The Unclad Soul

I have asked this before, but I still want to know. What does any of it mean? Why are we here? Why do we so easily give in to hate and resist giving in to love? Why is aggression okay but the way of peace is not?   Why are we all so afraid? And of what? Are we, as religion teaches, just evil at heart? Are we already ruined at birth? Is it in our DNA to make wrong choices, so that we require an outside force, God or Karma or Allah or whomever, to coerce us to do good, through threats of punishment, suffering, damnation, and hell? Are we not able to do that on our own without being forced? I believe we are. I know too many good, decent people who are not driven by evil and selfishness. But unfortunately, they are always overshadowed, especially today, by an ugly, arrogant, mean-spirited crowd of self-aggrandizers, who are bitter, angry people. People obsessed with fears and prejudices and resentments. These people are all around us. In the government. In the media. ...

The Hulu series, The Handmaid’s Tale, is a scalding, brutal, at times sickening portrayal of life in some future totalitarian and theocratic state in New England known as Gilead. The storylines are so reprehensible they leave one churning with rage and shattered with sorrow. They offer a glimpse into a horrifying future that may not be impossible to imagine. Gilead is growing childless. Those in charge have devised a way to repopulate the state. Women of childbearing age are simply taken off the streets or out of their homes and proclaimed handmaids for commanders, slick and morally compromised men who have wives unable to conceive. A handmaid is chosen for them, even if she is already married and has children of her own. They are permanently separated from her. She has no rights. Her only existence is to serve the elite couple she is assigned to. The lead character in this inhuman existence is June (Elizabeth Moss), whose name is changed to Offred. Once a month, in the mo...

I saw him as I pumped gas in my car at the Shell Station. It was hot outside and he was sitting in the shade in front of the convenience store. An older man, thin, African American, with a scruffy two or three-day growth of white stubble and shaggy salt and pepper hair. As I walked into the convenience store to get a soft drink he smiled at me with uneven teeth. There was a warmth in his smile. He didn’t ask for anything. But I knew he was there to accept any change anyone might give him. I returned to my air-conditioned car and stared at him for a minute. As I drove out I went around to where he was and rolled down my window. I motioned for him to come over. He slowly got up and walked to my car. “Yes sir?” he said. I handed him some cash and said, “What is your name, friend?“ He said, “Carl.” I said, “You have a good day, Carl.” He smiled and put his hands together and bowed and said, “Oh, God bless you, sir. God bless you.” I don’t know his situation. But whatever it is I f...

I admit I’m in love with Lady Gaga. I know, it’s silly to say it, and of course when I say, “in love,” I mean something more than a foolish fantasy. I’m convinced she has one of the purest voices of today’s crowded talent of musicians and performers. When she sang the National Anthem (you can see it on youtube) in 2016 at Super Bowl 50, I was mesmerized. Patriotism and all the pseudo hype that goes with it these days falls flat for me most of the time. But her performance made me want to cheer or salute or something. It was a powerful moment. Her song, “Joanne,” which she performed at last Sunday’s Grammys, was dedicated, she said, to her father’s sister, Joanne. Again, it was sung with so much passion and precision, while she played the piano and was accompanied on guitar by her album producer Mark Ronson. In spite of her past outrageous outfits, masks, wigs, get-ups, and other brazen acts of defiance, protest, or whatever else she was feeling at the time, she remains a phen...

This is one of my favorite poems by writer Jorge Luis Borges: “Writings of light assault the darkness, more prodigious than meteors. The tall unknowable city takes over the countryside. Sure of my life and death, I observe the ambitious and would like to understand them. Their day is greedy as a lariat in the air. Their night is a rest from the rage within steel, quick to attack. They speak of humanity. My humanity is in feeling we are all voices of that same poverty. They speak of homeland. My homeland is the rhythm of a guitar, a few portraits, an old sword, the willow grove's visible prayer as evening falls. Time is living me. More silent than my shadow, I pass through the loftily covetous multitude. They are indispensable, singular, worthy of tomorrow. My name is someone and anyone. I walk slowly, like one who comes from so far away he doesn't expect to arrive.”  There is so much yearning in these words. Such honest beauty. Borges expresses hope ...

I was talking with a friend at work this week about the Las Vegas atrocity. Like everyone else in America, we both remain stunned by such a horrifying and cowardly taking of human life. My friend, deeply disturbed by it all, said, “Are we all capable of such a thing?” I thought a moment and said, “I think we may be.” He put his hands over his face and said, “Oh God, I don’t want to hear THAT!” I don’t want to hear it either, but he asked an important question. How does a seemingly rational person do what Stephen Paddock did? He was apparently not previously some deranged serial killer. We now know he seemed to have a pretty normal life. It is said he was not friendly or engaging, but there is no indication he was the monster he turned out to be. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, the famous creator of the Sherlock Holmes series, a trained physician and himself a serious student of human behavior, once commented about the puzzling conduct of criminals. He said, “The most winning woman...

The world is yearning. America is yearning. We are yearning. I am yearning. What is this longing in us? What necessary thing is it that we yearn to know or have or experience? Writer, essayist, and editor, Rebecca Solnit, has written: “For many years, I have been moved by the blue at the far edge of what can be seen, that color of horizons, of remote mountain ranges, of anything far away. The color of that distance is the color of an emotion, the color of solitude and of desire, the color of there seen from here, the color of where you are not. And the color of where you can never go.” These are beautifully haunting words. Haven’t we seen the distant horizon and felt its pull, its mystery? That distance, as Solnit describes it, “the color of solitude and of desire, the color of there seen from here, the color of where you are not. And the color of where you can never go.” Such powerful thoughts. That “blue at the far edge of what can be seen,” lures us and, perhaps, ta...

"I stood willingly and gladly in the characters of everything - other people, trees, clouds. And this is what I learned, that the world's otherness is antidote to confusion - that standing within this otherness - the beauty and the mystery of the world, out in the fields or deep inside books - can re-dignify the worst-stung heart." ~ Mary Oliver, Poet/Essayist

There is a scene in the famous series, “Mad Men,” where Don Draper and Roger Sterling are sitting in Don’s office having a drink. Don is an advertising genius and ad man. Roger inherited the agency from his father, and though plenty smart, he sort of just provides advice and insights to the rest of the staff. He and Don are talking about the firm and the problems they are facing with both old and new clients. As Don pours them a drink, they have this exchange: Roger : I bet daily friendship with that bottle attracts more people to advertising than any salary you can dream of. Don : It's the way I got in. Roger : So enjoy it. Don : I'm doin' my best here. Roger : No, you're not. You don't know how to drink. Your whole generation, you drink for the wrong reasons. My generation, we drink because it's good, because it feels better than unbuttoning your collar, because we deserve it. We drink because it's what men do. Don : What about shaky hands, ...

The recent presidential election has left people stunned and many frightened and worried. I have friends telling me how alarmed they are and wondering what is going to happen to all of us. Especially, what will happen to women, to immigrants, to minorities? What will the Supreme Court turn into? And what damage will an unbalanced Court in favor of extreme Republicans do to women’s rights, to the LGBT community, to freedom of speech and other Constitutional rights? Will the police turn even more brutal, completely unleashed to commit crimes against the innocent, without any restraints or punishment? People are angry, panicky, despondent. I think of Hamlet’s gloomy speech where he despairs of earth and people and life: “This goodly frame, the earth, seems to me a sterile promontory, this most excellent canopy, the air, look you, this brave o'erhanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted with golden fire, why, it appears no other thing to me than a foul and pestilent cong...

I have friends who are supporting Donald Trump who have posted a few times on my Facebook page. They believe that I sympathize with them in certain ways. And I do. I understand where they are coming from. I share their frustration. And I’m glad they have posted comments. I want to hear their thoughts. I welcome them. I have friends who are supporting Hillary Clinton who seem bewildered that I am not on board with them and with her. I get that, too. I’m a liberal Democrat and they think I should be supporting Clinton. But, I’m not. Friends are irritated about that. That’s okay; I still want them to comment. I want to hear them as well. We don’t have to fully accept each other’s viewpoints or beliefs or politics in order to be friends. But we should be willing to at least listen to one another and allow each one of us our thoughts without judgment, anger, resentment, or condemnation. And certainly without hate. Thankfully, my friends do this. Hillary supporters believe Dona...

I Took My Daughter to the End of the World I took my daughter to the end of the world And showed her the carnage and death We walked through the ruins of Syria and Iraq And we saw things no humans should see There were children in blood and mothers in tears And fathers alone in the streets Bombs were falling not far away While the rubble and chaos   were   near There were screams of pain There were screams of fear And my daughter said, Daddy, Why is this happening here? And back in the States where the power resides People don’t think of the end of the world We’re taking vacations on beautiful beaches And buying new cars and sleeping in peace Our homes are intact and there’s plenty of food There are concerts to attend and ballgames to watch Our politicians grow old in their greed and indifference While the Church sings its empty hallelujahs The people with influence who could make something happen Do nothin...

I did not know any of the 49 people murdered in the Orlando night club. I would eulogize them one by one if I did. And so I will eulogize all of them. They were individual humans. They had careers and jobs, families and friends, lovers and partners. They had hobbies and interests; they possessed skills and talents. They went out on a Sunday night to have some drinks, to laugh, and dance, and enjoy life with others. They were a part of our human family. And so they belonged to each of us as well. And that we too often forget. Our   hates   we remember. Our prejudices and aversions, our fear of differences, our loathing those not like us—that we keep in focus. But the fact we are all connected in our humanity, that we are all related as people of earth, that, we sadly forget. The abomination in Orlando was not an ugly accident; it was not a fluke of nature or some terrible mishap. It was a planned and thought out act of horrendous violence, prejudice and rage again...

Care of the Soul Don’t ignore or repress your complexes, instead try to befriend them By Thomas Moore 2016 March/April Issue: Spirituality & Health When it comes to dieting, my willpower buckles when I’m faced with mashed potatoes and gravy. I may have just read a book on eating only green veggies, and I’ve resolved to go the Spartan route, but I can’t pass up the basic food that I associate with my mother and grandmother and cozy dinners with beloved family members in my childhood. It probably doesn’t help that I left home at an early age for a boarding school. My diet problem is not so much that I lack the willpower but that my “Warm Irish-American Family” complex is so strong and deeply planted in me. A psychological complex is a set of emotions, memories, anxieties, desires, and habits focused around a theme—my need for family comfort, for example—that urges a person in a certain direction that may or may not fit his or her conscious and rational purposes. For ...