Can We Do Better?

Utah Firing Squad Executes Convicted Killer

As reported by Associated Press

“Draper Utah- A death row inmate who had used a gun to fatally shoot two men suffered the same fate Friday Morning as he was executed by a team of marksmen- the first time Utah used the firing squad to carry out a death sentence in 14 years.

            A barrage of bullets tore into Ronnie Lee Gardner’s chest where a target was pinned over his heart. Two minutes later an ashen Gardner, blood pooling in his dark blue jumpsuit, was pronounced dead at 12:17 a.m....

            The five executioners, certified police officers who volunteered for the task and remain anonymous, stood about 25 feet away, behind a wall cut with a gunport, and were armed with matching .30 caliber Winchester rifles. One was loaded with a blank so no one knows who fired the fatal shot. Sandbags stacked behind Gardner’s chair kept the bullets from ricocheting around the cinderblock room.

            Utah Dept. of Corrections Director Thomas Patterson said the countdown cadence went “5-4-3...” with the shooters starting to fire at the count of 2.

            Gardner’s arm tensed and jerked back when he was hit. As the medical examiner checked for vital signs the hood was pulled back, revealing that Gardner’s head was tilted back and to the right, his mouth slightly open...”

            The atrocity here is so obvious, it is impossible to put it in words. I let the description speak for itself. I am tempted to wish all those who would justify our communal acts of violence and wrath could witness firsthand such brutality. I imagine that at least some would hesitate in the future before being an armchair god of life and death if we were all there in that room as this man was executed, together.

            And yet I know the anger I feel at this moment is just as insidious in hardening the heart and building barriers between me and my world, and others and their worlds. It is a raw energy that needs direction so the acts that follow bring positive consequences rather than perpetuating violence and fear. I wish for people like Gandhi to be among us, to help us, our world, but in my wishing I sense there are the seeds of many Gandhi’s among us, right now. If we cultivate the soil for these seeds, they can grow. And if we trust the practice of nurturing goodness, goodness can manifest. For some of us the fields we cultivate will be small, and for some they will be large.

            So, I ask these questions. How can this kind of punishment not rank equal to the very acts of violence that we hold criminal and abhor? What do we achieve by it? Justice? Does it deter other murders? Is our world now safer, kinder, or healthier? Does anyone even really feel better for it? I put these thoughts out there with my hope for a healing world; for us, for our children, and for their children.

Thank you.

Singing

            Dedication: To all of us who can’t sing, write, lead, love, hammer a nail, or talk to God, I tell this story, one that has been told countless times for ages and ages. It is true and I know it doesn’t stand alone, neither in my life or yours. I dedicate it with prayers for our well-being.

            I was in the seventh grade and had grown up in a family that did not sing. It was assumed that we could not carry a tune. Up to this time I don’t recall even trying very hard, definitely at no more than a whisper or as a pantomime. No exceptions, not even ‘Happy Birthday’ was safe. I lamented this and deeply felt the lack in my life. I wanted to sing songs like other people. It did not seem to be too much to ask for.

            I enrolled into chorus at school. After a couple of classes the teacher took me aside to tell me that she did not think I could “fit in.” I could not carry a tune. I would be a burden on everyone else. Seventh grade chorus obviously was for young people who could sing and not for those who aspired to find their voice. Whispers became silence and pantomime a stone face. The only exception was many years later when I had children of my own. I would sing ‘Happy Birthday’ just loud enough.

            My story jumps almost forty years. Forty years! That’s a lot of time and a big piece of a lifetime! I had bought a cheap guitar and was playing with a friend of mine. We strummed chords and he sang folk songs. His voice was not particularly strong or melodic, but we had fun. After a while though, he became frustrated by my not singing and delivered the ultimatum to sing or he was not interested in us playing together any longer. Now, we were close friends and neither of us had large social worlds. We were important to each other. I knew he would not stand in judgment. He could care less about the quality of my voice. In hindsight I would say it was a matter of tough love. Whatever his intention, I had to confront all those people who told the child I was that he could not sing. It was a showdown with no escape, no whispering a tune or mouthing words. The more voices that emerged from my past, my fears of being inadequate, from other vulnerabilities; of being a fat kid with a hair-lip or a Jew or being shy, the more they shouted the more important it became to sing a fucking song! So simple, yet so hard. You know what I mean? I could not carry the weight of all those voices anymore. Now was the time. Now is always the time.

            I am not going to lament those forty years it took for me to learn how to sing. That’s just what it took. I am grateful that it didn’t take longer.

“I know why the caged bird sings, ah me,


When his wing is bruised and his bosom sore,


When he beats his bars and would be free;

It is not a carol of joy or glee,


But a prayer that he sends from his heart's deep core,


But a plea, that upward to Heaven he flings –

I know why the caged bird sings.”

            Paul Laurence Dunbar from his poem: Sympathy

Borders and Boundaries

            On June 2, a black bear was spotted in a backyard near Sierra Vista, also meaning that it was spotted near the Huachuca Mts. The bear became frightened as people and game officials gathered, and it climbed a tree. Seeking sanctuary in a tree in someone’s backyard, unlike in the forest, is to seek sanctuary in a dead end, sometimes literally. Consequently, it was deemed necessary to ‘tranquilize’ the bear rather than tranquilize the onlookers, and it was reported that the bear only suffered a bloody nose from tumbling out of the tree. Do bears suffer? Have you ever seen a bear stretched out and skinned? They have an eerie resemblance to humans. I have also watched them at play.

            Cookie-cutter backyards make for poor bear habitat. This particular bear was transported to the Peloncillo Mts. along the N.M. border. This is the probable origin of the concept of lateral deportation that the Border Patrol is fond of. Do you know that there are months when twenty or more bodies of migrants will be found in the desert who die of exposure? These people are as related to cartel members or terrorists as a black bear is to a killer whale. In case you were wondering about this...

            Did you hear about the migrant teenager killed near El Paso after he threw rocks at an agent who probably could have responded by flipping him the finger and walking or driving away? This story had gotten a lot of attention for a few days and it is unclear exactly what happened, at least to me, but a very similar incident happened here in Cochise County about six months ago. It was witnessed by other agents so we can be assured of two things; the rock was thrown and the agent had help if he chose not to kill the migrant. But he did choose to kill him. And he did kill him. And the investigation was dropped the week before a rancher was shot and killed near to the same location. There is probably not a direct connection in the way we commonly think of direct connections but many a wise man and woman, black, white, or otherwise, has realized that violence breeds more violence. Sad, isn’t it? You know the saying, ”Stop this train, I want to get off.” Lets change ‘I’ to  ‘We’, shall we? Communal nightmares only end with communal awakenings.

            Two weeks before the bear we were talking about was deported, another one that was rummaging around in free boxes, otherwise know as trash cans, in the Ramsey Canyon area, also in the foothills of the Huachuca’s, was euthanized. Killed. Studies show that bears that are laterally deported are more likely to die than survive for the simple reason that if the habitat could support another bear, there would most likely already be another bear there. I guess that is why they called it euthanizing, being that it seems to be less painful than dooming them to starve to death.

            I hike often in the Huachuca Mts. and have encountered both migrants and bears. When I meet up with immigrants in those high mountains, I am reminded that I belong to the family of man. When I meet up with bears, I am reminded that I belong to an even larger family of worthy beings. I am grateful for being born into this world, although I lament for the exploited and those cast aside.

            So, I have searched for an enemy and found that it is I, and it is you. It is nature-lovers who want to live in the mountains or deserts with privacy. It is the animal-lover who projects their emotionally driven ideals into game management decisions. It is the righteous who find justification for dominion over all livings beings. It is the lover of cheap clothing and beach resorts. It is all of us who can be more mindful, less fearful, and more respectful. Those bearing the brunt of punishment are at the end of a long chain of causes. Is the bear to blame for seeking food, or an immigrant for seeking employment?

            I really don’t know what else to say. I wish I knew something that no one has thought of before. I am sad for these things. I am compelled to ask hard questions, endlessly if necessary. I know that what little empowerment I have hinges on taking responsibility for it all, regardless of how easy it would be to lay it on someone else’s doorstep. I believe wholeheartedly that the vitality of life on Earth depends on diversity and that people do not deserve or need to be killed for throwing rocks.

Play

            Play is important, worthy of being taken seriously, and anything taken seriously should be able to stand up to some play. By playful I don’t mean tinged with sarcasm. Sarcasm, even when intermingled with mirth and humor is too serious. Play is openhearted, light in weight, unhindered to come and go. Serious is thought and feeling bound in emotional need. It is fear made solid and crazy made sane.

            Play does not mean less than wholehearted or being unworthy of effort. We are supposed to nurture life but a closed fist is only the shadow of an open hand. An open heart-and-mind is free to respond to life. This is a good thing.

            Of all the functions of being human, how did humor and laughter come about? We are fortunate.

            Thank you

Edith Warton was quoted as saying:  “Longevity and creativity rest on four things: being unafraid of change, having an insatiable curiosity, being interested in big things, and being happy in small ways.”

The Want of Language: the desire to, the lack of, and the search for completeness

            Of late, when I hear myself about to use the word spiritual, I feel trapped. It would be bad enough if it was only that I found the word inadequate as was once the case, but it has taken on an odor of repulsiveness and danger. The actual dictionary meaning is characterized by that which is distinguished from the corporeal. It use to be more inclusive of some of what we now relegate to the intellect, which seems to have become a function of the brain. And amidst all the divisiveness of what we are, whatever we are, somehow spiritual has gotten to be better or nicer, more important or more refined. I feel under attack. I do not want to be a second-class citizen to being an ethereal energy lost in sacred rapture. Why not? Because that WANTING means I cannot be what I fully AM; a human, a man, 58 years old. I have good days and bad days. Death awaits me.

            What I do want is spiritual growth to be a guiding principle among others in my life. What I wish for is a word that is inclusive, one that doesn’t have negative connotations toward my body or daily activities. Is there some way to speak and think without getting tangled up in the inadequacy of language to convey multiple meanings simultaneously? I feel stuck in a two-dimensional world trying to describe a box. All I can do is draw one rectangle after another and none of them can stand alone, literally or figuratively.

            What I suspect is that I won’t find what I’m looking for except in dialogue. If you and I were to dialogue, we might begin to recreate language with an understanding of our limitations, we might be able to use that which has been a source of entrapment as a source of expression and growth. It could be as if we took all the little drawings of rectangles, each from a different point of view, put them on cards and flicked through them quickly. Have you ever done that? Hah, look, a box!

            That’s why we need each other. That’s why we need each other in order to be that larger being and greater understanding that we already are. It is one more reason why we shouldn’t waste our lives competing with each other. But I have journeyed a long way from where I started, writing about the word ‘spiritual,’ and it still sticks in my throat. Can you help me? Please?

be well and thank you

Religion, elders, and making choices:

            If I had to choose a religious affiliation, it would be that of being a Buddhist. I would only do so reluctantly. Not because I have any problem with the label per se, or don’t think it’s the most appropriate, but this sort of identifying with a category is a messy and ambiguous endeavor, meaning different things to different people. What is it that makes a person a Buddhist or Christian or some other something or other?  Is it about belief? Or emotional comfort, belonging to a community, performing rituals? Reading books? Praying?  Maybe. Sometimes. All the above? According to whom?

            I am much more comfortable just saying that I follow a Buddhist path. It doesn’t matter to me what that makes me because I didn’t know what I was before either. I do what I do and believe what I believe and I don’t need to know what it adds up to. That’s actually part of my path: I do things and trust the bigger picture to the bigger picture. You could even call it God. I don’t usually, but I could. My God responds according to what I am and what I do. My God knows the truth of who I am and my God doesn’t need proof of my allegiance or proof of my worthiness. My worthiness to be alive is proven by my being alive. That's the way I see it.

            I find it difficult to adequately describe what I call a ‘path’, because it is much more than its components. It is not separate from who I am and the life I live. That’s why I am more comfortable calling it a path rather than a religion or belief. It includes what might be judged as attainments and shortcomings except that there really are no successes or failures. It is work in progress. If I needed to describe it someone, they would have to be willing to add up the pieces in order to get an idea of what it means to me.

            I have been reading a book of interviews with elderly Benedictine monks and nuns. These are people that have been committed to a religious way of life for sixty, seventy, or more years. Reading their stories and hearing their thoughts, I can see and feel how they have been shaped by their faith and everyday activity; they radiate a love for the spiritual life and community and they themselves appear like jewels. They so embody their paths that they are living examples of what would otherwise be no more than lofty ideas. The transformation happens day-by-day, year-by-year, guided by their faith and the principles of their religion.

            I don’t think one needs to be a monk or nun to engage so wholeheartedly, but I do think one needs to be willing to make intentional decisions, some of which might appear to be sacrificial at the time in order to nurture this lifestyle. I am not too confident that a spiritual or religious life can be squeezed in or added onto an already full dance card. And there’s no getting around the time element and the challenges we face. I guess we all have to ask ourselves where it is that we want to go with our lives and what it takes to make it happen. No one can do it for another although we can help or hinder each other profoundly. And there’s no neutral ground to retreat to. Even our passivity or avoidance has consequence.

be well and thank you

Fences, spotlights, and watchtowers

The temple of my spiritual practice lies within concentric rings of fences and walls, spotlights and watchtowers, guards and protocols. Being that I go to a prison to sit with inmates, it could be that I mean what I say literally. Being that my practice is to step aside from all that hinders an awareness of that which I am, it could be that I mean what I say metaphorically. I am thankful that I am not physically incarcerated.

            When we sit in silence and bring our attention to the present moment, the circle of vinyl-covered cushions borrowed from the sofa becomes a sacred place. There is a story of the Buddha (Buddha meaning an awakened one, indistinguishable from the awakened you and I) walking along with his disciples. He stops and says, “This would be a good place for a temple.” The god Indra steps up and sticks a blade of grass in the ground and replies, “There, I have built you a temple.” It is reported that the Buddha was pleased.

            Out in the prison yard, alongside of the track and basketball courts, there is a small dome-shaped skeleton of a structure. Once a week, barring lockdowns and such prison business, the Native Americans are given the opportunity to have a sweat. It does not look like much from the outside, but I imagine that to enter it with the legacy of tradition, ceremony, and community is to step into another realm of being, and, of course, the departure from another realm. I have noticed with interest that even the inmates who do not participate and are not Native American seemed comforted by its presence and use.

            So, just what makes us a prisoner? Or a victim? What hinders us from our potential at this time and place? I wonder about the concentric rings circling the being that I am. Are they protecting me or imprisoning me? Is it worth the price to be safe? Deadened is safe. Dead is even safer.

            But there is another kind of dying, a dying while alive, and a dying that is also a birthing. It is entering the sweat lodge moment after moment, coming back to it like we come back to our breath in meditation. It is to be fearless. It is our birthright.