I have often quoted the following statement as the best prescription for health that I have ever heard. It’s Gandhi’s line, “If you’re going to be somewhere, be there.” As much as I believe that truth, it’s always been easier to talk about it than to do it.

Today’s byte is my public statement that I’m going to take this healthful step and practice truly being where I am. I find it almost unfathomable that I’m getting close to 70 and increasingly being reminded of my mortality. I tire more easily and take longer to heal; I’m slowing down by every parameter. Slow is not stop mind you — I swim regularly, have a daily yoga practice, work and write. I want to relax more and do what I really want to be doing like teaching, traveling, fishing, and telling stories to my grandkids while they’re still listening to me.

It’s been hard for me to slow down; at first the justification was funding my retirement plan. Then it was those old tapes playing in my brain: slow is just a step away from stop; slow down and you‘ll loses the competitive edge, become less competent, yada, yada, yada. It’s time to get over it, tame the ego, acknowledge my truth in every moment and truly be where I am.

I will be gone for most of the summer. I’ll be working and fishing in Minnesota, showing my grandson New York City, playing at Oregon Country Fair, and taking my granddaughter to Peru with Patch Adams. What this means is that my Schlagbytes will appear less frequently. Having not missed a Monday morning byline in 12 years, this is a big step toward liberation. I’m going to focus on personal stories and include more pictures so that you can see what I’m doing and with whom.

I’m feeling good about this and I hope that you will too. Stacey (my editorial muse) reminds me that you may look forward to hearing from me even more. This is where I am and I’m sticking to it.

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There is a rapidly growing sport called “Ultimate Fighting” (Rage in a Cage); it is like human cockfighting. Muscular men beat each other bloody with bare fists, feet, elbows and knees. This gladiatorial combat used to be available on pay-per-view only, until Spike TV presented the Ultimate Fighting Championships to a national audience. Now, CBS has just closed a deal to broadcast these fights on prime-time TV.

In an attempt to make this gore more palatable to the public, some states have passed legislation governing these contests. In Arizona, House Bill 2834 is getting final approval, and you can be sure soon Phoenix will become a regular stop for televised events. The Bill requires the State’s Boxing Commission to adopt mixed martial art rules. For example, you can no longer knee or elbow your opponent in the face, strike a grounded opponent with your closed fist, make throat strikes or groin attacks. Since there is still plenty of bloodletting, the State will require onsite ambulances, physicians and emergency medical personnel.

I learned there is even one state that allows kids as young as six to participate in these events. In Missouri, elementary school boys and girls can join fight teams like the “Garage Boys Fight Crew.” These teams are organized by parents who are hoping it expands into some bare-knuckled Little League. It’s generated some controversy, which these parents say they don’t quite understand. They’re not training their children for dog fighting; they are just teaching them discipline and self-defense.

What are these kids defending themselves against? We have become a culture that accepts the contemporary myth that we are under threat of perpetual attack. We allow ourselves to be virtually undressed every time we go to an airport, as a patriotic duty in defense our nation. This preoccupation with security and defense has created an atmosphere that stimulates paranoia, intensifies our fears, and perpetuates the idea that the only way we will survive into the future, is if we get them before they get us.

Wake up America! In the name of defense we are now training our children to become ultimate fighters. And what we are seeing in our culture is a tolerance of escalating violence in the young. Even if your kids aren’t joining an ultimate fighting crew, they are probably playing relentlessly violent video games. From “Grand Theft Auto” to a new one called “Bully.” It is set at Bullworth Academy, a fictional boarding school that accepts a new 15-year- old student who is the ultimate fighting machine. The players decide how this new student deals with teachers, administrators, and cliques at the school. It is a program of such unrelenting violence that it has been banned in Brazil.

Teaching hand-to-hand combat, to become ultimate fighters is not how we will survive in today’s world — it will destroy us. Rather, we need to be teaching our kids how to read and think critically about what they read and hear. A secure future rests on training kids to become ultimate learners, not fighters.

P.S. Early registration discount for The Last Mask of the Authentic Healer workshop June 6-8 ends this week, see homepage to sign up for this extraordinary event.

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I am on a flight home from Minneapolis in the aisle seat just behind the bulkhead. Next to me in the middle seat is an elderly woman reading a John Grisham novel. In the window seat next to her, is a friend of mine from Phoenix, Larry Colbert, who happens to be blind. At Larry’s feet lies Banner, his seeing-eye dog. The Sunday New York Times is in my lap and I proceed to stick in my earplugs. This maneuver doesn’t invite a lot of casual conversation; plane trips are my fun-reading time.

The Captain approaches, accompanied by a maintenance man — it’s a bad sign. I take out the ear plugs, and the Captain asks me if they can look at the cover of the seat divider between us. It seems the cover was completely off and had been reported. From the conversation, it becomes clear that if the maintenance supervisor calls somebody in to fix it, it would take at least an hour. The part is not critical for flight; I piped in that my neighbor and I would find a way to tolerate the loose cover for the two-hour flight home. She smiled in agreement and they agreed it could be fixed in Phoenix where they had a longer layover.

I smiled at her and thanked her for her agreement; then added that if she needed a tray-table for her drink that I would be happy to hold it in my lap. Without a millisecond’s delay she said, “Thank you but I’d rather use it as a seat.” I giggled and said, “Maybe we don’t have to wait until the drinks come.” This was one of those rare trips when I kept my earplugs out for a long time and got to know someone. Like my wife, Gene was a surgical nurse. Married to a distinguished neurosurgeon for 63 years, she was widowed four years ago. I ask her what it was like to live alone after a lifetime together with someone. Gene said the hardest part was the nights, when she climbed into their queen-size bed; she could hear him, smell him, and feel his touch. His memory lingered everywhere; she couldn’t sleep, and after four months she bought two twin beds. I looked at her with raised eyebrows, and Gene said with a twinkle, “For my granddaughters who sometimes sleepover.”

At that moment, the flight attendant brought our drinks. Holding the teacup in one hand, and shakily squeezing a lemon with the other, it squirted out of my hand and landed in Gene’s lap. She looked at me and started laughing hysterically. “What’s so funny,” I asked? Gene said between gasps, “The dog is a licking my toes.”

She said, “This has been an unforgettable trip . . . one man in my lap, another licking my feet; I don’t think the girls are going to believe this at the dinner table tonight.”

I didn’t read much of the Sunday Times that day; I was inspired by Gene’s vibrant, quick and flirtatious smile. Filled with admiration, wonder and love, I can only hope that, even at 90, I can still rub my lamp and dream of Genie.

P.S. Only 4 weeks left until The Last Mask of the Authentic Healer workshop, the only time I will do it this year here in the States. For those of you interested in expanding your power to heal yourself and others, there is still space available.

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One of the recipients at the recent National Caring Awards ceremony was the Reverend Cecil Williams who was honored for his nearly half-century’s work at Glide Memorial Church in downtown San Francisco. I have admired the Rev. Williams since those radical 60’s when you could hear the beat of the Glide Ensemble on the sidewalks of Market Street on Sunday mornings.

After his ordination as a Methodist minister, Cecil Williams was assigned to Glide, which was in the middle of the Tenderloin district and a gathering place for druggies, hookers, the homeless, and the chronically mentally ill. Glide was losing members as more and more people fled the inner city. It became clear to Rev. Williams that these poor people, many on the edge of society and in grave need, desperately needed something to lift them up. So he told them the good news: they could be loved, wanted to be loved, and that his church was founded on the basis of love for all.

In the late 60’s, Rev. Cecil Williams’ talk of love and brotherhood created a following of thousands. Crowds for Sunday services flowed into the street where people danced to great blues, soul, rock and jazz by renowned musicians. He invited internationally known figures like Billy Graham and Bill Cosby, and controversial speakers like Angela Davis and the Black Panthers. But it was the music that made Glide famous. One hundred singers, often accompanied by well-known musicians, would rock the place. Glide’s energy was so intense that lines of people holding hands would emerge from the sanctuary and snake into the street singing Start a Love Train.

Several years ago when the Rev. Williams reached mandatory retirement age for Methodist ministers, he told them he wasn’t leaving. He said his work wasn’t finished and that he was having too much fun. He still sponsors youth programs, healthcare programs, meals for the hungry and frail.

When he accepted his Caring Award, Rev. Williams summed up his work by saying if you take the risk to love fully, it will lift you up and turn you around. But first, you have to risk loving who you are in spite of your shortcomings, and only then can you reach out and love others. He said loving is what it is all about, and that it isn’t an original thought, it is an old story.

Years ago he told that story wearing a Dashiki and sporting an afro, but on awards night he was equally inspiring telling it in a tuxedo. At the end I walked up to the Rev. Williams and his lovely wife, introduced myself and told him he had been an inspiration to me since my youth. He looked up and down at my tuxedo with a Concho belt and bolo tie and said, “I knew there would be some old hippies in this crowd.” He patted me on the shoulder and said, “Love is still the answer.”

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