Kashmir's Shak

Rot At The Heart

"What may you be? Are you of good or evil?   
... As you shall prove us, praise us"
Othello (Act V, Scene I)

Our life is shaped as much by our inhibitions as it is by our actions. Our flaws define us as much as our hopes. The questions we do not ask, the risks we fail to take, the moments we fake. Our strengths fill the void, our limitations define the capacity of our life.

If the people I surround myself with compliment my weaknesses, I am greater for them. I have more space to be myself. If I surround myself with people like me, I will only suffocate my self with a calculated ignorant pride.

A friend is not there to tell us what we want to hear. Perfect strangers and enemies do a fine job on that front. A friend holds up a dispassionate mirror and dignifies us with honesty. A friend allows us to be who we are and trust that that is more than enough.

An exclusive focus on the positive does not fuel our growth, it fools our growth. We can keep up the 'fake it till you make it' attitude, but it is a lie and it will always be a lie, so why not just give it up while we still alive. Lies following a coffin do not make for a great wake! Let's wake up while still can.

If we are a true friend to ourselves, we would not tolerate such petty mind games. Why would we want to warp something that we do not understand? Doesn't it make more sense to define ourselves first? Know what is worth keeping or not?

"The devil can cite Scripture for his purpose.
An evil soul, producing holy witness,   
Is like a villain with a smiling cheek,   
A goodly apple rotten at the heart.   
O, what a goodly outside falsehood hath!"
The Merchant of Venice (Act I, Scene III)

I conceal myself in all the positivity I want, but if learn how to avoid the sting of an honest conversations, I will be trapped in my perfect lies till I die. A warm living, walking death is not what I signed up for. Lord knows what I did sign up for, but it surely wasn't that (following the zombie - well beaten path)

Appreciative inquiry makes total sense, it has its place, but it tends to gloss over the harsh colours of ugliness of greed, lust and violence that spray paint themselves on every word and deed. Where do I put all this human frailty? Do I simply tuck all this pride, envy and prejudice under the carpet of avoidance? Does all this foolishness really evaporate when I close my eyes?

Pain and suffering are permanent residents, they are not going to go anywhere fast.I am not suggestion that we focus solely on the ugly and bad things that surround us, only that we take an open eyed, positive look at the human condition. Our flaws make our lives livable, it always gives us noble work to complete. It is our single most important task. Being a friend, parent, lover, neigbour or artist all flow out of this core essence.

We need to get closer to our dark side, explore it's deep hidden crevices, shine a light in it's audacity. Sun Tzu said "keep your friends close, keep your enemies closer" - if the enemy lies within, we need to find its fuse and put it out of commission, for good.

The energy consumed in anger, jealousy and envy is not evil. This is misplaced energy. We need to re-divert this energy into a positive outcome. What is that? I don't know, it is different for each of us. Once we know what we want, no one can challenge us - we are free to be.

Once we are able to think positively about the negativity in our life (rather than bury it), we begin to define our boundaries and possibilities for growth. You can afford to be an absent landlord for land or property, but never for your life. I am the person who I know the best. Who else is going to do this work for me> You? Who is going to do your work for you? Me? Get a grip. Get a life!

When I meditate on my own limitations, I put aside what other people have said about me or done to trigger my negative actions. I own the trigger, I need to take back possession of it. The truth is that the pain was already inside of me before someone tripped the wire that I handed them.

When we get to the root of the issue, it all comes down to our grandest illusion - that we are perfect and permanent. We can be young forever. We can be loved by everyone, including ourselves.

Once we grasp the fact that we are imperfect and impermanent, we are finally grabbing the railing to sanity and facing the right way up. Step by step we have to climb out of the self critical voice, the instant gratification, rush to judgment and rediscover our humour. Not only our true voice and the laughter that accompanies it, but the heart beat, the natural rhythm that no computer, car or shopping mall could ever hope to emulate.

We can chose to not be the prisoner of our memory and our environment, or only as good as our last conversation.

I can only deal with the world's problems and access it's hidden potential, if I am able to reach my own capacity first. We do not do this by avoiding the work and making everything happy. We do it by maturing, out-growing the self limiting beliefs, break out of habits of self destruction and co-dependence on a society that has lost its soul. We need to relax and get out of our won way, allow the natural systems to do their work. As human beings we are highly complex and sophisticated, when we learn to trust our senses and nervous system, respect (but not accept) our flaws, we will have the capacity to tap into a well spring of positivity, more positivity than can be summed up in the shallowness of words.

"There is some soul of goodness in things evil,   
Would men observingly distil it out;   
For our bad neighbour makes us early stirrers,
Which is both healthful, and good husbandry:   
Besides, they are our outward consciences,   
And preachers to us all; admonishing   
That we should dress us fairly for our end.
Thus may we gather honey from the weed,   
And make a moral of the devil himself"
Henry V (Act IV, Scene I)

Honour My Own Truth

"We must straight make head;   
Therefore let our alliance be combin’d,
Our best friends made, and our best means stretch’d out;   
And let us presently go sit in council,   
How covert matters may be best disclos’d,   
And open perils surest answered."
Julius Cæsar (Act IV, Scene I)

If your mind was a person would it be your best friend or your worst enemy?

I know people who have a healthy relationship with their mind. It is their best friend. It helps them to see, learn and grow. They appreciate this friend, allow it the right amount of sleep, feed it diligently with the necessary water, oxygen and nutrients through their healthy heart.

They only bring problems to the mind that are worthy of its consideration. They do not sweat the small stuff. Their mind reciprocates by providing, clarity of focus, intent and insight. It helps them do outstanding work, secure fortunes and build enduring relationships. They have their ups and downs, but the mind is always there to bail them out, they have a bond for life.

There are other friends who cannot shut up their mind. They wear their mind on their sleeve. They think aloud, but not a single word or thought can be kept captive in their mind, it has to be sprung out there, instantly. These friends keep their mind fully exercised, running in all directions. Whilst others dread being drowned in knowledge, they surf along the waves of brutal honesty. If they fall into hot water 20% of the time by saying the wrong things, at the wrong time, at least there is 80% to wash over it.

Then I know people who do not know where their mind is. Some don't know when they lost it? Others do not even know that that they have lost it. They spend their entire life borrowing and living off other peoples minds.

They look and sound like any average person, they drive cars, hold down jobs, book vacations, pay off mortgages, they argue endlessly about elections, fashion, weather and traffic. But, like a computer, they only function through the instructions the programmer has installed. The programmer may be a friend, an advertisement or a child they met that morning. If they meet honorable people and they are in good hands their life is rosy. When they come across unscrupulous people, things get very bad. Some live in an ignorant bliss, others rot in this ignorant hell.

"No, I will weep no more. In such a night   
To shut me out! Pour on; I will endure.   
In such a night as this! O Regan, Goneril!   
Your old kind father, whose frank heart gave all
O! that way madness lies; let me shun that;   
No more of that!"
King Lear (Act III, Scene IV)

Then there are those who will play tricks on their own mind, try to deceive it, they charm it with fears and desire, feed it with greed, hatred and ignorance, and before they know it, they have forgotten where this poison came from but now the mind becomes an untamed horse that is running wild, no longer willing to be controlled. The harder they try, the effort becomes futile. They become a prisoner of their own mind. 

"The smiles of knaves tent in my cheeks,
and school-boys’ tears take up the glasses 
of my sight! A beggar’s tongue make motion
through my lips, and my arm’d knees,   
Who bow’d but in my stirrup, bend like his   
That hath receiv’d an alms! I will not do ’t,   
Lest I surcease to honour mine own truth,
And by my body’s action teach my mind   
A most inherent baseness"
Coriolanus (Act III, Scene II)

Then there are friends who are really in trouble. They treat their mind as if it is a sworn enemy. They struggle with the voice inside their head. One morning they rise and hear the voice and it makes perfect sense. They hear its "common sense" advise  and literally come to their senses. They make promises to themselves. They know what they have to do and why.

Then the darkness returns, a single word, feeling or insight and they slip into the rut of some old habit. It might be drinking, working too hard, forgetting to exercise, abusing their children, trying way too hard way to get hitched...

They are intelligent enough to know what the right thing to do is, but they betray their own best advice. The mind is  quite a formidable enemy. It has access to resources that even the most potent enemy could not possibly have access to.

When the betrayal occurs, the mind hits back with the conscious, punishing them for their sins. Eventually some way has to be found to silence the painful truth coming from the mind. Some turn to prescribed medication, others drink themselves unconscious, others spill their guts over unfortunate friends at parties, wine bars or the kitchen table at two in the morning after a night of fake dancing.

A few years ago, two close friends ended their struggle abruptly. One smoked the hose pipe of her mothers car, the other shot herself with her fathers gun. The rift between their mind and their self was so vast and so painful that the only way out of their agony was to disconnect at the mains.

We are in trouble when we confuse the mind for the brain. It is connected to the body and our entire environment. Our mind is as broad as our network of relationships. The roots of the mind reach beyond our life time, beyond chemicals and knowledge into a deep pool of wisdom that our niave little intellect cannot penetrate without suffocating in its own logic.

My mind is a decent friend. We have days when we row furiously and are not on speaking terms, but we eventually get over it and patch things up. I abuse it with the wrong diet, insufficient sleep and little to no exercise. I trust it's intuition just as it fears my impulse. If I had to select which of the above groups I fall into, it is probably the one that thinks aloud, the ones who wear their heart/mind on their pro-verbial sleeve. WYSIWYG.

I only run into trouble when I allow pride get the better of me. I can count on pride's close cousin "regret" to come in and mop up the mess in its wake!

My mind is a fun loving creature. It will play all kinds of tricks with me when I sleep, but what I dread the most, is the day I wake up and it is no longer there.

"Your mind is the clearer,
Ajax, and your virtues the fairer.
He that is proud eats up himself:
pride is his own glass, his own trumpet,
his own chronicle; and whatever praises itself
but in the deed, devours the deed
in the praise."
Troilus and Cressida (Act II, Scene III)

Still My Beating Mind

"There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so"
Hamlet - (Act II, Scene II)

What is the mind? Where is this poisonous heaven that has no geography or biology? Like the wind, I cannot see it or touch it, but I feel it's weight as it heaves me around the four corners of my life, I sense its lift when I least expect it. It is both the key and the lock, my delightful burden, my terrible escape. It rips through the veil of my innocence, places my blind fingers on the pregnant gems concealed in every blameless moment.

I am only alive when I free fall into the abyss of its boundless generosity. When I trust it, when I want nothing more than to curl up and sink deep into its warm shell, it opens up an infinite majesty of universes, when I attempt to prize it open, control it's flow, it shuts its oyster clamp and leaves me cold.

What is this thing we call a mind? What does it mean to be 'out of it'? What is this silent beast that crushes and nourishes me with unwarranted devotion?

When the monks tell me to be 'mindful', do I have to fill it or does it have to fill me?

My mind is more than the life I inhabit. It takes many forms, sometimes it the raging storm of people, sounds, sights, dreams and stories, at others a peaceful lake that reveals a glimmer, the shadow of this thing called I.

"We are such stuff
As dreams are made on, and our little life   
Is rounded with a sleep.—Sir, I am vex’d:   
Bear with my weakness; my old brain is troubled.   
Be not disturb’d with my infirmity.
If you be pleas’d, retire into my cell   
And there repose: a turn or two I’ll walk,   
To still my beating mind"
The Tempest (Act IV, Scene I).

Where do you think the mind resides? Is it housed in the brain or the body? The cartesian riddle is more than a philosophical rant, our position on this question shapes everything we think and do. Can I - my life and everything in it - be bigger than my thoughts? Is the mind and body one or two cogs that slip gently together through the oil of the soul?

The mind is not housed in the brain. I find it hard to believe that my mind is an obedient rat chasing itself in the cage of my hollow brain. This is a story we have been told as children, to put an end to our searching before it begins, seal us from the journey into the hearth of darkness.

"Conscience does make cowards of us all;   
And thus the native hue of resolution   
Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought,   
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry,   
And lose the name of action"
Hamlet - (Act III, Scene I)

Cogito, ergo sum? Hello? No! I am therefore I think and whole bunch more! My life is more than the sum of the perpetual voices rattling around in my brain. The mind is a trick question, a boundless space with a thousand exit signs. It has to endure  noisy, messy, meddling neigbours who will not leave well alone. Their given names are thought, memory, belief, ambition, opinion, conscience, knowledge, pain, lust, assumption, confidence, custom, love, perception, pride, hope, inference, fear, logic and lunacy.

The mind has more visitors than we have names for them. These pests hunt and prey, slip in and out, trying to weave and shape the very thing that feeds upon them. They are as much of the mind, as we allow them to be.

Beyond this mind-field is a much bigger reality and universe that I can never hope to reach. There is more out there than I can ever conceive, and yet it is no more than a variation of the truth locked up in my little pearl. I dip my imagination into the ink well of hope and fear, from this unfolds the fleeting story called my life.

"O God! I could be bounded in a nutshell,
and count myself a king of infinite space,
were it not that I have bad dreams.
A dream itself is but a shadow.
Then are our beggars bodies,
and our monarchs and outstretched heroes
the beggars’ shadows"
Hamlet (Act II, Scene II)

Taste Of Fears

I have almost forgot the taste of fears.
The time has been my senses would have cool’d   
To hear a night-shriek, and my fell of hair   
Would at a dismal treatise rouse and stir   
As life were in ’t. I have supp’d full with horrors;
Direness, familiar to my slaughterous thoughts,   
Cannot once start me... 
(startled) wherefore was that cry?
Macbeth (Act V, Scene V)

Fear is not something we can conveniently bury or wash away. It is inside us and all around and it will always be. Even a Zen monk strikes fear into the heart of his student, puts them through physical hardship and punishment to literally break them - out of their old habits of thinking.

Fear is energy without a purpose. Without fear we are an empty vessel, too much and it just burns us out. We have been told from birth to "not be afraid” or to just "be brave" we are taught to deny and suppress our fears. Denial and suppression never work. The coward and the hero both feel the fear, the only difference is one is succumbs to it, the other uses it to take action.

Fear can consume us with the ferocity of a forest fire. We can stand by as it tears mercilessly through our hearts, our homes, our communities until all hope is extinguished and our sad little lives are laid out bare.

"As I travell’d hither through the land,   
I find the people strangely fantasied,
Possess’d with rumours, full of idle dreams,   
Not knowing what they fear, but full of fear"
King John (Act IV, Scene II)

Fear of failure, fear of success, of being judged, getting caught, looking foolish, not fitting in, not standing out, being insufficient, being ruled, ridiculed, having bad breath, not having money, being lied to, waking up late, being too big, being too small, being hit, having no one to hit, losing a loved one, getting unexpected visitors on a Saturday afternoon, not being loved or the worst of all never waking up and not being missed.

Fear is not a thing, it is a many headed monster, it takes on so many shapes and forms. What is fear and where does it come from? What is the root cause of fear?

The jury is still out on this one. The Freudians go all physical and maternal on me, Jungians reach deep through the meta-physical into the psyche. Some point to the devil, deep in the fiery pits of hell, or even closeted up in our hearts. Others point to our environment, our culture, socio-economic factors and perhaps even blame the politicians we have elected or the ones that other nations have not. Fundamentalists are cleansing the world of the sources of fear, eliminating the foolish people who sing from a different hymn book.

Confounded by positive affirmations, psycho-babble, hanging onto righteous religious sound bites only masks the pain, pushing the anguish deeper under the carpet of sincerity. The institutions of therapy, drugs, mass media, religion, family, work and schooling are neither the cause of my suffering or its saviour.

What if - all I had to do is stop blaming? What if I did not blame my parents, my schooling, terrorists or the tattoo parlour's? What if the only option I was given was to sit still for long enough until I could forgive myself and every frail human that surrounds me? We are all impermanent. We are all imperfect. So what is the big deal?

"None but that ugly treason of mistrust,   
Which makes me fear th’ enjoying of my love:
There may as well be amity and life   
’Tween snow and fire, as treason and my love"
The Merchant of Venice (Act III, Scene II)

It comes in different guises and names - prayer, meditation, reflection, confession, dance or detachment, it all amounts to the same thing. Every spiritual master who has graced this good earth has given us the same basic advice.

All we need to do is forgive. To forgive is not forgetting, forgiveness is getting past the hurt. If we forget we will repeat the same mistakes over. We cannot allow our frailty to hurt others or be hurt by the frailty of others. To yield to others or being merciful to ourselves does not mean giving in or rolling over. It means dealing with truth without fear. Being brutally honest.

Fear of fear is the fuel that feeds upon itself. The solution is not to ignore, bury or project our fears onto others, or soak in the fears others carry, but acknowledge fear. Fear is not our ally not our enemy. It is an early warning signal, a safety valve or trigger to focus our mind and body for action.

We need to own fear without being being possessed by it. Some people own cars, others are owned by their car. That is the basic difference here. I need to acknowledge the presence of fear in my life, but I don't need to define myself based on my fears.

Both Frank Sinatra and Sir Laurence Olivier, true masters of their craft, talked openly about their stage fright, during the peaks of their respective careers. Both of them relate the same story at different times. The day they lost their fear of going on stage, they realized it was time to retire. That is because this was the first indication that they didn't care enough about what they were doing.

We need to replace the slogan "no fear" with "know fear". Let go of our impulse to control our fears. Tap into our intuition and have faith in the sanctity of our own heart.

"Alas! it is the baseness of thy fear   
That makes thee strangle thy propriety.   
Fear not, Cesario; take thy fortunes up;   
Be that thou know’st thou art, and then thou art
As great as that thou fear’st"
Twelfth-Night - (Act V, Scene I)

Quintessence Of Dust

"What a piece of work is a man! how noble in reason!
how infinite in faculty! in form and moving how
express and admirable! in action how like an angel!
in apprehension how like a god! the beauty of the
world! the paragon of animals! And yet, to me,
what is this quintessence of dust?"

Hamlet (Act II, Scene II)

Why does being disillusioned get such a bad rap? Being deeply disappointed by a frustrated ideal or false held belief is an awakening. Waking up is not the most comfortable routine in our day, but consider the alternative?

Our politicians, school boards, neigbours, advertisers, media moguls and every other boss in our life seems to go out of their way to ensure we remain in our comfortable little rut. Self assured in a steady state of starry eyed stupidity.

The messaging is unmistakable. I need to identify my life with particular car, sofa and carbonated drink to meet the minimum critical specification for being alive. Stand in a queue, fork out $20, freely donate three hours of every Friday night on a movie with the safe knowledge that we are investing in the fundamental plank of a sound relationship? When did our relationships become so convenient, when did we put our intimacy up for sale? If we are not for sale, then why does advertising work?

To "relate" to another human being, don't we actually need to converse with them at some point? Small talk is exactly that. We are reduced to the depth of our conversations. Why are people so afraid of real feelings and intimacy? Why are real conversations so rare? Is it because we are afraid of being hurt?

What is so bad about betrayal anyway? What does it mean to be betrayed? If my nine year asked me this I could give her two very different answers.

1) Darling, this is when a bad person lets you down, pretends they are something that they are not, and then you find out that they have been lying to you that time.

2) Sweetheart, It means means you believed something or someone without really seeing them for who or what they were. There was not enough real love between you to keep you together, so they let you down.

Or, if I were to be more blunt: They were bad but you were too dumb to realize it. Wake up. Do not blame them for your inability to relate. Get over it and get on with YOUR life. Don't let their flaws define you or your other relationships. If you do you will only pass their virus of ignorance and hurt to someone else. Don't be a carrier. You are free to define or be defined. Live your life on your terms.

I would use the first definition if I wanted her to wallow in self pity every time she bumped into the wrong person (which she will, for the rest of her blessed life), the second definition if I wanted her to focus on the only person she can ever control in her life. I can teach her all I want, but I cannot stop her from getting hurt, it is the hurt that will teach her, not me, I can only prepare her to deal with the hurt when it arrives. It is no different than how I had to watchher - learning to walk, I could not do the walking for her, or carry her around so she would not fall, she had to slip and fall and carry her own weight for herself.

  "Look thee, 'tis so! Thou singly honest man,
    Here, take: the gods out of my misery
    Have sent thee treasure. Go, live rich and happy;
    But thus condition'd: thou shalt build from men;
    Hate all, curse all, show charity to none,
    But let the famish'd flesh slide from the bone,
    Ere thou relieve the beggar; give to dogs
    What thou deny'st to men; let prisons swallow 'em,
    Debts wither 'em to nothing; be men like
    blasted woods,
    And may diseases lick up their false bloods!
    And so farewell and thrive". 

Timon of Athens (Act IV, Scene III)

If I don't relate to you, you can't betray me and I wont get hurt? Is that why we are so anesthetized? We waste an enormous amount of energy on anniversaries, birthday's and new year celebration. Jumping for joy for what? Why do we celebrate a natural passage of time, when we should be celebrate is our awakenings?

The day I realized I was totally dehydrated and pouring sugar and caffeine in to fill the gap, preparing my fat encrusted body for diabetes or hypoglycemia. The first time I realized that my father was just as flawed as I am and I love him for it. The time I brought a close friend into a massive business deal, only to find he cut a deal with the customer, both of them dumping my sorry arse out on the street to wallow in my ignorance and finally awaken up from my idealic slumber? These moments of truth are precious. They woke me up to my frailty, my human capacity to trust and be betrayed. My wrinkles and scars are my road-map, why do I need to mask them? If you don't want to be betrayed, don't trust anyone, go through life pretending to be in full control, you liar.

Disillusion is expressed in sadness. Sadness is a such a maligned emotion. We call it a disease and have pills to make it go away. Sadness is a side effect, just as happiness is.They are the unavoidable consequences of living, like breathing, eating, dying, sleeping and belching. Do I really want to live a life where I don't have to think, relate or risk loving someone for fear of losing them? Oversleeping doesn't make our dreams come true.

I have no interest in wishing away another day, I don't want to count my down to my final, long, effortless sigh? I want these moments to count. Regardless of what I do, the day I am laid out like a plank of wood, the mother of all disillusions will hit home. This life is on rent, we possess nothing, this is all an illusion, we don't matter and getting out of bed is the worst part of my day and that is why it is the best!

Some say thy fault is youth, some wantonness;
     Some say thy grace is youth and gentle sport;
     Both grace and faults are loved of more and less;
     Thou makest faults graces that to thee resort.
     As on the finger of a throned queen
     The basest jewel will be well esteem'd,
     So are those errors that in thee are seen
     To truths translated and for true things deem'd.
     How many lambs might the stem wolf betray,
     If like a lamb he could his looks translate!
     How many gazers mightst thou lead away,
     If thou wouldst use the strength of all thy state!
     But do not so; I love thee in such sort
     As, thou being mine, mine is thy good report.

SONNET XCVI (96)

Time's Fool

"Thought’s the slave of life, and life time’s fool;
And time, that takes survey of all the world,   
Must have a stop. O! I could prophesy 
But that the earthy and cold hand of death   
Lies on my tongue". 
= Henry IV (Act V, Scene IV)

Took the early morning flight to Ottawa to attend Don's memorial service. As I wound through the old streets I got lost in better days. Snatches of ordinary conversations with Don passed through me with a chilling remorse. Every street corner and icy building was dotted with sacred words, the blossom of better days.

"The life that died with shame lives in death with glorious fame" - Much Ado about Nothing (Act V, Scene III)

Death is so final that it extracts and detracts from romanticism. Our struggle with loss is a necessary futility. Funerals do not create closure, they remind us to complete the lingering pages of a life that has left our embrace.

Our story is completed long after our body perishes. Our story is the length of the love we shared while we had eyes. The final chapter of our lives are the stories recounted by the ones who were touched by our appreciation. When everyone we have loved has died, that is when our story ends. That is when the book of our life closes back into nothingness. Nothing remains. Nothing. Our movies, novels and history books are full of myths and fantastic projections, a mere caricature of the original plot.

Don's death was so mysterious and yet so obvious. His heart grew increasingly weak until it burst. It was pumping less and less oxygen to his brain. We need a minimum of 55% oxygen to function physically, mentally and emotionally. When Don died his heart was only pumping 15% oxygen. It began with back ache, then out of the blue he started to lose his teeth, the spiral continued until eventually he found it hard to get out of bed, finally there was not enough oxygen in the brain to send most fundamental signal of all - to breath. When the heart did not get enough oxygen, it broke.

Don's spent his life writing about and helping others understand whole systems. He surrounded himself with people who understood the connection between the environment, mind, heart and body.

Don was so busy helping government and business leaders improve performance by opening their eyes to the power of whole systems, that he could not see that he was slipping into a spiral of death. As the oxygen decreased, he found it harder to think clearly, his business and personal life started to crumble, this deepened the emotional stress and depression. This increased the pressure on the heart, which steadily grew weaker and weaker through each cycle, till a great heart was reduced to - nothing.

The tragedy of Don's life was that neither he or I or any of our high brow intellectual circle of 'systems thinkers' could see the pattern that mattered the most. He slowly watched himself helplessly evaporate. From glorious heights of social, businesss and physical prowess to nothing, but a story. We all cared deeply but not one of us could see what was happening. Doctors, specialists, faith healers, friends, lovers, strangers all to a truth, that is now so obvious.

After the service, I headed back up to the airport. The same roads I had floated through earlier in the day were now hard, stark, unforgiving. The thick thigh of traffic jerking its way up from one light to the next was a curt reminder that life is bigger than me, it will proceed at its own pace, regardless of my personal triumphs and torment, regardless of whether I live or die.

We will evaporate, just as grandparents and great grandparents. How well do you know their story, morning glory? A hundred years from now, how could anyone ever know ours? We don't even know what is going on in our own lives while we are alive! There is  however, a reprieve. The rest of life will go regardless. We have nothing to lose because we are nothing.

"The weariest and most loathed worldly life that age, ache, penury and imprisonment can lay on nature is a paradise to what we fear of death. Dar’st thou die? The sense of death is most in apprehension, and the poor beetle, that we tread upon, in corporal sufferance finds a pang as great as when a giant dies"
= Measure for Measure (Act III, Scene I)

To Move In His Sphere

"She is so conjunctive to my life and soul, that as the star moves not but in his sphere, I could not but by her" - Hamlet (Act IV, Scene VII)

In around 1530 AD the Polish astronomer, Nicholas Copernicus developed a theory that explained the four seasons and how the stars and planets seemed to move night and day. Instead of of putting the earth at the centre of the universe, he thought, what if the centre was the sun? What if all the planets, including the earth - moved around the sun? What if the earth was spinning once a day on a tilted axis?

Nick's kept these dangerous ideas under wraps., for fear of persecution. His brilliant insight was also his life's curse. He had to carry around his little secret for nearly 20 years. He waited until he was close to death (1453) to publish one of the most fundamental breakthroughs in thinking in the history of mankind. And you thought yours secrets was a burden!

Over a hundred and fifty years pass. In 1612, a cheerful chappy from Florence, who went by the name of Galileo Galilei took a good hard look at long dead Nicky's theory. He saw the solar system, he saw the rotation of the earth, he so much through his telescope that he missed what was going on all around him. Gally published scientific evidence to prove Nick's ideas. He paid dearly for his words. He was put in his place by the high priests of knowledge. They forced him to admit the error of his ways. Here is an extract of his sad confession:

"I, after having been admonished by this Holy Office entirely to abandon the false opinion that the Sun was the centre of the universe and immoveable, and that the Earth was not the centre of the same and that it moved, and that I was neither to hold, defend, nor teach in any manner whatever, either orally or in writing, the said false doctrine; and after having received a notification that the said doctrine is contrary to Holy Writ. I curse and detest the said errors and heresies, and generally all and every error and sect contrary to the Holy Catholic Church. And I swear that for the future I will neither say nor assert in speaking or writing such things as may bring upon me similar suspicion"
Galileo's Abjuration: June 22, 1633

In these modern enlightened times, these two legendary scientists are universally revered for their enormous contribution and the terrible suffering they had to endured at the hands of those brutal ignoramuses - in those "dark ages".

I wander from organization to organization, like the mythical nomad Kwai Chang Caine (AKA David Carradine of the Kung Fu TV series), with my flute of questions, bag of magic woo woo dust and occasional high kick (devastating questions and feedback).

I work with highly (i.e. formally) educated leaders of major corporations. The modern day priests in our new churches with their self obsessed doctrines. These leaders possess all the basic skills required to relate to other human beings. They know how to listen deeply, inquire, reflect, communicate, manage conflicts, negotiate, sell, cut deals, etc...

After all this time, you would think that our place in the universe was really a no brainer? This does not appear to be the case.

I watch some of these modern day priests slip into the dark ages once more. Some of them act as if the entire universe spins around them. if only everyone in my life changed, then my life would be good. If only everyone thought like I did, saw what I saw, believed in what I believe in, life would be soooooh - blissful. They do not use these words of course, but their actions speak louder than these words can ever attest.

"There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy" - Hamlet (Act I, Scene V)

How many of us walk around with this same delusion? Acting as if we are the centre of the universe? How often have we forced others with less power or influence (a child, partner, aging parent, direct report or supplier) to withhold their natural intelligence and please us with their false abjuration?

How many of us work or live with people who believe the universe revolves around their magnificent existence? When this occurs, how many of us conceal our observation as Nick did, waiting till we leave the organization or are close enough to death to confront our partners in crime with this one basic fact - the universe does not rotate around their mortal coil.

True north, strong and free? Words, that's all. Words. Our universe still revolves around a sun, we call it by many names - Jehovah, g*d, chi, Jesus, Zen, Britney, Allah, God, Waheguru... This is the source of all life and energy.

There is a force that keeps us spinning an our axis, breathing, heart pumping, greeting each new day, refreshed. I do not believe religions have the answer, as Gally found to his horror - organized religion have caused more than their share of misery (when they believe the universe orbits around their brand of thinking).

How can we allow the sacrifices and wisdom of the likes of Muhammad, Nanak, Lao Tzu, Moses, Martha Stewart, Jesus, Buddha... etc. to be over-turned by our fear of authority and our lame little need - to be the centre of the universe?

"Being free from vainness and self-glorious pride; giving full trophy, signal and ostent, quite from himself, to God" - Henry V (Act V, Chorus)

Fair Ornaments

"I am not merry, but I do beguile the thing I am by seeming otherwise" - Othello (Act II, Scene I).

Keeping up appearances consumes more energy and dead time than I care to admit. I know people who are brutally honest, they go through life with an absolute clear cut sense of the The Good and The Crap people in their midst. These are the raging bulls who like to get it out in the open and say it like it is. They do not mince their words, right or wrong. left or right, up or down, you know where you stand. I argue with them, challenge their simplistic black and white view of highly complex human beings. People are not cartoons, I plead. They assure me with a cocky smile "Oh yes they are!"

"I would the gods had nothing else to do but to confirm my curses! Could I meet ’em but once a day, it would unclog my heart of what lies heavy to ’t" - Coriolanus (Act IV, Scene II)

Then there are the folks who like to tease and please. The pleasers play it right down the middle, they say whatever it takes to make others feel good and like them. People are not a game to be played, I exclaim. The pleasers give me the same response as their raging bully brethren.

"Thy age confirm’d, proud, subtle, sly, and bloody, more mild, but yet more harmful, kind in hatred"  Cymbeline, (Act I, Scene V)

Recently, one of these pleasers counseled me on how to be more politically correct. I was coached on the good old 'sandwich technique'. You know the game - if you have to get into a tough conversation or provide someone feedback, dont waste your time listening deeply, getting the brutal facts on the table and move forward with a clear sense of what is right or wrong. No, no, no, life is too short for all that talking and listening. What you do is - start by paying the other person a compliment to open them up, tell them how great the work they are doing and how fab they are (even if their behaviour and work totally stinks), once you have softened them up - slip in the feedback so that they get the message and then make sure you close with a compliment, to leave them on a natural high, naturally!

I have already heard of this obscene way of programming other people as if they were game to be won. Now I looked at her wondering how many times have you done that with me? She assured me that I would make more money in business dealings by applying this "iron fist in velvet glove" technique. Their key to unlocking the mystery in another human being is quite simple - use fewer words, use their vanity to dupe them into trusting my sincerity.

I am struck by the simplicity of these two approaches. I still have time for these raging bulls and pleasers. I am niave enough to believe there is more to them than this deep disagreement between us. They are not my label of them. They are not so simple. That is at least one thing that they would surely agree with me on.

Perhaps it is my fatal flaw to over-complicate and over-think the issue. But, that's my flaw and until I figure out an alternative, I will continue to plough my trade, wearing my heart on my sleeve for dawes to peck at.

People are not cartoons, they do not come in boxes conveniently labeled Good and Evil. People are not a board game that I need to win. I take the niave view that the sum of my life is the depth of relationships in it and I build these through a massive dose of listening and an even bigger dose of brutal humility.

"So may the outward shows be least themselves: the world is still deceived with ornament. In law, what plea so tainted and corrupt, but, being seasoned with a gracious voice, obscures the show of evil? In religion, what damned error, but some sober brow will bless it and approve it with a text, hiding the grossness with fair ornament? There is no vice so simple but assumes some mark of virtue on his outward parts: How many cowards, whose hearts are all as false as stairs of sand, wear yet upon their chins the beards of Hercules and frowning Mars; Who, inward search'd, have livers white as milk; And these assume but valour's excrement to render them redoubted!" - The Merchant of Venice (Act III, Scene II).

Congregation Of Vapours

"Our doubts are traitors, and make us lose the good we oft might win, by fearing to attempt" - Measure for Measure (Act I, Scene IV).

I am consumed by self doubt. Trapped, compelled to claw out the scum inside my my skull with nails of logic. I scrape along the lines of dirt, until the sting of blood washes my hands, but I am not clean. I carry the hurt of a dark cloud.

I climb into the jaws of this infernal traitor with the same ease as I slip on a pair of trousers. In the space of one shallow breath, I disappear.

I am hostage to a single phrase or a solitary repeating image, a film stuck in the reel. The harder I try the deeper the wound of self consumption sinks into the vacuum, suffocating any remaining taters of hope. I swirl around in my despair, a gambler pouring one more last ounce of hope into the pit of no reprieve. I eventually get drunk on the melancholy, it is such a regal place to hide.

"I have of late, but wherefore I know not, lost all my mirth, forgone all custom of exercises; and indeed it goes so heavily with my disposition that this goodly frame, the earth, seems to me a sterile promontory; this most excellent canopy, the air, look you, this brave o’erhanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted with golden fire, why, it appears no other thing to me but a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours"
Hamlet (Act II, Scene II).

This dis-ease does not sit quietly in my head for long. It spreads through and beyond me. I infect every person who touches me with this common virus of self-doubt. My draining senses envelopes theirs. I see them, I hear them, but I am unable to listen or engage. 

"Who are you? Tell me, for more certainty,  albeit I’ll swear that I do know your tongue" - Merchant of Venice (Act II Scene VI)

Deformed Thieves

"What a deformed thief this fashion is? How giddily he turns about all the hot bloods between fourteen and thirty-five?" - Much Ado About Nothing (Act III, Scene III).

The term fashion comes from "to make and to sell" and  "a crowd of people moving in the same direction". Somewhere, somehow, fashion has re-fashioned itself. Today we think of fashion as being the way we express our personal brand, our individual uniqueness. Selling has become buying. Fashion (being sold stuff) has become fashionable. It is the ultimate marketing trick.

"The fashion is the fashion" - Much Ado About Nothing (Act III, Scene III).

Fashion is synonymous with how we are clothed, fed, entertained, educated, housed, financed and buried.

The news however is a fashion that occurs without our knowledge. News has become fashionable - after all it is selling something too - space and time (ad space and time).

The word NEWS comes from the terms "North, East, West, South" suggesting that we will endeavour to find out what is going on all around us.

But our news today, does not come from all directions. The root source of all our NEWS comes from a few global agencies such as Reuters and the Associated Press. These news agencies rely on local sources that no one can verify.

All our major newspapers, magazines, radio and TV networks go to these same few watering holes for their source material. They edit and 'fashion' these stories to get our attention (ratings) so they can maintain/increase their advertising revenues and stock/share value.

The news fashions our thinking. It fashions our conversations, our thinking, our political choices and as a result of all this, this sacred illusion we call democracy.

How do get around this media circus and find out what is really happening North, East, West and South? How do we get direct access to the story on the ground? Blogs may well provide a pathway through the noise.

"My wife is in a wayward mood to-day and will not lightly trust the messenger" - The Comedy of Errors (Act IV, Scene IV)

In Iraq, most reporters for the major networks never leave their hotels. They only go out for the ten minutes we see them and then it's back to the hotel. They have not gathered the news they provide us, they are regurgitating the information they get from Reuters and AP.

Check out Stuart Hughes' blog. Stuart Hughes is a BBC reporter/producer. He has the reputation of being one of the few reporters to actually go out and investigate what is going on first hand.

On April 2nd 2003, while covering the Iraq War in the Kurdish north of the country - Stuart stepped onto a landmine and had his leg blown off. Stuart's partner was killed instantly.

Stuart could have retired immediately on a guaranteed pension. Instead, he set up a blog and continues his tireless work.

Losing a leg has set him free. Stuart says: "Life has been enriched beyond measure. I've lost some of that brittle veneer of detachment most journalists cultivate in order to do their job"

If you want to wash the brittle veneer of fashion from your eyes, you can literally smell Stuarts brand of cold hard (and heart warming) reality at: http://stuarthughes.blogspot.com/

"By how much unexpected, by so much we must awake endeavour for defence, for courage mounteth with occasion" - Henry V (Act IV, Scene I)

Stuart is not selling or spinning. He has lost a leg but he is not 'deformed'. He is a rare, courageous, talented reporter, a master of his craft. He has access to technology and resources, but most of all he has the freedom of mind and spirit to investigate and report his findings to us without the need to appease us, the advertisers or shareholders.

Stuart's places the truth on the market stall (his blog). We are free to buy freely based on our judgment. Without losing any limbs, we are free. Through the internet and hero's such as Stuart Hughes, we are free to exercise our own wisdom. As news media melts into cheap entertainment (mushing into "martha and micheal jackson" madness), it is up to us to search and discover what is happening N.E.W and S.

"I prithee, gentle friend, let thy fair wisdom, not thy passion, sway in this uncivil and unjust extent against thy peace" - Twelfth-Night (Act IV, Scene I)

Changed Eyes

"To hear good counsel: O! what learning is"  Romeo and Juliet (Act III, Scene III)

My "headset" is the lens through which I see and interpret my world. Some call it judgment, attitude, assumptions, values or beliefs. Regardless of the tag we put on it, the anguish of taking off and examining this lens is painful beyond belief.

There is one thing more emotionally painful than this, that is putting on a new head set and taking brand new action. When I step through a new insight, I experience an awakening. Repeat it a few times more, it becomes a habit. Soon it is a comfortable new headset. Eventually, a comfortable new me.

The biggest challenge in life is to kiss the lips of unacquainted change. Whenever I remove an existing headset, the ghost of vulnerability steps through me. I feel stranded, a hapless child cowering naked in the cold wind.

We enter the room of learning through the door of confusion. This is not a room that we enter accidentally. We have to do it on purpose.

"We make trifles of terrors, ensconcing ourselves into seeming knowledge, when we should submit ourselves to an unknown fear"  All's Well That Ends Well (Act II, Scene III).

I cannot achieve this change alone. I can only change my lens through the reflection off others. Getting valid feedback is always a great event. The mirror is often a simple sentence in a book, a painting, or the terse words of a close friend, a remark by a complete stranger or the innocence in a child's eyes. These are the moments of truth, when the reflection in the mirror is no longer me, the fire in the flint is set free.

There is typically a serious time lag between seeing the dawn of the new reality and shifting into action. I may be in the shower, listening to a song, getting on a bus or watching a movie, suddenly I am spurred to act. It is as if the build up of anticipation has reached a crescendo and I cannot take the thinking anymore.

This is always an exhilarating moment. It is a total release. Everything comes together. I realize that my fears were unfounded and that the very things that I should have been fearing but could not see yank the rug beneath my feet.

"Life is what happens to us while we are busy making other plans"  John Lennon.

How many true - awakening conversations do I have in an average day, week or month? Not many! How much of my time is passed in idle talk? Words polluting my senses like second hand smoke? Killing just a little bit more of me without my knowledge or consent?

How much verbal pollution did you have to put up with today? I don't mean jokes, because good humour is the most potent loosener of headsets, I mean drivel, the mindless regurgitation and repetition of things that just don't matter.

"He talks at random; sure, the man is mad". - Henry IV, Part III (Act V, Scene III)

Releasing this old 'self' that I knew and was quite comfortable with yesterday is a form of death. I have to deal with the closure, there is a period of deep mourning and sadness, then of course the hankering to tuck back into comfortable familiarity. Eventually, if I hold firm, a new reality and capacity dawns to fill the void. Pluck! The old me has vanished. I open new eyes.

"They have changed eyes:—delicate Ariel, I’ll set thee free for this!" The Tempest (Act I, Scene II)

Our Salad Days

Reality TV invaded our house this weekend. The children prepared their own home made version of the Survivor Series. It including background music and a hilarious running commentary. The children became the parents and the parents became the children. Each of  us were given formal invitation to attend our own home, this included detailed instructions in how to compete, they put us into our marital pairs, they instructed us to tie our hands and legs together with our better halfs and set us forth to win back our survival, our only goal was to remain in our own homes at all costs. Today the kids (now our parents) got to decide who stayed and who would be voted out - off the home front.

A soul's joy rests in the doing. They had spent the morning setting up the game. Now, they were in complete charge. We had no clue what were were doing or what was to be our fate. We scrambled to read their scribbled instructions and work with our spouses in a way that was curiously reminicent of the beginnings of our respective relationships. The raw energy was wrapped up in the absolutely infectious laughter of our children. Ordering three pairs of adults to race furiously around the house with their legs tied, searching for clues was more fun for us than we could have ever imagined and it was a weekend to remember for the kids.

The absolute joy of this event was an awakening. It was a cruel but caring reminder of how sensibly numb we have become. When did we program the joy out of our innocent little lives? Why and when did we become so sober and serious? Why and when did we become hostages to being sensible, to the orders of the education system, the media and that political dungeon of fear known as work? Why and when did we grow old? "God gave us one face and yet we made ourselves another". Where had the raw beauty our 'human nature' gone? And most imporant of all, why was it so easy for our children to hand our joy back to us? The reason of course is that we had never lost our essence in the first place, we had been gripping it in our hands all along. We only needed to open our palms and the truth was there all along.

"O, sir! you are old; Nature in you stands on the very verge of her confine." (King Lear Act II, Scene IV).

"And so, from hour to hour, we ripe and ripe, And then from hour to hour, we rot and rot: And thereby hangs a tale." (As You Like It. Act I, Scene VII).

Children play as freely with computer games, the internet and on-line conversations as we used to play with our Action Dolls, Mecano Sets and Lego Bricks. Our world lay in the palm of our hands, their reach is limited only by their capacity to love and be loved.

Our chief task is to untie our doubts, set free our children and allow them to lead us back to what is real, to help us escape the island of our ego and identity, abandon our fears of not having this or that or being this or that and simply discover the joy of being who we have been, are and will be in the first place.

"My salad days, when I was green in judgment, cold in blood, to say as I said then!"  (Anthony and Cleopatra, Act II, Scene I)

The valiant never taste of death but once.

Over the past six months I watched a great man die of a broken heart.

Don Languedoc was a great friend for many years. No matter how high we stack our temporal fortunes, the meager sum of our life will be the stories we weave in the hearts of strangers. Have you considered what you story will be?  As Shak said in the Winters Tale "Our praises are our wages. One good deed dying tongueless slaughters a thousand waiting upon that."

Some stories thread through many generations, others fade with the morning dew. Don's story was only ever about one thing - mother earth. Her enchanted beauty, her devastating honesty and her ignorant tenants who abuse their briefest of moment in her glory and yet can not fathom why she hands them back death and destruction for their pains.

Ten years ago, the Ontario Government was on a rampage, paying consluting firms millions to merge and close hospitals, with the false promise that it would save millions of dollars (go figure). Don gathered 200 nurses and doctors in Ottawa to give voice to the outrage. He knew full well that there were massive savings to be gained in the health-care system, but cutting off the hands and feet of the health workers was not the path to the feast.

One after the other he got dedicated professionals to stand up and tell their stories in the hope that it would rip the roof off the travesty. No one listened. Nothing changed. The government and their con-sluts had their fill of lies. No money was saved. Lives were lost. Even if Don did not achieve his aims through such bold actions, he did what was right, he rose to his feet, an act that few can hope to claim. 

"Cowards die many times before their deaths; The valiant never taste of death but once" (Julius Caesar. Act II, Scene II)

He was often melancholic but always larger than life. Like Don, his website may no longer be up and running, but try this link. If it is still there, check out his Knowledge Portal, here he was just beginning to map out his universe.

Mahatma Gandhi said "Learn as if you were going to live forever. Live as if you were going to die tomorrow". Don was such a being till his final sigh. How many of us will leave such a testament?

Farewell Don, farewell fair cruelty - "for in that sleep of death what dreams may come?" (Hamlet. Act III, Scene I).

Light, seeking light, doth light of light beguile

Welcome to my sanctuary. Welcome to my fumbling shack of inspiration.

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I will come here from time to time to rinse out the routine and leave trails of weary impression. At times these visits will take the form of a long hard dump, at other times I will get undrunk in the deep sound byte of the bard, abandoning both myself and you to the moment.

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My awakening to Dead Willies craft happened one long unexpected evening in the Spring of 1979. Mr. Munn my English master (who has long since shuffled off his mortal coil) dragged me to the National Theatre. I had no clue where I was going and having arrived, why I was there. As soon as the play started I shrank uncomfortably into sofness of the velvet seat. It was if I had been abandoned in a crowded theatre. I was gently terrified. A bewildered teenager struggling to stretch his unmined mind around the RSC’s production of Richard III.

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This timeless evening marked me for life. Why the hell were all these people pouncing on and off the stage with such an orderly, insane purpose? What was all the sighing and dying in aid of? This was a the type of mutual chaotic intensity tbat I had only ever experienced in football games and drunken brawls, except everyone was very well behaved, too well behaved, the bright provokation of the observed controlling the emotional knobs from the on the stage contrasting with the willing obedience of the observers, serving the servers with the joy of their undivided attention.

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I could neither follow the plot nor keep pace with the avalanche of irresistible words tumbling over me. The harder I tried to follow the storyline the more confused things got. The , a funny thing happened. I gave up trying to make sense of it all. The very minute I ceased to struggle with the meaning of the words or the flow of the plot, or why I was there, or why this was that or whether the other was this or the other, I was unbridled, I was set free. The pounding rhythm and breathless passion of the players began to play out inside of me. I became the stage, I became an extension of the theatre as it began to be an extension of me. I slipped into a trance of playful wakefulness. I had stepped into the minefield of music that is called Shakespeare, never to return.

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This experience, that should have put me off Shakespeare for life, bit deep into my hard headed curiosity. I was determined to crack its code. I was determined to learn about these stories and the storyteller. I read every play, ever coles notes and every OxBridge Don's argument. I was consumed by every word, symbolism and iambic pantameter.

A quarter of a century later, I am still picking away at that same soft lock and here I am and here we are. This blog is my life through the lens of William Whoever He Was. This one is from me. This one is for me. This is me.

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Welcome to me. Welcome to my shack.

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"How far that little candle throws his beams! So shines a good deed in a weary world" (Merchant of Venice - Act V, Scene 1).