Kashmir's Shak

the immediate jewel of our soul

Toronto is in the middle of one of its worst garbage strikes ever. For over a month the rubbish has piled so high that the stench and associated health risks are starting to become a major public hazard, especially with the lethal combination of heat and summer rain storms.

As I drove through this (otherwise) beautiful city, i thought about how the processing of waste, whether it is a city, a business, institution, house or human body is such a central part of our health and well being.

Then I began to think about how mad people would get if someone was to throw garbage onto their doorstep, and yet when someone whispers rubblish (bad mouthing another human being, nationality, race or group), some tolerate this, some refuse to taken in the toxic sentiments and others not only consume the stench, but beg for more.

When people bad-mouth others, is it any different than throwing rubbish onto each others front door. Negativity consumes, it erodes our ability to see what is really goin on in a flexible, fearless, resilient way. The stench of negativity towards others warps an individuals and an organizations ability to function effectively.

I have worked with firms where regularly and without consideration, simply putting the competition down was a celebrated trait, but then the same negativity would eventually spill over into other departments, functions and vendor partners and as a result, consume institutional capacity with nonsense/noise.

Once the municipal civic workers strike is over in Toronto, the garbage trucks will return and is likely to take weeks and a concerted effort to remove all these piles of stench. As a result of this combined effort, this beautiful city buried in rubbish will breath again, it will be revealed once again for one-and-all to enjoy.

What effort would it take to remove all the negativity we have taken in over the years, to rediscover and appreciate ourselves for what we are and allows others to do the same?

"Good name in man and woman, dear my lord,
Is the immediate jewel of their souls.
Who steals my purse steals trash; 'tis something, nothing;
'Twas mine, 'tis his, and has been slave to thousands;
But he that filches from me my good name
Robs me of that which not enriches him,
And makes me poor indeed."

Othello; Act III, scene iii

Scoured To Nothing

People die every day. In the same week as the very public deaths of Michael Jackson, Steve McNair and Farah Fawcett, in our family we lost an uncle to cancer. He fought bravely through great anguish and torment for the past 18 months. He was a beautiful man with a warm wit and always a gentle inviting manner.

His life was a blessing to anyone touched by it. He did not shape an industry or create a new art form. It was the ordinary and simple things that he did that made him special to us. The way he listened, the way he greeted us, the way he told his stories, the way he went about his work, the way he shared everything he had and everything he was without expecting anything in return. The way he carried himself through his role repertoire as father, son, husband, brother, farmer, neigbour and friend. Just sitting with him was energizing. He did not postpone life.  He did not pass the time blaming, hiding from or making excuses for his life. He was always being there right with you.

I was in Joburg when I heard about Michael Jackson. I was amazed at just how deeply and how widely this man (obsessed with never growing old) had touched so many people in the world. But at the same time I wondered whether it was him or his fame that so many people craved? Who actually knew Michael? His very public departure was a further reminder that being famous has its own price tag. Being ourselves is more fulfilling than merely being famous. Growing old is not easy but someitmes it can be easier than trying not to.

Of all the fears, the root fear is of death. This is not necessarily our physical demise at the end of our life, but rather as we live, the fear that we do not matter, that we are unloved or unnecessary.

The anguish of not being noticed or needed is a salient expression of the underlying fear of a living death. This vain attachment consumes the ability to be ourselves and be fully with the people who deserve our love and attention while we are here to give it and they to recieve it.

Trying to be liked is a much lonlier place than being a farmer in India, in a village where less than a thousand people will ever come, a place where being known is not as half as important as being a good neigbour and being yourself.

Fear is a form of energy. Fear of death is futile. Better to acknowledge its existence and move our energy into a life creating and a giving and forgiving direction. Our energy follows our attention, even when we (our physical bodies at least) are long gone.

"Were better to be eaten to death with a rust
than to be scoured to nothing with perpetual motion"
Henry IV. Part II (Act I, Scene. II)