Our theme of “don’t be a wage slave” (DBAWageslave.com) is predicated on undertaking a deep study of who you are as a human being — that beautiful you! To this end, I have tried to be open about my life journey, neither to instruct nor to lecture, but to give an example of “a life.” I recently had my sixty-first birthday. It was a seminal moment, not because of the time, but due to what occurred during this period. I believe in phases: in my estimation, we have three of them. The first is from when you are born until you turn thirty: you are finishing your formal education, perhaps starting a family and embarking on a career. From thirty-one to sixty, you are developing your profession; hopefully making some money and watching your children grow up and begin their own lives. The third phase, from sixty-one onward, is when – to paraphrase Todd Henry – you learn to die empty. “Passion has its roots in the Latin word pati, which means ‘to suffer or endure.’ Therefore, at the root of passion is suffering. This is a far cry from the way we casually toss around the word in our day-to-day conversations. Instead of asking ‘What would bring me enjoyment?’ which is how many people think about following their passion, we should instead ask ‘What work am I willing to suffer for today?’ Great work requires suffering for something beyond yourself. It’s created when you bend your life around a mission and spend yourself on something you deem worthy of your best effort. What is your worthwhile cause?” (1) At sixty-one, I have come to “truly know that I know nothing” because there is so much to learn — the lake of knowledge being immense and, of course, endless.
On my fiftieth birthday, I was walking in a park with my friend and, suddenly, a tiny dog, a puppy, began following us. I opened the car door and the animal jumped in. Only the most black-hearted could have forced her out of the vehicle. So we took her home for “just a few days” to feed her and give her a bath. Well, you know the story: she never left. Now, I am not a “dog person,” but this little creature began to “grow on me.” She would study you with those enormous eyes when you arrived home: disheveled, tired, and somewhat beaten by the world. She seemed to understand the value of life itself. Then it began: I stopped randomly killing things. Firstly, the ubiquitous “summer ants,” next mosquitoes (though certainly not 100%), and finally, I stopped killing the much-maligned cockroach. I mentioned this, in passing, to my students. They gave me that “old-man stupid look.” I simply asked the question: “Why was it necessary, if they were not in your home or not bothering you? They are part of the ecosystem, so they must be necessary, for whatever reason: Occam’s Razor (2)” Nature began to open up: my red-meat consumption declined precipitously, my weight dropped, I joined a gym. Overall, I felt better, more in tune with “the universe,” whatever that means.
Then, on my sixty-first birthday, she died. I felt as if I was being told that the first phase of my education was over and I was being instructed to go on alone. I was greatly saddened, and flummoxed, so I wrote a note that I would like to share with you — the dog’s name was Molly:
“Dear Molly, I wish you well in your journey. May your sails always be open and the wind at your back. What lessons have you taught us in your brief life? The most indelible must be that of acceptance: the way you embraced and tolerated all things and all creatures, both great and small. It made us question why there is so much conflict in the world and not more peace. The lesson of calmness was also given. Even when we were distraught, you were always there with a careful nuzzle or a tender kiss. Your energy and vivacity was continuous, hopeful without end. I love you, Moll. Please take care in the universe. God bless.
Dear Mag, I am in a state of deep, deep sorrow at the seemingly abrupt passing of Molly. Please accept my condolences. I am bereft of a voice to express how perplexed I feel. She was everything a person wanted in a friend: loyal, thoughtful, tender, caring and brave. More importantly, she provided a link to a world that we cannot adequately understand because our senses are not so enhanced — hers were. I remind myself that life is ephemeral. If this is true, what can I take away from her life: a life that has still left me here in my own mind – lonely and isolated in its consciousness? What we have are our memories – the memories that began by a chance meeting in a park. She chose us: she could always tell good people. Molly, the name we decided upon, suited her personality perfectly. Molly means “wished for” and, coincidentally “rebellious.” She was wished for and rebellious, in her own loving and considerate way. How many pieces of furniture were aesthetically altered so she could feel at home? Your patient guidance matured her into a beautiful and kind being. I always appreciated how she would greet me at the door: thoughtful, very thoughtful. Her prudent gaze reduced every situation to its core meaning: tensions were quickly defused. She was our light. In the future, she will forever guide our activities and behavior from her vantage point in heaven. We will always miss her and love her. She will eternally remain safe and secure in our hearts.” When we finally resolve the problems of the world — which I believe we will – it will most certainly because we have finally come to understand our place in the universe. We will have learned “true” acceptance of all peoples and all things, whether we are vegetarian or not, and, God-willing, we will learn to intelligently use Earth’s resources. We will truly “Go Green.” (3) The great humanist and environmentalist, Henry David Thoreau (1817-1862), leaves us with a thought: As a single footstep will not make a path on the earth, so a single thought will not make a pathway in the mind. To make a deep physical path, we walk again and again. To make a deep mental path, we must think over and over the kind of thoughts we wish to dominate our lives.
A closing thought: Whenever I have the opportunity, I often look at what people are looking at on their cell phones, at stop lights or on public transportation, etc. Young people scroll and send messages — in remarkably little time: I have counted up to five messages at a single red light. Older people play games, and usually not intelligent games. If the secret to all change is through education, we have some work to do. Let us not forget: sixty million (Did I say million?) people “voted” for Donald J. Trump. Our job, as citizens of Earth, is simply to question, in a Socratic way (4), to get to the truth of the matter. Stupidity and ignorance are no longer excuses in the Internet Age.
To sum up: This week we spoke about the qualities of being alive and sensitive. To truly find your life mission, you must be in tune with the world around you. I related some personal experiences.
An amusing occurrence (that could have had serious consequences): We are all tired of the rain: it seems to go on and on. Where I was born, however, on the west coast of Vancouver Island in Canada, it can incessantly rain for as long as eight months. As children, we were, therefore, always wet. My parents were somewhat affluent so the family had a drying machine, a drier, but the sheer volume of clothes could not be kept up with. They, therefore, had a drying room with a wood burning stove. This one day, I was home alone with one of my younger brothers. Now, most of my family is blond and blue-eyed: the blond gene being dominant. I take after my father and I am quite dark with curly hair. When blond children are young, their hair is always white and translucent. This one day, the woodstove had gone out and it was cold and wet. It just wouldn’t light. Only from a demon could this thought have sprung. “Get some of your father’s gasoline and throw it on top of the kindling, or sticks, to assist in the lighting of the fire.” This was strictly, strictly forbidden, but the devil won out. I unlocked my father’s workshop (no one knew where he hid the key, but I did), I then unlocked the next small room – where he kept all his oil, grease and gasoline. My father was a “handyman,” typical for his generation, and could fix and build anything — from cars to toboggans (used to slide down hills in the snow). I liberally sprinkled the liquid on the wood. I got my brother to hold up the lid as I threw in the match. Nothing and then, what could only be described as, a slight “puff.” My shirt literally fell off. My brother, conversely, who was closer to the fireball, had the top of his hair and his eyebrows singed off. He began to weep: he was six – I was twelve. I took him into the shower to wash him and remove any untoward signs of the accident: for this was what it was – an accident! I then gave my brother “the talk.” “If you tell our parents anything, you die!” Sitting at the dining-room table over supper, my mother, the ever-present “policeman,” could suspect that something was untoward. I silenced by brother’s attempts at unveiling the truth by my threatening look: remember!
Just for fun: Anoushka Shankar & Joshua Bell – Live at Verbier Festival
This week, please think about your own level of sensitivity to your environment.
Every day look for something magical and beautiful.
Quote: Life is a grand cornucopia of experiences: enjoy them in their fullness
Footnotes:
1) Die Empty: Unleash Your Best Work Every Day (ISBN 978-15918-4699-4)