You gotta love Sunday mornings. You wake up and find a nice slow straight down soaking rain. The perennial gardens drinking their fill. The purples and reds and Black-eyed Susans puffing up and looking extra brilliant. The doors and windows are thrown open and the moist breeze wipes the sleep from your face. Coffee. I cover up with a hot steaming, earth smelling cup of coffee and open the first page of a new book. Life is good.
 

Nature's life cycle in the four season latitudes offers up glorious parallels of birth, growth, maturity, decline, and death. Impermanance is reliable. The Goat Lady in the movie "Cold Mountain" speaks of everything in life having purpose. She describes a bird who flies about, lands and eats a seed, flies elsewhere and shits the seed, and the seed grows a flower. She fails to credit shit with fertilizing the new seed growth, but it's implied. All manifestations of life basically follows the four season cycle, or some parallel there of, but those with a prefrontal cortex busy themselves with the concepts of purpose, value, meaning, and the never ending question of "Why"?
 

A few names have passed through my head over the last little bit of time. First there is Ira Hayes, then Audie Murphy, and this morning comes Alvin Cullum York. All, being very different people, but who shared a few commonalities. They served in the US military forces. They served during war. They all saw death and combat. They all became nationally recognized for specific contributions in combat. All were identified and presented to the public as war heroes. All were reluctant to recieve this recognition. Two suffered more than the other. All grew up in poor farming families; one from Tennessee, one from Texas, and one from Arizona. Their lives have influenced thousands and thousands of other rural young men who found themselves wearing a military uniform. Other thoughts are coming, but this is enough for this morning. For now, there is a desire to boil a couple of eggs.
 

I am 54 today, soon to click past 55 years come August 21st, less than two months away.  My mind rattles away every day with a not so great variety of passing thoughts, assessments, and imaginings; not really so different than others I know.  However, the subject matter has shifted over time. 

When much younger there was the, in hind-sight of course, obsessive mind rattle of the usual non-procreative exercises of carnality. Don't blame me if you have critical judgements of this shalllow aspect of a boys life. It wasn't my fault. There are very special genetic and bio-chemical dynamics beyond our control that drives such madness. But older men, on the average, find a bit of rest and reprieve. The youth brain rattle shifts gears back into first or second, and we can catch our breath once our chemistry starts to back off.

My current rattles are more in the groove of personal mortality, life reviewing, regrets, and other such time wasting exercises. I really need to get my ass in gear and spend more time sitting. I had a pretty consistent sitting practice going up until about a year ago. My quality time had increased to around 20-30 minutes and was beginning to feel grounded and centered. Now is my time to pick up and get on with the practice. At any time a stiff wind could come along and take me from the tree.
 

I retired last year, in 2006, from the Army Reserves. It's still unreal to me that I acheived such a milestone. From someone who never truly enjoyed one minute of that time served there is a simple question begging an answer. Why? Why did I do it? To answer that I have to start at the beginning.

It was 1972. I had graduated high school with probably a 'D' average and yet managed to get myself admitted to a local private college. I had no more idea of what I was doing than I ever did while journeying from the nineth through the twelfth grade. I was just drifting. Floating along on the small waves of my friends' surf. War in Vietnam was being opposed in the streets by middle class city kids who didn't want to be drafted into carrying an M-16. My brother had returned from this war of choice about one year prior. I was failing all of my college classes due to neglect and lack of interest. On top of that I had just married a class mate using my last fifty dollars. I had no direction in my life. I had no determined purpose short or long term. And on top of all that I wanted to earn some money.

I grew up in a mountainous community where military service was highly respected for those who had demonstrated no ambition or interest in succeeding. I had internalized all of our communties myths and lofty idealizations about serving our country. What more could I do? I knew that in about four weeks I was going to fail my first semester of college and then what. I signed on the dotted line, got on the bus and arrived at the Ft. Knox basic training center at sometime before midnight of October 27, 1972.

I found army life, at that time, as most everyone else did, to be brutal, anxiety challenging, and extremely boring. But it wasn't that difficult to do. For me it was a way to earn money while figuring out what I would do with my life. How ignorant I was. I left active duty in 1976 and immediately went back to college. This time college was different. This time I loved reading, studying, learning, and passing examinations. In my senior year the financial pinch of living as an impoverished college student became unbearable. Our son was about five years old. We needed money. What could I do? The national guard offered me the chance to pick up a couple hundred dollars for one weekend of work each month. No other part-time job could offer that level of compensation,and so I signed up, but only for one year.

Years later another financial crunch came along when our son was preparing for his first year of college. Again, the easy way out was obvious. I signed up for another year with the national guard. At the end of that year it was easy to sign up for another year. That one weekend of work each month was not hard to do. If anything it was so tediously boring that sometimes my greatest challenge was just staying awake. Still, I kept signing up for another year and then another year until it became a habit. The small monthly check helped tremendously. And before I knew it I had completed service enough to satisfy requirements of a twenty year retirement.

I know that I served for the financial need of my family, period. I never served for our country, our flag, or anyone's apple pie. I know that if I had been born in new england with a silver spoon in my mouth I would never have enlisted. I would have gone to prep school, maybe Andover, and I would have gone to Yale or Harvard. I would have been given educational deferments to keep my ass out of Vietnam. But instead I was born with the gift of intense curiosity and empty pockets. And I never enjoyed one minute of my military career. I met a lot of people. I forge a lot of friendships and we shared a lot of laughter but the rest of it pretty well sucked. It was a means to fulfill a financial need. I cannot speak for everyone who serves but for those I met and came to know my experience was not unique. Our choice was one about economics not the bullshit sold to us by the ones who own the federal government.




 

I was six years old. I can recall being out of school for summer break only a couple of weeks. My first year of school, overall, had been kind to me. There were only two embarrassing moments that I remember.

One was when our teacher, a very tall kindly woman with a twisted sense of humor, told me that a string was hanging from my pant zipper. She did this in front of the whole class. My face turned so red that it really never went away. Later mom would try to tell me red cheeks was a family trait passed down from our Scotts/Irish ancestors. But, I knew they were a permanent result of that sweet first grade teacher pointing out to all my classmates that my dangling string was visible. And yes, it was a string!

The other was a time when on recess I fell into a very wet mudhole. On returning to the classroom the teacher, the same nurturing lady, insisted that I stand near the heater, in front of everyone, so that I could dry my pants. Not a big deal, but I became uncomfortable when Ms.
So-and-So felt a need to say that my wet pants looked as if I had lost control of some bodily function. Ah, those were the days.

But, like now, they weren't all bad days. My earlist best memory happened just a couple of weeks after that school year ended. A very simple event that consumed probably no more than ten or fifteen minutes has stayed with me all these years. At fifty-three I know those few minutes profoundly influenced my view of life and probably the core character of who I come to be every day.

I took a nap and woke up. We lived in a small four room house, at that time, with a full front porch and a quarter back porch. The house sat up against the east side of a hill so the sun never touched us until sometime after the noon hour. Our nearest neighbor, a farmer, lived a generous quarter mile up the hollow. One of his corn fields came within probably ten feet of the bedroom window where I lay down. At six years old I made a conscious decision that day to take a nap. The sun had yet to touch our side of the hill. I cannot recall where my brothers, sister, or mother were at that time. But I lay cross wise on the bed with my head near the open window facing Curt Bolen's corn field. Mom had made the bed up with her summer chenille bedspread. The sounds of grasshoppers buzzing was the first thing I remember hearing as I began to wake up. Accompanying this was the lyrical conversatons of what must have been a small community of birds. Then I heard the curtain swishing near my head as a very soft breeze came blowing through the window. A breeze that brought the smell of fresh torn earth, the barnyard, and flowers. As I lay there taking all this in I felt the warm sensation of the sun crossing the yard and slowly passing my window. Before I ever opened my eyes I knew everything that was taking place. There was no radio playing. There was no television. Just the harmonics of the natural world that vibrated all around me in tune with the occasional whoop of Curt when he called to his mules, Jim and John, as they pulled the plow.

I took a nap and woke up to the world. The experience was profound for me because almost every time I remember it I cry and I can't explain why. Of course I don't cry when other people are around. That would be embarrassing.




 

The title "Compassion is Selfish Activity" is not so much a declaration as it is a recognition of where transcendent experiences begin. Think of a primordial experience where the "ignorant savage" shares food with others who are hungry, but only after his/her belly is full. Consider Abraham Maslow's infamous "Heirarchy of Needs" that postulates human concern for the external world (and others) does not mature until the individual's safety and hunger and positive regard is satisfied. In light of this premise is it unfair to say that "first there is the concern for self" could parallel the Christian idea that "In the beginning there was One and the One became many"?

When the individual is nurtured and enabled to grow within concrete experiences of sharing and giving; the one is better able to accept that everyone, good or bad, is essential to the equation of what makes us human. Or as some might say "Love your neighbor as you love yourself".
 

I like reading real stories about those classically defined heros. By classic definition I have to reference Joseph Campbell’s treatise, “The Hero’s Journey”. A simple hillbilly interpretation might be, “A classic hero is one who will sacrifice their life to preserve the life of another.” At the sudden and tragic moment when death is imminent for others the hero instantaneously sees the other’s life as being the same as his or her own life and so takes action.

In every conflict and war, in every life threatening tragedy, the opportunity for the hero to arise is presented. Every month that goes by in Iraq, soldiers are stepping up and sacrificing their lives for others. And they die. And a piece of everyone back home who loves them dies with them. This great opportunity for a hero’s journey is brought to us by a group of people who wanted to gain control of the Persian Oil Basin. See: http://www.pnac.info. They wanted dominant access to this oil so badly, and have publicly written about it for the last 24 years, that they shamelessly manipulated a nation’s fear following 9/11. They found their “Pearl Harbor” national tragedy, invented intelligence, instilled fear with descriptions of nuclear “mushroom clouds” and got the war they wanted. The rest of us got dead soldiers and a few heros.


 

It must be an election year because inflammatory and false fabrications are popping up almost daily. This one is particularly insulting to anyone who pays attention to world affairs and history. A chain letter is received that alleges Oliver North, in 1987, snarls to Al Gore, that terrorist Osama bin Laden had threatened his family and this is why he installed a sixteen thousand dollar security system in his home at government expense. It goes on to declare the Clinton Administration used influence to have Mohammad Atta freed by the Israeli Government.

In 1987 Osama bin Laden was not engaging in "terrorist" activities, but was recognized by the George H. Bush administration as a "Freedom Fighter" leading a United States funded band of resistance against the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan. Al Qaida was not formed until the early 1990's.

Al Gore was not a member of the congressional committee investigating Iran-Contra. That committee's general counsel, Mr. John Nields, was the questioner of Mr. Ollie North.

Ollie did not speak about Osama bin Laden, because he was at that time working for the USA fighting the Soviets, but he did mention the terrorist, Abu Nidal.

Equally so, the crap in this propaganda about Clinton's administration "freeing Mohammad Atta" is also false.

I have two thoughts for the small minded people who believe and propagate manure like this. First, I'm sorry you failed history in high school and never developed an interest in the subject, but you are becoming a real detriment to what harmony remains in the world. Second, contribute something good to the world for the time that you live by pulling some very real motes out of your own eye instead of planting inauthentic ones that grow like Kudzu and choke truth out of existence. And lastly, intentionally propagating alternate realities to the public at large for the purpose of winning political control is going to diminish your capacity for compassion. Once you damage this you will join the league of such notables as Adolph Hitler and Osama bin Laden.


 

Pay close attention and read very carefully. There will be a quiz at the end of the class.

We must support our soldiers = our soldiers are doing a necessary job = our leaders and President want our soldiers to fight in Iraq = Our soldiers must die to keep us safe = we must support our leaders and our President = I believe this because our soldiers deserve our support = Our soldiers are fighting for our freedoms = They are fighting the enemy there so that we don’t have to fight them here = Our soldiers are preventing 9/11 from happening again = The Iraq War is necessary.

Criticism of the war in Iraq = Insulting the honor of our soldiers = Disrespecting our leaders and President = Un-American activities = Disgusting behavior = Our soldiers need to die in a war that protects no one.

Quiz:

1. Which one of our freedoms did Iraq threaten to take away that our soldiers are now preserving for us?
2. Who master-minded the hi-jacking of airplanes and destruction of the Trade Towers?
3. Are we eliminating terrorists or are we creating more?
4. Did the Iraq War make England safer?
5. Where is Osama bin Laden?

Send me the answers to the Quiz and I will grade them to see if you passed.


 

The mind thinks of relief or acquisition.

It seeks relief to rest from the rush of problems surrounding it, so that moments might be acquired for rest and comfort. The mind seeks relief from fear of all that is threatening. Fear of discovery. Fear of being controlled. Fear of being denied. Fear of losing. Fear of not having. Fear of alienation. From fear the mind is motivated and impulsed to take and hold and deny others of what has been collected for itself. There is fear of being small and separate and alone. The mind will work and conspire to have and to control it's domaine and to repulse others that may threaten what has been acquired. Where in all of this does the mind find room for compassion?