LEFT HOOK - Introduction: Milestones

A child with a pink ball is running and laughing aloud. A few steps behind, her parents are locked in a muted but bitter dispute. All three are heading down the steep, narrow path leading to the Japanese stone garden. Upon reaching it, the child bounces her ball across the meticulously raked sand.
Her father shouts and runs to catch up with her. He grabs her roughly and spins her around to face him. He slaps her hard with his open hand. The child staggers and falls.
She is stunned and silent now, whimpering softly to herself at the edge of the garden; while her mother retrieves the ball, leaving the imprint of her footsteps in the sand.
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My work required me to spend a lot of time in the car (listening to the radio). As such, I have been able to follow the various permutations of U.S. political debate as it has progressed through both Democrat and Republican administrations. Whereas it is entirely acceptable for the party out of power to paint the nation’s current policies in a critical light, I find that the discourse between the parties in general has coarsened and become increasingly vicious. Though I do make an effort to keep an open mind and listen to all sides of any given argument, I too have felt compelled (at long last) to choose up sides. This, not so much based on formal political affiliation but, rather, due to an appreciation for rational argument fueled by some measure of optimism and anchored in an awareness of history. I understand that “choosing sides” equates with a blessing, involving a considerable (grateful) investment of emotion and (sometimes) blood. It is not a commitment one takes on lightly; neither is it something that can ultimately be avoided. It’s been a long time since I’ve taken up pen and paper in an effort to sort through some chaos, attempting to come up with a template – short of outright nihilism - that would point the way in some (or any) direction. The eternal principle that guides this venture is my belief that nothing is random; that everything is in one way or another connected.

I have always wanted to know how things work. I am not so much interested in knowing how cars work, for example – or blenders. These are things I can always go and ask someone about should it ever become an issue. Rather, I have wanted to know about politics, God, life – my life, specifically. Who am I? What will happen after I die? What kind of world can my children expect to inherit? Are they really doomed to endure the immanent death of the planet as so many now (almost gleefully) predict?

I am a child of the 60’s. I watched things going on around me and felt myself to be so utterly outside the loop. Perhaps, having been rejected by my father at an early age had sealed my fate in this regard.

I was raised Roman Catholic and thus had been introduced to the concept of divinity and (primarily of) sin, but felt no obvious connection to God. Yet, at the same time, I saw people around me who had suffered far worse (in the wars) and drawn great strength from their religion. Not one of them, however, could tell me convincingly how and why it all worked. I continued to feel as if I had somehow fallen through the cracks and landed on fallow ground. Still, I kept getting up in the morning; eating my corn flakes; going to school and learning my lessons. At some point, the winds blew me over to America (from Europe) where I continued my seemingly empty routines. I could not imagine being alive much past 30.

In college, I majored in comparative religions, hoping to discover some secret that would make my life meaningful. I learned names and dates; snippets of scripture: Christian, Hindu, Buddhist, etc. I even took a math course entitled “Proving the Existence of God”, but that too would turn out to be a bust. I remember nothing save the course title as it appeared on the printed syllabus. I concluded that all religions offer a blueprint for attaining enlightenment. I simply lacked the energy to adhere to the disciplines required to proceed.

Then, while still in college, I came tantalizingly close to that which I was seeking. It involved experimentation with LSD. This drug has the effect of bringing one into a state in which one feels that one is all-knowing; that each and every detail of what is and happens is connected and perfectly balanced; and also wholly appropriate to the continuance of everything. Perhaps most intriguing was the realization that nothing one could even conceive of doing (or not doing) could possibly unhinge any part of it. It is the memory of having experienced this uniquely perfect moment that gave me my first indication that the answers to the questions I had been agonizing over were indeed within my reach.

It is, of course, impractical to sustain such a state. Anyone attempting to do so (especially by chemical means) would likely be heard barking or making guttural sounds; or uttering platitudinous drivel such as, “The first shall be last and the last shall be first.”

It is perhaps unfortunate that so many 60’s re-treads, who now count chemically induced nirvana as the defining influence of their lives, have since gravitated to positions of influence within key sectors such as education, media, the arts and politics. The missing element in many of their considerations appears to be that of time. It has made them vulnerable to outside influences with much more energetic intent, much of it hostile to long-standing Western traditions. Whereas it takes but a moment to declare one’s utopian intentions by wordage limited to the space on a bumper sticker (as in PEACE NOW), the hard work required to achieve any (political) goal may well take the span of several lifetimes. This is a principle of which any determined enemy is always extremely mindful.

There is yet a whole other story in how I came to spend an entire semester in India; in how (we were told) famine closed the University (of Mysore) shortly after we arrived. Not wishing to cut our opportunity short, we ventured out on our own to travel the length and breadth of the sub-continent for the balance of our stay. Suffice it to say, India was pure eye-candy everywhere we looked. One of my professors confided years later that he himself has never experienced anything like it since visiting there on his own dime as a young student of the visual arts.

In those days, many young people from disparate parts of the world – particularly from the developed nations - traveled to India in the hope of finding themselves. It had been well promoted by popular culture as being the place where spirituality reigns supreme. I remained suspicious of ashrams and retreats that promised everything. Yet, I too found myself engaged, if only peripherally. Thus, distracted from my usual dark concerns, I actually did end up having a good time.

There was no electricity at the Manasagangotri dorms for men. We were furnished with oil lamps for night reading. There was no television or radio. Mail to and from home still took a month and more. Those were the days before computers, iPods and Game Boy. Therefore, you might say, we were not really missing all that much. In fact, I came to appreciate India just for what it was. There was a partially clad man in the basement who would pour buckets of hot water over our naked bodies before breakfast. If we needed a shave, he would shave us with a straight razor and give us a head massage to boot.

I did manage to get hold of an English language newspaper most mornings. At the time, the big story was the run-up to the resignation of President Nixon. We all were of one mind regarding this. The world press dutifully wrote our script. We all hated Nixon. He was Republican, after all. (Our parents were Republicans too.) We knew this to be the party that was locked in some kind of incestuous embrace with U.S.-based multinational corporations (the same our parents worked for) who were systematically stripping the earth of its resources, decimating its remaining pristine acreage, even attempting to foul space with their pernicious designs.

I must admit that our initial contact with the sub-continent hit us hard. The heat, the dust, the incessant honking of cars, the ever-fluctuating smells, all combined to short-circuit any innate responses that might have mitigated our agony. Our normal bodily functions rebelled when confronted with food that scorched our palates. It took time for us to recalibrate. I have since heard stories of western tourists arriving in India and leaving again on the very next flight out. I too wonder what might have been, had I felt healthy enough to devise an escape that first fortnight when everything felt like it was coming apart.

Of all the obstacles that confronted us those first days as students of Indian culture, the most difficult had been coming to grips with gut-wrenching poverty of which begging was the most intrusive part. We understood, of course, that the American multinationals were in large part responsible for this. Theory was one thing, but now, having come face to face with so many sick and so many lame; so many so obviously malnourished, opened our blue suburban eyes to the results of decades of exploitation and neglect. It put an edge to the hatred we felt towards our own white skins; and especially towards the Republicans back home who now, finally, were finding themselves trapped in a prosecutable offence. We rooted for their downfall with all the enthusiasm we could muster. We watched with great glee the duly elected face (of what we perceived to be a distillate of pure evil) twist grotesquely on yesterday’s pages of 'THE INDIAN EXPRESS' (newspaper) as they crawled, now discarded, along the gutters of our relatively quiet Indian town. Karma was properly engaged. Justice was at hand. We believed it with all our hearts! Beyond that, we knew very little about the case and the elements of the actual crimes alleged. Nixon never got the chance to explain; and, even if he had, it would likely have been reported out of context or not reported at all. In any case, we would likely have dismissed it out of hand. By the time of Nixon’s death in ‘94, cooler heads would prevail and much more balanced histories of these very same events entered into the mainstream.

We regained our legs, of course, and our Indian experience blossomed into something truly wonderful. When it came time to leave, we felt like old India hands. We patted ourselves on the back and vowed to return soon.

The world, by and large, could still have been considered a relatively peaceful place. The U.S. and the Soviet Union were perfectly balanced in terms of the military might each could project. All other countries had been bullied into choosing sides, one way or another - while China stood in the wings, biding its time. We never encountered overt hostility during any of our globetrotting marathons, even in places like Afghanistan, Iran and Iraq. Only the Russian professor’s wives, with whom we shared our meals at the University Guest House, let us know in no uncertain terms how much they disapproved of us (snot-nosed American kids, as they put it) flying here and there. In truth, their quarrel was not with us. Clearly, they resented being stuck in one place, or doomed to travel third class by overcrowded bus or train. We conveniently failed to make the connection between what had the Russians so up in arms and the political reality that determined their situation.

After the fall of the Soviet Union, many prominent voices (even some originating from within our own borders), openly lamented America’s asymmetrical advantage on the world stage, fearing the potential misuse of unchecked American power (particularly in the hands of Republicans) much more than any other global threat. Whereas at one time such sentiments would have been considered seditious (or summarily dismissed as the ravings of lunatics), today they hold equal sway with the notion of (what has been termed) American exceptionalism.

I returned to India only two years later. This time, I resolved to approach her from the east (starting in Japan). It took me eight months to reach Calcutta. In the end, I concluded that India was essentially as far East as anyone can possibly go.

In Japan, however, I stumbled upon the second milestone in my quest to discover how things work. It came in the form of a visit to the Ryoanji Temple in Kyoto, which contains a stone garden that touched me deeply. The words I wrote in my diary after my first of two visits there come back to me:

“There is one garden in particular that struck my eye and imagination. It is the famous rock garden at the Ryoanji Temple. It was constructed by a landscape artist in accordance with the principles of Zen Buddhism. The scene, briefly, is this: a rectangular sea of raked sand in which 15 rocks of varying sizes are arranged in groups. One is encouraged to sit quietly and meditate. The mind struggles for comparisons. Depending on the vividness of one's imagination, anything is possible. Given that one sits there long enough, the mind will at some point cease its struggle and see the garden simply for what it is: a semi-random arrangement of stone. This final stage is difficult to achieve even under the best of circumstances and here, at Ryoanji, conditions are far from perfect. Loudspeakers drone on intermittently. Hordes of tourists are continually either arriving or leaving. Their faces are infinitely more arresting than this simple study in serenity. And the eye and heart are so easily nudged away from the disciplines required to...”
And a few paragraphs later:

“Finally, just two and a half minutes before closing, I do manage to attain some sense of clarity when a slight movement distracts me. The dead, static visuals of the garden become briefly unhinged and I recognize an opportunity. My senses respond to a single sound: a dry leaf is scratching across the white surface of raked sand, propelled by a hesitant breeze. Its brittle points leave no mark (the way the rake did). Soon it will have reached the wall where, in time, it will disintegrate to become the stuff from which new living shapes are spawned.”

The overriding lesson of the stone garden was (of course) it is what it is. This principle can presumably be applied to all things: rocks, the pendulum of history, politicians as well as regular folk: the rich, the poor, the pious, the profane, the corrupt, the innocent, the dead, and everything else we have named or described in some fashion. Somewhat disconcerting, however, was the nagging feeling that this revelation too was completely unexpected. I realized that if I were ever able to put it all together and determine answers to the questions I was asking, it would likely not be attributable to my own efforts alone. The best I could hope for was to continue on my journeys, staying sufficiently alert for signs that could conceivably hasten my enlightenment - all the while knowing that all things are signs for those who are lost.

After nearly a year on the hippy trail, I began receiving urgent pleas from my parents to return home. They were afraid that the Orient would swallow me up before I would ever have a chance to hold a job, a wife, a child. Similar thoughts had been crossing my own mind and I caught a flight back home.

The third indication of the possibility that I would yet be redeemed came with the birth of my first child. I remember standing in the delivery room, my palms sweating. We were expecting a boy and had already selected a name. At some point, the nurse gave me my daughter to hold and something quite unexpected came over me. I felt as if a light were shining on us from above. I experienced a peace - a connectedness - I had never before known. It was doubly surprising as I had never been particularly fond of children. I had not wanted this one. She was an accident. I had only grudgingly agreed to do the right thing.

It turned out ever so right - a joy that grew from day to day, year to year. There came another - a son. I felt satisfied and complete, watching them grow - all this, despite still not knowing how things work. I was living as I swore I would never do - on faith.

My work at the time was somewhat less than all-consuming, leaving me plenty of time to think. Suddenly, I felt compelled to take up pen and paper. My notebooks came to resemble Einstein’s blackboards with thought equations all over the map. It soon became clear what I was driving at - I needed to complete that class assignment from back in my (Gettysburg) college days. I wanted to prove the existence of God.

I approached the project with no preconceived opinions regarding this (or any) matter. I simply let my own words lead me – and lead me they did. The initial breakthrough came when I remembered that “Proving the Existence of God” was the brainchild of the mathematics department.

Consider the one thing we do know about God: His ability to create something from nothing. When man creates something, he does so - working from the outside with previously existing materials - leaving the seams to show. When God creates, He creates from the inside and leaves no seams.

‘Nothing’ is the raw material with which God begins. Natural law dictates that in order for any two things to interact in some way, a common element must be present in both. Therefore, ‘nothing’ must be one of the properties of God.

‘Nothing’ is not the opposite of ‘something’. It is a reality with properties unique to itself. In the universal language of mathematics, its symbol is 0. Zero is not the opposite of any number (just as ‘nothing’ is not the opposite of ‘something’), making it unique among numbers with properties unique to itself.

As we strive to understand everything, we remain largely ignorant of ‘nothing’ which cannot be measured or quantified by our senses or by the extensions thereof. The scope and significance of ‘nothing’, some say, can only be grasped by what Zen refers to as ‘no mind’ (or ‘no thought’).

It is ‘nothing’ within which what some call "God" resides. So, even if we - who look to rulers and scales as the ultimate test of reality - should ever succeed in figuring out everything there is to know about all there is, we would still fall infinitely short of figuring out what is not.

I include the latter insight simply to illustrate the relative enormity of the unknown (God) as compared to the finite number of word combinations that may exist today and can never be expected to increase to anywhere near approaching infinity. It takes a leap of faith, as Kierkegaard suggests, to even have a prayer of embracing the entirety of one’s human (or any) experience. Yet, it is a fact that those most highly educated are least likely to profess faith of any kind. Once again, based on relative potential alone, it would seem utter lunacy to dismiss the vastness of the unspoken - and, hence, the uncreated - from the catalogue of verbal and non-verbal consideration. Taking water as a metaphor, who would dispute that the entire scope of man’s knowledge would barely fill a thimble?

Who would be arrogant enough to propose that the contents of this thimble be used to turn back the tides or to lower the oceans or some such improbable scheme? Should it not be a clue to those who would seek to strike any reference to God from public discourse, that no human has yet been able to construct a single blade of grass? No one has yet been able to tame hurricanes. No one has yet been able to alter the course of the sun. Yet, some are so egotistical as to assign blame (even) for bad weather, not to God (who, they claim, does not exist), but to other men with whom they might have political differences. Bottom line: To deny the hand of God in every one of our perceptions is as farcical as a midget strapping on stilts and claiming to be Mt. Everest.

My wife, Parvathi, volunteers at a school for what are euphemistically referred to as “special children". Many of these are so profoundly disabled; they are unable to communicate, certainly verbally, but also via commonly accepted facial expressions or gestures. Yet, at the same time, many of these kids are highly intelligent, capable of working through complex mathematical problems and understanding film and literature. Moreover, they know exactly what is going on. They know what someone’s disposition towards them might be. It is just that they are unable to respond in kind. They are young people, not unlike others of similar age, with hopes and dreams and feelings, except they are trapped inside inappropriately configured neural pathways. As such, their intended caresses could translate into blows; hugs can result in hair pulling; and heartfelt verbal declarations, intended to convey tender sentiments, could find expression in unearthly howls.

Anyone unused to dealing with such children is likely to remain disengaged at best, or recoil in horror at worst. In any case, these kids’ hearts must be breaking every time their best effort to connect either emotionally or intellectually with another person goes awry. It occurs to me that God has a similar problem. Lacking a fully functional human face or even a (happily) wagging tail, He can make the birds sing and the flowers bloom all He wants and, still, a sizable percentage of us will deny Him His due.

Thomas Merton was once to have said that "looking for God is like seeking a path in a field of snow; if there is no path, and you are looking for one, walk across it and there is your path." Given that each one of us is defined by a process involving God (non-being) on one hand, and the human corporal and psychological entity (being) on the other, the central paradox underlying the human condition seems to be one of God wanting desperately to die, and man wanting desperately to live. Neither God, nor man, can ever realistically expect to realize his ambition. Even as man continues to die and God continues to live, man can only approximate the illusion of the eternal by attempting to identify some part of himself with God. Nor does God appear to be able to advance his own agenda beyond continuing to create dying men.

I realize that I may just have committed a gaffe in some minds. Already you are thinking of loggig off and heading for the kitchen. I have used the word “God”, which to some connotes a lack of sophistication, education, or eloquence. You picture nihilists blowing themselves up in His name. You picture zealots protesting in front of abortion clinics. You picture a bumbling President carrying a Bible under his arm on his way to or from Sunday services.

I would respectfully ask you to hang on just long enough to consider how all I have said here thus far might actually apply to you personally: If you do exist, you are either (+1) or (-1), depending on whether you are living or not. In any case, you can never be zero, a realm that is solely reserved for the creative impulse that produced you and all you have named, and purport to know… from nothing. Metaphysically speaking, therein may well lie the only legitimate divide within what we loosely refer to as existence.