Author: Mary

I am a recently retired college professor. Up until June 2012 I taught human behavior and the social environment, social justice and human rights at Monmouth University, in the school of social work. My great joys are reading and telling stories! Reading and thinking about the meaning and implications of what is written. Good literature has the potential of alchemy! of social change toward a world where social and economic justice is respected and where human rights are celebrated.

The Genesis of online trade and communication by Ann O. Nymous

On By MaryIn laughter1 Comment

Nope, I did not write this. It came to me as a gift, and I just had to share it here with anyone who would read it.  Yep, the connection to social justice is tenuous at best, but it is belly laugh funny, and a good laugh is healing to the soul, and a healthy soul is rejuvenating for the work of social justice and human rights! and besides, it was written by one of my favorite woman authors: Ann O. Nymous!!  so, read on, and enjoy!!! ….

The Genesis of online trade and communication

Ann O. Nymous  

 In ancient Israel, it came to pass that a trader by the name of Abraham Com did take unto himself a young wife by the name of Dorothy. And Dot Com was a comely woman, broad of shoulder and long of leg. Indeed, she was often called Amazon Dot Com.

 And she said unto Abraham, her husband, “Why dost thou travel so far from town to town with thy goods when thou canst trade without ever leaving thy tent?”

 And Abraham did look at her as though she were several saddle bags short of a camel load, but simply said, “How, dear?”

 And Dot replied, “I will place drums in all the towns and drums in between to send messages saying what you have for sale, and they will reply telling you who hath the best price. The sale can be made on the drums and delivery made by Uriah’s Pony Stable (UPS).”

 Abraham thought long and decided he would let Dot have her way with the drums. And the drums rang out and were an immediate success. Abraham sold all the goods he had at the top price, without ever having to move from his tent.

 To prevent neighboring countries from overhearing what the drums were saying, Dot devised a system that only she and the drummers knew. It was known as Must Send Drum Over Sound (MSDOS), and she also developed a language to transmit ideas and pictures – Hebrew To The People (HTTP).

 And the young men did take to Dot Com’s trading as doth the greedy horsefly take to camel dung. They were called Nomadic Ecclesiastical Rich Dominican Sybarites, or NERDS.

 And lo, the land was so feverish with joy at the new riches and the deafening sound of drums that no one noticed that the real riches were going to that enterprising drum dealer, Brother William of Gates, who bought off every drum maker in the land. Indeed he did insist on drums to be made that would work only with Brother Gates’ drumheads and drumsticks.

 And Dot did say, “Oh, Abraham, what we have started is being taken over by others.”

 And Abraham looked out over the Bay of Ezekiel , or eBay as it came to be known.

 He said, “We need a name that reflects what we are.”

 And Dot replied, “Young Ambitious Hebrew Owner Operators.”

 “YAHOO,” said Abraham.

 And because it was Dot’s idea, they named it YAHOO Dot Com.

 Abraham’s cousin, Joshua, being the young Gregarious Energetic Educated Kid (GEEK) that he was, soon started using Dot’s drums to locate things around the countryside.

 It soon became known as God’s Own Official Guide to Locating Everything (GOOGLE).

 That is how it all began. And that’s the truth as it is known to us.

The War Prayer by Mark Twain

On By MaryIn ethics, growth into humanity, Peace, social justice4 Comments

 

Mark Twain surely was one of America’s great authors. He may be best known for his books “The Adventures of Tom Sawyer” and “The Adventures of Huckleberry  Finn.” Both are fine books, not without their flaws or controversy, but quite fine. However, my favorite piece of his writing is the War Prayer. It too is not without its flaws or controversy. All the more reason then to give it a read. …

So, here it is, please have a read – all the way to the end if you would, please? Then, do let me know what you think? it is after all a think piece…

 The War Prayer   by Mark Twain

It was a time of great and exalting excitement. The country was up in arms, the war was on, in every breast burned the holy fire of patriotism; the drums were beating, the bands playing, the toy pistols popping, the bunched firecrackers hissing and spluttering; on every hand and far down the receding and fading spread of roofs and balconies a fluttering wilderness of flags flashed in the sun; daily the young volunteers marched down the wide avenue gay and fine in their new uniforms, the proud fathers and mothers and sisters and sweethearts cheering them with voices choked with happy emotion as they swung by; nightly the packed mass meetings listened, panting, to patriot oratory with stirred the deepest deeps of their hearts, and which they interrupted at briefest intervals with cyclones of applause, the tears running down their cheeks the while; in the churches the pastors preached devotion to flag and country, and invoked the God of Battles beseeching His aid in our good cause in outpourings of fervid eloquence which moved every listener.

It was indeed a glad and gracious time, and the half dozen rash spirits that ventured to disapprove of the war and cast a doubt upon its righteousness straightway got such a stern and angry warning that for their personal safety’s sake they quickly shrank out of sight and offended no more in that way.

Sunday morning came — next day the battalions would leave for the front; the church was filled; the volunteers were there, their young faces alight with martial dreams — visions of the stern advance, the gathering momentum, the rushing charge, the flashing sabers, the flight of the foe, the tumult, the enveloping smoke, the fierce pursuit, the surrender!

Then home from the war, bronzed heroes, welcomed, adored, submerged in golden seas of glory! With the volunteers sat their dear ones, proud, happy, and envied by the neighbors and friends who had no sons and brothers to send forth to the field of honor, there to win for the flag, or, failing, die the noblest of noble deaths. The service proceeded; a war chapter from the Old Testament was read; the first prayer was said; it was followed by an organ burst that shook the building, and with one impulse the house rose, with glowing eyes and beating hearts, and poured out that tremendous invocation:

God the all-terrible! Thou who ordainest,
Thunder thy clarion and lightning thy sword!

Then came the “long” prayer. None could remember the like of it for passionate pleading and moving and beautiful language. The burden of its supplication was, that an ever-merciful and benignant Father of us all would watch over our noble young soldiers, and aid, comfort, and encourage them in their patriotic work; bless them, shield them in the day of battle and the hour of peril, bear them in His mighty hand, make them strong and confident, invincible in the bloody onset; help them crush the foe, grant to them and to their flag and country imperishable honor and glory —

An aged stranger entered and moved with slow and noiseless step up the main aisle, his eyes fixed upon the minister, his long body clothed in a robe that reached to his feet, his head bare, his white hair descending in a frothy cataract to his shoulders, his seamy face unnaturally pale, pale even to ghastliness. With all eyes following him and wondering, he made his silent way; without pausing, he ascended to the preacher’s side and stood there waiting. With shut lids the preacher, unconscious of his presence, continued his moving prayer, and at last finished it with the words, uttered in fervent appeal, “Bless our arms, grant us the victory, O Lord and God, Father and Protector of our land and flag!”

The stranger touched his arm, motioned him to step aside — which the startled minister did — and took his place. During some moments he surveyed the spellbound audience with solemn eyes, in which burned an uncanny light; then in a deep voice he said:

“I come from the Throne — bearing a message from Almighty God!” The words smote the house with a shock; if the stranger perceived it he gave no attention. “He has heard the prayer of His servant your shepherd, and will grant it if such be your desire after I, His messenger, shall have explained to you its import — that is to say, its full import. For it is like unto many of the prayers of men, in that it asks for more than he who utters it is aware of — except he pause and think. “God’s servant and yours has prayed his prayer. Has he paused and taken thought? Is it one prayer? No, it is two — one uttered, and the other not. Both have reached the ear of Him who heareth all supplications, the spoken and the unspoken. Ponder this — keep it in mind. If you would beseech a blessing upon yourself, beware! lest without intent you invoke a curse upon your neighbor at the same time. If you pray for the blessing of rain on your crop which needs it, by that act you are possibly praying for a curse on some neighbor’s crop which may not need rain and can be injured by it.

“You have heard your servant’s prayer — the uttered part of it. I am commissioned by God to put into words the other part of it — that part which the pastor — and also you in your hearts — fervently prayed silently. And ignorantly and unthinkingly? God grant that it was so! You heard the words ‘Grant us the victory, O Lord our God!’ That is sufficient. The whole of the uttered prayer is compact into those pregnant words. Elaborations were not necessary. When you have prayed for victory you have prayed for many unmentioned results which follow victory — must follow it, cannot help but follow it. Upon the listening spirit of God fell also the unspoken part of the prayer. He commandeth me to put it into words. Listen!

“Lord our Father, our young patriots, idols of our hearts, go forth into battle — be Thou near them! With them — in spirit — we also go forth from the sweet peace of our beloved firesides to smite the foe. O Lord our God, help us tear their soldiers to bloody shreds with our shells; help us to cover their smiling fields with the pale forms of their patriot dead; help us to drown the thunder of the guns with the shrieks of their wounded, writhing in pain; help us to lay waste their humble homes with a hurricane of fire; help us to wring the hearts of their unoffending widows with unavailing grief; help us to turn them out roofless with their little children to wander unfriended in the wastes of their desolated land in rags and hunger and thirst, sports of the sun flames in summer and the icy winds of winter, broken in spirit, worn with travail, imploring thee for the refuge of the grave and denied it —

For our sakes who adore Thee, Lord, blast their hopes, blight their lives, protract their bitter pilgrimage, make heavy their steps, water their way with their tears, stain the white snow with the blood of their wounded feet!

We ask it, in the spirit of love, of Him Who is the Source of Love, and Who is the ever-faithful refuge and friend of all that are sore beset and seek His aid with humble and contrite hearts. Amen.

(After a pause.) “Ye have prayed it; if ye still desire it, speak! The messenger of the Most High waits.”

…

It was believed afterward that the man was a lunatic, because there was no sense in what he said.

Damned if you do, damned if you don’t. No good deed goes unpunished

On By MaryIn Choices we make, paradoxes, stories for social changeLeave a comment

Once upon a time in social work, psychology and even psychiatry there was a construct, a belief in the schizophrenogenic mother. It wasn’t that the devil made you do it, it was just that your mother simply made you crazy, very nearly literally she made you crazy.  The process was even elegantly illustrated by stories that went something like this:

            When Wanda was 4 or 5 year old she her her mother talking to Wanda’s Aunties. Her mother was sad because Wanda’ father never brought her flowers or little gifts. Wanda thought about this for a bit, and then she went out into the back yard and gathered a small hand full of wild flowers. Very pleased with herself, she took them into the house and gave them to her mother as a token of her affection and adoration for her mother. Her mother took one look at Wanda & the flowers, and cried out, “What is wrong with you! You are nothing but trouble to me. I just washed and ironed that dress and now you have mud all over it! And why did you bring those weeds full of dirt and bugs into the house! Get them out of here right now. Go wash your hands, put on clean clothes, and try to stay out of trouble for 10 minutes.” And Wanda went off and did as she was told, not quite understanding what had gone wrong, not quite understanding what she had done wrong.

            When Florence turned 16 her mother gave her two blouses for her birthday. Florence treasured and cherished them both. Her family did not have an abundance of extra money, so gifts where rare and cherished; clothes were more often hand me downs or homemade – so new clothes were particularly special. And these were blouses that Florence had been dreaming about for months as she gazed longingly at them during the family’s Sunday window shopping walks along Main Street. When she opened the box and took out the blouses, Florence’s eyes lit up and filled with tears of joy and gratitude. She dropped the blouses in the box and ran over to her mother to hug her. Florence then quickly gathered the blouses, when off to her room and put one of the blouses on to model it for her family and her mother. When Florence appeared, her mother looked at her, shook her head and chastised Florence saying: “What’s the matter with the other blouse? You didn’t like that one?”

 And so it went … the schizophrenogenic paradox. Now of course, modern mental health has moved far beyond the schizophrenogenic paradox and mother. We now resonate with nature/nurture etiology and explanations for various manifestations of craziness. But still, there is the veracity, the feeling truth of “Damned if you do. Damned if you don’t.” Still there is the feeling truth of “no good deed goes unpunished.”

 And I have the feeling that all of this was of relatively recent vintage. Until the other day when I was reading widely, wildly and wantonly, and I came across the work of Ignacy Karsicki. Karsicki lived in Poland between 1735 and 1801. Here is his fable, “The Master and the Dog”

 The dog barked all the night, keeping the burglar away;

It got a beating for waking the master, next day.

That night it slept soundly and did the burglar no harm;

He burgled; the dog got caned for not raising alarm.

No good deed goes unpunished. Damned if you do, damned if you don’t. It’s been around at least since the 1700’s, and I suspect a lot longer. 

 As you work for human rights and social justice, you might just want to keep these stories in mind. Know your mind. Know your heart. Have at least one dear trusted friend with whom you share your heart and soul and who will be your reality check. Remember always, love is the reason. And that is reason enough.

Chop Wood, Carry Water; Lay down your burden, then pick it up again

On By MaryIn growth into humanity, Koan, social justice, stories for social change3 Comments

 Each moment is part of an era. Each era is part of a time. I like to think of myself as a child of the ‘60’s. In my mind, the ‘60’s were dramatic and romantic. The ‘60’s were the era of hippies, they were the time of free love. They were the time of deep social unrest and protest, of fighting for civil rights and to end the Viet Nam war. The ‘60’s culminated in Woodstock, “An Aquarian Exposition: 3 Days of Peace & Music” at at Max Yasgur’s farm in of Bethel, New York.  Woodstock happened in 1969 and brought the ‘60’s to their fulfillment.  I wanted to be a child of the ‘60’s. I wanted to be at Woodstock. I found out about it after it was over. I was a child of the ‘70’s.

In college I discovered Asia. I took a course in world religions, and discovered Taoism, Buddhism, and Zen. I fell into deep infatuation with Zen Buddhism, and began to aspire to enlightenment. Some of that occasionally seeps into this blog, I think.

Today I am remembering a book I read a while back: Chop wood and carry water. The essence of the book is that before enlightenment we must chop wood and carry water, after enlightenment we continue to chop wood and carry water.  In my youth I used to play with this and say that we should chop water and carry wood. Then it was funny because it was clear that I was playing with the words. Now that I am older, when I play like that people are inclined to think about early onset Alzheimer’s. I am a bit more aware of who and where I play now. It is important to remember and respect the era within which you walk as you play. If you would be with me, it is also important to be aware of the depth and luminosity of the twinkle in my eye. Sometimes playing is just playing.

There is a Zen story that I’m fond of (there are many actually, but here is one of them). It reminds me of “Chop wood and carry water.” The story is called “Lay down your burden then pick it up again”

A troubled woman named Tan could not figure out how to live. So she began meditating to find some answers. After many months she felt no progress, so she asked the temple priest for help. 

The priest said, “Go see old Jah.” 

So she hiked to old Jah’s village and came upon the happy-looking old man coming from the forest under a heavy load of firewood. 

“Excuse me, honored Jah,” she said. “But can you teach me the secret of life?” 

Jah raised his eyebrows and gazed at Tan. Then with some effort he twisted out from beneath his great bundle of firewood and let it crash to the ground. 

“There, that is enlightenment,” he said, straightening up with relief and smiling. 

The troubled woman looked on in shock at the prickly firewood scattered over the ground. “Is that all there is to it?” she said. 

“Oh, no,” said Jah. Then he bent down, collected all the scattered sticks, hoisted them carefully up on his back and made ready to walk on. “This is enlightenment, too. Come. Let’s go together for tea.” 

So Tan walked along with Jah. “What is old Jah showing me?” she asked. 

Jah replied, “this is life, this is enlightenment. First, yes, you suffer a heavy burden. Many do. But, as the Buddha taught and many have realized, much of your burden and much of your joylessness is your craving for what you can’t have and your clinging to what you can’t keep. 

“Then you can see that the nature of your burden and of the chafing you experience as you try to cling to it are useless, unnecessary, damaging, and then you can let it go. 

“In doing so, in awakening to this awareness you find relief, and you are freer to see the blessings of life and to choose wisely to receive them.” 

“Thank you, old Jah,” said Tan. “And why did you call picking up the burden of firewood again enlightenment as well?” 

“One understanding is that some burden in life is unavoidable — and even beneficial, like firewood. With occasional rest it can be managed, and with freedom from undue anxiety about it, it will not cause chafe. 

“Once the undue burden is dropped, we straighten up and see and feel the wonder and power of being. Seeing others suffering without that freedom and blissful experience, we willingly and knowingly pick up their burdens out of compassion joining and aiding others in their various struggles for liberation, enlightenment and fulfillment.” 

“Thank you, Old Jah,” said the exhilarated Tan. “You have enlightened me.” 

“Ah-so,” said Jah. “Your understanding is enlightened. Now to make it part of your living and your spirit, you must go follow the eight practices and meditate. Then you will learn to detach yourself from your useless burden of cravings and to attach yourself to the profound source of being out of which life, creativity, joy and compassion form and flow.” 

And so Tan went and did. And understanding the truths gave her comfort. And practicing the good behaviors kept her from harming herself or others anymore. And concentrating on the deep blissful potential of life gave her a continuing sense of companionship and joyful awe and of well-being in his spirit, no matter what else of pain she had to deal with. 

So it is as well with our work for social justice and human rights. It is a process, a path we choose to walk. Some days we feel like Sisyphus  continually pushing the rock of fairness up the hill only to have it roll back down on us. But, as we let go of our attachments to what should be and open our hearts and minds to what is and what can be, we can begin to notice and celebrate the progress that together we are achieving. We are each of us a drop in the ocean, and together we are the waves that wash ever more powerfully on the beach of fairness and dignity. Let no one doubt the power of the ocean and the tides.

We may lay down our burdens, and we will take them up again. We will chop wood and carry water. The times they are a-changing. Peace, justice and dignity will reign across our land.

The Trolley Problem :To save five lives would you switch the trolley’s tracks? would you push someone off a bridge?

On By MaryIn Choices we make, ethicsLeave a comment

One fine summer day on Cape Cod two bright young philosophy students were walking along Paine’s Creek beach, overlooking the Cape Cod Bay.  The sun was bright, there were a few clouds in the sky, just enough to make it interesting, and the tide was out, so you could walk for miles on the sandbar. It was a perfect day. Pat turned to Jay as asked,   “If you were in San Francisco, and you saw a runaway trolley racing down the tracks toward five people who would surely be killed if it continues on its present course. You can save these five people by diverting the trolley onto a different set of tracks where one person will be in the path of the trolley. If you do this, that one person will be killed. Is it morally permissible to turn the trolley onto the new track, so that the lives of the five people will be saved, but the life of the one person will be sacrificed?”

 Jay continues to walk, watching the crabs burrow into the sand as they walk. Thinking for a bit, Jay says, “yes, I believe it would be alright to sacrifice one to save five.”

 Pat and Jay continue to walk. Pat then asks Jay, “Well, now, suppose there is a different trolley. This one is still headed for five people. There is no alternate track to divert this trolley on, but you are standing next to a very large man on a footbridge that bridges the track. The only way to save the five people is to push this man off the footbridge into the path of the trolley. Is it morally permissible to push the man onto the track in front of the trolley?

 Pat and Jay continue to walk along the beach as Jay thinks. Jay smiles and looks at Pat, “You would think so, wouldn’t you. In both cases it is one person to save five. But, morality is not math. I can be utilitarian if I am pulling a switch, but pushing someone engages my emotions on a whole other level. Pushing someone is much more personal. So, no, it seems not morally OK to push.”

 Jay then says, “Here’s one for you.  You are a relieve worker in Afghanistan, and you are helping to smuggle 48 women, children and babies out a prison where they had been held hostage for months. You have gotten information that they are all going to be executed within the next few days so it is imperative that you get them out as soon as possible. You plan the escape, and all of you are on the road, just a few more miles from freedom. It is night, you have just set up camp for the night, everyone is well hidden and you can hear soldiers on the road searching for you. You know they cannot see you so if everyone keeps quiet all will be all right, and then a baby begins to cry, to cry loudly, persistently and relentlessly. The only way to silence the baby is to cover its mouth, but if you do that the baby will be smothered to death. But, if you do not, you and the other 47 women and children you are helping to escape will be killed.  What would you do? Why?”

 So, my dear reader friends, what would you do?  Who gets justice here the five or the one? The infant or the 47? Whose human rights, whose dignity will you respect?

 If you need to find an answer watch the MASH season finale, rent the movie Sophie’s Choice, read Jodi Picoult’s The Storyteller, or google Joshua D. Greene. Sometimes there just isn’t an easy answer.

The Frog in a Milk-Pail

On By MaryIn Choices we make, laughterLeave a comment

A number of years back, when farms were common in the Garden State, there was a young frog who was just entering adolescence. The frog’s mother warned her child who thought she was a woman about venturing too far from the pond. But girls will be girls, and the adolescent set out willy-nilly to explore the lands around the pond. Soon enough our young frog found herself hopping around a farmyard. It was glorious! So many new things to see and examine and explore. She was in a frog frenzy!!

Being an adolescent and somewhat careless, and maybe a just a little too curious, she ended up falling into a pail half-filled with fresh milk.

As she swam about attempting to reach the top of the pail, she found that the sides of the pail were too high and steep to reach. Ugh. Only then did she remember the family stories about her cousin who had been boiled to his death in a pot of water when the temperature of the water had been very gradually increased so that Fred did not notice the changes.

Desperate, she tried to stretch her back legs to push off the bottom of the pail but found it too deep. But our frog was determined not to give up, and she continued to struggle. She knew her mother would kill her if her mother  found out the mess she had gotten herself into! She kicked and squirmed and kicked and squirmed, until at last, all her churning about in the milk eventually turned the milk into a big hunk of butter.

The butter was now solid enough for her to climb onto and get out of the pail!

Never Give Up! Nothing is impossible if you keep thinking, remembering and work hard enough. Keep on keepin’ on!

Parable of the Guitar Strings

On By MaryIn change, music of life2 Comments

Back in Hunterdon County, Murina is finishing up middle school and about to enter adolescence where things are not always as simple as life used to be as a child of innocence among the rolling hills of Hunterdon. It feels to her more and more that things are not as they seem. Too often she just does not quite seem to understand – not anything, not her friends, not her self, especially not her mother who had just gotten too weird for words almost overnight. Ugh. Life was tying her up in knots, she felt wound up and stretched tighter than a drum.

And now her mother wanted her to take music lessons! Guitar of all things! How incredibly 1960’s! How just like her mother! The woman who thought reading tea leaves meant reading the tags on the teabags! The woman who would only buy tea bags with tags that had quotes or sayings on them! The woman who collected teabag tags! Other kids had mothers who put their drawings or pictures or best papers on the refrigerator door. Murina’s had a mother who covered their refrigerator with tea bag tags: Bliss is a constant state of mind, undisturbed by gain or loss; practice kindness, compassion and caring; by listening you comfort another person. Ugh. Why couldn’t someone listen and comfort her? Why couldn’t someone really hear her? Murina thought she was going to explode!

And now her mother wanted her to take music lessons! What was the point?

But Mama was wearing her down, so Murina finally agreed. She dug Grandma’s guitar out of the storage closet, dusted it off, and set off for her first guitar lesson. At least the guitar teacher was cute and kind of an interesting guy. If nothing else, for 45 minute every week she would be away from her mother and could enjoy a bit of eye candy and dream.

Mayer was alright. He took his guitar seriously, but he took himself lightly. The first week she knocked on his door for her lesson, he just shouted out: “if this house is rockin’, don’t bother knockin’” and he laughed. “come on in. let’s make some music.” He wasn’t half bad, all in all.

But today Murina was just not in the mood. She just was wound too tight. She couldn’t settle in.

Mayer looked at her, looked at her guitar, sighed, smiled and said, “OK. Let’s get at some basics – tuning the guitar.”

“Mayer, I’ve got a guitar tuner, see? I just clip it on the headstock of my guitar here and it shows me if I’m out of tune.”

“Murina, that’s all fine as wine, but you also gotta know. Some things you gotta know here” and he patted his heart.

Murina could tell she was not liking where this was going, but she was still too polite to do much more than roll her eyes. So she sat and listend.

“Ok” Mayer went on. So, he took his own guitar played with the machine heads and then strummed the strings. “How’s it sound to you?”

“Pretty awful. It’s all screachey” Murina winced. Mayer could always make his guitar sing. What was he up to?

“Hmm.” He said as he fiddled with the machine heads and the strings again. “How about this?”

“Ugh” Murina muttered before she could edit herself. “Now it sounds all flabby.”

Mayer smiled. “So, check it out, Murina. A guitar is not going to sing with you if you tighten the strings too much. And it won’t give you any good vibrations if you loosen the strings too much either.  You and your guitar. Its all about tuning. Neither of you wants to be wound too tight or you will snap. Too loose and the vibrations aren’t right, you can’t resonate the harmonics. Tuning isn’t about seeing the green light on the tuner, it’s about feeling the harmonics in your heart. Not too tight, not too loose. And when you have it all in balance, if you just touch the string here, and strum ever so lightly, you can hear the voices of angels in the bells tones of the strings.”

“Murina, all change is tricky. Its white water – you gotta learn where the big boulders are and figure how to paddle around them.”

“You are your guitar, my little grasshopper of a student. As you walk around in the world, in the new world that you are growing into, if you are too demanding of yourself and others, you will snap like an E string on Charlie Daniels fiddle. If you sink too deeply into the land of ‘whatever’ you will too loose to find your vibe or to ride a harmonic. Strings, guitars, music, life. It’s about being in tune.”

Murina looked at Mayer, thought about what he said, “But it’s hard to stay in tune when the weather is changing. Sometimes it’s cold, sometimes it’s so humid. The strings keep getting tighter and stretching and I’m not doing nothing.”

Mayer smiled. He knew they were not talking about guitars anymore. “I know little darling. I know. You just gotten keep tunin’ in and  listening to the music of your heart. Go slow enough to listen, fast enough to strum and keep tunin’.”

It’s kind of like the Taoist practice of the Way. If you are too hard-working in your practice, you will strain your mind and become too tense. However if you relax your mind too much, then you will be overwhelmed by laziness. You must strike a balance in your practice of the Way, you must strike a balance in your life. (From Treasures of the Heart, by Daisaku Ikeda) 

Work for social justice and human rights can be – it IS daunting. As we engage in that work, we too need to strike a balance, to find a way to keep in tune.

The carpenter and the mosquito

On By MaryIn Choices we make, Jataka Tales, laughterLeave a comment

Jataka Tales are an important part of Buddhist literature. These stories relate incidents from the Siddhartha Gautama’s incarnations before he became the enlightened one, the Buddha.  In the story of the mosquito and the carpenter, the not yet realized Buddha is walking along a path near the Ganges River just outside of Benares.  There, in the land of a large but struggling household a carpenter was in the yard overseeing the wood and planks he had gathered, planning out his next project.

The carpenter was a man of some age, his hair already grey and quite bald on the top with just a fringe of grey remaining. The man had three sons nearing adulthood. As he stood there thinking and planning, a mosquito settled on the top of his head on his scalp, and stung him with his stinger like a dart.

The man turned to his son, who was seated nearby and said, “my son, there is a mosquito stinging me on the head. Please drive it away.”

“Hold still, my dear father,” said the son. “I am sure one quick blow will free you from the mosquito.”

At this very moment, the not yet Buddha was just passing the household and paused to witness the interaction between father and son.

“Free me of this pest” the father urged.

“As you say, father,” his son promised. The son was behind the elder man, and raising his ax, intending to kill the mosquito, he rends his father’s head in two, and the elder man fell dead on the spot.

A spark of enlightenment danced through the heart of the Buddha to be as he bore witness to the interaction. “Better to have an enemy with sense, whose fear of men’s vengeance will deter from killing a man, than a sense lacking son.”

And is the tradition in Buddhism, the Buddha to be recited this gatha:

Sense-less friends are worse than foes with sense

Witness the son who slew the gnat

and rends his father’s skull and hat.

And with this realization the Buddha to be continued on his journey.

And the carpenter was buried on the bank of the Ganges by his family even as his senseless son grieved.

 Justice is fairness.

 Platitudes to match the story and make you laugh:

  • Choose your friends wisely so that they are capable of recognizing justice/fairness when it is staring them in the face.
  • Be careful what you wish for (ask for), you just might get it.
  • Match your medicine to your ill. Be sure that the cure is not worse than the cold.

OK, by now you should be on a bit of a roll … please add some more of your own in the comments?

Michelangelo and The Stonecutter

On By MaryIn alchemy, growth into humanity, vision and perspective3 Comments

The path to greatness is seldom smooth or straight. Indeed, excellence is a hard won standard. When I think of greatness and excellence in art, Michelangelo is certainly one of the names that fairly quickly comes to my mind. But art was not Michelangelo’s most predictable career, it was his most passionate calling.

On March 6, 1475 Michelangelo was born Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni in  Caprese in Tuscany, Italy. For generations the men in his family had been bankers, his father was a banker, and everyone expected that Michelangelo would carry on the family tradition, and that he too would make the honorable and respectful choice – that he would become a banker. Banking was in his blood after all. But life is not always predictable. Life is often not predictable.

In 1481, when Michelangelo was 6 his mother became very ill, and died. This was more than his father could bear, and that year Michelangelo was sent to the country to live with a stonecutter and his family. Michelangelo was fascinated with the work of the stone cutter. He was entranced with the man’s ability to step up to the side of a mountain and elicit from it blocks of stone which the man then transformed into shapes and figures. Michelangelo would watch the stonecutter for hours, noticing how he held and used the tools, how he stood and moved in relationship with the mountain.

But Michelangelo was six and had just lost his mother. For a young boy, love and hate are very near neighbors. One day Michelangelo’s grief at his loss of his mother exploded as he witnessed the stonecutter’s happiness. If he (Michelangelo) was miserable and unhappy, it was not fair that this man should have such peace and contentment in his life. (Of course Michelangelo could not have put these words to his feelings, but in later years, he found his way to a similar expression as he thought back on this day.) He raged at the stonecutter. He berated him for his lowly station in life, for the lack of comforts, for the lack of power and influence that the stonecutter had achieved.

The man listened thoughtfully to the young boy. He let him go on until his emotions were spend, and when the anger and run its course and became tears, the stonecutter gathered Michelangelo into his strong arms and hugged him tenderly as if he were his own son. Then he sat down with Michelangelo on his lap and told him this story.

Michelangelo, the things you say to me are nearly true. They are matters that have come to my mind in the past, and I have considered them most carefully, for at one time I was quite dissatisfied with myself and with my position in life.

Then, one day I was walking by a very wealthy merchant’s home. Through the gate and past the door of his house I was more riches than I could ever have imagined. The man had important visitors coming and going all day. “How important and powerful this merchant must be.” I thought to myself. I envied him like no other, and wished that I could be him. Well, to my astonishment, I became the merchant. I was enjoying luxuries and power beyond my greatest dreams. I was envied – and detested – by those less wealthy than myself.

But then the Governor passed by, carried in a sedan chair, accompanied by servants and soldiers and musicians and dancing girls. Everyone bowed before the procession. And I thought, “How important and powerful this Governor is.” I envied him like no other, and wished that I could be a great Governor.

And before I could blink my eye, I was the Governor. I was carried everywhere in a beautiful sedan. I had servants, and guards and musicians. My wishes became commandments, and all bowed before me. And then one day was especially hot, and I became sweaty and sticky and uncomfortable in my chair. I looked up and saw the sun. The sun beamed magnificently in the sky, unaffected by my presence and commands, unaffected by anyone. And I thought, “How powerful is the sun.” And I wished that I could be the sun.

And as soon as I had finished my thought, I was the sun. I was shining brightly, fiercely on everyone. I scorched the fields and dried the ponds, and the farmers and sweating laborers cursed at me. And just then a magnificent storm cloud moved between me and the earth, so that my light could not be seen by anything below. And I thought, “How magnificent and powerful that storm cloud is.” And I wished that I could be the storm cloud.

I became the cloud, and I sent out my rain. I flooded the rivers and the fields. The villagers looked up and shouted at me. And as they did, I could feel myself being moved. It was the wind blowing me away. And I thought, “How powerful the wind is!” And I wished that I was the wind.

And in the instant of that thought, I was the wind. I was a splendid and powerful wind. I blew roofs off houses, uprooted trees. I was feared by everyone. But then I came up against something that I could not move, no matter how I blew against it, no matter how much force and speed I used. It was a huge towering stone mountain. And I thought, “How powerful that mountain is.” And I wished that I could be that mountain.

And, I became the mountain. Standing strong and sure, I was more powerful than anything else on this earth. But as I stood there, I heard the sound of a hammer pounding a chisel into the solidity of my rock. I felt myself being changed. “What could be more powerful than me? I am solid stone?” And I looked down and saw a stonecutter.

And once again I became how I was and always will be.

And Michelangelo snuggled into the stonecutter’s arms and murmured, “I will be who I will always be” even as he held onto the stonecutter’s chisel.

Michelangelo is often quoted as saying, “If there is some good in me, it is because I was born in the subtle atmosphere of Arezzo. Along with the milk of my nurse I received the knack of handling chisel and hammer.” Michelangelo grew to be one of the world’s most respected stonecutters.

with thanks to Benjamin Hoff for his version of the stonecutter in the Tao of Pooh, and to the myriad versions of the Chinese/Japanese/Indian parable on the web.

24 hours to die, 24 hours to live

On By MaryIn Choices we make, Cloister of the Sisters of Mary Magdalene, growth into humanity, vision and perspectiveLeave a comment

Back at the cloister a new postulant has just entered the cloister. Sister Beatrix was bubbling over with joy and enthusiasm to begin her life as a Sister of Mary Magdalene. Her enthusiasm was infectious, although it was becoming a bit taxing to some of the more sedate sisters. Mother Magdalene was aware of the emerging tension when Sister Beatrix came in to meet with her for her formative spiritual guidance. Sister Beatrix had barely taken her seat when she began, “Reverend Mother, why does my mind wander around to forbidden places? Why am I so inclined to gossip when none of the other sisters do? Why do I feel such frustration and resentment for others instead of a sense of compassion for all sentient beings like Sister Visentia?”

Mother Magdalene smiled to herself, recognizing that she needed to take the situation in hand and help Sister Beatrix to slow down and to find her pace within the flow of the cloister. Mother Magdalene took a slow breath and thought she might take a bit of a risk with Beatrix. “Sister Beatrix, your questions are thoughtful, but, it seems to me that in 24 hours from now you will die.”

Sister Beatrix looked startled. She stood up and started to walk out of Mother Magdalene’s office.

Mother Magdalene asked, “Sister Beatrix, where are you going? You entered my office with such vitality and enthusiasm, and now you look so down hearted.”

Sister Beatrix replied, “But Reverend Mother, you just told me that I have but 24 hours to live. I must go and say my goodbyes to the other sisters before I die.”

“Ah, but there are 24 hours,” said Mother Magdalene, “sit, and we will talk a bit more.”

“Please Mother,” Sister Beatrix asked, “I must go and gather myself and say my goodbyes.”

Beatrix quickly left Mother Magdalene’s office and returned to her own room. Sister Bryda saw her crying, and softly knocked on the door. Beatrix wept as she told her what Reverend Mother had said. Then Beatrix asked to be left alone, and she wept into her pillow. Time quickly flew by with Beatrix weeping, pacing and weeping. Before she realized it, there were only 3 hours left. Death had not yet arrived, but Beatrix was all but dead as she lay on her bed waiting.

When there was only one hour was left, Mother Magdalene came to Sister Beatrix’s room and knocked on the door. She said, “Sister Beatrix, why are you lying on your bed with your eyes closed, crying. Death is still a whole hour away! An hour is 60 minutes – 3600 seconds – long. That is a lot of time. Get up, wash your face. Let us talk a bit.” 

Sister Beatrix sat up and said, “Mother, why should we talk now? Please may I just die peacefully?”

“Oh, Beatrix my child, there is still time and our talk will be concluded before your final time arrives.”

So, Beatrix pulled herself together, washed her face, and sat waiting for Mother Magdalene to speak.

Mother Magdalene asked Beatrix, “Now, my daughter, in the past 24 hours, have you gossiped about anyone?” 

“How could I gossip? I was only thinking about death?!” replied Sister Beatrix.

“In the past 24 hours, did your mind wander?  

“How could it, I could only think of my imminent death” said Sister Beatrix.

 “In the past 24 hours, where you frustrated with others?” 

“Oh Reverend Mother, not at all, I was only thinking about death.” 

Finally Mother Magdalene said, “Dear Beatrix, I really don’t know when anyone will die. I do know that we all have to die some time. But understanding the ultimate truth – that every living creature must die – can be very liberating and enlightening. All the questions you posed to me have been answered by yourself because of the awareness of death that you experienced during the past 24 hours. The difference between you and the other sisters is that you were aware of death for hours; the other sisters here have been practicing that awareness for I have been aware for years. Be patient with yourself. Cherish the moments, spend your hours thoughtfully and with compassionate awareness.” 

“You know, Mother Magdalene,” Sister Beatrix murmured thoughtfully, “this reminds me of one of my mother’s favorite quotes, I think she said it was from someone named Gwen Brooks. Mom would often say to us when we complained that something was impossible, she would say, ‘You are alive until you are dead. Ten minutes before you are dead, you are alive. You could save the world in ten minutes.’ I guess mom and Gwen Brooks knew something!”

“Indeed.” Mother Magdalene thought outloud, “indeed.”