Vwg – 2013 spring quarterly by Don Morris

The Veteran Writers Group

Q u a r t e r l y Some of the writings do n e in meditation at our March 23 sangha.

Volume 4, Number 1

Spring 2013

Contents Invocation to Listening

… Dear Sangha friends friends…

Elijah and Shelley

Element Poems

Various Authors

Sufi Meditation Techniques

Elijah and Shelley

Regrettably Poor Judgment

Gregory Ross

Square Root of 36, Squared: Infinity

Gregory Ross

Excerpt from "Luck of the Draw"

Scott Morrison

The Motor Pool, Cracked Egg, Chain of Command

James Cook

Hamilton Mesa

Joe Lamb

LETICIA LETICIA’’S BLESSING

Clare Morris

The Ant-Sized God of Islam

Lawrence Maykel

Orchard Maintenance

Phyllis Meshulam

Thank You

pha nage Vinh Son Or Orp han

20th Anniversary Party – May 25 – Spring Lake, Santa Rosa

Invocation to Listening We invoke your name, Avalokiteshvara. We aspire to learn your way of listening to help relieve the suffering in the world. You know how to listen in order to understand. We invoke your name in order to practice listening with all our attention and open-heartedness. We will sit and listen without judging or reacting. We will sit and listen in order to understand. We will sit and listen so attentively that we will be able to hear what the other person is saying and also what is being left unsaid. We know that just by listening deeply we already alleviate a great deal of pain and suffering in the other person.

Dear Sangha Friends, We know that in the history of warfare, the name of the enemy changes from one generation to the next. Currently, there is much stereotyping, intolerance and bigotry directed towards Muslims. For our upcoming gathering, we draw upon some of the traditional Sufi breath practices, which are strongly heart-centered and accessible. These practices, especially the breaths of the four elements—earth, water, fire and air—also stimulate the imagination. The strongest emphasis will be on the Water Breath and the Fire/Sun breath. There will also be a sound practice in which we become human gongs. Elijah will lead these practices. There will be handouts describing the methods. Shelley will guide us in the writing exercise. We are attaching a packet of poems that focus on one or more of the elements. Please read them ahead of time if you can, since we won’t have time to read all of them during our workshop. We are not providing a writing prompt at this time, because will be doing some guided imagery and want the exercise to come out of that experience. We feel honored to lead the meditation and writing and look forward to seeing everyone. Elijah and Shelley

Element Poems fire

Th e Smell of Ston es “Th The ones es,” by Shelley Savren My grandmother’s dream foretells her mother’s death in Auschwitz.

The house shines, a dim Shabbas glow and I smell stones in my mother’s black iron oven as they whiten to dust. My mother calls me. As I walk through her house, a salty odor of smoking meat sticks to the air, kitchen counters clean and wet. Outside, grapes cluster on vines. I reach through the window, gather handfuls and purple my mouth, juice dripping down my chin. My mother’s voice grows fainter. Out front ripe vegetables dress her grocery store in yellows, greens, reds. Bottles of milk lie wrapped in ice. She sits on broken steps and reads her Hungarian bible, black dress covering the length of her, black babushka winding her head like a chain. My four-year-old daughter listens at her side, waves me over, and I run toward them, see my mother’s hair burning, skin peeling. When I reach through the barbed wire fence to touch her hands, they melt. She disappears. As I chase her voice, it fades into the smoke. The dream vanishes and there is only the smell of stones.

Th e Sun from ”Th The Sun,” by Marge Piercy The sun is rising, feel it: the air smells fresh. I cannot look in the sun’s face, its brightness blinds me, but from my own shadow becoming distinct I know that now at last it is beginning to grow light.

te wa wate terr

Son g of Napalm,” by Bruce Weigl ““Son Song

After the storm, after the rain stopped pounding, We stood in the doorway watching horses Walk off lazily across the pasture’s hill. We stared through the black screen, Our vision altered by the distance So I thought I saw a mist Kicked up around their hooves when they faded Like cut-out horses Away from us. The grass was never more blue in that light, more Scarlet; beyond the pasture Trees scraped their voices into the wind, branches Crisscrossed the sky like barbed wire But you said they were only branches. Okay. The storm stopped pounding. I am trying to say this straight: for once I was sane enough to pause and breathe Outside my wild plans and after the hard rain I turned my back on the old curses. I believed They swung finally away from me ... But still the branches are wire And thunder is the pounding mortar, Still I close my eyes and see the girl Running from her village, napalm Stuck to her dress like jelly, Her hands reaching for the no one Who waits in waves of heat before her.

So I can keep on living, So I can stay here beside you, I try to imagine she runs down the road and wings Beat inside her until she rises Above the stinking jungle and her pain Eases, and your pain, and mine. But the lie swings back again. The lie works only as long as it takes to speak And the girl runs only as far As the napalm allows Until her burning tendons and crackling Muscles draw her up into that final position Burning bodies so perfectly assume. Nothing Can change that; she is burned behind my eyes And not your good love and not the rain-swept air And not the jungle green Pasture unfolding before us can deny it.

On Guar d Duty,” by Elijah Imlay “O uard

These memories are untied shoe laces on shoes I no longer wear, like the feelings of first love or first hate, clumsy sweet or bitter photo stills that grow distant now. There is no direction for my feet and my life is unimportant, I say to myself.

To make things easier I watch the moon ignite the clouds with wet fire that falls to my skin, giving it a sheen while I listen and feel the pulsing of my blood. Waters flow through or around me and I become a liquid column standing in last season’s dust.

ai r Wil d Gees e,” by Mary Oliver “W ild eese

You do not have to be good. You do not have to walk on your knees For a hundred miles through the desert, repenting. You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves. Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine. Meanwhile the world goes on. Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain are moving across the landscapes, over the prairies and the deep trees, the mountains and the rivers. Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air, are heading home again. Whoever you are, no matter how lonely, the world offers itself to your imagination, calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting – over and over announcing your place in the family of things.

Th e Breat hing “Th The reath ng,” by Denise Levertov

An absolute patience. Trees stand up to their knees in fog. The fog slowly flows uphill. White cobwebs, the grass leaning where deer have looked for apples. The woods from brook to where the top of the hill looks over the fog, send up not one bird. So absolute, it is no other than happiness itself, a breathing too quiet to hear.

h eart earth

Winte “W terr Garden arden” by Pablo Neruda

Winter arrives. Shining dictation the wet leaves give me, dressed in silence and yellow. I am a book of snow, a spacious hand, an open meadow, a circle that waits, I belong to the earth and its winter. Earth’s rumor grew in the leaves, soon the wheat flared up punctuated by red flowers like burns, then autumn arrived to set down the wine’s scripture: everything passed, the goblet of summer was a fleeting sky, the navigating cloud burned out. I stood on the balcony dark with mourning, like yesterday with the ivies of my childhood, hoping the earth would spread its wings, in my uninhabited love. I knew the rose would fall and the pit of the passing peach would sleep and germinate once more, and I got drunk on the air until the whole sea became the night and the red sky turned to ash. Now the earth lives mumbling its oldest questions, the skin of its silence stretching out. Once more I am the silent one who came out of the distance wrapped in cold rain and bells. I owe to the earth’s pure death the will to sprout.

Kn oxv ill e Te nn esse e,” by Nikki Giovanni “Kn Knoxv oxvill ille Tenn nnesse essee

I always like summer best you can eat fresh corn from daddy’s garden and okra and greens and cabbage and lots of barbeque and buttermilk and homemade ice-cream at the church picnic and listen to gospel music outside at the church homecoming and go to the mountains with your grandmother and go barefooted and be warm all the time and only when you go to bed and sleep

Sufi Meditation Techniques Elijah Imlay and Shelley Saverin

Hands on Heart Position 1. Place the palm of your right hand on your chest, then place the palm of your left hand on the right hand. Feel how comforting this is. 2. Place your attention there, about two inches above the bottom of the sternum, over the center of your heart. 3. Be aware of your breath, as if you are breathing in and out of your heart. 4. As you do this, you may feel the beating of your heart or a pulsing in your fingers or hands. This is both a soothing and a grounding practice that helps reduce anxiety and prevent dissociation.

Faz'l - Blessing, Universal Harmony Vibrations can be understood both as cause and as effect. Vibration causes movement, rotation, circulation, but on the other hand it is the rotation of the planets and circulation in the blood which causes vibration. Thus, the cause as well as the effect of all that exists is vibration. One becomes attuned to the cosmic symphony, like a gong resonating by dint of the affinity of its inherent frequencies with those of other gongs throughout the universe. Become a human gong, spreading harmony. The word means blessing and harmony, and it is a common name among Muslims.

Sufi Sunlight Practice with Fire Breath 1. Glance at the sun, or if the sun is not visible, look at the bright light of a lamp, and remember the intense image of that light. Breathe in sunlight through the mouth into your solar plexus up to your heart center, hold your breath for a while with your attention of the center of your chest. Become a miniature sun radiating light as you exhale through the nose. 2.

Consider your arms and legs as rays of that miniature sun, and on every exhalation through the nose breathe light down your arms into you hands and down your legs into your bare feet.

3. You may feel your heart beat, especially while holding your breath. You have the option of counting heartbeats in a pattern, for example, 6/12/6, inhaling for 6 heartbeats, holding your breath for 12 heartbeats, then exhaling for 6 heartbeats.

11 Sufi Water Breath In nature, water flows downward. In this practice, breathe in through your nose and out through your mouth. With your mouth only slightly open, put your emphasis on the exhalation. Make the outgoing breath into a fine stream, like a very gentle controlled blowing. Keep your breath silent and effortless, but complete each exhalation. Relax your body. On the inhalation through the nose, move your attention upwards through your heart center, feeling uplifted to the crown of your head. As your breathe in, feel the descending stream of life energy as a steam of love that is poured upon you. You are being loved continually and unconditionally. On the exhalation, imagine that you stand under an ethereal waterfall of a fine spray of energy. The waterfall not only passes over you but also enters your body through the top of your head and flows through you. (We imagine a waterfall because itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s really happening. There is a shower of rays and particles from out space that is impacting you at every moment.) Concentrate on the crown center and on the essence of water descending through the crown as a shower of energy. Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s as if there is an opening in the crown, allowing the water flow both over your body and within you. Let the energy diffuse through your body flow out the soles of your feet. Water is a metaphor for love. It is cleansing, nurturing and soothing. You will alternate between feeling a stream or current flowing through and feeling that you are the fluid. Water is good for washing and cleansing emotional wounds. Let the water flow to wherever it is needed for healing.

Air Breath: Breathe a fine stream of air in and out of the mouth. Air is associated with freedom, visions, and communication, and is the most expansive of the elements.

Earth Breath: Breathe in and out of the nose. The earth breath is associated with the biosphere of the planet, which has a pulsing magnetic field.

Regrettably Poor Judgment Gregory Ross

The KA BAR knife has been produced since 1943. It was originally made for the U.S. Marines after complaints that the WWI issue knives were not sufficient to modern combat. The knife weighs 1.23 pounds; overall length: 11.875 inches; blade length: 7 inches; blade type: BOWIE; hilt type: stacked leather; with a leather scabbard. Before I left for California, I proceeded to my parent's basement and stuck my Dad's KA BAR into my backpack. I had coveted it since I was an adolescent. It had no sheath, the leather handle had disintegrated but, still felt and was, lethal. I knew this weapon had been important to my Dad; maybe saved his life as a Marine in the Korean War; though I never saw him with it. I needed something important to him; I needed a symbol of him, even if I had to steal it. When he noticed it missing; he blamed the landlords daughter. I never told him the truth. To make the knife usable, I soaked rawhide strips and tightly wrapped the metal shaft of the handle. When the rawhide dried it was as hard as a solid piece of leather. I left a couple of the strips dangling and decorated with beads. I made a leather sheath but, wasn't a good enough leather worker to make it attachable to my belt so, I stuck it in my back pocket, if the pocket was big enough, or carried it in my small, everyday, backpack. When I left it was with a vengeance. No matter how hard times got in California, going back would have felt worse. Times did get hard, mostly, due to my drug and alcohol usage. As the saying goes: “The apple doesn't fall far from the tree”, even though I had moved 3,000 miles away. Like my Dad, I could find work of the menial, tedious, back breaking type; like him, I had a strong back and a good work ethic. Until I didn't. I had a Work Comp case back in New York but, I had to personally attend a hearing. Martha, the woman who had moved to California with me and I hitchhiked back to Buffalo. I got my settlement and happened to discover that other checks had been sent to my parents address. My Dad admitted he forged my signature and cashed them so he could get his golf clubs out of hock. He needed the money for bills because he had drank up a few pay checks. He told me this and then said, “You can hit me if you want.” I told him I did not want to hit him; that believe it or not, I loved him but, I did not know why; that Martha and I would be leaving for California tomorrow and I needed the money as soon as possible. My sister gave Martha and I a ride to an on ramp to the Interstate and 36 hours later we were at a crossroads in rural Illinois surrounded by corn fields. We had not seen a car in hours when one pulled up with two men in it. Martha did not want to get in but, I talked her into it. I had my Dad's KA BAR in my pocket, I felt safe, although I was stoned from the last ride and everything felt good. We came out of that ride unharmed but, our backpacks and sleeping bags went with the two guys. We had a friend in Urbana, Illinois who let us crash. I called my Dad, told him what happened and that we needed the money to take the Greyhound Bus back to California. I made it clear that if he had to sell his golf clubs, I did not care; we needed the money to get home. We had lost everything but, the KA BAR which was in my back pocket; my wallet and Martha had her purse. Years later, Martha moved back East and married an old boyfriend. I was working in a company so small that I was the entire shipping and receiving department. The owner, a twice

13 divorced, lonely, man, estranged from his family, would take us for lunch or dinner and on occasion more extravagant outings. He took us skiing one weekend. I took my Dad's KA BAR. I â&#x20AC;&#x153;hidâ&#x20AC;? it in my backpack and when I got back from a ski lesson, it was gone. I couldn't get angry; it was never really mine but, I did feel sad. I never told my Dad about it, even as I matured and we both sobered and learned to respect each other. I still regret that for so many years, I felt I had to steal his love.

Square Root of 36, Squared: Infinity gregory ross, 3-23-13

Spring bursts out of Winter's volatility Summer heats Spring, Cools to Fall Birth, Life, Death, Compost, Birth again Autumn falls Haphazardly, like a leaf Winter is the Birth of Spring Cycles circle back, all is eternal

Excerpt from "Luck of the Draw" Scott Morrison ____________________ The first McGill knew for certain that Mulligan was missing-in-action was when he opened his mom's letter to find clippings from the January 21, 1972 edition of the Milltowne Gazette and saw the headline: "MULLIGAN MAN" M.I.A. The article said the Navy told the family that Lt. Michael Patrick Mulligan had been in operations in the Mekong delta and was missing-in-action, but gave no further details. The second clipping was an editorial, with the Annapolis graduation photo of Mulligan in his spiffy white Navy uniform next to the photo everyone in Milltowne knew-his leaping end-zone catch against Hempfield. The editorial extolled Mulligan's football and basketball exploits and joined with the family in praying for his safe return. It also informed readers that Lt. Mulligan was Decatur County's first MIA. Listed in a side-bar were the twenty-nine local boys who were already KIA-Killed In Action-starting with the first to die, Private First Class George Edward Trent, "Big George," who had starred on the same teams with Mulligan six years earlier. The Gazette asked readers to pray Mulligan Man would not join Big George on Decatur County's KIA roster, then went on to praise President Nixon's bold and wise policy of Vietnamization and urged his re-election in November. ____________________ Catherine was on the couch cleaning up little Mike's chin after a breast-feeding. His flaming red hair and emerald-green eyes made him the cutest baby ever. She heard the mailman in the lobby, late as always, and called out excitedly to Jenny, "Mail's here." "I'll get it," Jenny said. Michael Patrick Mulligan, Jr., now twenty-three days old, had been born on January 17, two agonizing weeks late. Catherine thought it an auspicious day for a birthday, sharing it with Benjamin Franklin as well as heavy-weight boxing champ and anti-war hero Muhammad Ali, though she wasn't sure what she thought about his also sharing it with gangster Al Capone. Her plan to keep the baby a secret from her parents had worked so far. It was easy convincing them that she and some friends would be sailing the Caribbean over the holidays. If only she had a clue what Mike wanted. Yes, it was difficult to call from Vietnam, but why didn't he write? Thanks to Art, she knew Mike had not received her letters, but Art had told him all about the baby. Why didn't he write? What had Mike meant when he told Art he "thought about her all the time" and he "supported whatever decision she made" and would "do whatever she wanted?" What did he really mean? Why didn't he write? She read and reread Art's letters about what happened. She was sick with frustration, and there were so many decisions. Should she give the baby up for adoption without telling anybody? Should the baby be called Mike, or Michael, or maybe Pat or Patrick? If he wanted the baby, would it be odd having two Mikes in the house? How about Mickey? Should he be circumcised? Baptized? She and Mike had never talked one word about religion in their few days together. Jenny came in with the mail and said in an ominous quaver, "Here'sĹ here's something for you. From Art." A shudder rippled through her at the sight of a large envelope. "Trade you," Jenny said, taking the baby. "I'm scared to open it, Jen." "Want me to do it?" "No." She used a nail file to slit the end and emptied the contents on the coffee table. There were two

16 letters, one to her, one to Jenny, and two articles paper-clipped together, and when she unfolded them and they saw the headline-"MULLIGAN MAN" M.I.A.-she and Jenny and the baby all burst into tears. The news that Mike was missing changed everything. After crying most of the night, by morning she knew exactly what to do. Mike's parents had to be told. She took her bright-orange mountaineering backpack out of the closet and packed her camera, all the relevant photos and letters, a few of her essential things and every possible baby thing; she removed the sleeping bag and jammed the stuff-sack full of diapers. Jenny drove them to La Guardia airport, where with the jumbo pack on her back and little Mike in her arms, she booked the noon flight to Pittsburgh. When she arrived she changed the baby and breast fed him in the Ladies Room, then bought a Cities of Pennsylvania guide with maps of every town in the state. She rented a car with a baby seat, and after plotting the route to 326 Beaver St. in Milltowne, she drove with the heater on full blast to keep the baby warm. Maybe it would it have been better to call ahead? She couldn't say. Showing up at the door seemed the best idea, and not even always-practical Jenny had tried to talk her out of it, so it must have made sense. Dusk was falling and it was lightly snowing, making it difficult to read the house numbers from the car. It was an older, lower middle class neighborhood of tidy wood-framed houses. She drove slowly past what she thought was Mike's house. She circled twice around the block, double-checking, gathering her courage, collecting her thoughts, while constantly glancing back to watch little Mike sucking on his pacifier. She parked just as the street lights lit up. She left the baby in the car and rang the bell. A porch light blinked on and a tall, middle-aged man with graying hair who looked something like Mike opened the door and said, "Hello." "Are you Mr. Mulligan?" she asked as fragrant cooking aromas wafted out and an attractive woman in an apron and hair redder than Lucielle Ball's on came down the hall and stood behind him. "Yes," said the man. "Are you Mike's father?" "Yes." "IŠIŠmy name's Catherine, and yesterday I heard Mike wasŠwas missing. I knew himŠuh, only for a little while. Is there any more news? Anything at all?" "No," said the woman, stepping forward, her voice fearful. "We've heard nothing more. I'm his mother. Do you know anything we don't?" "No, no, notŠnot, really. Well, actually, yes. I, uhŠwouldŠwould, would you like to meet your grandson?"

The Motor Pool James Cook The Sergeant Likes me Dropping by Just hanging out With his "Boys". We talk football Hometowns Each soldier's Military journey To this motor pool. Yet, the 'Boys" Almost never Bring up That Monday morning Three months ago... The morning they found One of their own A noose around his neck Hanging limply From the rafters.

Cracked Egg James Cook I barely recall Anything Disbelieving denial Absorbing Most of the terror Pain, memory... Allowing me To accept The unacceptable From a distant, detached Maybe it really Didn't happen place. But, sometimes Despite my best efforts I return to that night Of Merlot drinking Where a kitchen argument Suddenly exploded beyond just words. I'm back To that searing moment I went from restraining her To wanting To hurt her Into silence. Sweating In shame Despising my own touch I swear It will never Happen again. But part of me Isn't convinced Unable to forgive Not able to believe An egg cracked open Can ever be whole again.

Chain of Command James Cook When in doubt Chain of Command Mission support Chain of command. Questions? Chain of command Answers Chain of command. Always there Chain of command Twenty-four seven Chain of command. Daydreaming Chain of command Nightmaring Chain of command. Can't imagine being without Chain of command To death do us part Chain of command.

Hamilton Mesa Joe Lamb

1950’s. A child, not old enough to read, thumbing through a book, comes across a line drawing, probably from the 1800’s, it’s an old book, it smells like an old book, faint odor of mildew. The drawing depicts a family in a sled pulled by horses, maybe from a Russian story, they are fleeing across the snow pursued by wolves, many wolves, wolves snapping at the horses heals, threatening to take the horses down and capsize the sled. The father lashes the horses with a whip, and the mother, in desperation, is throwing the baby to the wolves. The child puts down the book, feels another divorce coming on, and wonders where he will be sleeping tomorrow. 1970‘s. Alpine meadow, Pecos Wilderness, a month after snow release. The time had come to name the flowers: Flag Iris, Indian Paintbrush, Rock Rose, Starwort, Erigeron, Marsh Mallow, Artemesia, Dutchman’s Pipe, Apache Plume, Cushion Plant, Loco Weed, Owl Clover, Elephant Head. The Elephant Head looks as if the heads of 20 blue Ganesha’s were arranged in surreal perfection on a green staff. 1940’s. Same meadow. Two men dismount from their horses, I imagine that one horse is a roan mare, one an Appaloosa. One of the men is a cowboy, the other is Robert Oppenheimer. They sit in the grass, eat limburger cheese on rye bread, they drink Bulgarian coffee. They look out across the valley to the Peaks to Trampas, Thruchas, and across Trial Riders Wall to the little lake nestled below Pecos Baldy. From top of those peaks they would have been able to see across the desert to the next range of mountains, to the lights of Los Alamos twinkling as innocently as those of any other mountain village. What did they talk about, the cowboy from Oklahoma and the Father of the bomb? Did they talk about the Bhagavad Gita? About Arjuna’s ambivalence and Vishnu assuming his many armed aspect, “Now I am become death, the destroyer of worlds?” Did they discuss the nuclear dawn, the splitting of the atom, the fission of the nuclear family? Did they talk about Milton, about the archangel Lucifer, God’s right hand, the bearer of light, and about hubris as the tragic flaw, the flaw that unites the generations? Did they discuss the long history of men want to be gods? The year will be 2015. A man and young girl dismount from their horses, I imagine one will be Roan and the other an Appaloosa. They gather driftwood, rocks, feathers, and wildflowers: Flag Iris for her grandmother, Columbine for her grandfather. They make an altar from the driftwood and rocks, they moisten pieces of string in their mouths and wrap them around the bases of the feathers. They offer corn mean to the four directions. As they tie the feathers onto the bushes around the altar, they call in loud voices, “Grandmothers and Grandfathers, we invite you to join us here, come, accept our blessings, bring your stories, and be at peace among the living.” The man and the young girl place a broken stick on the altar for every wound still held in the imagination. They ask each wound to open its lips, to it tells a story that trembles into life. Then they light a fire from the sticks, eat limburger cheese on rye bread and drink Bulgarian coffee.

21 LETICIA LETICIAâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;â&#x20AC;&#x2122;S BLESSING Clare Morris My dog Leticia springs alive each morning wakened by light and hunger I tell her this day is a never before a morsel of life to be eaten She flips on her back rolls and writhes snorting beats the red rug with her long golden tail I go down on the floor to tickle and stroke from belly to chest while her rough tongue washes my feet

THE ANT-SIZED GOD OF ISLAM Lawrence Maykel

“Currently, there is much stereotyping, intolerance and bigotry directed towards Muslims. For our upcoming gathering, we draw upon some of the traditional Sufi breath practices, which are strongly heart-centered and accessible. These practices, especially the breaths of the four elements—earth, water, fire and air—also stimulate the imagination. The strongest emphasis will be on the Water Breath and the Fire/Sun breath. There will also be a sound practice in which we become human gongs.” —Elijah Imlay All this “stereotyping, intolerance and bigotry directed towards Muslims”—is this in America, Europe, or worldwide? This statement is completely untrue outside of Serbia, Kosovo and a few other isolated places on the globe. Since 9/11, there has been no persecution of Muslims in the U.S.; they still have their full rights under the constitution, and these rights are protected by law and law enforcement. I can say unequivocally that I am proud of the open minded, unbiased treatment of Muslims that has prevailed here in America since the events of 9/11. On the other hand, non-Muslims throughout the world suffer grievous persecution at the hands of Islam. It is

unfortunate but undeniable that most of the religious violence in the world at this time is perpetrated by Muslims against their fellow Muslims as well as nonMuslims. “The borders of Islam are bloody,” as the saying goes. In Muslim countries such as Arabia and Afghanistan, it is a crime punishable by death to convert from Islam to another religion. In no Muslim country in the world are Jews allowed to live in peace, if they are allowed to live there at all. And there is the widespread violence between different factions within Islam itself. I find it ironical that we would turn to one of the persecuted factions of Islam, Sufism, to establish “breathing practices” that will help us overcome the so-called biases of Americans towards Muslims. Sufis are not persecuted by Christians anywhere in the world, but rather by their fellow Muslims. It is true that most Americans have a low opinion of the religion of Islam—and I am one of them. But I do not engage in any form of persecution or hostile treatment of Muslims in word or deed. In fact, I have friends who are Muslims, and some of my best students were Muslims. The reason I do not engage in such actions or prejudices is probably the same reason other Americans do not engage in such actions to any significant degree: we are too busy simply living our lives to bother with such nonsense. But the Koran does not allow Muslims to simply “live their lives.” Among other things, the Koran promulgates religious warfare or “jihad,” slavery and the enslavement of women as concubines —that is, legal rape of women, including married women; the torture and execution of prisoners of

war; the taking of hostages and the use of ransom to procure funds for jihad, among other things. Even in my ancestral homeland, Ireland, with its history of bitter religious conflict, tensions between Catholics and Protestants have effectively ceased and peace exists there in a way that it does not in most Muslim nations, be it Syria, Lebanon, Somalia, Iran or Pakistan. Just recently, in one day, fourteen suicide bombers attacked Shiite targets in Pakistan; little notice was made of this because, well, we’re so used to Muslims engaging in such acts, even against themselves. Simply put, in the interests of peace, the time is upon us for addressing the problem of Islamic violence. This needs to include addressing the violent language and tenants of the Koran. And this will be difficult because of the inordinate adulation of this text within the Muslim “community.” For Christians, the Word of God materialized into a man; for Muslims, the great theophany is the Koran, in which the Word of God materialized into human words. The poet is has criticized Islam as an “idolatry of the book.” It is a difficult type of idolatry to address, but it needs to be addressed now more than ever. In my own view, the Koran is an unmitigated literary monstrosity, and it is well nigh impossible to account it as a valid expression of the Divine Being. * * * With regard to Sufism, it should be pointed that there is some spiritual confusion here on the matter of the “four” primordial elements--earth, water, fire and air--as a basis for breathing exercises. First of all, traditional cosmology ascribes five primordial elements to the structure of the

material world, and these are: earth, water, fire, air, and mind or consciousness—and these elements find their parallel in the Buddhist doctrine of the Five Skandhas. In some traditions, a sixth element, space or extension is included (see Gary Snyder, Turtle Island, pgs. 87-88). With regard to the use of these elements in meditative exercises that involve breathing, the “elemental element” is, of course, air. This is nothing less than patent, and should not require a degree in theology or comparative religion to comprehend. If any of the other elements come into play in our meditative exercises, it would be mind or consciousness. One would think that that last people to need being informed on these matters would be a group of Buddhists. Unfortunately, a cult mentality—which is usually lacking when dealing with Buddhist denominations—has found its would into some Buddhist groups such as the Soka Gakai or, here in Sonoma County, the Odian community of Tarthan Tulku. Let us not, ourselves, become prey to this kind of mentality in our own practice. We should always be open minded, but tough minded as well . . . * * * An additional note on the subject of Sufism which, as is widely known, is the Islamic sect that most closely resembles Christianity in its doctrines and practices. Many in the west received an element of introduction to Sufism in the writings of Idries Shah, who functioned historically for Sufism much as Alan Watts did for Zen Buddhism. In one of his books, Thinkers of East, Shah tells the story of a Sufi master who had developed the

mystical ability to speak with ants. One day he asked an ant, “When God reveals Himself to you, in what form does he appear? Does he appear as an ant?” And the ant replied, “Oh no, not at all. We have only one stinger. God has two!” I find this story to be one of the rarest of rare gems, an Islamic self criticism. I’m sure that the true point of the story goes over the heads of most Muslims, for it inveighs against the ant-sized God of Islam, and the antsized brain of those who believe their God to be superior on the basis of His ability to sting people. To return to the matter of “terrorists,” we can safely say that these are people who believe their religion superior to others on the basis of its ability to sting us with fear and violence. As for those Muslims who do not believe in an antlike God with the ability to sting us with fear and violence, I can think of no better place to live and practice their faith without fear of bias or persecution than here in America. And I welcome them, fully confident that my government will not only protect their full rights under the constitution, but will also do all that it can to protect law-abiding Muslims from the violence of their fellow Muslims. * * * With regard to the business of becoming human gongs, we would do well to consider thirteenth chapter of St. Paul’s Second Epistle to the Corinthians, which begins with the warning, “If I speak in the tongues of angels and of men, but have not love, I am but a noisy gong or a clanging cymbal.” In this passage, Paul goes on to enumerate the qualities of Christian love, as well as

identifying things that do not characterize love, and concludes by stating that in the after-life “faith hope and love—these three remain; and the greatest of these is love.” Paul was one of the great letter writers of history, his epistles comprising about a third of the entire New Testament, and this excerpt of First Corinthians is probably the best of his best. When Christianity works as it was intended to, it fosters love, just as Buddhism fosters enlightenment. Muslims sometimes say that Islam means peace, and perhaps its does for some of them, but the word Islam actually means “surrender,” and all too often the “surrender” of Islam is a military surrender. But peace is greater than military victory, as are love and enlightenment. Whether Buddhists, Christians or Muslims, let us emphasize the virtues of peace, love and enlightenment. I do not say that love is necessarily the greatest of these, for they are equally important as we face the challenges of history at this time. In the face of these challenges, let us answer the meditation bell without becoming noisy gongs ourselves. Copyright 2013 by Lawrence Maykel

28 Orchard Maintenance â&#x20AC;&#x201C; Phyllis Meshulam Out of the ochre-rose of the soil they came, the saplings, that stretched, grew strapping, wrote love letters, green and grassy, which they fan-danced with, then lost their grasp of, dropping them, growing wizened and wooden, shed branches, which we gathered and wove into knobby cabins and wigwams, padded with old leaves, sports pages and gossip, dribbled with propane, taunted with matches and thenâ&#x20AC;Ś. Now we learn whence come dragons, or a fire-headed goddess. The orange is outreaching, outrageous, impeaching, mythic and crystal-sleeved, wobbling and molten. Approach it with caution to add sticks to the blaze, lest the thighs of your black pants or lipstick combust. Hungry and towering, eye-level with trees from whom it has sprung, the fire has its outburst. In an hour it dwindles to a white smoldering pile, in which form it will cool. But for a few wind-borne flakes, it stays thus a long while.

Friends of

tagna pha nage Vinh Son Mon ontagna tagnarrd Or Orp han April 5, 2013

KOA Books PO Box 822 Kihei, HI 96753 Dear sir, Thank you very much for your continued support to the Vinh Son Orphanages (VSO). KOA and Maxine Hong Kingston's book - Veterans of War, Veterans of Peace book - that supports the Vinh Son Orphanages (VSO) in Kontum, Vietnam. KOA's $35.96 contribution will greatly help the children in Kontum. You are making a wonderful difference in their lives. We want you to know that all donors are remembered in the prayers of the Sisters and the children every day. Once again, thank you for generously supporting VSO, and may God bless you and your loved ones. Sincerely,

Dave Chaix President Friends of Vinh Son Montagnard Orphanage es were rece bution No goods or servic service ceiived in exch xchaange for this contri rib