SCHLAG BYTES
Philosophy

Schlag Byte 1/13/02 - "The Aloha Spirit Era"

I was in the Kokee(pronounced Ko Kay) National Forest, maybe the wettest spot on earth, standing in the clouds overlooking Waimea Canyon, "the Grand Canyon of the Pacific". The cliffs here are almost completely covered with tropical vegetation but the cliff walls are visible. The fog floated away with the wind and the green stone walls suddenly became the Hogwarts School of Magic and Wizardry. A misty rain fell but I was unable to tear myself away. In the ever-changing kaleidoscope I watched Harry Potter playing quiddich in the clouds.

The scenery and diversity here creates magic everywhere. I was sitting on the beach in Hanalei Bay, Kauai. This was the place where Peter, Paul and Mary composed "Puff the Magic Dragon". With very little imagination you could see the head of the dragon, his long neck and spiny back and in the midst of this reverie, my daughter jogged by. She waved to me and shouted Aloha! Feel the spirit".

The word Aloha is a combination of Alo which means to share and Ha which means breath. Traditionally, Hawaiians greeted one another by touching their foreheads so that they could share each others breath. They called non-natives Haole, which means those without breath, because the Haole greeted one another with hands and not the life force.

This is what Hawaiians mean by the Aloha Spirit:

It’s about:

SHARING, one's breath and space. People here stop for hitchhikers, if your car dies on the road somebody will stop and help you. People share their water on hiking trails, you can camp on beaches here.. There is a real environmental consciousness here and love of the land.

HARMONY among lots of races. The marriage rate across ethnic lines here exceeds 50 percent. There are regular gatherings whose purpose is building a sense of interracial community. Which does not mean that peace and tranquility abide everywhere. There is drug abuse, domestic violence, unemployment but the Hawaiians are working on it through active community collaboration that promotes respect which is different than the passive tolerance that abounds elsewhere.

A profound appreciation of things SPIRITUAL. There is a sense here of the greater good. Hawaiian Kings would not make a critical decision until they received a Lomi-Lomi massage (sometimes for days) because they wanted to be tension-free in matters of communal importance. People here have a sense that they are surrounded by the awesome.

I'm thinking we ought to expand the Aloha Spirit into a global training program. Bring leaders here and let them adapt it in their own communities. Let's make Hawaii the capital of the 21st century. It used to be that capitals were a geographic expression; Washington D.C. was the capitol of the U.S., Paris of France, etc. But in a world after Einstein, where space and time form a continuum, why not have a capital of an eras? Let this be the era that makes its' capitsl a spiritual expression and not a geographic one. Let us declare the 21st century "the Era of The Aloha Spirit" and announce that harmony and shared spirit are in the interest of the good of the world.

To see photos that accompany this Byte, please visit http://www.healingdoc.com/bytephotos/011303.html

Schlag Byte 1/6/02 - "Happy New Year from the Big Kahuna"

The morning after our arrival our daughters treated us to a surprise anniversary gift -- a traditional Hawaiian Lomi-Lomi massage that lasted four hours. Lomi-Lomi means to soften and we were softened to the melting point.

That morning I was introduced to Allen Alapa'i, a fourth generation Kahuna, a traditional healer. His name means "makes one ready to wake up". Allen lives at the literal end of the road at the base of a mountain in the midst of a lush, dense tropical jungle. A big teddy-bear of a man with a headband and a high pitched giggle, he greets me with a bear-hug embrace saying, "Welcome to Kaua'i Papa, today we will let out your baby boy spirit out to play."

I'm not sure what it means but i am ready as he leads me into his treatment room that is filled with guitars, ukeleles, candles, totems and paintings all surrounding the massage table. I undress and wait for the Big Kahuna to release me.

He starts by chanting a prayer in his native language. He asks Akua, the Great Spirit, to bless him in his work and to bless me in mine. He wants to release the knots of painful memories and liberate my uncluttered baby boy spirit to become whole again. Moving his fingertips over my body he does a diagnostic assessment. He picks out all the sore points and tells me they are old stored memories that block the flow of healing energy. Allen says that working on these knots and blocks may bring up some feelings all of which are okay to express. I can scream, cry, laugh or go to sleep, it is all okay.

He says he learned all this from his Grandmother, who picks him out of 12 grandchildren because he had the patience to learn. "This is what my Grandma taught me," is the repetitive refrain, "you have to get out of your head and hear your body talk. On this table old memories are forgotten. Those knots that are the result of suffering, fear, sadness, anger or jealously and I will rub them out. They will be replaced by a healing energy that will let your baby boy spirit soar. This is what my grandma taught me."

After four hours with the Big Kahuna there was not a knot left in my body. Floating in a state of tensionlessness, my muscles like jelly, my head separate from body, my baby boy spirit was ready to play.

The following morning I dropped my wife off for her four hours with the Big Kahuna and on my way back I passed two young men butchering a hog at the side of the road. I stopped to shmooze and found out that the whole island was crawling with feral pigs. The wild hogs destroyed crops and landscapes. The hunters, Jesse and Wendell, were the Big Kahuna's nephews. They are part of a federal funded eradication program that pays licensed hunters a bounty. It keeps the pig population in control, supports the economy and provides food.

Jesse tells me the secret to hunting pigs successfully is having a pack of dogs. They track and corner the wild hogs until he catches up with them and finishes the animal off. Sometimes the boar's razor sharp tusks finish his dogs off. In fact, he loses 6-8 dogs a year. Jesse has trained over 300 dogs, all coon hound mixtures with Dobermans, Airedales and Pit Bulls. He says the Pit Bulls are the dumbest. "They never last more than five hunts, Jesse says, they want to kill the hog themselves and hang-on even when they are dying." Of course, I find this a metaphor for life: "If you don't know when to let go it'll kill you every time." I'm thinking this has got to be another one of Grandma's stories about letting go of your head.

This is another year, so if you're living like you're dying, resolve to let go of those pigs on your brain, all those dysfunctional knots and memories and welcome your baby boy/girl spirit.

Happy New Year from The Big Kahuna.

Schlag Byte 12/16/02 - "Bullshit Excuses Out"

Dr. Barry Schlenker, a psychology professor at the University of Florida is an expert on people's attempts to evade responsibility. In the recent Journal of Social and Clinical Psychology , Dr. Schlenker said that not taking personal responsibility for one's failures, wrongdoings and bullshitting to deflect blame, carries significant risks. The study found that such excuses may for the moment leave the person's image and self-esteem intact but in the long run most people see through them and judge such people as unreliable participants in society. Schlenker concluded that bullshit backfires on you because the average listener knows it when he hears it and it pisses them off.

Let's throw the bullshit excuses out and do what Grandma also told us: admit when you're wrong, don't do it again and make me proud of you.

Schlag Byte 11/18/02 - "Holier Than Thou"

I will not me for them like a donkey, eternally hauling their books. I will explain their teachings and study their ways, but when my vision does not correspond with theirs, I will then decide according to what my own eyes behold, and with legal certainty. For God grants wisdom in every generation and in every period, and will not deny goodness to those who are sincere.

Unfortunately, Moslems and Jews (and of course others) continue to be crippled by hard-line certainties because at the same time Aghajari was sentenced, Great Britain's Chief rabbi, Jonathan Sacks, was called a heretic by ultra-orthodox rabbis because of his "grave deviation from the pathways of traditional and authentic Judaism." They want him to repudiate his views that "God has spoken to mankind in many languages: through Judaism to Jews, Christianity to Christians, Islam to Muslims. No one creed has a monopoly on spiritual truth; no one civilization encompasses all the spiritual, ethical and artistic expressions of mankind. In heaven there is truth; on earth there are truths. God is greater than religion; he is only partially comprehended by any faith."

The hard-liners said Rabbi Sacks' view is irreconcilable with traditional Jewish thinking; saying, "any contention that Judaism does not contain absolute truth represents a grave deviation."

When will we no longer be blinded by rigidity and see that all believers speak the language of God?

Schlag Byte 9/02/02 - "Jonathan Livingston Seagull"

Schlag Byte 8/12/02 - "Cherry Pits and Other Tidbits"

My son-in-law's sister had a baby-naming ceremony for her newborn daughter. She named her Jules after her grandfather, Julius, who died five years ago. Julius was revered by his family. He was that rare combination of man who lived the life he spoke. He was a man of honor, wisdom and good humor.. My son-in-law, whose hobby is "jerking my chain", felt his grandfather was responsible for every decent and humane part of his character. I have often blessed his grandfather because I can hardly imagine how much more insufferable he could have been.

Jews generally name their children after somebody who has died. We believe a part of every soul is a piece of Gods spirit in us -- it's called our "neshama". Our neshama returns to God when we die. When a child is named for someone who has passed on that persons neshama is reborn.

The new mother told the gathering how she remembered her grandfather . With tears and laughter she recalled her memories of him until she couldn't continue to speak. She nodded to her brother (my son-in-law) to say something and uncustomarily he too had trouble speaking. He said that whatever redeeming features he had were the result of Julius' love and discipline. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a jeweled pillbox that belonged to his grandfather. He opened it to reveal a cherry pit inside. It turns out Julius was a great fan of sucking. He'd suck peach pits, prune pits and cherry pits, presumably as an alternative to chewing gum and smoking tobacco. That pillbox was one of the few things my son kept of his grandfather's. He said he still carried it when he needed to feel his grandfather's presence. Then he walked over and gave it to his niece to whom he said, Tthis is for you to remember your great-grandfather and when you get older I'll tell you stories about him."

I was having trouble speaking too.

The following day I went to the home of my beloved sister Ann. She is facing another cancer and spending more time at home. Her two grandchildren were visiting from Spain. Her 10-year-old granddaughter had recently celebrated her first communion in Madrid and today they were going to celebrate it here. Everyone knew that she might never see her grandchildren again. Family and friends gathered together in the style of a Native American "Talking Circle". We would celebrate Ann's granddaughter's life and spirit, sharing our thoughts and blessings.

When it came Ann's turn to speak she told her granddaughter, "I was there when you came into the world and I'm with you as I'm getting out of it." Ann told her she wanted her to remember these celebrations because this was the kind of joy her granddaughter always inspired in her life. Ann wanted to give her something that was very special to her, took out her grandmother's jeweled coinholder and gave it to her granddaughter. She said, "I can remember getting on the bus with my grandmother, who would open this coinholder in which she kept nickels, dimes and quarters for the exact change she dropped into the coin receptacle. The bus drivers loved her for making their work easier and she always smiled when she thanked them for driving us. I remember those smiles when I look at this and hope you'll remember mine."

Cherry pits and other tidbits immortalize our presence here. They carry the stories that ennoble our spirit. Pass on your tidbits and you may inspire your grandchildren to tell your stories forever.

Schlag Byte 6/17/02 - "Hope Not Dope"

Brain researchers have discovered that gambling activates the same regions of the brain as does getting high on cocaine. Sophisticated imaging techniques at Massachusetts General Hospital revealed that the same small regions deep within the brain light up during these activities.

Isn't it interesting that the same areas of the brain are stimulated in addictive behaviors. After morning coffee, gambling is rapidly becoming the most common addiction in America. In even the most isolated towns you can still get to a lottery game or slot machine within 100 miles. Ours is a culture of the quick hit and the easy fix. Are you feeling down? -- Then we have a pill that will take it away. As a species we are no different than apes who when rewarded will push the lever to get the stuff that gets us high. We all like the feeling that occurs when our brains get flooded with the neurotransmitters that turn us on.

Except that the high you get from a quick fix makes you dependent on it. Nothing compares to the ease of pulling a slot machine handle or snorting nose candy . But that easy high is so seductive, it makes us believe that without it we can no longer get by.

I have spent much of my professional life working with addictions because they have been such a profound affliction in Indian country. In my experience I’ve seen how hard it is to cure them. That chemical rush is so incredibly powerful that most people will not give them up because they do not believe anything else exists that can make them feel as good. Addicts will not give up something for nothing . Is there something that can make them feel as good. It turns out that there is , the Mass General researchers discovered that hope lit up the same regions in the brain.

Having hope, believing that your dreams can come true causes the same outpouring of neurotransmitters. Hope triggers a natural high. Hope is the opiate of the masses and it comes free of charge, which does not mean it comes without a price. Sustaining hope means you have to work at finding ways to keep your dream alive. Pursuing dreams always comes with sacrifice, it’s never easy, you have to work at it, practice, take risks, fall and fail -- but when you achieve them it really means something.

Traditional Native American wisdom taught that to live a life of meaning one had to pursue vision and have faith. The power of belief and hard work are how dreams become actualized, it's about hope not dope.

Schlag Byte 6/10/02 - "Fantasy Island"

Where is Fantasy Island? In the Islas del Rosario in the Caribbean, about an hour’s boat ride from Cartagena, Columbia. We flew to this beautiful country, sadly now more famous for its "narcotraffikers" and terriorists, because my daughter and her Columbian sister, Manuela, had access to her family’s house on one of these tiny islands. It came with maid, cook, and a yacht with its own Captain. All we had to do was get there. How can you refuse such an invitation?

Actually there was a moment's hesitation when we remembered the last time our daughter made arrangements for us to visit her abroad. We went diving off an island in the Indonesian Celebes Sea, which turned out to be accessible only by outrigger canoe. We spent a week in a banana-thatched hut in a jungle without running water or toilet. We swore we'd make our own arrangements next time, but this invitation seemed worth the risk.

We spent the first night in Cartagena, a beautiful walled old city, that still has an intact Spanish Colonial fortress guarding the harbor. This was the place of the real pirates of the Caribbean, it was also one of the largest ports of call for African slavers. It was once the home of Caribs, Taironas and Sinues, the fierce tribes of the Caribbean. The descendants of all these people still walk the streets.

The next morning we shopped for groceries and met the boat (which turned out to be a 35-foot yacht with twin Volvo engines). Within an hour we docked at the pier of an island with several homes. An exquisite single-story colonial estate with a deck overlooking the water, private beach, hammocks stretched between coconut palms, replete with lights and air-conditioners powered by their own generator. This was definitely not the Celebes Sea.

Yoga out on a deck in the morning followed by a swim and a breakfast of traditional "arepas" -- cornmeal cakes stuffed with egg. One morning we went to an Oceanariu, (a National Park), which housed dolphins, sharks, groupers, sea turtles and all of the colorful reef, in outdoor pools. Turned out that the Superintendent was a friend of Manuela’s family and he invited us to join him in feeding the fish and turtles.

The next morning with our snorkels on we followed him into a large pool. Dragging three large bags of frozen fish through the water attracted thousands of fish. When he opened them we were surrounded by swarms of fish eating from our hands. It was unbelievable.

At night we swam with the dolphins. In the dark, with moonlight illuminating the surface you saw them only when they were almost on top of you. It was like looking at an approaching torpedo. It took my breath away. Turning away at the last minute one let me touch its exquisite satin skin. Within a short time it rolled over and let me tickle its belly. In those moments I felt at one with the universe, a peace so profound it made the awesome visible.

You don’t have to wait for an invitation to Fantasy Island to escape a fast-paced world that magnifies our vulnerabilities. Summer is here -- get away with your kids, grandkids, lover, and find a lake, beach, look at the night sky and experience the awesome.

AWE is the antidote to OW.

( see photos for this Schlag Byte at http://www.healingdoc.com/bytephotos/061002.html - the full page is 494 kb so it may take some time to load for slower connections )

P.S. I’m putting together a " Best of Schlagbytes " anthology over the last 4 years and would like your help in picking out favorites. Please take a minute and send me your vote. Thanks!

Schlag Byte 5/20/02 - "Our Posthuman Future"

Dr. Francis Fukuyama is a social philosopher and Professor of International Economics at Johns Hopkins University, and he has just written a book called "Our Posthuman Future". In it he discusses the consequences of the biotechnology revolution and talks about things like cloning, genetic engineering, stem cell research, and anti-aging medicine. He also shares his concern about the profound consequences that could arise from this new biotechnology if we do not establish criteria that will limit its future.

How far will we go in designing babies to become stronger, faster, smarter, and longer-lived ? Will we create strapping nonagenarians or interspecies hybrids? These potential modifications in our species will change global politics and upend existing social hierarchies. Dr. Fukuyama clearly comes down on the side of not fooling around too much with human nature. He says that the essence of what it means to be human is our capacity to make moral choices. Our innate humanity endows us with the capacity to be greedy, cruel, and violent, but it is these same human qualities that inspires us to be compassionate courageous, sympathetic and to stand in solidarity.

The most important moral decision we now face as a civilization is to what extent we are willing to meddle with human nature? Our technology can conquer the body's flaws, imperfections, and inherent shortcomings, but what does it do for the soul? The essence of our humanity is not defined by how well we perfect our machinery, but by how well we nurture our spirit.

A culture is defined by those who tell its stories. A culture that worships technology tells its stories through its machinery. They are stories of escalating mayhem told in videogames, movies and computer graphics with special effects that have elevated violence to an art form. I believe a culture that worships its technology worships death. A culture that worships art, music, myths, and ceremonies worships life because those are the instruments through which the human soul finds a way to walk a life filled with meaning.

The future of biotechnology mixes great potential benefits with overt threats to our physical being and subtle threats to our spiritual being. We most use our powers as an international community to set some limits. I’m pleased that Dr.Fukuyama is a member of President Bush’s Council on Bioethics and think we ought to elevate that powerless committee to cabinet level.

Schlag Byte 5/6/02 - "Moby Dick"

It's been almost a year and a half since I was with the "Flyboys" on their twice a year fishing trip to the Pere Marquette River in northern Michigan, much too long. The "Flyboys" are a brotherhood of fly-fishers who represent diverse political views, tastes in music and religious affiliations, all of which become inconsequential during the spring Steelhead and autumn Salmon runs . We stand in all in the middle of a pristine river, surrounded by a forest filled with deer, beaver, muskrat and skies with soaring eagles and watch these great sporting fish rise to the lure of an artificial fly .

The Great Lakes Steelhead are a magnificent fighting fish, weighing 30 pounds or more and when they take the fly take off like torpedoes. Catching them on light tackle is not just a matter of reeling in a hooked fish. The Steelhead will play with you only long enough to remind you that it is they who have the upper hand. Most of the time they’ll snap your line as if it were sewing thread.

In these crystal clear waters I can see these huge sea-going trout on the bottom lined up like soldiers in formation. If I can drift my fly right in front of their noses they may, just for a moment, forget their reason for being here and take my bait. It is the thrill of landing one of these great creatures that keeps "Flyboys" together everywhere.

It was late on the second evening, the sun almost down and the unseasonably warm air was beginning to chill when I hooked a big fish and the race was on . I was barely able to hold onto the reel as the line whistled away. I chased after the fish running downstream, ducking under low-hanging branches, stumbling over submerged trees, slipping on rocks and finally dropping into a deep hole that was higher than my waders. At that moment I fantasized that I was Ahab and this was Moby Dick. If I drowned they’d find me trussed up in my own line but there was never a question in my mind that I would let go. Even if this great fish killed me and they found me in rigor mortis I’d still be clutching the fly rod in my fist.

It took me an hour until I landed the huge, brilliantly-colored male. It was the thrill of a lifetime. Before releasing him I cradled him in my arms and kissed him then he swam away to complete his great mysterious life cycle.

To Jim Castle, who welcomes me to this sacred place, and to all my "Flyboy" brothers, I say thank you for sharing this time where the spirit breathes and you can see the face of God.

To see the photos that accompany this Schlag Byte, click here

Schlag Byte 2/25/02 - "Tolerating Dishonesty"

A few weeks ago in Piper, Missouri (20 miles west of Kansas City), Christine Pelton, a high school biology teacher, resigned in mid-semester. She quit because the School Board ordered her to go easy on students who had plagiarized their semester reports. At the beginning of the school year students signed the course syllabus which included the consequences of cheating and plagiarism. When she discovered that nearly a fifth of her students took the reports directly from the Internet, she failed 28 sophomores. Her Principal and Superintendent stood behind her but the students' parents complained to the School Board. The Board ordered Ms. Pelton to give the students partial credit and to decrease the project's importance in determining the final grade.

Pelton resigned saying the message was quite clear, that students no longer had to listen to what she said because they knew if they didn't like something in her classroom that from here on out they could complain to the School Board. Not only does it tell teachers that Boards and parents will not support them, it reinforces student perceptions that there are no consequences to cheating. It actually encourages those who don't cheat to try it because if others do it to get high grades and are not punished they get an unfair advantage.

Our culture now features a growing tolerance of dishonesty. We can hardly blame our children when they are treated to a daily parade of their parents and grandparents behaving dishonorably. Let’s go back to the days when if you got caught cheating you paid the price and learned that it mattered when you did something wrong. Support and respect teachers like Christine Pelton -- they are the heroes in our society.

Schlag Byte 2/4/02 - "Moon Over Miraval"

We like working together, Patch reminds me how to make to make my spiritual path, I love his stridency. What you learned about Patch Adams from the movie that bears his name is only a small fraction of an extraordinary life. He is a physician, whose specialty I like to call Public Health Epidemiology. Patch sees his task as revealing the horrors in store for us if we continue to exploit people and planet. His passion is so intense, it ‘s sometimes disquieting, but no one ever doubts that Patch speaks his truth. He comes to every day with joy, which does not mean he doesn’t feel pain. He deals with suffering by committing himself to a life of loving service, that’s how he overcomes it. The clown in him touches people wherever he goes.

The workshop was a wonderful experience for all, mostly for us because we had a chance to play into the early morning hours. We nurtured our dream of the first Patch Adams "Full Moon Festival." This is a new kind of fundraiser exclusively for local grass roots charities who are always barely funded. The event would culminate in 100,000 people dropping their pants for charity (see January 24, 2000 Schlagbyte). Think about it, 100,000 people mooning communally, each contributing $100 to do so. It would raise $10 million, everyone can afford it, corporations could sponsor those who couldn’t, it would build a community that crosses all economic and ethnic boundaries. Surely if we can come together in disaster and pain we ought to be able to celebrate our aliveness and support our local charities.

So far we have been unable to "pull it off." It’s been hard to find a city willing to take the risk. Things like obscenity laws, politics, security, and liability issues get in the way but the audiences with whom we share the idea are enthusiastic about it. So Patch and I have become the first corporate sponsors. We deposited our honoraria from the Miraval workshop into the "Full Moon Festival Fund." This tax deductible contribution reminds us to keep laughing and dreaming of a world whose paradigm for health is loving and whose greatest act of revolution is coming to every day with joy.

(See photos that accompany this Schlag byte here.)

Schlag Byte 1/28/02 - "Extinct Languages"

Marie Smith, 83, an Alaskan Eskimo, told the AP interviewer that she was the last person of her tribe who could speak the Inuit language, Eyak. She said that it was horrible to be alone. She knew that when she died, her community would lose a rich source of their people's history. What wisdom her tribe had acquired, told in stories using their own language, would be lost forever, and with it a piece of the tribe’s soul.

A culture's wisdom is not transmitted through its DNA, but through its stories. Biologic capacities maybe genetically transmitted, but a culture's capacity to distinguish good from evil and walk an ethical path in life is transmitted through its myths.

Every culture has found unique and acceptable ways to explain the unexplainable. Existential questions like 'how did we get here' or 'where are we going' aren't more conclusively answered today than they were in biblical times. Whether one speculates that biological matter was formed from atomic particles ignited by a cosmic flash, a lightning bolt thrown by Zeus or grains of sand formed into a universe on the back of a turtle -- all myths have merit.

What happens when we lose languages is that we move to a limited menu of choices that help explain how we survive on the planet. Soon there could be only one language and one story. Such limitations take a little soul from the diversity of humankind.

Don’t let your stories die and tell them in your own languages because they contain traditional wisdom that has not been improved upon, and they help us make sense and give purpose to our lives.

Schlag Byte 12/24/2001 - "Merry Christmas"

As his speech and mobility improved he was motivated to create a program to help other kids survive catastrophic illnesses. Mischa started an organization called "Kids Helping Kids," a nonprofit voluntary organization run by teens for teens. The kids, many disabled themselves, talk to patients, participate in recreation programs with them, make music, and become friends. Kids Helping Kids is growing nationally. This exceptional young man recognized that through his personal suffering he could ease the pain of others in similar situations.

I met him the evening prior to the Awards ceremony, at a reception for current and previous honorees. Mischa moved past me on his motorized scooter, and he said something to me that I couldn't hear. I sat down and said, "I couldn't hear you" to which he responded "that's because you can't hear through your knees." "Happens to me all the time," I said, "I'm so tall I don't hear a lot of what’s going on below. What is it like being down there?" With a straight face, this "Hall of Fame" Caring American said, "down here you get to smell a lot of farts." First I gasped, then the Merlot started dribbling through my nose as I exploded in laughter.

Mischa told me he got through it all because he never lost his sense of humor. Here is a kid who had endured incredible suffering and who reached inside himself and found a reservoir of spirit and humor, and a way to share his gift of joy.

Seems to me that this is what the Christmas spirit is all about, miracles that move us beyond our limitations to help making life worthwhile for others.

Schlag Byte 11/19/2001 - "Canaries and Trout"

Manhattan pet shop owners are reporting that since the Sept.11 attacks on the World Trade Center, canaries are selling like hotcakes. Customers believe the birds may be able to warn them in case of a poison gas attack. This hope is based on the history of the use of canaries by coal miners, who took the birds deep into the tunnels as an early warning system to detect deadly methane gas. The fact that those canaries were in a closed space is of course different than a canary in your living room. The likelihood that a canary in New York City will die from a terrorist gas attack rather than breathing exhaust fumes, or old age is about the same as catching a warm polar bear dropping on the Arctic tundra.

It will no longer be enough that every spilled packet of "Sweet and Low" on a restaurant table is seen as a potential anthrax exposure. Now every dead canary will be the messenger of our impending demise. You can't buy enough canaries to defend yourselves against your fears and the sentiment that drives such a purchase actually intensifies the fear. The antidote to fear is not canaries, it's trout. To distance yourself from fear, separate yourself from your ordinary reality and see things from a new perspective.

In the midst of my recent travels I took a break from the bludgeoning of catastrophic reality and visited a trout stream. This is one of my sacred places, a place I go to experience peace, joy and awe.

I am in the Appalachian mountains of Virginia, alone on a stream full of trout, in the last days of autumn's splendor. The trees alive in color, the forest floor a bed of leaves like golden coins. There are shallow pools below the swift ripples where a "Parachute Adams" fly proves irresistible. Downstream in a big pond created by a beaver dam, a chartreuse "Wooly Bugger" wreaks havoc. This is a "catch and release" stream, so I gently place the trout back in the water.

Eating a sandwich at lunch it comes to me that "catch and release" is really a metaphor about fear. If you catch it find a way to release it. Go to your sacred place, that place where you are reminded that you are only a small part of what happens in the universe, a place where you see the world through a new lens. The antidote to sCared is saCred, it’s just another way of "C"ing.

See trout not canaries.

Schlag Byte 10/01/2001 - "Creating Sacred Space"

I recently spent a week at a Jewish Renewal Retreat Center in upstate New York, where I was participating in a "healing week". This gathering brought together Rabbis, Talmudic scholars, kabbalists, liturgical dancers, Yogis, drummers and me, a Jewish psychiatrist who has worked a lifetime with American Indians, an experience which transformed me from doctor to healer.

I was speaking about the importance of rituals and ceremonies as powerful promoters of the healing process. As part of the workshop I intended to conduct a sweat lodge ceremony. I asked The Retreat Center staff if they could build the lodge knowing they had previously built one. They said they could do it.

The first thing I did when I arrived was ask to see it. I was taken to the baseball field where, in the furthest part of the outfield, was a rectangular structure made out of wood trimming-lattice that resembled a small Quonset hut. This structure was covered with a single layer of canvas and open on both ends. Inside was no pit for the hot stones and the closest water was half-a-mile away.

I looked at it with open-mouth incredulity. Seeing my shock my friend said "the maintenance man figured it out". He assumed it would take about two square feet per person so 15 people would require about 30 square feet and that structure was designed to hold them comfortably.

I knew I couldn't use it. What was I thinking? I thought they would build me a lodge of bent Willow frame surrounding a central fire pit. Maybe close to a stream where we could take a dip between rounds and nestled in a beautiful setting in the forest; that's what I imagined. I wanted them to build my holy space and the maintenance man built a place. What's the difference between a place and a sacred space? Sacred space is created by an investment of soul. The power, of what happens in it intensifies with the intention of those who use it.

I thought I'd save the hours it would take to build the lodge so that I could cover "all the other important things" I wanted to say. After I saw the Quonset hut lodge it became clear that building of the space was the only important thing I had to teach.

We found the flowing stream, one with deep pools for dipping and a flat place nearby enshrouded by a dense forest canopy. All around us were maple saplings that we could use to frame the lodge. We sang, prayed, made offerings, spoke to the trees and then built the sacred space. Here in this symbolic womb of Mother Earth, we would sit cramped and sweating to pray for ourselves, our families and our world. .

The ceremony took place at the end of the week, on the eve of the Sabbath. It turned out to be one of those rare transcendent experiences in which you touch the face of God and feel at one with the Spirit. I was still floating two days later.

We need to be building more sacred places -- in the woods, in our homes and even our offices. Make your work an expression of your spiritual path; a space filled with sacramental reminders of your connection to something other than yourself. Spend time in this place when you're feeling small or big, when you're sick or well; go there whenever you need to remind yourself that it's not all up to you, something else is helping you out along the way. Create sacred space.

[To view the images that accompany this Schlag Byte, please visit here.]

Schlag Byte 9/3/2001 - "Johnnie Walker Black"

Tell me this is not a pornographic market morality in which everything and everyone can be bought and sold. We have already bought sports stadiums and Bowl games, soon our financially strapped National Parks could bear names like Microsoft-Yellowstone National Park, or Dole-Hawaii Volcanoes National Park. Now the offer to sell the name of your son, marking him for life as a logo, what were those parents thinking?

I congratulate corporate America for choosing to pass on this latest manifestation unbelievable commercialism. Because of the paucity of bidders and because of time limitations imposed by New York state law,the parents were persuaded to go the noncommercial route. They christened their new son Zane.. . (I hope Zane won’t end up feeling that Johnnie Walker might not have been so bad.)

Schlag Byte 8/27/2001 - "Surviving in rapidly changing cultures"

No one denies the Japanese have experienced a radical change in there culture. An emperor once considered divine was declared ordinary. A nation defeated, arose from the ashes of annihilation to become a world power of free-market capitalism.

Clearly what it takes to survive economically is different than what it takes to survive emotionally and spiritually. Survival in the physical world of a rapidly changing culture is predicated on its ability to adapt quickly and for its constituents to be able to apply unencumbered, logical thinking to make them change. Those, not bound by preconceptions can think more expensively. J. Paul Getty, once said that in times of rapid change, experience can be your worst enemy. He is alluding to the fact that old judgments can inhibit creativity. On the other hand disconnecting from old traditions also separates us from credible values of our soul. Tradition provides the structure that lifts our spirit during the hard times. Survival in the emotional world requires more than our analytic minds, it requires connections to something other than ourselves; something we trust and believe in.

It is not just the Japanese who are in the process of rapid cultural change. We are all sitting in the frying pan amidst the fires of a rapidly changing technology. That technology has provided us with some enormous benefits but it has not yet provided us with better answers for dealing with the catastrophes we face or just the ordinary ups and downs in our lives.

Juvenile crime is a worldwide problem and I believe it is a reflection of our disconnections. Survival in rapidly changing cultures is ensured by allowing the mind to think nontraditionally but, the heart has to stay connected to a traditional ethic of morality. Strong families build character and teach values that help us survive emotionally.

The ratio between good and evil has remained constant throughout the ages, if we lose touch with these values that once sustained us we will lose our balance.

Schlag Byte 7/30/2001 - "Doing Nothing is Doing Something"

My four sons-in law did not bring their laptops or DVDs which filled me with congratulatory joy . They did, however, bring along Walkie-Talkies. They wanted to talk to each other while they were fishing on separate boats, to describe, blow by blow the competitive trophy fish hunt. I railed on about it of course.

Late in the afternoon they all went to take a shower 20 miles away. I declined the invitation and instead launched myself in a float tube. This is a place I love to be. Alone, on the edge. The sounds of humanity washed away in the silence of splendor. It’s dusk on Reservation Lake, the hatch hitting the water, an osprey swooped down to make a catch. Casting a dry fly, I watched it move on the surface. There was such magic in this moment. In my reverie I flashed to a scene with my father on the Dyckman Street Pier, in uptown Manhattan. The Hudson River had catfish, eel and flounder. We'd sit quietly next to each other for hours. My father, a holocaust survivor, was a soft spoken, gentle soul for whom, quite predictability, was life's most precious gift.

In those quiet moments I’d imagine I might catch a shark, maybe an old shoe would contain a diamond ring, even a dead body. These moments filled me with dreams.

My father might lean over and ask what I was thinking. I’d say "do you think there are sharks down there?" My father told me "anything you can imagine is possible." Then it would be quiet again and we’d watch our lines. Doing nothing, just being in that moment was enough.

I get a huge strike, could it be that big Apache trout I’d never seen? Forget the showers -- make times to be in the moment.

Schlag Byte 7/9/2001 - "Going the Extra Mile"

Two young women emerge and Elaine points out the flat tire and asks if they could give her a ride to her car a mile away. They say, "Sorry, we’re going in the other direction." A middle-aged man emerges with his wife and ignores her request entirely. A man in his 20's is also going the other way. Is this indifference or fear? Were they afraid that this well-dressed, well-spoken older woman with a clearly credible story was a threat to them? A clever scam by two sweating women who were up to something nefarious? I think not. It’s about inconvenience, a growing unwillingness of people to see beyond their own needs. Discourtesy is endemic in our culture, from simple thank yous or helping an old lady across the street, to not cursing publically, we are becoming so callused to each other. When self-interest renders us indifferent to the needs of others, we sow the seeds that steal our humanity. Indifference creates a society in which people learn to eat one another or be eaten themselves.

I’m thinking about this today because it’s the season of Yom Hashoah, a time of remembrance for victims of the Holocaust. This time has become a memorial for all people who have experienced genocide. Genocide is the mountain that is built from pebbles of indifference. Indifference creates the climate that unleashes the potential for our own barbarity.

Cast the pebbles of indifference aside. Reach out and help somebody, go the extra mile and sow some seeds of humanity.

Schlag Byte 6/4/2001 - "Prometheus Visits Animal Farm"

Prometheus was a Titan, something less than a God but more than human. Prometheus was asked by Jupiter to make humankind out of mud and water. Out of pity for the creatures he created, Prometheus also gave them the fire, which he stole from the Gods. The Gods were angered by Prometheus’ act of hubris because they feared that with this knowledge man would feel himself more God-like. As punishment Gods chained Prometheus to a rock. Every night a carnivorous raptor ate away at his liver. By morning his liver miraculously regenerated and the cycle started all over.

We have been given new fire, one that allows us to manipulate our genetics in such a way that we can regenerate livers from stem-cell cultures that are augmented by growth hormones and cell accelerators. We will also be able to grow hearts, kidneys, lungs, and maybe even brains. This is good for those with diseased organs but let us not forget, only for those who can afford them. Does this mean that the wealthy will continue to become stronger and longer-lived and the poor, sicker and die young. The fire of our technological genius is making us more God-like. Will we use these qualities to further separate us into two species? Does this sound a little Orwellian to you? "Animal Farm" is now truly being visited upon us. We have the capacity to create a new species of pig with two legs that thinks it’s better than a pig with four. I think we are playing with fire and if we succumb to its hubris we will become chained to a rock.

Schlag Byte 5/28/2001 - "Weekend Ceremonies"

The next day, I participated in a wedding ceremony that brought together a couple whose blood lines included Filipino, German, Native American and Jewish. The wedding guests included people from many nations. It brought together multi-cultural rituals and foods that were presented in an unending experiential feast. During the reception I met an outreach worker who worked with pre-delinquent kids. Len was raised a black inner city kid whose family knew of his Indian blood but rarely spoke to him about it. In the last several years he has become very involved with his Indian heritage. He participated in pow-wows, drum-circles and healing ceremonies. Len said the power he found in this part of his identity has helped him in his work with kids.

Before we said goodbye, Len said he wanted to gift me with something he thought I could use in my work. He reached into the bag and pulled out a crocheted shawl that he made. He had incorporated stones, feathers, and amulets into it. Next to a crucifix, he had added a Jewish star and the Ten Commandments. The shawl was filled with his own prayers and blessings, and those of many others. It was "good medicine" he said.

On Sunday evening I put Len's crocheted neckpiece over my own shawl and performed a placenta burying ceremony for my fifth grandchild. In the Native American tradition the placenta that connected mother and child is now given to the Earth Mother who will now sustain the child in this life. When Native people come back to the place their belly buttons are buried they will roll around in the dirt to feel it on their bodies. This is how they say thank you for their lives. This is how they acknowledge that if you love the earth enough you will know the divine mystery.

That evening I wrapped my grandchildren in my prayer shawls and blessed each one under their own tree. And then we planted one for Zachary and welcomed my new grandson into this world.

Click here to view the images for this Schlag Byte. Schlag Byte 01/22/2001 - "Listen When Gabriel Blows His Horn"

As a final gift to his friends he sent this farewell letter. Through the ubiquity of the Internet, it has found its way to others. This is a reflection whose wisdom will inspire you to live and relish your life. It would be a sin for me to abbreviate this astounding blessing.

"If for an instant God were to forget that I am a rag doll and gifted me with a piece of life, possibly I wouldn't say all that I think, but rather I would think of all that I say. I would value things, not for their worth but for what they mean. I would sleep little, dream more, understanding that for each minute we close our eyes we lose sixty seconds of light.

I would walk when others hold back, I would wake when others sleep. I would listen when others talk, and how I would enjoy a good chocolate ice cream! If God were to give me a piece of life, I would dress simply, throw myself face first into the sun, baring not only my body but also my soul. My God, if I had a heart, I would write my hate on ice, and wait for the sun to show. Over the stars I would paint with a Van Gogh dream a Benedetti poem, and a Serrat song would be the serenade I'd offer to the moon. With my tears I would water roses, to feel the pain of their thorns, and the red kiss of their petals...

My god, if I had a piece of life... I wouldn't let a single day pass without telling the people I love that I love them. I would convince each woman and each man that they are my favorites, and I would live in love with love. I would show men how very wrong they are to think that they cease to be in love when they grow old, not knowing that they grow old when they cease to be in love! To a child I shall give wings, but I shall let him learn to fly on his own. I would teach the old that death does not come with old age, but with forgetting. So much have I learned from you, oh men...

I have learned that everyone wants to live on the peak of the mountain, without knowing that real happiness is in how it is scaled. I have learned that when a newborn child squeezes for the first time with his tiny fist his father's finger, he has him trapped forever. I have learned that a man has the right to look down on another only when he has to help the other get to his feet. From you I have learned so many things, but in truth they won't be of much use, for when I keep them within this suitcase, unhappily shall I be dying."

GABRIEL GARCIA MARQUEZ

Schlag Byte 12/25/2000 - "Wise Man Visits at Christmas"

When he arrived at the office, the first thing he said when he saw me was that my face is the same face he saw on one of the Indians in his dream. Then he told me his grandfather’s name is Carlo and his wife’s name is Carla. It was clear to him that I was the person he needed to see and told me his story. He could trace his family history back to the crusaders, his roots go back to Palestine for a thousand years. His forebearers were multilingual traders, courtiers, diplomats and emissaries. He himself was the nephew of a Syrian Sheik and the Mayor of Jerusalem. He spoke five languages. While talking, he took out pictures and documents from his briefcase to corroborate his story. One of them was a wax-sealed document written in Hebrew and Italian that declares him a "righteous gentile." (These were Christians who saved Jews during the Nazi occupation.)

"That’s interesting," I say, "because I am the son of Holocaust survivors."

And, so we talked at length, and I was entranced by Sandro Gherardi. He didn’t get around much anymore, too painful, but he knew the dream held such significance for him that he left his ailing wife in France to come to Arizona to ask an Indian medicine man about it.

"Tell me about the dream" I said.

"The Indians were speaking but I couldn’t hear them. I went closer, their mouths were open and lips moving, but I still couldn’t hear the words," he said.

I asked him what he made of it. He shrugged and said, "That’s why I came here."

I asked him whether his children and grandchildren knew all his stories. He said all of them knew some but none of them knew all. In Indian country, I told him, all history was transmitted in the oral tradition. Native people say that if they tell their stories for seven generations then their tribe will survive.

"You have the stories of 50 generations," I said, "and you have not yet shared that legacy. I think this is what the dream is about, your mouth is open but the words have not yet come out. You have to tell your stories. You don’t have to write, you could talk it into a tape recorder," I said. His son immediately said that he would transcribe it.

Sandro sat for awhile and finally said, "You save my life and now we have saved each other. That is why I came here." We hugged when he left and then he wanted to pay me, but I told him he already had.

This is what "paying it forward" is all about. This is my new years blessing to you: may somebody "pay it forward" to you in this coming year and may you "pay it forward" to somebody else. We are here to save each other.

Schlag Byte 12/18/2000 - "A Jewish Neo-Pagan"

I was raised Jewish, my parents, grandparents and bloodlines for at least the 300 years are all Jews. My children were raised in that tradition and they are raising their own kids that way, so when I logged on I thought that’s what I was.

The "Religion Selector" invites you to answer a list of questions like, Do you believe in God? What are your thoughts on the origins of the universe, or the meaning of evil? Do you believe in life after death? There were also some contemporary issues like abortion, the role of women and homosexuality. I answered them all and then asked for the printout. I discovered I was a Neo-Pagan, scoring100 percent in that category, the next closest was Mahayana Buddhist where I scored 90 percent. As a Jew I scored 25 percent (the same as for Atheist, Christian Scientist, Scientologist and Sikh), only slightly lower were Islam, Jehovah’s Witness and Latter Day Saints.

What is a Neo-Pagan? I wondered about that too. The printout said Neo-Pagan is a diverse community of faiths who bring ancient pagan and magical traditions to the modern age. They include Wicca, Druidism, Asatru and Native American among others, all of whom share these elements in common. They all believe in a Supreme Being, that there are countless spirit beings in all of nature, and that God is within all. Neo-Pagans believe that ones salvation comes from living in spiritual harmony with each other and with nature. They all participate in ceremonies like singing, chanting, dancing, praying and meditating. Neo-Pagans believe one is rewarded in this life and also after this lifetime, for the choices they make. They all share an ethic of morality that says do not intentionally cause harm and, stay connected in community.

This all sounds good to me so when the printout also said there was no incongruence between practicing neo-paganism along with adherence to other faiths such as Christianity and Judaism, I decided that I am a Jewish Neo-Pagan. This leads me to this seasonal thought. It doesn’t matter what we call our paths, they all reach the same destination. Whatever our tribes, the important thing is that we come to each other and to the earth in a good way to celebrate our humanity. I wish you peace, joy and health in this season of renewal and say this to all my relations,

A great holiday season, to you all.

Mi takuye oyacin.

Schlag Byte 10/16/2000 - "Dying Well"

The following week I spoke to The Hospice of the Western Reserve in Cleveland on the subject "Sustaining the Healing Spirit in End of Life Care." In a wonderful, spirited exchange we talked about the importance of saying what needs to be said while there is still time. We created ceremonies to bring families together every week to break bread, drink ceremonial wine, listen to music and still laugh. We reminded ourselves that our work is our spiritual path.

After the presentation, I went fishing with my friend and brother Jim Castle, CEO of Ohio Hospital Association and an avid fly fishermen. The salmon were running on the Pere Marquette River in Northern Michigan where Jim belongs to a Rod and Gun Club.

He has told me stories about 30-pound salmon being taken on a lightweight fly rod, the action so thrilling the adrenaline rush would resuscitate a dying heart. I didn't want to wait that long to experience it. It's an easy wadeable stream that follows an untrammeled wilderness in its early autumn colors. I can see deer on the banks and lots of salmon in the water. This is a fisherman's heaven to be able to spot fish and cast your fly to drift by their mouths. When they take one they become torpedoes accelerating, leaping, and snapping the line in seconds, one bent the hook 90 degrees.

My heart was pumping a mile a minute, and I was running up and down the stream holding on to these monsters. I lost lots of them but did finally beach a 35-pounder, snapped a picture and released him. A beautiful King Salmon male released to fulfill his instinctual drive. He would continue to go upstream until a female laid her eggs and he'd fertilize them. He'd just fought me to the death for the privilege of being enveloped in his immortality, and I'm thinking this is how we die well, surrounded by our children.

Schlag Byte 9/25/2000 - "The Boys Trip"

This year we went to Doe Bay, the second time we've been there. We love this verdant retreat on Orcas Island; it is one of the last outposts of the communal sixties and thrives on good karma. Here you can hide without phones, faxes or computer plug-ins. You eat exquisite healthy food and soak naked in hot tubs and sauna. We come here to separate ourselves from the world, where the most important decision is whether to eat first or go to the tubs. We come to this place of breathtaking beauty to fish, kayak, soak, get massaged and liberate our souls.

There were so many exquisite moments here are some highlights.

John and I took a long stroll (the boys call it a "sweetie walk") and came upon a gingerbread house surrounded by an explosion of rainbow flowers. It was also an antique gallery but also served homemade pastries and coffee on the back patio. We didn't have a cent between us; I was reluctant to ask the proprietor to extend me credit. I come from the streets of New York, where the karma is do it to somebody before they do it to you. John, however, did not hesitate and asked him if we could sit and eat and pay him later. He told him we were staying just down the road at Doe Bay and were out taking a walk. He responded without hesitation, "Sure, that's why I came here, it's a place that believes in good karma. I know you'll come back."

Another happened on our salmon fishing expedition where we didn't catch a fish. When the mate winched in the last line he saw something on the hook and as it came closer he announced, "It's just a little sole," which pretty much summarized what the trip is all about anyway.

Finally we were gifted eight Dungeness Crabs but had no pot to cook them in. We stopped at a local restaurant and asked if they'd cook 'em for us and we'd have dinner there. The cook said the place was closed for dinner but we could use her pots and cook them in the kitchen. Only on Orcas, where good karma is still alive and the Age of Aquarius still dawns.

Schlag Byte 9/1/2000 - "Ram Dass is Still Here"

Three years ago, at the age of 65, he had a stroke that left him paralyzed and aphasic (unable to move his right side, speak or understand words). Doctors gave him a 10 percent chance of living. He survived this catastrophe and not only improved, but wrote a new book, Still Here: Embracing Aging, Changing, and Dying. This book is a continuation of his 1971 classic Be Here Now.

Ram Dass is certainly "still here" and traveling through the world of experience, telling his story. This is a wonderful book about the great teacher, called Silence. Silence allows us to listen to our intuitive wisdom, which helps us get in touch and deal with what's happening to us right now. The stroke taught him to let go of old certainties. Becoming crippled gave him a chance to free his mind, a chance to look at his life as if it were a movie. His body and lips were paralyzed but his spirit was still talking to him and he looked at himself as if he were watching an actor on the silver screen of his mind.

Ram Dass tells us that he is still in pain, sometimes afraid, but always learning. He acknowledges his loss of power but also recognizes that this changing role has given him new purpose. Like all debilities it has taught him not to get caught up in how other people see him. Those who see him as a stroke victim see only an immobilized old man. Ram Dass sees himself as someone who has been given a chance to sit silently and bear witness to his soul. That he is not the man he was, but the man he is, inspires me. I pay attention to someone who is able to look out his window everyday and see brightness. Bless you my brother on your healing journey.

Schlag Byte 9/4/2000 - "The Sabbath Candles"

It's Friday night when we celebrate the Sabbath. For the Sabbath my 86- year-old Kosher Momma prepares a festive meal. Tonight, some of my favorites . . . matzo ball soup, "flanken," root celery salad with white asparagus and fresh mushrooms. She has baked her specialty, plum cake, for dessert. Before we eat she lights the Sabbath candles.

When she performs this ritual she covers her eyes to recite the prayers. As a little boy I thought she was crying and hiding her tears from me, because I knew this weekly ritual always brought memories of her family whom she hadn't seen since her escape from Nazi Germany.

I once asked her if she covered up because she didn't want me to see her crying. "No," she said, "I cover them up because I do not want to be blinded by the light of the Messiah. Tonight," she whispered conspiratorially, "could be the night the Messiah will come."

On this night when she covers her eyes and recites the blessings she is breathing heavily and has to stop several times to catch her breath. When she finishes she announces that she often gets short of breath but not to worry, "short is still breathing." Laughing, she comes over and places her hands on my head to bestow the mother's blessing. I feel the same joy tonight that inspired me as a boy, tonight is the night the Messiah may come.

Schlag Byte 8/28/2000 - "The Rear-View Mirror"

The accident happened on my way up to the Sun Dance, a spiritual gathering where I separated from my ordinary reality to look at my life and what I wanted to be doing with it. This broken piece of mirror felt like I'd been dealt a Tarot card. Here was something that deserved closer scrutiny, so I took it with me to Sun Dance.

After a couple of days at Sun Dance when my ordinary self was quiet enough to be able to hear my soul, I took out the mirror. "Objects in mirror are closer than they appear." I've been spending too much time lately looking over my shoulder. Getting older raises some interesting issues, like business and retirement plans. These are not my favorite preoccupations; as a matter of fact they steal my joy. Looking at the mirror in this sacred place reminded me I was making that stuff bigger than it is. My business always seems to get taken care of, not so my spirit. Looking at what's creeping up on me keeps me from looking forward to what's still ahead. Spend too much time looking in the rear view mirror and whatever is there always appears bigger than it is.

Schlag Byte 8/21/2000 - "Dow Jones Measures Soul"

The substance of that extraordinary evening's conversation included this shared belief: Consumers want to support businesses whose values they identify with. Given the choice, people will choose a product from a company whose values they identify with because it makes them feel good about themselves. People have a strong vote and business recognizes it. The demonstrations at the WTO meetings in Seattle a few months ago were evidence that lots of people can come together and share their views. Professionals, union members, clergy and even grunge students, spoke out on exploitation of foreign labor, the impact of international trade on the environment and on indigenous people.

The Internet and streaming media has changed the way people communicate, and allows for new coalitions. The days are gone when business could target homogeneous populations; the Internet is reorganizing the way people interact, publicly and privately. Dow Jones has a new index called the SGI or Sustainability Group Index, which measures a company's social consciousness. This takes into account whether a company's management takes a leadership role in addressing environmental and cultural issues and how profits are shared. I learned about a copper company CEO who wanted to know what it would take to get investors interested in his company's expansion into Mexico. The "branding" expert went to both the investors and the brokers to inquire what it would take to interest buyers in this company. They all said the company would have to be not only profitable, but they would also have to target specific sites, not blow away mountains. The company would also have to set some business standards for giving back a piece of the profit.

The evening's discussion actually made me tingle with excitement. Business may able to do what governments have been unable to do, which is bring people together through cooperative sharing and building trust. The Dow Jones measures soul, and it lives in Santa Fe.

Schlag Byte 7/10/2000 - "Nibblin' in New Orleans"

If I'm still ambulatory, I like to end the evening at Preservation Hall. This national historic landmark is a small room on St. Peter Street, where jazz musicians have played old-time Dixieland for generations. The ensemble is backed up against the louvered windows while the patrons (maybe 150, crammed in belly to belly) sit on the few wooden benches, on the floor, or stand up in the back. Among the band is always at least one ancient musical mariner who has played with old time greats. Last week it was Waldren Clement Joseph, an 80-year-old trombonist.

I happened to sit down on the chair right next to him during a set break. Waldren was the only band member who hung around so we started a conversation. Not quite a conversation because after he asked me where I was from, he rolled on solo. Over the next 15 minutes, I learned that Waldren had polio as a kid, played in Swing bands before World War II, was the third generation musician in his family, had a son who was continuing the tradition, and was married to the same lady for 60 years.

I like listening to old people and gathering their pearls of aged wisdom, so I asked Waldren to what he attributed his energy and lust for life. He paused for a moment and said "seafood." "Seafood?" I asked incredulously. "Yes," he says, " if it looks or smells like fish, eat it." I'm actually thinking about it, when he bursts out laughing and says, "I'm just bullshitting you," and after a pause says, "it's rice and red beans." Now I'm laughing too. As the band reconvened he leaned over and in a conspiratorial whisper said, "The reason I'm all here is because I'm not all there." Then he picked up his trombone as the band played "Down by the Riverside."

I'm not sure I heard it right, but I take out a matchbook and write it down on the cover. I've been thinking about it ever since, thinking this may be the secret of life.

Schlag Byte 5/22/2000 - "Lakeview, Oregon"

I got a call a couple of days before from Pastor Dan, a sweet man who also happened to be one of the town's morticians. Pastor Dan said there were rumors flying around about what was going to happen in church. One suggested that we were going to light a sagebrush fire in the sanctuary. I assured him it was just a little sage in an abalone shell that I'd light and that it was the Native American equivalent of frankincense and myrrh. The incense created sacred space and would bring us all together to bless this couple with our heartfelt prayers. It was a wonderful exchange and we agreed on the sage, eagle feather, prayer shawl, yarmulke, and the Hopi wedding vase.

A whole entourage of friends and relatives from Phoenix flew into Reno (the closest major airport) and then drove four hours to get to Lakeview. When we drove in, the Elk's club marquee announced the wedding reception the following night.

At the motel we were greeted by a bag of homemade chocolate-chip cookies, and two hours later we were at the wedding rehearsal which was followed by dinner at the clubhouse of the Fraternal Order of Eagles. Well-stocked bar, an unbelievable potluck dinner, and Aunt Shirley, a one-handed guitarist who sang "Ghost Chickens in the Sky" as the after dinner entertainment.

The next morning I went fishing, while the women of Lakeview, visitors included, decorated the reception area. The fishing could hardly be described as splendid, but the wedding ceremony was a highlight in my life. Protestant Minister, Catholic soloist, Jewish psychiatrist with sage bundle, and an entire community connected in ecumenical spirit to witness this most ancient ritual that binds us together as social beings.

I've lived in Phoenix, AZ, for 30 years, most of its millions have arrived since then. We have freeways that connect downtown with suburban communities with stucco walls, red-tilled roofs, palm trees, swimming pools, big malls and lots of fast food franchises. Even though I live here, it doesn't feel like a hometown community. I don't know, much less celebrate, with the people on my street. I miss it and know it's possible to feel connected even in a city. I was raised in New York City, where there were 3,000 people on my block. It was a neighborhood though. We spoke the same language, celebrated the same holidays and knew every shopkeeper by name. I miss the camaraderie I felt in Lakeview, but it does remind me that the heart of America is open and still beats strong together.

Schlag Byte 5/15/2000 - "Grateful Dead to Chanting Head"

The crowd is comprised largely of baby boomers and generation X'ers, but also a number of aging hippies. It's an ensemble that greets each other warmly and the mellow ambience feels like the crowd in the parking lot of a Grateful Dead concert. The Yogi comes in and wends his way into a corner where he sits in a lotus position behind a "harmonium." This is a miniature keyboard instrument, powered by a bellows, which sounds like an organ with terminal consumption. With the first notes a hush falls over the crowd. This music and chanting is hypnotic, and it generates a blissful calm.

My son-in-law then leans over and whispers in my ear "old man, can you remember the last time you sat in a crowd like this without a joint being passed around?" I do remember those days, and it makes me smile to think that it's still possible for people to come together in harmony and appreciate the planet and everything that lives on it. We need to be getting together like this more often to celebrate a Happy Earth Day.

Schlag Byte 5/1/2000 - "Passover/Easter Week"

I am the first born son of Holocaust survivors, raised in a traditional Jewish home, but who learned how to pray in Indian country. When I say prayer, I mean praying straight from the heart, without thinking about it first.

So when Passover comes around, I welcome this season with a sweat lodge ceremony. This sacred Native American ceremony always opens my heart. Jews are asked to imagine as if they personally had escaped from Egypt. Which means that in every generation you want to look at whatever chains enslave you. Look what's keeping you stuck and move on, that's the work of this season. It's easiest for me in the sweat lodge, although I still do the traditional Seder, with my family around the table, reciting the ancient words and ritual.

This year, on the night following the Seder, my children took me to an evening of Yoga chanting. The singer, Krishna Das (someone whose tapes I have listened to during my yoga practice), turns out to be a decidedly non-Indian looking, middle-aged white man of average height, with a short stubby beard and glasses.

Sitting in the lotus position, in front of a crowd of a 160 people packed into a 20x26 room, Krishna Das tells his story. A Jewish Boy from Long Island, he went to India in 1970, planning never to return. He learned to pray from the heart in an ashram, with ancient Sanskrit chants and ceremonies. He then introduced his 97-year-old grandmother who had never heard her grandson perform. He told her these were not the tunes he learned as a boy in the synagogue, but they were prayers that allowed him to talk to God. The audience applauded her, and she in turn, applauded her grandson.

I found myself wondering if my grandfather would have come into the sweat lodge with me and similarly found joy in the many ways there are to celebrate the spirit. I hope so.

Schlag Byte 4/17/2000 - "Star Tames Ego"

I would like to give up my need for control and have greater faith, to believe that even without my fine hand in it, good things could happen to me. Taming the ego continues to be my greatest challenge.

If I've been miserable long enough, I go to the diploma wall in my office, and amongst the testaments to my intellectual achievements is one that certifies I have a star named after me. My star was a birthday present from a beloved sister who gave it to me almost 20 years ago. The International Star Registry has my records in its vaults in Switzerland, and it's duly recorded in the Library of Congress that the star Cepheus RA20h34md61"50' has been redesignated "Carl Hammerschlag." Nobody has actually seen Carl Hammerschlag, but it is somewhere out there in the great Milky Way.

The certificate reminds me to get out of my head and spend the night out under the stars. Alone, under that awesome canopy of billions upon billions of stars, looking deeper, farther, higher, into a galaxy without conceivable limits, I find it impossible to take myself seriously. This awesomeness makes whatever was my preoccupation less worrisome.

When I come out and look at this big picture, I sometimes see a twinkle in the Milky Way that reaches out to me. I feel the presence of the Great Spirit who has a voice like Humphrey Bogart, and who says, "Here's looking at you kid." Awe is the mechanism by which we tame the ego.

Schlag Byte 2/21/2000 - "Who Wants to Marry a Multi-Millionnaire"

The groom, called "Mr. Multi-millionaire," gets to choose from 50 women who have submitted applications for consideration to become his wife. The show opens with each contestant introducing herself by name, age, where they were born, where they now live and what they do. "Mr. Multi-millionaire" is watching them from a closed room but they can't see him. On the basis of these facts, Mr. Multi-millionaire picks ten finalists. These women are given a quiz with such questions as "if you found a woman's telephone number in your husbands pants pocket what would you do? Would you confront him, keep quiet, call the number?" Or this one, "if you married Mr. Multi-millionaire would you continue doing everything you're doing now, make some changes, or stop working? There was only one question that had a sexual overtone, "what is your idea of an intimate date, roller-blading on the beach, dinner at a five-star restaurant, staying at home and cooking a meal together, or watching a movie?" You know that the reason any woman wants to marry a multi-millionaire is to stay at home and cook dinner. You know he wants to ask questions like "do you enjoy making love, and what are your favorite turn-ons," and you know they are answering on the basis of what he wants to hear. Yet they answer these questions with apparent sincerity and then parade around in swimsuits so he can take a closer look at the product. These are good women engineers, nurses, and entrepreneurs who are willing to marry a complete stranger.

Mr. Multi-millionaire picks his top five, all of whom walk out in designer wedding gowns, and are given a last chance to speak to their prospective husband. Looking at this screen behind which he sits, they are asked to "speak from their hearts" to this total stranger. They all reassure him that they are not in it for the money and on the strength of this heartfelt input he makes his decision. Before emerging for the world to see, he thanks all the women for taking this seriously, that his hope was that someone would leap out at him, and that he was committed to this relationship.

Out walks Mr. Rick Rockwell, a decent-looking, well-spoken 42-year-old man. He walks up to Darva Conger, a thirty-something ER nurse (not the prettiest, youngest, or the most educated), kisses her and gets down on one knee to ask her to marry him. This woman is now looking at her soon-to-be husband for the first time. She looks stunned and says she will. A Las Vegas judge walks out and they recite the traditional vows. The audience and presumably the whole world cheers in appreciation.

This is marriage in the new Millennium, a media event that matches people on the strength of money. Connections can be established in a millisecond, the foundations of intimacy dialed up on some search engine, and if you don't like what you see you move on to another selection.

I'm not saying that arranged marriages have not proven effective in the past. Many cultures have survived on this tradition. The Moonies just married off tens of thousands of followers by their leader matching their names, with the participants seeing each other for the first time at the wedding ceremony. Arranged marriages seem to work out at least as well as marriages based on fairyland romance. But this is different; here we celebrate the seduction of money as the foundation for relationships. Marriage is just another commodity like soybeans, sugar and pork belly's. Loyalty, honor, and a loving commitment to staying in the struggle with another person are the values upon which intimacy is based. There are no shortcuts. We have to stop selling instantaneous gratification as the model for long-term success.

Schlag Byte 2/7/2000 - "Old Drivers Can Cripple You"

A couple of times a week I go to a yoga studio. There are a lot of yoga asanas or poses that I can't do but last week the instructor challenged me to try a headstand by saying, "All it takes to do this is to find the courage to get beyond your fear."

There are only a few old "drivers" embedded in my psyche that are as intense for me as this one. "Have courage, do not be afraid." To me that means be strong and make us proud. Not to be courageous is to be faint-hearted and weak. I know this early-learned preconception has crippled me but it's hard to give up. You'd think, as a well-trained psychiatrist, this old tape would not play so loudly in my brain. But, as I increasingly become aware, it's hard to shit-can some old drivers.

When the instructor issued the challenge, don't you know that I got down to try to do the headstand. As always, I couldn't keep my legs straight so they crashed to the floor. I tried to get up again and then again, the last time landing painfully on my toe.

As you might have guessed, I didn't complain to the instructor nor did I want to give up, so instead I tried half a headstand. I brought my knees to my chest but didn't lift my legs at all and I discovered that I could do that. I could do half a headstand. It comes to me, upside down like that, that courage has more to do with how we respond to the challenge than with blind acceptance.

Schlag Byte 1/31/2000 - "Diving with Dolphins"

I love to dive. The experience of diving has opened up a shining path to a new world for me. There are underground gardens that must rival the hanging gardens of Babylon. To swim amidst coral blossoms with iridescent creatures so magical it could be a Harry Potter Kingdom is one of nature's blessings to me. I see tiny snails called nudibranchs with colors of shocking orange, chartreuse and violet. There is an octopus with its mysterious eyes swimming like a spaceship. Surrounded by fish, sometimes tens of thousands, I become one with them. Sharks still give me a jolt even at a distance.

In the sea's immensity, you become tiny. Under water, humans are not the ultimate creation in the evolutionary chain.

Sometimes when I look up I can see pelting rain spatter the surface turning the undulating light into a sequined veil.

I spoke to a roomful of healers in Eilat, one of whom happened to be a dive instructor at "Dolphins Reef." He invited me to dive with him and said it would be an experience I would never forget. The following day I followed him into the deep with the dolphins. Some seemed to know him and came over to be scratched and rubbed. They felt soft like satin pillows. Touching them made my fingers tingle. I broke into a smile which stayed on my face the whole time I was under water. Have you noticed . . .dolphins always seem to be smiling. They loved being touched, as a matter of fact they seemed to invite me to reach out to them. I got into the playfulness, it so delighted me. I hugged them and squeezed them and giggled and laughed the entire time. When we were emerging, the instructor saw my frozen grin and said this is often the response of people after the experience.

"Dolphins seem to bring out the joy in people," he said.

I'm thinking we all need to do more reaching out and touching. It brings joy.

Schlag Byte 1/10/2000 - "Ring Ring in the New Year"

The Israeli military recently outlawed the use of cellular phones by its soldiers because they were dialing home from the front lines, reporting enemy fire and their own movements and terror. This apparently invited a host of mothers to call the brass trying to get their children out. The telephone has become the most used instrument since flush toilets. There is no place in this tiny country where the phone cannot reach you. It's virtually impossible to be any place without being interrupted.

On the eve of the new year, I was at Judaism's most sacred site, the Wailing Wall. This is the last surviving remnant of the ancient temple in Jerusalem and is the focal point for Jewish expressions of faith. I was next to an Orthodox Jew in his wide-brimmed hat, curls and caftan who was praying at the Wall when he was interrupted by his cellular phone ringing in his coat pocket. He picked it up and moved away from the Wall.

When the telephone can interrupt prayers we have finally elevated Mr. Bell's invention and his fateful words "come here I want you" to a place of holiness. Our telephones may have a greater pull than our connection to God.

Schlag Byte 12/27/99 - "2000 ... It's Gonna Be Good"

Even when things were bad he would say, "It's only bad until it gets good again, and it's gonna be good." Even when I was facing my back surgeries he found a way to make it good and said, "This will make you look at something you don't want to see." He wasn't always easy to get along with. He was opinionated, contentious and frustrating. We teased each other mercilessly. My sons-in-law looked up to him as the exemplar of what they hoped to aspire to in teasing "the old man."

He attributed this strength and ability to recover to eating peyote. Nelson was a Road Man, or spiritual leader, in the Native American Church. I've known him for 25 years --he was my brother and co-founder of the Turtle Island Project, a foundation we incorporated to bring the concept of mind-body-spirit healing to healthcare professionals and patients.

I went to his funeral the day before I left for Israel. Nelson was cremated in traditional Mohave style. His casket was open for viewing in the "cry house," a large, one-room building next to the cemetery. The body is viewed through the night until dawn. It is the custom for friends and relatives to stand up and speak about him and return mementos to him like clothing, photographs, games, feathers, religious objects -- anything with the imprint of his spirit on it is given back to him. I gave him back a drumstick and rattle he made for me. It is believed that this is how we accompany him on his journey to the spirit world. Customarily, people cry all night because when the service is complete one stops crying. Too many tears weigh his spirit down as it makes its journey into the after life.

At dawn I walked with seven other pallbearers carrying his casket to the funeral pyre. Colored ribbons and cloth were wrapped around the wood pile with all the objects deposited through the night placed in it and on top of it. Everything is consumed and the pile collapses into a hole in the ground and fills it.

As the pyre burned, we danced in a slow circle to the drumbeat and as my feet moved, the ashes sprinkled down from the sky and I felt my brother's presence again and I heard him whisper, "It's all good."

Farewell my brother.

Schlag Byte 11/8/99 - "Barbie Lays an Egg"

We don't even have to wait until scientists take the step from cloning sheep to people because toy makers have already discovered their own cloning application. A doll manufacturer has discovered a way to create a doll in your exact image. Your clone doll can be constructed from a photograph-your exact face, skin shade, hair color, eye color, full lips, narrow lips, wide ears, etc., etc. You just know every kid is going to want one. Marketers will sell this just like Beanie Babies, Cabbage Patch dolls, or Pokemon cards except these clone dolls sell for $140.00. Those who can afford it will pay the price. Those who can't will spend long, nagging moments explaining to their children why they can't have the "doll that every other kid has."

This is certainly not new. What is new is elevating appearance and designing yourself to the pinnacle of life's achievements. Beautiful models are now offering their eggs for sale on the Internet. On a website run by a fashion photographer (who also breeds horses) are photographs of beautiful models who will auction their eggs to people who want good-looking babies. The auction will last several months. At last check somebody had already bid $42,000.

Will this be our culture's legacy that how you look is more important than who you are?

Schlag Byte 10/18/99 - "Autumn Leaves"

I love New England in the autumn where the only predictable events are the magic of turning leaves and the collapse of the Boston Red Sox. Driving through this awesome spectacle of colors, my guide and friend stops at a turnout overlooking Mooselookmeguntic Lake, which sits like a diamond in the middle of a stained-glass kaleidoscope. My friend tells me the lake is named after an Irish trapper who, after years in the woods, became so wild with desire that at this very spot he looked hungrily at a moose, (and I don't have to tell you the rest of the story).

We drop down to the Rangeley River and in the freezing cold don thermal vests and wool caps before wading into the pristine stream. The action is quite light and my eyes keep wandering to the colors around me, they so demand my attention that I get out of the water and sit down against a tree. Looking at the leaves, I actually begin to feel their vibrations. A hum is transmitted from leaves to branches to trunk and into my body. My inner self is being serenaded by the interior of a tree, and I'm only smoking a cigar.

This must be the transformative power that the prophets describe as revelation. It reminds me again how important it is to get outside and bear witness to the awesome. The majesty of these places is how the invisible becomes visible and audible.

Schlag Byte 8/16/99 - "Is Marriage Extinct?"

I ask myself, how do I last 40 years with the same woman, because when you think about it, not even God could have such an expectation. How do two strong willed, self-sufficient, independent people who often don't see things the same way get through the struggles? It turns out that it gets easier with time, if you can find somebody whose basic qualities you identify with and who fills you with love and respect. Marriage is always a leap of faith though, never one of certainty. You make the leap based on those qualities and on the assumption that whatever struggles you'll face, you'll face them better together. Nobody expects that anymore.

Nearly half of today's marriages are projected to end in divorce. The Rutgers study revealed that the image of a happy marriage still appealed to Americans but that few of them thought they would find one for themselves. What is this anxiety and pessimism all about? For one thing, having so many choices nowadays makes it easier not to make a commitment. The alternatives of living together and of single parenthood have become ordinary, making it easier to delay marriage. Also implied is that if you wait longer, you will become more certain that this is the "right one." It doesn't matter how long you wait there are always new reasons to wait longer because the qualities you love about someone are the very same ones that will drive you crazy.

Marriage is a commitment to hanging in rather than giving up when the going gets tough. Sadly, we live in the culture in which the easy out has become a lifestyle. Living easy, getting it easy, getting out of it easy, from pleasure to pain--easy is the goal. Marriage ain't easy, it's a struggle, and if you're not struggling, it's probably not intimate. If, however, you get through the struggle, you'll be strengthened. Most marriages breakup in the first ten years, which only means you'll have to start rebuilding history and working on those struggles with somebody new. The good thing about longevity is that you've already addressed so many issues that you don't have to go over all of the old stuff again and again.

Marriage is still the best way we have yet devised to raise children. Getting married is a commitment to working together and learning ways to live together. In microcosm, if we can learn to get along as families, we will learn how to survive as nations. If not, the ease with which we disconnect from each other will be reflected in a world of isolation and disrespect.

Schlag Byte 6/28/99 - "Father's Day - The Greatest Gift"

Lake Placid is a picturesque mountain village made famous by hosting Winter Olympic Games. It is now a national winter sport training site. In winter, this place is covered with a 100-inch snow base. To live here you have to love downhill and cross-country skiing, bobsledding, snowshoeing, ice-skating, hockey, and ski jumping or you'd never survive. In the summertime this countryside is a carpet of green.

State Route 76 snaked around the Adirondacks through a dense over growth of trees. Stiletto-like beams of light penetrating through like strobes illuminating this forest tunnel. The Ausable River ran next to the road, one of America's great blue ribbon trout streams. It has its own fishing fly and the only fly to have its own beer named after it. The rush of its waters accompanied Hayden's "Misa Brevis" on the radio and I was thinking, "What a wonderful way to start Father's Day."

Until now I'd always had a jaded view about Father's Day. Thinking it was the creation of some advertising/PR firm trying to elevate Father's Day to the status of Mother's Day. A crass entrepreneurial attempt at equality through gifts of aftershave, ties, and soap-on-the-rope.

But this Father's Day had me thinking not only of the great gift of that morning but the treasures that would come at night, to find my babies and their babies waiting for me. I want to say thank you to whatever PR genius created this excuse for a barbecue so that I might appreciate anew what this holiday is all about - looking forward to seeing the greatest gifts of all.

Schlag Byte 6/14/99 - "The Secrets of Life"

The Homestead Resort in the heart of Virginia's Allegheny Mountains is one of those places. It has the genius to provide its own trout stream for the exclusive use of fly fishermen. I love this place, a passion intensified by the fact that my fishing guide always shares a special treat with me. We begin the day by toasting the fishing gods with a home-brewed brandy.

Franklin County, Virginia is the moonshine capital of the world. For about $36 a gallon you can get great 140 proof whiskey that will make your tongue sizzle and eyeballs vibrate. How can you tell good moonshine whiskey? By pouring a little into a spoon or bottle cap and lighting it. If it burns blue, it's drinkable. If it burns orange, don't even taste it.

Moonshine's true magnificence, however, comes from the fruit brandy you can make from it. Take a mason jar, fill it ¼ full with blackberries (peaches, apricots and raspberries work fine too), add moonshine to the rim, seal it and let it sit for six months. The brandy is out of this world, but the best part is the fruit on the bottom, which you can eat straight up or pour over ice cream - a five star Epicurean delight!

We start and finish our fishing day sampling it. Today it was raining, so it was particularly warming from lips to belly.

I walked through the woods, surrounded by every shade of green. Honeysuckle vines hung 70 feet from towering Oak trees that seemed to issue an invitation to swing like Tarzan. The thought of this senior citizen screaming ape calls and thumping his chest made me giggle. Beaver dams created fishing ponds that held rainbow trout as big as my forearm.

When I took a break, I sat under a tree, lit a cigar and said a thank you for the magic of this moment. When I got up to let my waders down to relieve myself, I discovered that the fingers of my left hand are unable to unbutton my fly. I could not grasp the buttons. My initial thought was that perhaps I was having a mini-stroke and wondered if I would drop dead in this gorgeous place (which actually brought a smile as I thought, "What a wonderful place to go - holding my favorite rods in either hand.) My momentary paralysis turned out to be a result of the cold, which stiffened my fingers. When I told this story to my family at brunch the following Sunday, my children shook their heads and rolled their eyes. Afterwards, I was getting ready to take my grandkids out for a walk in the "jungle," which is what they call the desert arroyos around our house. My daughter called out after us, "Don't be telling those kids any funny stories," by which she meant, how to tell good moonshine or make the best blackberries in the world. But, she knows I will because, as far as I'm concerned, those are the secrets of life.

Schlag Byte 5/24/99 - "Soul Nurturing"

Ojai is a small town nestled in a valley that has the feel of a Mediterranean Village. Its one block Main Street boasts three coffeehouses. It is home to artists, writers, thespians, musicians, and even businessmen who operate with soul.

The day was capped by the late afternoon walk. This walk was created by two ex-Woodstock hippies who established the first commercial tie dying business in the '60's. Zubin and Shahastra are musicians, dancers, sculptors, artists, weavers, stone carvers and they created this two-hour walking experience which integrates nature, art and inspiration. The walk has 18 stations - some of them feature a CD player enclosed in an all-weather box that plays poetry and music. There is a teahouse, a platform that overlooks the valley with bells, Tibetan bowls, an African thumb piano, a place to leave a stone with your own inscription on it, a place to weave or sit in a hammock and watch the sun set on the Ojai Mountains. The walk was just what I needed - a place to nurture my soul after that commercial extravaganza.

The walk reminded me how important it is for me to get out here more often. I promised myself to make more time to go to the lakes and woods over the next couple months. Nurturing the soul means getting away from the ordinary to take the time to appreciate the awesome. It is in the simplest phenomena that the awesome is revealed: watching my wife weaving in the middle of the forest, listening to the symphony of wind blowing through trees and shrubs, watching butterflies, a deer moving in the distance. The demands of our ordinary lives get in the way of appreciating these moments and they are crucial for soul nurturing. This pursuit is a human necessity if we are to move beyond our limitations and restore our spirit.

Schlag Byte 1/5/99 - "New Year Blessings"

Thailand is an extraordinary country where you could live on thirty dollars a month (if you can tolerate eating noodles and taking cold showers). It boasts the longest reigning monarch in the world, and the King is beloved. Unlike Indonesia, which has recently slaughtered its ethnic Chinese population, it couldn't happen in Thailand because when the King says he doesn't like something, people stop doing it. The King says we do not need to be "an economic Tiger," we need only to sustain ourselves as a nation with a sense of family which is how I felt here--part of a friendly family.

Only once when I passed a storefront advertising E-mail did I think about the office. I went in only to discover that my marginal computer skills never allowed me to get connected and I left feeling frustrated. Across the street was a traditional massage establishment which I entered and immediately forgot my helpless ineptitude in 21st century technology.

A two-hour traditional Thai massage for six dollars is like a trip to Nirvana. You leave your shoes outside, change into a pair of cotton pants and blouse, then lay down on a mattress where my 6'6" frame leaks over by a foot. The masseuse laughs and calls her friends to observe this phenomenon. I'm lying next to several other people in a room perhaps ten feet by fifteen feet. The only English the masseuse speaks is Mr., sit up, and turnover. She kneads, stretches, pulls, hammers, twists, walks on my back and legs. It's an indescribably delicious feast for the whole body. While she is doing this she is yammering away with her colleagues working on either side of her. Meanwhile, outside the room in an open courtyard, a woman is doing the laundry. What I hear in my altered consciousness is a waterfall outside and tropical birds making music.

It turns out that heaven is a back street in northern Thailand. My wish for all is good blessings on your journey to Nirvana.

Schlag Byte 12/21/98 - "Camille Geraldi"

All of us who have raised children recognize that our children also raise us. I have three biological daughters and two more who came to us in their adolescence, and I say, unshamefacedly, five is enough for me. So, when I met Camille Geraldi, who is the mother of 46 children with Down Syndrome and other severe mental and physical handicaps, it floored me.

Camille has devoted her life to adopting and caring for profoundly disabled children. She began this work when, at age 16, she began volunteering at a center for developmentally handicapped children. Now, together with her husband, a pediatrician, they raise their children, living in separate houses to take care of them all. Camille gets some off to school; those that remain she takes to doctor appointments, check-ups, eye exams, all the things the rest of us do- but times 40. How does she do it? Camille says, "This is what I've always wanted to do."

She counsels and supports a network of 11,000 families. She is not supported by any government grants, only contributions. The families from which her children are adopted are not charged. "Every month I pay my bills. How? People ask. I answer them, through divine providence."

What is divine providence? It is faith that, with commitment and hard work, good things will happen.

In this holiday season, remember to share your blessings.

Schlag Byte 12/14/98 - "1968 Revisited"

My wife and I had a Sunday to ourselves in Washington D.C. and took a nostalgic stroll from our hotel near the Capitol, down the Mall to the Washington Monument and then by the Reflecting Pools to the Lincoln Memorial.

There are benches facing the Pools where we stop and I am flooded with memories, Anti-war demonstrations, Yippies, naked frolicking, smoking dope, a lifetime together through good times and bad.

We walk on to the Lincoln Memorial, passing "The Wall" on the way, always a moving place for me. Now, at sunset, I'm standing at Lincoln's feet. Faced with the most painful confrontation in American history, Lincoln comes down on the side of preserving the Union. Lincoln's Gettysburg Address is the finest speech ever delivered. It embodies all that is noble about the American dream. Lincoln delivered that speech in two minutes. Think about it, everything that ever needed to be said about an ethic of life and sustaining values, was told in two minutes. When I tell my wife, "Can you imagine he delivered this speech in two minutes?" she looks at me and says, "You could learn something from that." (Only my mother thinks I should talk more.)

Schlag Byte 12/7/98 - "'Tis The Season"

This is the season to be jolly, a time of renewal and rebirth. So, for the next couple of weeks I'm going to tell you stories about some special people I met at this year's Caring Awards because they rekindled my spirit.

Meet Thomas Cannon. He is a philanthropist and a retired postal clerk so he is not a rich man. As a matter of fact, he could be considered poor. Since 1972 Thomas Cannon has given away money in $1,000 increments. To date, he has given away some $105,000. He gives it to needy people and worthy causes and he's still doing it even though he is retired and does not have his own retirement fund. He is also the primary caregiver for his blind, diabetic wife who has had se