Monday, October 16, 2017

Back to the Future

Published in the Concord Monitor 10/18/17
Cape Cod sunset taken 4/1/13; reworked in Photoshop
CC Jean Stimmell

Back to the Future

Does our best hope lie in the past?

Although pundits warn that our wasteful, consumer civilization is unsustainable, we still revel in measuring our wellbeing by how quickly we can grow our Gross National Product.  We even have the gall to elect an avaricious, real estate developer as our president.

However, down deep, we know end times are coming: It’s almost come down to flipping a coin: nuclear incineration or climate annihilation.

Just as we, as individuals, avoid at all costs the unpleasant fact that we will die, we appear to have the same kind of denial about our nation’s fate and that of the world.

Like it or not, the handwriting is on the wall.

Nuclear weapons proliferate around the world at the service of a new crop of tinpot despots, spewing schoolyard macho rhetoric, egging each other on to light the fuse of nuclear war, resulting in the atomic doomsday clock ticking down to 2- 1/2 minutes from midnight. Meanwhile hurricanes of unheard of intensity and frequency batter our coasts while forest fires rage out of control in the west.

No wonder we are in denial: Getting bombed back to the Stone Age or thrown back there by Mother Nature is the stuff of our worst nightmares.

Recently, several books suggest a kinder, gentler transition: a back-to-the-future scenario where we voluntarily return to a simpler, sustainable way of life, using the lifestyle of the Bushmen of Africa as a role model.

What we call the Bushmen are more properly referred to as the Kloisan. They may be the first humans to inhabit the earth and have lived sustainably, at one with nature, for at least the last 150,000 years, a length of time unfathomable to us.

It turns out the Kloisan lifestyle is not such a bad way to live: they only have to work around fifteen-hour a week. They live complex lives with deep meaning, attuned to nature and highly skilled, a necessity in order to thrive in harsh desert conditions.

James Scott, professor of political science at Yale, suggests “the step-down in complexity between hunting and gathering and domesticated agriculture is as big as the step-down between domesticated agriculture and routine assembly work on a production line.”

Antropologist Marshall Sahlins has characterized hunter-gatherers as “the gurus of a ‘Zen road to affluence’ through which they were able to enjoy “unparalleled material plenty— with a low standard of living.” He reasoned that hunter-gatherers were content by the simple expedient of not desiring more than their environment could provide. 

Here, it seems are people – egalitarian, honest, peaceful, free – who are
living in harmony with their natural environment, unconcerned with material wealth. Another quality they possessed, we now yearn for, is mindfulness: They lived their lives in the present, trusting that providence would provide.

James Suzman, author of Affluence Without Abundance, seconds what Sahlin writes, hoping that we, like our hunter-gatherer forebears, might learn to be satisfied with having fewer needs more easily met, and in doing so break out of our destructive spiral of endless growth and development.

After all, “if so much of our species’ history was spent hunting and gathering, mustn’t there surely still be something of the hunter-gatherer in all of us.”

 Unfortunately, at present, it’s almost impossible to conceive of us consumer addicted Americans making even a token shift toward such a sustainable lifestyle.

Yet Suzman notes another fundamental aspect of Kloisan society that appears even more unattainable: “a fiercely egalitarian society where profitable exchange, hierarchy, and significant material inequality were not tolerated.”

Okay, I admit that we are not going to morph into sustainable folks overnight. But, as a first step, we could strive to reduce the extreme inequality in our country – not seen since the robber baron of the 19th century rode rough-shorn over we, the people, and our government.

One might argue that such a solution is impossible to achieve because of the increasing polarization in our country. Actually, that’s the best reason to make it happen because recent studies have shown that polarization rises in lockstep with income inequality.

Trump and his band of plutocrats, of course, are pushing a different solution. Big tax cuts to the wealthy to be paid for by further slashing our safety net, including deep cuts to Medicaid and Medicare – which, of course, will only increase the divide between rich and poor.

All of this is happening at terrible cost: while our would-be emperor tweets, Rome is burning. God have mercy on us all.
xxx



Sunday, October 8, 2017

Homeless in SF

San Francisco near the Ferry Landing
CC Jean Stimmell: 1/5/17
Home is where I want to be
Pick me up and turn me around

I feel numb, born with a weak heart

I guess I must be having fun
The less we say about it the better

Make it up as we go along

Feet on the ground, head in the sky
It's okay, I know nothing's wrong, nothing*
*Lyrics from This Must Be the Place by the Talking Heads



























Saturday, September 23, 2017

Vignettes from and about Vietnam

In conjunction with the premier of Ken Burns' documentary on Vietnam, the Concord Monitor asked me, along with other veterans, to share personal stories about our Vietnam experience. Below are my three vignettes.
My ship up a river in the Mekong Delta in 1966
CC Jean Stimmell
Vignettes

Fighting the War: Not finding the big answers to life, I dropped out of Columbia College in 1964. The Vietnam War had not yet winded up and was little talked about. I didn’t know what to do with my life but was infatuated with that Red Badge of courage sort of thing, thinking I needed to prove I was a man – and also to placate my father who was a combat veteran. But deep down in my heart, I knew this war was wrong and still feel deep guilt about going to this day.

While my tour, on the rivers and along the coast was extremely grueling, there was with little hostile action.  But my ship’s luck ran out the year I returned home when it was blown up by Viet Cong sappers, killing 17 shipmates. Meanwhile, the casualties among the circle of people I knew in the Pittsfield area continued to grow: by the end of the war, two had been killed, three seriously wounded and, and two, committed suicide, including a recon marine who had received a silver star for valor in combat. 

Resisting the War: A friend and I were crashing in NYC, coming back from an anti-war demonstration in Washington DC when we heard of a big protest being planned for Wall Street. Wandering around the area with our long hair and clinched fists stenciled on our tee shirts, we found ourselves suddenly surrounded by rampaging construction workers with clubs and crowbars, in what turned out to be the beginning of the “Hard Hat Riot of 1970.” We thought we were done for. Just then, a burly, red-faced NY cop arrived, snarling, “Okay, guys, I’m taking over. I’ll make sure these hippy scum get what they deserve,” and started pushing us through the suddenly subdued mob toward the entrance of a nearby subway station. At that point, he shoved us toward the stairs, yelling, “Hurry, boys, run for your lives.”

Working for VA: After getting my counseling degree at almost 50, I took a position at the Sanford Maine Vet Center where eventually I became team leader. At closing time, only a couple of weeks into the job, they decided to test me. The team leader said they had a Vietnam veteran on the phone who was threatening suicide. The vet, whom I will call Joe, had called previously in a suicidal state and the police had been called which resulted in an all night, armed standoff after Joe barricaded himself in his house. Joe agreed to talk to me so I drove to his remote house where I was immediately knocked down by his lunging German shepherd. Joe was a massive man with only one leg as result of a combat injury; he was very drunk and suffering severe pain from pancreatitis. I finally negotiated a deal where I would take him to Togus VA medical center for treatment, sweetening the deal by letting him bring a beer in the government vehicle which was against the rules. On the way to Togus, his dog came close to ripping off the Biddeford toll taker’s hand. After admitting the veteran, I had to deal with his dog. Because I had pledged to Joe that I would take care of his dog, I took him home, where he immediately tackled my girlfriend, pinning her to the ground. But this story has a good ending: after treatment and therapy, Joe went on his way, doing well. So did my girlfriend.
xxx



Friday, September 22, 2017

The first day of Fall

Victorian House in Northwood Narrows
CC Jean Stimmell: 9/15/17


Putting to bed our fecund garden, now gone by,
my mind flashes to the once regal Victorian in the Narrows
commiserating with both the beauty and the sadness of growing old

Saturday, September 16, 2017

The Glass is Already Broken

Still Life Constructed in my backyard: 3/30/17
CC Jean Stimmell

Everything seems fine as usual. The days fly by. We get in our shiny cars, drive to work each day, come home to our families, buy lots of stuff on Amazon. Yet, deep down, we have this persistent, nagging feeling that things aren’t fine, that, maybe, we are headed to hell in a hand basket.

But the consequence of admitting to these primal fears is more than we can stomach: We avoid thoughts and feeling about them at all costs, blocking them from our conscious mind.

Instead, like the addicts we are, we escape back to the sanctity of infotainment TV and our spending ways. But, if we could but just sober up, it would be obvious that these fears are real with devastating consequences.

How can we not comprehend that we live in a supreme bubble of denial: Mired in political gridlock and failing infrastructure while still insisting that we are God’s chosen people, destined to live on the shining city on the hill, even if the city is collapsing from neglect, graft, and the cost of fighting a succession of futile wars around the world.

Meanwhile, due to the increasing risk from global nationalism and proliferating nuclear weapons, the doomsday clock has moved to only 2-1/2 minutes from midnight –the symbolic moment humankind will be annihilated, according to the Bulletin of Atomic Scientists.

Finally, the earth is in midst of a catastrophic mass extinction from a combination of toxic pollution, invasion by alien species and climate change. Billions of populations of mammals, birds, reptiles, and amphibians have already been lost and the rate of extinction increases each year.

Facing this tsunami of destruction, how could we not be in denial: how can we possibly wrap our minds around the devastation that lies ahead, becoming qualitatively worse each day that we continue to hid our heads in the warm, comforting sand of our material culture – which, of course, paradoxically, further fuels our addiction.

What’s the answer: how do we break this cycle of addiction and start climbing out of the hole we are digging for ourselves?

I have a modest suggestion based on the answer Buddhist master Ajahn Chah gave to Mark Epstein, an American psychotherapist, when asked what he had learned from his years of contemplation that would be of interest to those of us in the West.  Before saying a word, he motioned to a glass at his side.

“Do you see this glass?” he asked us. “I love this glass. It holds the water admirably. When the sun shines on it, it reflects the light beautifully. When I tap it, it has a lovely ring. Yet for me, this glass is already broken. When the wind knocks it over or my elbow knocks it off the shelf and it falls to the ground and shatters, I say, ‘Of course.’ But when I understand that this glass is already broken, every minute with it is precious.”1

I was profoundly moved by the wisdom of this story: as with the master’s glass, how can I take my world for granted when it is guaranteed to come crashing down– in most cases, sooner than later.

If tigers and elephants and countless other magnificent beings will grow extinct, it makes those still living, more precious, fragile, and worth saving. If great cities and cultures around the world are in danger of being incinerated – as we did to Hiroshima – it makes the cities still living and breathing more precious, fragile, and worth saving.

When I open myself up to their ultimate fate, I can, for the first time, identify with them fully in the here-and-now. If I have the courage to open myself up to the truth of uncertainty, it sets me free.

I have a long way to go but feel like I am on the path.

Denying that our world is broken either numbs me, making me take my everyday world for granted or paralyzes me, making me want to stick my head in the sand like the proverbial Ostrich. Conversely, wholeheartedly admitting the obvious truth that our world is already broken, opens me up to a floodgate of emotions: sadness and grief at what has been lost but, at the same time, unleashing a sense of awe and wonder at the beauty and majesty still surrounding us.

In a different context, Rob Acevedo’s sentiments expressed recently in his music column in the Monitor uncannily resonate with what I am feeling: “The simple beats, the heavy thinking wordplay, the triumphant hero leveled by a life less given. These songs filled me with a kind of beautiful sorrow that I wanted to drink in, feeding me in ways that didn’t require a textbook…2

Because I see the glass is already broken, it makes me more motivated to save my precious fellow beings of all species who have not yet fallen off the shelf due to human greed, hate, and delusion, while savoring in every moment, the faces of my loved ones and the splendor of everyday life.
 xxx

1 Epstein, Mark. The Trauma of Everyday Life (pp. 44-46). Penguin Publishing Group. Kindle Edition
2 Concord Monitor, 9/14/17, Rob Azevedo’s Soundcheck Column

Monday, September 11, 2017

Wise mortals strive to steady trembling minds

Shiva celebrates year's end in my woods: 12/31/13
CC Jean Stimmell
Like an archer an arrow, 
the wise man steadies his trembling mind, 
a fickle and restless weapon 
– the Buddha