarnation, though this was to come to me rather strongly in my teenage years, especially after I joined the Rosicrucians (AMORC) at age 16 and then had my first bona fide past life experience at age 21, though it had also been clearly presented to me, when I was 19, by a person whom I met and am still friends with who knew me from a past life of 250 years ago.

          I have held numerous beliefs regarding reincarnation throughout my life but it was the actually experiences of past lives, some of which were independently corroborated and some of which could be placed in specific historical date, time, and place. In a certain sense, such past lives could be “proven” but such experiences are not about that; they are simply to be recognized rather than dwelled upon. One must live as who one is now, even in the obvious knowledge that it is most temporary and that over-identification with one’s self put one at an obvious disadvantage when it is time to move on.

          Being in the flesh on the third planet from the sun amazes me just about every single day. It is beautiful here and there is also the literal pain as the body deteriorates, as well as the emotional and mental pain. Of course there is obvious joy as well. I agree with Gibran that only those “who cry all of their tears and laugh all of their laughter” truly live, to paraphrase. The closer one is to the transitory nature of existence, including death itself, the closer one is to life itself. But, as I already said, we must, for our own sakes and sanity, not believe too much of what we think we are. Life is sacred, yes, and it passes to other states of being before we know it. Therefore it is best that we know ourselves, which is to say, what all “this” is.

THE DUALISM OF WESTERN THOUGHT FINDS SOLUTION IN THE UNITY OF EASTERN THOUGHT

Having read both Mircea Eliade and Michael Novak, the first a mytho-philosopher who taught in the History of Religion Department at the University of Chicago, and the second a renowned Christian philosopher, in The Myth of the Eternal Return or Cosmos and History, and Belief and Unbelief, I find that I see a gap in their lack of understanding of Buddhist thought and the “middle way.” For they both, though most articulate and with a great expanse of knowledge and understanding, are limited by mindset and dualistic belief. Eliade presents a human condition in which one is either “sacred or profane,” locked into either an “archaic cosmological (sacred)” or a “modern historical (profane)” system of belief and existence. Novak claims that one “chooses” belief in God or not, which, in my estimation, rather, is an “evolving awareness” than any kind of decisive choice.

           Eliade’s contrasts the archaic/cosmological/cyclical (circular)/spiritual man with the modern/historical/linear/scientific man. From the Western dualistic perspective, his conclusions are dramatic and fascinating. Similar to Novak, Eliade’s spirit versus matter, belief in God versus unbelief in God present a diametrical opposition, the option of either-or; the twain cannot meet. Eliade is compelling and concludes that the only obvious choice is that of archaic man: belief in God, specifically the Christian God. Throughout his book, he seems to objectively present the arguments of both sides, even as Novak presents those of the believer versus the non-believer, be he atheist or agnostic.

          Both Eliade and Novak both perceive only from the Western (Judeo-Christian) dualistic mind. They both fail to present the “middle way” of Buddhism which reveals a mind-body unity rather than opposition or at least a co-existence between spirit and matter with an avoidance of extremes, be they physical or spiritual. The body has its place, its realm, as does the mind/spirit/soul. Eliade does include Buddhism in his discussion but essentially dismisses it as leading to “negativism.” This is an oversimplification which, in itself, is only a part of the equation of being as presented in Buddhism (though there are many different Buddhist sects and perspectives) and is accordingly inaccurate.

          I adhere to the notion of the Middle Way. Its primary principle is that through practice of Buddhist meditation one comes to see and understand the transitory and temporary nature of the flesh and the material world, and, consequently, is no longer so utterly occupied and directed by it in one’s actions and being. With such an understanding, one realizes that one cannot abandon one’s survival in the body and the world as long as one exists in it and of it. But one is no longer in bondage to the flesh or the world, which is to say that the body is recognized in itself and as itself, that is, with its appetites. One naturally adopts and adapts a moderation in both the physical and the spiritual process of living. Such is the logic of the Middle Way as I see it—and it remains easier said than done. I have been practicing zazen for forty-five years and I can see that this kind of mind-body co-existence with the extremes of over-indulgence or self-mortification is a possible synthesis of human life.

          There is much more to be said about this topic and I hope to approach it more in the future.

YOUTH AND AGE, CREATIVITY AND MEMORIES

It is important that we come to know ourselves so that we are not so unconscious that we find ourselves reacting to what is in fear and confusion. When we do this we affect the well-being of others and also create an ongoing pattern of behavior within ourselves. But “knowing oneself” is a bit like trying to hit a moving target as you yourself are moving as well. I have been practicing zazen for forty-five years, with many breaks but a consistency and somewhat of a discipline at times. I don’t see that doing this has necessarily affected me, but it has. I see that “knowing yourself” is a bit like the carrot held in front of the donkey to keep it going. But I also see that there is no alternative: if one is alive, then one must live, and to live, one must be alive; one needs to be aware of oneself and just how one is if one is to properly be in the world.

          Living your life is difficult, for you must be willing to accept that which seems impossible to accept. If you don’t, you go into a reactive state of ignore-ance. You cannot ignore what is. Of course I mean “me” when I say “you.” I see the state of my wife’s medical condition and I would do anything to be able not to. But this does not help her; in fact, it makes her life more difficult and painful. And “she” is not just her but everyone who suffers. I want so much that she could be happy and energetic, in other words, not the way she is. Accepting what is is always heart-breaking, for it demands that one give up their false reality, their dream of how life must be or even should be. One must grasp the new reality, even as that reality itself changes as life changes.

          The years of sitting zazen have given me an experience of a greater context of being, of existence, of self, though, within this context there remains a degree of ignorance and fear, anger and sadness, all as a result of my on-going failure to see and then accept things as they are. But even that failure I am now able to see as within the greater context of being alive. Zazen is not meant to provide an escape from the intimacy and loss and pain of our lives; in fact, it puts us right into it. Very gradually our self-identification is subtly altered; we become more than we thought or think we are. We get beyond ourselves though our selves remain with us. It’s almost like having a demanding child always present and needing attention, or, for that matter, a most sorrowful, neglected child always present and needing attention. We all have our reasons why this may be so and they can be quite valid, though always simplistic. It’s the story we tell ourselves. Mine is quite convincing: I was born six weeks premature, was put in a little plastic incubator with a heat lamp (like they use for motherless chickens), was bottle-fed and kept away from my mother for a total of three months. This naturally developed into autism, of which I exhibited symptoms for years as I was trying to “grow up.” And since I was never satisfied with the level of attention paid to me by my father, I was never happy with him, (and was affected with autistic symptoms), and was defiant, as a result of which he grew angry and was physically abusive of me as early as age three. His father had abused him; he felt that this was what was necessary. So I ended up as growing up as a “misunderstood child” who felt quite alone and could trust no one which did not prepare me adequately for “being in the world.”

          So, without all the details, I ended up taking a rather reflective and educational life path, which eventually more or less seemed to “work out” in most ways to provide me with a “successive life in the world” with responsibilities of a wife and two children. There were many disconnections: I just didn’t know how to relate as a human being. This was problematic and had many repercussions. For I never really learned just how to be a “real human being.” Finally, after thirty years and two wives and financial success and a family, I arrive at my third marriage with eyes more open and must more understanding and acceptance available between us.

          For the last number of year I have been “naturally creative” and desirous of actually being able to help others, for I earned a Ph.D. in Jungian Mythological Studies and Depth Psychology, and wrote a good, long-winded book on depression which actually did have the affect of touching a few lives. All that I had learned and experienced over the years and the workshops I gave at schools and to the public was provided; people liked it. But I had to stop to be able to become caregiver to my wife, for she was my main concern.

          I could still write so I worked on a fairly frequent blog but I began to lose focus on the creative aspect as “stories arose from within me,” otherwise known as memories. I realized that it may just happen that as one ages, past memories of events in one’s life appear strongly in one’s mind. I attribute this to the need to both review our lives with our many “sins,” and find closure, forgiveness, self-understanding before our lives end. Old people tend to talk about their memories, their lives, and thus “get it off their chest,” which seems to be a reference to the demon succubus or incubus that sits upon one’s chest in the darkness of night. Together or alone, old people talk it out amongst themselves, amongst hearers and listeners who are all fellow sinners, that is, have all made serious mistakes in their lives. Youth itself is a series of such serious mistakes in which our own natural narcissism wreaks havoc in the lives of others and causes deep hurt. So we must outlive our youth and spend the rest of our lives making amends. Work and family may fit into this category of “becoming an upstanding member of society.” I did—to all appearances, while inside I saw “right through” conventional society as though it were a transparent veil, never able to accept the seething, writhing mass that lay beneath it and stood behind it. I always did believe in the “goodness in the hearts” of people but also saw that they were crushed under the wheels of the great locomotive of society, progress, and what passed for organized truth.  The young are thus forced to find their own truth within their own hearts and minds.       

CYCLES OF BEING HUMAN

I am “driven” not by epistemological concerns but by ontological ones. In other words, it matters not a whit to me whether I believe in God or not, for that is not the question. The question is: What is the nature of being? To be or not be, that is the question. But since I already am being here and now, in light of all the pain and drawbacks and physical deterioration, I am more concerned with being alive in this body, though I realize that our lives, which include our ability to reflect upon our “condition” and state, should be used to consider and prepare for the state that occurs when our lives are done.

          I so often speak of “the great river of sorrow” that flows beneath the surface of our being and our awareness, for some, including myself, all too often overflowing its subsurface containment and overwhelming us, even drowning us. But in my experience when younger as a “body surfer” in the waves of New Jersey and even California, I have been engulfed and swept under by many a giant wave that turned, twisted, and threw me into hard and rough surfaces beneath the surface, but always to find myself rolled and scraped up onto the beach, gasping for breath. In other words, I have not drowned, but have been ejected from the mouth of the whale, as it were (though that, admittedly, is a rather different story). Still, it feels as if you have been swallowed whole and tossed into watery darkness.

          At this point I am rather accustomed to the supreme sorrow that arises and rules for a time. I cry tears for the pain of the people in their hearts and their souls, for we all are rendered as one in our humanness. We have known wholeness and the brightest light as inherent to ourself and remember this in some way even as we seem to float endlessly upon a great dark sea perpetually waiting to swallow us and does swallow us, only to spit us back upon ourselves once more. In time we may become aware of this endless process or cycle of existence. The walls we have constructed around ourselves seem to protect us from a threatening, invasive world, but they also imprison us within ourselves and our world. The world is in us just as much as it is outside of us, even as self-understanding and divine love is within us. Our sorrow is real; we feel it to the bone, to the essence of our being. And, as painful as they may be, our own tears cleanse us; the sea that swallows us also purifies us, washing away the walls we have built around ourselves as if they were sand castles at high tide.

A FEW "EXPLANATORY" THOUGHTS AND "THE BEST POSSIBLE PREPARATION" FOR LIVING

I am quite aware that probably not quite everyone writes a blog. For some it may be much the same as “taking a selfie,” which is to say, “Here I am. Look at me. Pay attention. I exist. This is proof to all!” As narcissistic as I may be, I don’t think that’s quite my intention. Today, while waiting for a PT session for my wife, I handwrote the following in my journal:

So I say what I say in my blog—which is my attempt to make sense of life and convey that to myself, though also to others. I feel satisfied that I am doing this, though also rather exposed to judgment from others (and myself) and some embarrassment. But life is a search, a quest. Life is a search for meaning and I have searched just about my whole life. I don’t know if it is right or proper to share such a seemingly personal quest. Doing so makes me feel vulnerable and embarrassed, but it is not just my search, my quest; it is something I believe I have in common with just about everyone. Thus I do not see it as only my quest. If my own experience or what I have to convey can help anyone to attain any insight or understanding in their own search, it is worthwhile. I have to accept myself in this role—with all my flaws and self-criticism—and the more I do, the more “natural” such sharing becomes to me. It becomes not so much a sharing of my quest but a contribution to all our quests.

And later, as I waited outside in the car, while my wife, moving quite slowly, shopped for a few food items, I handwrote the following in the journal:

All these endless tasks to do—but such is life; such is my life. I count my blessings. I am most fortunate—even though my wife suffers. I am here to help her, to take care of her. I will see her through it, believing her healing or improving to be quite possible—only a matter of time in fact. (Such is my perpetual wishful thinking.)  And I worry, yes. And I am anxious, yes. And I even have my sometimes severe pain, yes. But such is life and I know this. In truth, what else is to be expected? When the worse happens, the worst happens. And sometimes the best too. Not to worry; it will happen as it does. That understanding is the best possible preparation. God did not do it to us; he’s been asleep on the couch for billions of years. I simply don’t have a “need to believe” in that. Better to be able and willing to see the goodness in the hearts of human beings, including my own.