Universe
Saturday, April 21, 2007
the lights are on
head bursting
tv screeching
what am I doing?
a little Boy,
up in the village
no’s nothing.
but
his fields.
empty
brown
a single stalk growing
I am at home writing.
for what,
no use!
I join the Boy
leave everything behind
hand by hand
its time to till the land.
Joshua Leslie
Monday, April 27, 2009
Sunday, April 26, 2009
Generations on the Move
another sunday, quiet sunday, at home amidst the garden...
downloading music, watering bamboo, homework with leah, mind traveling
reflections, i guess...
we had a lovely evening last night at karma & pia's w/ dale & christopher. old friends (like 'bookends'...) sharing their lives, their thoughts, their experiences, their understandings, their confusions. their efforts to find the balance that is so critical to fully and joyfully participating in the sufferings of the world (as dear departed robin used to say...).
there's a common theme of the place we find ourselves in life's immense journey. we are at a new juncture that was always ahead of us, waiting for us, even in our uncertainties, escapades and constant journey; always lingering around a curve, over a false summit, a patient knight sitting at the 'chautara' (nepali resting place), smoking a bidi, waiting for our meandering lives to catch up with this sense of the eternal return.
such is sense of this middle passage. this still point between our role as parents to our children and children to our parents.
a point in life that we all reac in our 40s or 50s, when we see that our children have grown beyond our wildest dreams to near-adults, independent in certain ways, confident as we always hoped, moving to the next glorious stage of their lives, while we see our parents age quickly now, many stepping across the gateless gate, beyond us (for the moment).
this is the essence of this middle passage as we momentarily hold the arc of the parabola: observing our children climbing up mt. analogue, where we feel those forceful, evocative breezes in our hair, the pinnacle of our life's fleeting achievement.
while we see our mothers and fathers start slip down the ridge back into the earth. not like daedalus falling from having reached too far, beyond his human form -- but fully human, all too human, bent from the burdens of a good but demanding life, borne back to the depth of the soil from which we, in some mysterious way, emanate
('boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past', FSF)
yes, as i said to karma, 'not so long ago all of our children were here w/ us in kathmandu. next year most of them will be in america. and for years to come...' already we begin to plan vacations together in america, this american boy with his nepali wife and their tibetan and danish friends. such is the power of life. taking us beyond our wildest dreams. as our big ships are turned by the tugboats that have become our own children.
i say to myself, 'joshua is at georgetown in washington, dc. this weekend' i hear myself say it and feel it echo around my thoughts, like swirling a glass of chablis to observe the color and aerate before tasting. i hear my mind conduct the same mental exercise about the life of my beloved son. 'yes, joshua is in washington, dc.' it sounds so strange, yet soon to be so true for, possibly, the next four years...
most importantly, of course, is how happy josh sounded this morning when i skyped with him while he was meandering around georgetown with friends staying up all night for his 3:30 am ride to the airport to return to NMH.
'dad, i love this place. it's perfect for me. i can't imagine being anywhere else. and, imagine, i almost didn't apply! everyone seems happy here. the students really love this place. they all seem to have opinions and ideas and seem so bright.'
can a parent ask for more? especially when you've bridged more than a few cultures, continents and countries while finding one's own life.
after all, scratch the surface for this expatriate community and you'll find a slew of adults worried how their children will fit back into a world that we've shattered. cross-culture isn't just a challenge for the adults who find themselves in multi-cultured marriages. it's a whole brave new world for our children. and, having carried them so far away, opening the world to them like an oyster, how do they find their way 'home'.
home? home. home!
as paul simon sang,
'one and one-half wandering jews free to wander wherever they chose are traveling together in the sango de cristo, the blood of christ, mountains on the last leg of a journey they started along time ago. the arc of a love affair... hearts and bones...'
so, in this middle passage (which as a friend reminded me goes on for quite a long time...), we guide, observe and cherish our children as they grow wings, self-confidence and the character to create their own meaningful worlds within worlds...
while, as the conversation shifts, we ask now about each others' parents. their frailty, their marriages, their health, their independence, our love. our longing...
as we feel the tides shift and no longer do we worry as keenly about our own children, but observe our own parents become those elderly children, needing our love, our reassurance, our affection, our support...
'how are they?' 'are they alone?' 'do they need us?' 'when are you going back?' 'are we too far away?'
these are the questions we share and swirl in our thoughts as we sit late with the lights of the city below us...
yes, the middle way, the middle passage,
this immense journey...
hearts and bones.
like frail birds on a wire
the arc of our inner lives
moving along the queue
no longer equidistant between generations
but soon to have our bare heads
touching the open sky
with younger generations coming up
behind us
none ahead
any longer.
for we have buried the best
and love the rest...
downloading music, watering bamboo, homework with leah, mind traveling
reflections, i guess...
we had a lovely evening last night at karma & pia's w/ dale & christopher. old friends (like 'bookends'...) sharing their lives, their thoughts, their experiences, their understandings, their confusions. their efforts to find the balance that is so critical to fully and joyfully participating in the sufferings of the world (as dear departed robin used to say...).
there's a common theme of the place we find ourselves in life's immense journey. we are at a new juncture that was always ahead of us, waiting for us, even in our uncertainties, escapades and constant journey; always lingering around a curve, over a false summit, a patient knight sitting at the 'chautara' (nepali resting place), smoking a bidi, waiting for our meandering lives to catch up with this sense of the eternal return.
such is sense of this middle passage. this still point between our role as parents to our children and children to our parents.
a point in life that we all reac in our 40s or 50s, when we see that our children have grown beyond our wildest dreams to near-adults, independent in certain ways, confident as we always hoped, moving to the next glorious stage of their lives, while we see our parents age quickly now, many stepping across the gateless gate, beyond us (for the moment).
this is the essence of this middle passage as we momentarily hold the arc of the parabola: observing our children climbing up mt. analogue, where we feel those forceful, evocative breezes in our hair, the pinnacle of our life's fleeting achievement.
while we see our mothers and fathers start slip down the ridge back into the earth. not like daedalus falling from having reached too far, beyond his human form -- but fully human, all too human, bent from the burdens of a good but demanding life, borne back to the depth of the soil from which we, in some mysterious way, emanate
('boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past', FSF)
yes, as i said to karma, 'not so long ago all of our children were here w/ us in kathmandu. next year most of them will be in america. and for years to come...' already we begin to plan vacations together in america, this american boy with his nepali wife and their tibetan and danish friends. such is the power of life. taking us beyond our wildest dreams. as our big ships are turned by the tugboats that have become our own children.
i say to myself, 'joshua is at georgetown in washington, dc. this weekend' i hear myself say it and feel it echo around my thoughts, like swirling a glass of chablis to observe the color and aerate before tasting. i hear my mind conduct the same mental exercise about the life of my beloved son. 'yes, joshua is in washington, dc.' it sounds so strange, yet soon to be so true for, possibly, the next four years...
most importantly, of course, is how happy josh sounded this morning when i skyped with him while he was meandering around georgetown with friends staying up all night for his 3:30 am ride to the airport to return to NMH.
'dad, i love this place. it's perfect for me. i can't imagine being anywhere else. and, imagine, i almost didn't apply! everyone seems happy here. the students really love this place. they all seem to have opinions and ideas and seem so bright.'
can a parent ask for more? especially when you've bridged more than a few cultures, continents and countries while finding one's own life.
after all, scratch the surface for this expatriate community and you'll find a slew of adults worried how their children will fit back into a world that we've shattered. cross-culture isn't just a challenge for the adults who find themselves in multi-cultured marriages. it's a whole brave new world for our children. and, having carried them so far away, opening the world to them like an oyster, how do they find their way 'home'.
home? home. home!
as paul simon sang,
'one and one-half wandering jews free to wander wherever they chose are traveling together in the sango de cristo, the blood of christ, mountains on the last leg of a journey they started along time ago. the arc of a love affair... hearts and bones...'
so, in this middle passage (which as a friend reminded me goes on for quite a long time...), we guide, observe and cherish our children as they grow wings, self-confidence and the character to create their own meaningful worlds within worlds...
while, as the conversation shifts, we ask now about each others' parents. their frailty, their marriages, their health, their independence, our love. our longing...
as we feel the tides shift and no longer do we worry as keenly about our own children, but observe our own parents become those elderly children, needing our love, our reassurance, our affection, our support...
'how are they?' 'are they alone?' 'do they need us?' 'when are you going back?' 'are we too far away?'
these are the questions we share and swirl in our thoughts as we sit late with the lights of the city below us...
yes, the middle way, the middle passage,
this immense journey...
hearts and bones.
like frail birds on a wire
the arc of our inner lives
moving along the queue
no longer equidistant between generations
but soon to have our bare heads
touching the open sky
with younger generations coming up
behind us
none ahead
any longer.
for we have buried the best
and love the rest...
Friday, April 24, 2009
Joshua's Moment of Silence at NMH: Nietzche and Schopenhauer
Nietzche and Schopenhauer
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Last night I picked up a book that I bought over Spring Break called “The Philosophy of Friedrich Nietzche”, an autobiography describing the philosophy of Nietzche. Early in the book, I came across a name I had never heard before, Arthur Schopenhauer, so I decided to look him up and this led to me discovering a philosphy that truly captivated me.
For Schopenhauer believed that humans were motivated only by their own basic desires, or their ‘Will to Live’. Now many people would chastise this statement, saying that it was egotistical and selfish to think only for oneself. But, personally, I disagree. I believe that, yes, Schopenhauer’s statement may be too extreme. Yet, even Lord Buddha in some ways advocated the same message as Schopenhauer.
Buddha talked about how life is a balance, and that balance includes one’s own selfish desires. Of course, this selfishness does not give one the right to kill or hurt someone or remain quiet and oblivious in such a situation, as both attitudes are sides of the extreme; instead, being true to oneself permits the right to expresses your emotions, feelings, and attitudes – which is the Middle Way.
We are not saints, we are merely human beings. We have the right to be a little bit selfish in this world. As the root of the word selfish is Self. It is equally important to note that the Self is a person with respect to a complete individuality. A complete individual includes not only one’s own identity, but one’s community, and the world around you.
Therefore, our true Self, in addition to taking care of our own Ego, requires us to give back to a world that has given us life, love, and the pursuit of happiness.
In truth, as the sages and philosophers have taught us, the highest form of Self is giving back to one’s community and world. The lowest form is mere Ego and only caring about oneself.
Thus, it is our responsibility to find the Middle Way between the highest form of Self and Schopenhauer’s lowest form of Ego. So I ask you, for the next minute to contemplate your very own life, the one life you have, and think how you define your Self, as selfish, selfless or somewhere in between?
Let Us be Silent.
Joshua S. Leslie
Class of 2009
Northfield Mount Hermon
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Last night I picked up a book that I bought over Spring Break called “The Philosophy of Friedrich Nietzche”, an autobiography describing the philosophy of Nietzche. Early in the book, I came across a name I had never heard before, Arthur Schopenhauer, so I decided to look him up and this led to me discovering a philosphy that truly captivated me.
For Schopenhauer believed that humans were motivated only by their own basic desires, or their ‘Will to Live’. Now many people would chastise this statement, saying that it was egotistical and selfish to think only for oneself. But, personally, I disagree. I believe that, yes, Schopenhauer’s statement may be too extreme. Yet, even Lord Buddha in some ways advocated the same message as Schopenhauer.
Buddha talked about how life is a balance, and that balance includes one’s own selfish desires. Of course, this selfishness does not give one the right to kill or hurt someone or remain quiet and oblivious in such a situation, as both attitudes are sides of the extreme; instead, being true to oneself permits the right to expresses your emotions, feelings, and attitudes – which is the Middle Way.
We are not saints, we are merely human beings. We have the right to be a little bit selfish in this world. As the root of the word selfish is Self. It is equally important to note that the Self is a person with respect to a complete individuality. A complete individual includes not only one’s own identity, but one’s community, and the world around you.
Therefore, our true Self, in addition to taking care of our own Ego, requires us to give back to a world that has given us life, love, and the pursuit of happiness.
In truth, as the sages and philosophers have taught us, the highest form of Self is giving back to one’s community and world. The lowest form is mere Ego and only caring about oneself.
Thus, it is our responsibility to find the Middle Way between the highest form of Self and Schopenhauer’s lowest form of Ego. So I ask you, for the next minute to contemplate your very own life, the one life you have, and think how you define your Self, as selfish, selfless or somewhere in between?
Let Us be Silent.
Joshua S. Leslie
Class of 2009
Northfield Mount Hermon
Sunday, April 5, 2009
Butterfly Heaven
“Once upon a time, I, Chuang Chou, dreamt I was a butterfly, fluttering hither and thither. I was conscious only of my happiness as a butterfly, unaware that I was Chou. Soon I awakened, and there I was myself again. Now I do not know whether I was a man dreaming I was a butterfly, or whether I am now a butterfly, dreaming I am a man. Between a man and a butterfly there is necessarily a distinction. The transition is called the transformation of material things.”
After Dad died, some of his doctors came into the hospice room to offer their condolences. They spoke of his respiratory failure and the anatomical finale of his existence among us on this lovely yet troubled world.
Although intrigued by the medical arts and sciences I'd never studied, I was still confused by where Dad had gone. While his now silent body lay in front of us, still, quiet, in deep repose, his spirit, the flicker of a smile on his lips, the light in his green eyes, the anxious frown on his forehead, were gone.
I knew that Death had come and taken my father away. I couldn't deny that.
No longer would he either encourage or exasperate me, as he'd done, no doubt, always for my benefit, throughout my life. No longer would I hear his voice on the phone, receive his reminders of things I need to do or hug his increasingly frail body when I reached Palm Beach Gardens or he came to visit me somewhere on my family's perpetual perigrinations in this world.
So, I wondered, naturally it seemed to me, where Dad had gone.
After all, it seems unlikely, irrational, childish even, to imagine that such a powerful energy or spirit or soul or life force could simply vanish like the light of a candle.
Could it?
So I asked his hospice doctor, "If you don't mind, where is my father now?"
She replied without words, only a finger pointing up, at the ceiling, although I think she meant the skies or heaven or the empryean or beyond. "There!", she seemed to be saying, beyond words, beyond description, beyond her medical school education or her years of medical practice had taught her. (I'm not sure that they have a class in medical school on this subject...)
So, when Dad's gentle and kindly Indian internist came by to offer his condolences, I asked him the same question. "Dr. H., where is my father?"
Dr. H. looked at me sceptically and slightly confused, so I quickly added, "I asked Dr. B. the same question."
"What did she say?", he asked.
"I'd rather hear your answer first.", I replied.
"Well, in the Hindu world, we believe that the soul migrates from life to life. In this way, the soul moves from one life to another until it reaches perfection and is released from the constant turning, the wheel of existence. However, it is rare to reach that stage so most people's souls continue to step from bodily form to bodily form constantly trying to improve or purify its essence."
[At least that's what I understood Dr. H. to be saying...]
"Yes", I said, "that is traditional Hindoo orthodoxy, but what do YOU believe?"
"Well, I believe the same, actually. The soul doesn't die in the same sense as the body. As the physicists have taught us, nothing that is created or exists within the material world can ever not exist in the world. It can change form, but it can't simply not exist anymore. That's impossible. Therefore, our soul must still be here, somewhere, moving toward light and liberation."
[Moksha, I believe, is what the traditional Vedantists call it.]
"Can our human souls reincarnate as non-human life?", I asked, as I know that this has been a spiritual and philosophical question for millennia -- although, for me, only in the decades since I began to gaze confusedly up at the stars...
"No", Dr. H. said. "I don't believe a human soul can migrate to a non-human form. That's quite unlikely."
Well, the point of this story isn't to hope that Dr. B. or Dr. H. can answer questions that have weighed on human consciousness since man first discovered fire and sat around it at night wondering about our relationship to the stars. Even non-verbal societies, if such existed early on, tens & tens of thousands of years ago, must have been tempted by the same thoughts. Definitely the Vedic poets, the Greek epic storytellers and Hebrew psalmistists explored such inchoate ideas more than a few thousand years ago.
Nor, do I have an easy answer to the very simple question of 'where is my father' or, my dearly beloved deceased friend and guide, Jerry Sternin (as we attended a lovely life embracing ceremony for him today in Cambridge).
I simply know that neither of these remarkable and beloved men are here any more. Everyone seems to agree on that. Death, that harvester of the living, has come and taken them away, leaving only the emblems and body of their lives for us to muse upon while we remain.
So, it was with a bit astonishment, after we took our lovely 8 year old daughter, Leah Prajna Rose, to a butterfly farm in South Deerfield, MA this morning as she so urgently, in her perpetual childlike wonder, desired, while I wandered amidst this enclosed tropical environment, with thousands of the most beautiful butterflies floating around us of such beguiling colors, patterns and forms, that I, belatedly realized both Dr. B. and Dr. H. may have been wrong.
For I think I recognized my father, a handsome, cream and black Monarch buttefly resting on a sugar cup, while, over there, too, behind a mauve bouginvillea, flittering and floating among the sweet flowers, Jerry. They appeared a bit dazed by their new incarnations, which could explain their inability to fly or, possibly, dance in a straight line.
I guess they were simply getting their beginner's butterfly wings. A bit new to the overall butterfly program.
No doubt, a bit astonished to have taken such a pristine and gentle living form.
At that moment of revelation, I realized: how perfect! What a delightful and enchanting place for a weary human soul to rest for the length of a butterfly's lifetime, in between the arduous transition from one human soul to another.
Or, if they had really perfected their human forms, maybe my father and Jerry rest for eternity, or at least as long as that lasts, in the final chrysalis of a gorgeous, nearly transparent, fragrantly innocent floating butterfly.
There, at peace, in their own refined, modest heaven among us on earth.
I know that Leah thinks it could be true...
Why not us?
Saturday, April 4, 2009
Quotes from Ezi's NMH Classroom This Morning
When the mind is imaginative, it takes to itself the faintist hints of life, it converts the very pulses of the air into revelations.
Henry James, The Art of Fiction
Books are the treasured wealth of the world and the fit inheritance of generations... Their authors are a natural and irresistible aristocracy, in every society, and, more than kings and emperors, exert an influence on mankind.
Henry David Thoreau
Henry James, The Art of Fiction
Books are the treasured wealth of the world and the fit inheritance of generations... Their authors are a natural and irresistible aristocracy, in every society, and, more than kings and emperors, exert an influence on mankind.
Henry David Thoreau
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