February 27, 2005

Laziness & Creativity

“The need to express one’s self in writing springs from a maladjustment of life, or from an inner conflict which the adolescent or the grown man cannot resolve in action.” (Emile Herzog 1885-1967, from The Art of Writing)

In my blog profile I noted that “laziness is a virtue.” Most people don’t get the gist of that idea. It’s not only a statement about the current societal need for 'round-the-clock-busy-ness, or a protest rant on the type-A world that socialized me. Laziness is a quality that few people master, and I too, suffer at times from lack of it! To put it plainly, a lazy person is the one who will get the job done right the first time, because there is no way he is going to tolerate doing it again for no good reason. Lazy people love to do what is necessary, but never what isn’t. As a lazy person myself, I am angered by people who do substandard work. Those kinds of persons make more work for themselves and the next guy, thus violating the ‘laziness clause’ at every turn. Laziness, as much as I admire it however, is not without its problems.

I experience intermittent phases of not being my usual active and determined self. These periods of sullen disinterest in life last about a week or two, with a span of about six weeks of relative normalcy in between. To be sure, I have never been accused of being within the range of any socially accepted normative measure, but I know my own natural rhythms well enough to recognize when something is amiss. The hardest part about this time is the irony that springs from its eventuality. Internally, my creative juices are still flowing like mad, but externally I cannot seem to manage even the smallest degree of discipline, and fail to pen these darker-day epiphanies to paper, even if for no other reason than retaining them for future reference.

This lull in the creative action cannot be attributed to the taking on of more or greater burden than usual at work or home, wherefrom one might tailspin into a ‘crash and burn’ upon reentry into the normal routine. My normal activity levels remain carefully gauged by an innate need for no more than is absolutely necessary, so there is never any drastic change in the quantity of labor required during this phase. Being a religiously lazy person by nature, I am immune to megalomaniacal schemes of world domination, social causes that require long hours of marching, and the vexatious American addiction to squeezing productivity out of and into every waking moment of life. I live by two important mottos, “If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it”, and “Someday, but not today.” Being a capable multi-tasker is not a reputation that I hope to earn; impressive as it may appear to a society driven by doing, doing, and doing more. Perceived as infinitely capable employee or spouse means that I will forever-and-always become subject to the urgent requests of others to get this, that, or some other monumental task completed at a very last and crucial hour with maximum efficiency and accuracy. Sorry, but I no longer want that job. Maybe it’s old age accompanied by a lack of enthusiasm.

No one and nothing demands anything of me in this regard, except for the creativity’s holder. So what if I don’t do anything that I consider meaningful or creative? Isn’t free and easy thinking part of the process anyhow? Remembering that meaning is a special balance between the laws of physics, human nature, and my overactive cerebral reverie, I can develop some strategy for handling this emotional quandary. Laziness becomes a dilemma when writing because good writing entails draft after draft and long hours of editing; always a problem for the truly lazy man, but especially in those times when my motivation is at its nadir.

I understand that respite is beneficial for the psyche, but internally, the creative transmission is still running in high gear, even when the overall ‘car’ isn’t moving. I want, more than anything, to drag these unmotivated and clumsy fingers to the keyboard to hunt and peck into Arial font whatever cogitations that come to mind at any given moment, but most of the time I just go back to sleep, run out for some Chinese food, or turn on the idiot box. I am full of ideas, yet my posterior remains glued to the futon bored silly from my own lack of stimulation. Is my frustration because I choose to do nothing or because nothing has been chosen for me to accomplish? It feels like Providence is restraining me against my will.

Maybe I do carry around too much of an obligation to be creative. Imposing creativity upon oneself seldom produces the desired results, and action that backfires violates the ‘laziness clause’ of my personal philosophy. Yet, creativity is part of my inescapable persona, and it can manifest itself in one of two ways, neither of which I control in any great measure. There is the apparent and outward productive sort of creative effort that comes to literary fruition, or the other, that hides itself in the passive and thoughtful process of reflection that spawns new ideas, but is still ethereal and unexpressed. The latter, if not at least scribbled on a napkin, will be lost forever to the ether.

At the very least, I can rest my overburdened imagination and casually observe whatever is going on around me. Maybe I’ll start calling this my ‘listening to whatever time’, when I can fill myself with movies, reading, happy daydreams of something pleasurable, l play with the cats a bit more, have an extra glass of bourboun, and sleep in.

What could it hurt to relax? After all, even this is something worth writing about! In the end, I am lazy because it is time to be lazy, otherwise, Providence would have found some pressing obligation for me to fulfill. The down-time is meaningful as part of the overall balance. Once refreshed I can once again return to the ‘world of words’ and generate something satisfying, entertaining, or, dare I say, meaningful.

“I don't think necessity is the mother of invention - invention, in my opinion, arises directly from idleness, possibly also from laziness. To save oneself trouble.” (Agatha Christie 1890 - 1976, from An Autobiography)

February 24, 2005

Ki Sisa: Missing Shekalim


כי תישא את-ראש בני-ישראל, לפקודיהם, ונתנו איש כופר נפשו ליהוה, בפקוד אותם; ולא-יהיה בהם נגף, בפקוד אותם

Exodus “12 'When thou takest the sum of the children of Israel, according to their number, then shall they give every man a ransom for his soul unto the LORD, when thou numberest them; that there be no plague among them, when thou numberest them.”

I agree that the logistics of counting 600,000 or so men without the benefit of modern technology might be difficult, so counting the coins instead of the men, and having the men stand around for idle hours or perhaps days while the count and recount continue might be the better option.

Personally, however, I find this head tax degrading. Only my shekels count to Moshe. If you have ever wondered why it is so easy to feel insignificant living within the religious Jewish community, your questions are about to be answered. It seems, and for no apparent reason, that counting humans directly causes disease, plague, and death. Therefore, when you are in shul and men are being tallied for the minyan, that one counts ‘not 1’, ‘not 2’, etc. Even when you are there and necessary, you are considered a ‘not!’

The concept of a head tax is not new. The threat of death for non-payment isn’t new either. In the early history of the fledgling United States, a head tax was proposed for voting. If you paid the tax, you became eligible to vote. Distasteful as that seems to us today, it is still much preferable to the head tax of Ki Sisah. At least Hamilton and his ilk were not proposing a death penalty, and when the tax was paid, the person had at least some say in how the nation was to be governed. In Ki Sisa, no such benefit existed. It was pay up or die, though the specific sort of death was never specified.

Not for nothing, but let’s say for argument’s sake that the direct counting of human beings DOES, in fact, bring death and destruction upon the counted. Then why not have them bring stones or slips of papyrus with names on them? Wouldn’t that just as good a system and have the added advantage of knowing the exact names of the Bnei Yisroel? Why only silver? Then what about every counting since then? Can we attribute the deaths from Arab terrorism on the way that Israeli football coaches count their players?

The other question goes to enforcement, too. How did Moshe know who paid and who didn’t? We only assume that everyone acquiesced and forked over the shekels. Yet, as we know from experience, there are always people who refuse to pay their taxes, and if this occurred in the Dor Hamidbar, then the entire census would be wrong. You may answer by saying that the Dor Hamidbar complied with Moshe’s demands, but I find that hard to believe. This ‘Am Keshay Oref’ was trouble before this and would be trouble afterwards. Lots of trouble. So I am not convinced that each and every one paid this head tax.

The idea that the ‘wealthy shall not give more nor the impoverished man less” seems quite appealing at first glance. After all, is not each man equal before HaShem, especially if we are speaking of kofer nefesh (ransom) which does not discriminate between rich and poor? Besides, how could you get an accurate count if everyone gave different amounts? In both the spiritual and practical sense, the idea of an equal tax for each person seems appropriate. In this way, none could claim a greater chelek in the Mishkan than another. Some people giving more and others giving less would screw up the census anyhow.

What bothers me is a bigger question that might not have anything to do with shekalim or pikudim. We are told that the Bnei Yisroel left Mitzrayim with ‘rechush gadol’ (great wealth.) I may be assuming wrongly, but I was under the impression that once they escaped Shibud Mitzrayim they were then compensated for their avodas perech , which, if I am not mistaken, they ALL suffered from equally! So how is it that just a few weeks out of Mitzrayim that there are already Jews so poor that they couldn’t afford the tax of half a shekel? Was there a casino in the middle of the machaneh? Maybe an opium den?

If this collection was to be used for the expenses incurred during the building and maintenance of the Mishkan, I am at a loss to account for the bulk of it. As it is, very little of the Mishkan was made of silver. There were some silver vessels, but most everything else was brass or gold. So where did the huge cache of silver go? Now you might say that the silver was used to pay the craftsmen who designed and engineered the different parts of the Mishkan, and that would be reasonable except for one little problem. What did anybody need money for in the Midbar? According to Chazal, all of their needs were met; food, shelter, and warmth all provided by HaShem. So what the hell would they need money for? And why wouldn’t they have simply volunteered their time and effort seeing that they had nothing better to do? If I had all my need provided, then I would have no trouble donating my time to a worthy cause. One would have to conclude that the kohanim pocketed the money.

My suspicion is that Moshe, right after installing Aharon and his sons in positions of religious authority, began collecting on their behalf right away in order to solidify the new caste system by getting the people accustomed to handing their earnings over to the Kohanim, perhaps under the guise of building funds and/or salaries. It’s a nice little venture; pay up or someone dies and, should you complain, death will be your punishment. Nothing like a good threat to keep everyone in lock-step.

The Other Side of the Story

One fact remains eternally true; silver is always in greater abundance and gold is always more expensive. People tend to hoard their gold, not only because of its greater value, but if you have to shlep everything you own across the Midbar, it makes sense to travel lightly. Moshe knew that the people would not easily part with their gold for this reason. There fore, Moshe asked for a half shekel of silver, something abundant and not too valuable. Moshe also realized that some Jews, being poorer now (for some reason) would not have a half-shekel of gold laying around. In order to keep the overall contributions even for everyone, Moshe had to deal in a currency that everyone most likely carried, that being common silver.

Yet, this doesn’t answer the question of the missing shekalim. If we know now why Moshe asked for silver rather than the gold he really needed, and even factoring in salaries for the kohanim, then our facts about gold, as a precious metal, might answer the problem. Besides, Moshe already collected enough gold back in Parshas Terumah. Or did he?

The Torah says that there were both wealthy and poor among the Bnei Yisroel. Maybe wealthy meant having the things that they really needed for the Mishkan, and not the standard sense of more and less. The wealth Moshe speaks of is a specific wealth for a specific purpose. This wealth is gold. By collecting more silver than what was needed, Moshe ended up with a surplus of capital that would be used to purchase the gold from those who had enough of it to fulfill the requirements of the Mishkan. Since more gold is more precious than silver, the trade accounts for the missing shekalim. Buy purchasing gold rather than having it freely donated, the ‘equality’ clause would not be violated.

Moshe applied some practical know-how and business sense to the issue.

The only problem with this scenario is that the Torah doesn’t say as much. The Torah paints a picture of Bnei Yisroel giving an overabundance of goods for the Mishkan. So, we are back to our original question. What did Moshe really use the money for?

No?

Just asking the questions. They might be dumb ones. Dare to enlighten me.

February 20, 2005

Tetzaveh: Castes & Nepotism


The Kohen Gadol
שמות פרק כח

ואתה הקרב אליך את-אהרון אחיך ואת-בניו איתו, מתוך בני ישראל--לכהנו-לי: אהרון--נדב ואביהוא אלעזר ואיתמר, בני אהרון.

Exodus 28:1 “And you shall draw to yourself Aharon, your brother, and his sons with him, from amongst the Jews to serve Me; Aharon – Nadav, Avihu, Elazar, and Isamar, the sons of Aharon.”

One Side of the Story: A Case Against

To me, the whole issue of familial entitlement smacks of ritual nepotism. Why is it that Moshe’s brother, nephews, and their subsequent generations automatically merit the priesthood? Were there no run of the mill working Jews worthy of representing the people in the Mishkan? I have known many a Kohen in my day and some of them are not close to worthy of being janitors, let alone priests entrusted with our religious ceremony and atonement. The idea that someone merits a position of honor simply because of genetics is contrary to the egalitarian sensitivities of most people.

Mitzrayim had a separate and privileged priestly class also, and we are told that the many of the Bnei Levi, even while living in Goshen, were exempt from the avodas perech that all other Jew were required to perform. They managed to avoid hard labor because the dominant culture they lived under venerated their own priestly classes. It can be argued that Moshe and Aharon, both members of this privileged class, sought to maintain their unique social position, even under new circumstances.

I get the sense when reading through the Chumash that Moshe and Aharon were more like Mafiosos, bringing only the close family or those (like Pinchas) who showed extreme zeal into the ‘family.” Being in the family afforded one the obligatory prestige and honor of the entire Jewish nation, but it, like all things came at a price. Like the mafia, all allegiance is to the family first, and if one within the family breaks the rules, he/she faces punishment with a greater severity than one who is an outsider. The bas-kohen who commits adultery, the Aish Zara of Nadav and Avihu, and the murder of the Korach and his family are good examples.

Consider also that Moshe told the Jews not to return to Mitzrayim and that everything Mitzrayim stood for was treife, and then, first on Moshe’s list of things to do was to set up a religious order similar to that of Mitzrayim! One can fully understand the anger and resentment that some Jews would have over this apparent contradiction, and indeed, there were no less than three rebellions brought on over this very issue.

It is also interesting (and disturbing) to see how Moshe Soprano dealt with those who objected to this nepotism, in or outside the family. It seems that anyone who disagreed or dissented was magically ‘swallowed’ up in the Midbar. There is the story of the Bnei Levi taking up arms and killing dissenters. The Torah tells us that almost an entire generation disappeared in the sands of the Sinai. That is almost as many people as the mob ‘whacked’ in the desert outside of Las Vegas! Why did they merit death for what were very natural questions of authority and the imposed caste system? Especially when on one hand the Jews were told that they were all bnei kodesh (ad shoyev maymecha) equally. It seems that some were more kodesh than others.

In this day and age we consider nepotism in public service to be violation of the public trust, and rightly so. For one to attain public office based upon family ties alone is highly offensive to most ethically minded people. I have a suspicion that I’d be sympathizing with the Korachs and the Avirams were I to have lived as a member of the Dor Hamidbar.

The Other Side: In Defense Of

On the other hand, there is something to be said for bringing family into the business or keeping an existing business within a particular family. This goes to the core of why so many, including myself, believe that yichus is something important to consider, from both a social and professional perspective.

Take the example of a Chasidic dynasty. Imagine yourself the son of a Chasidic Rebbe. Your father was also likely the son or close relation to the Rebbe before him, who himself was born and raised into this Chasidic dynasty. So it is probable that you have already witnessed in your short lifetime three generations of the family ‘business’, and if you’ve been paying any attention at all, you would already be intimately familiar the requirements, responsibilities, etiquettes , and potential challenges that accompany the position. Should you merit to inherit this job, it should come to you with ease and flow quite naturally. After all, you’ve been raised in it, and should know how to handle what comes with it. There should be little effort in your transition.

This ease of transition into becoming the Rebbe is crucial, not so much for the new Rebbe, but more importantly, for his Chasidim. The natural and easy-flowing assumption of responsibility and the confidence inspired by that ease are essential to running an efficient and motivated operation. Most Chasidim will follow whomever it is that becomes Rebbe since that’s the job of a chosid; but to make it more than just a job or a routine tradition that Rebbe must instill mesiras nefesh and ibergegebenkeit through natural leadership.

In a similar vein, Moshe knew that established and recognizable patterns of governance, even if they were Mitzrayimdik, would be easier for the Jews as a whole to grow into, even if it meant that some would see this as contradictory or self-serving. Granting the Kohanim (and Levi’im) a genetic heritage of office ensured that a smooth flow of transition would exist, at least for future generations. We see that at both Har Sinai and with the Aish Zara, that the first generation priests, Aharon included, were still fumbling around a bit while trying to fit into their new leadership positions, and those moments of indecision and misjudgment led to tragic results. Imagine these kinds of problems occurring each time the leadership changed.

Could we have endured thus far otherwise? Considering the consequences of open revolt and fragmented social order, can one really blame Moshe for taking such a harsh stand on so fundamental a necessity? I still take issue with the methods, but I also understand the situation. I cannot imagine Moshe failing to mourn the deaths and purges within those people he was sent to guide, and it must have weighed heavy on his conscience to have had to implement such dreadful measures.

Yiddishkeit is not the only religion that presupposes a caste system or religious hierarchy. The question had to be asked as to why we needed it and what purpose it served in helping to maintain social order and further our national goals. I hope this answered some of those concerns.

February 19, 2005

Hands Off,Mouth Shut, & Ears Open


Don Quixote (Pablo Picasso)

Around the Water Cooler

Conversation amongst coworkers tends to help a busy day pass easier and contributes to the overall morale of the workplace. However, I am not always happy with the content of that conversation. More often than not, the conversation invariably turns to the many varied and shapely qualities of the women my coworkers encounter throughout the course of their workday. Listening to these Neanderthals incessantly chattering about women reminds me of recent parolees from a maximum-security correctional facility, not having seen a female member of our species for quite some time, using every waking moment to extol the physical virtues of the womanhood they missed in prison. Every woman, young, old, big, small, black, or white receives the same careful and honest critique of my ever-so-observant coworkers. At least they don’t discriminate.

It’s not that I don’t ponder similar reflections or fail to notice a pretty girl, but carnal machinations are reserved exclusively for my own internal amusement, and I then let those images pass on and away, as most thoughts tend to do when left on their own. I am not one to blurt out impulsively what I am thinking in this regard. This is possibly due to an outdated sense of gentility or, as is more likely, my general distaste for all things pedestrian. Being there is only so much that any psyche can tolerate, and my quota of sports, sexual innuendo, and complaining about work was filled long ago, I have no stomach for any such banter. Imagine yourself confined for perhaps, eight to twelve hours a day among people with a very limited répertoire of discussable subject matter. Why do you think I need to blog? Writing proves a very effective means to clearing my mind from the mundane refuse reluctantly collected during my day.

Readjustment

Entering the non-religious world full-time required me to make some adjustments in interacting properly with the opposite sex. As you are aware, in the religious world, certain forms of contact and interaction are rigidly proscribed. Not that I was openly crass or brutish, but there remained an underlying nervousness and tension that pervaded my dialogue with women. This all or nothing (mostly nothing) mentality can create some awkward situations without tactful application. While keeping true to the spirit of the basic restrictions, things are still much more relaxed, and though handshakes and friendly hugs are well within the range of good taste and manners, I never initiate the touching. I meet plenty of women on a daily basis and, unlike many other men, I see no need to lay a hand on a shoulder or touch a woman’s back while making casual conversation. There is simply no good reason to for it. I also do not attempt to move closer than necessary during conversation. As long as my auditory faculties function properly, an approach closer than four or five feet is not required. Not that I don’t flirt if the setting is appropriate, but knowing how the ‘toucher’ in question is spoken of after he leaves the room deters me from engaging in such conduct. I would rather be accused of aloofness, erring on the side of caution, and not earn a negative reputation that I don’t want and will never need. (Besides, my expertise in the art of flirtation is so profound that physical contact is seldom required.)

Another part of this re-socialization consisted in learning how to befriend women without thinking of them in sexual context. This problem could in part, be attributed to an over-zealous religious training, but it would be unfair to place responsibility upon that factor alone. Though aspects of religious teaching indirectly foster the objectification of women, even without that, I was still a very sexually driven and sensually aware young man, and in seeking to control my own natural tendencies, I faced the same challenges as many other young men. This manifested itself in an immaturity; the inability to see women as anything other than sexual objects or only viewing them from my own projected perspective. In practical terms, if you are staring at her breasts, or mentally disrobing her, you cannot hear anything she says.

I have a personal story to relate how improper socialization effects dating, friendships, and relationships. The difference between dating success and interactive disaster hinges upon the proper application of listening and a little bit of inner restraint.

Let the Games Begin!

One Christmas Eve, a few of my fellow laborers decided to celebrate the season by patronizing a local tavern. Since it was a Friday night, the place was pretty packed and there was no shortage of pretty women. One of my coworkers, we’ll call him Leon, believes himself the ultimate lady’s man, and challenged me to a duel of sorts. He likes to initiate rivalries whenever possible as his way of showing himself the alpha male. This fellow is generally a vulgar and foul-mouthed jerk. I refer to him as ‘Mr. Hallmark.’ He does however manage to land his share of females, so I knew this might actually be a fair contest. Leon picked out a woman at a far off table; a twenty-something blonde with an intellectual appeal about her who, for at least the time we observed, had been sitting alone nursing a beer while staring off into space in a bored non-chalant sort of way. The object of this competition was, within a span of ten minutes or less, to entice the enchanting creature into giving up a telephone number and/or e-mail address. What made the prospect even more rewarding was that half of our workforce would be watching from a safe distance. There is nothing more satisfying than scoring ‘pimp-daddy’ points in front of a live audience. I know it was stupid and I didn’t really want to play, but the idea of showing the ‘alpha’ who was really the top dog was too strong to resist.

Leon swaggered over to her table, asked if he could sit down, and she, accepting, smiled at him. One thing I already knew about my opponent was his persistent habit of speaking exclusively about himself, and unable to hear their conversation, I still knew exactly whom he was talking about and what he was saying. For the next ten minutes, Leon talked, slowly moving his seat and leaning his body toward his intended target. I suspect his strategy was to distract the woman with chatter while he nudged himself closer and closer with each passing syllable. Whatever he was thinking it didn’t appear to have the desired effects. As the allotted time concluded, an agreed-upon signal was given, and true to his word, he bid her goodnight and crawled back his compadres empty-handed and somewhat dejected. The only information he gleaned from ten minutes of conversation was her name. I was surprised he managed to hear that much above the clamor of his own self-aggrandizement. In either case, no one expected me to fare much better.

There is always one factor to consider when approaching a woman in a bar. If a woman is sitting alone, it means that at least twenty other men have already tried talking with her. So I ask myself, what am I going to do different that the other men haven’t done? The answer? Listen! However, listening would still require the ‘ice to be broken’ as it were, and other than performing a magic trick or some feat of supernatural prowess, even the Great and All-Powerful Shlomo is constrained by the usual insipid and often inane opening remarks.

“Hi. May I sit down?”

“Why? Are you tired?” (Her obvious cynicism foretold my eventual success.)

“Tired of working all day and drinking alone. You?”

“Yeah. I get that way, too. The cycle can be depressing sometimes.”

“That’s why we have alcohol and drugs.”

She lifted her beer and toasted “To Prozac!”

“To Prozac!” (We both laughed.)

“Oh. You’re on it, too?”

“Not yet, but it seems like a good idea sometimes.”

(Note: When dating a woman and visiting her home for the first time, excuse yourself to bathroom right away and check her vanity to see what medications she is taking.)

She laughed again. It was then I knew the ice had officially been broken. Notice that she was comfortable enough to reveal, and within fifteen seconds of conversation, that she was taking Prozac for her depression and mood swings. Always a good bit of information to have.

“Oh, sorry. My name is Shlomo. You should probably know the name of the guy to whom you’re releasing confidential medical information.”

“Shlomo? What language is that?”

“Hebrew, and yes, I’m Jewish.”

“Jennie. My name is Jennie. And I’m a recovering Catholic. Jewish guys are cool.”

“Thanks. Catholic girls have a reputation, too. (She sneered at me.) So what else do you do to relax besides beer and Prozac?”

“I dance. I study dance at State.”

“Wow. Tell me more.”

From that moment, my mouth shut and hers opened. She proceeded to spend the next few minutes telling me about the last production she performed in, and willingly added details of her family background, career goals, and favorite literature. All I had to do was shut the hell up and listen. Already having most of the information needed, with ample time to spare, I turned to excuse myself to the rest room. Jennie then grabbed my arm and handed me a business card with her telephone number and e-mail address. I thanked her and marched victoriously onward, information in hand, anxious to experience the long anticipated, raucous celebratory honor that awaited me on the other side of the barroom. After a couple of ‘high-fives’, we men then settled in for a few more rounds of draft beer and whiskey.

Jennie had actually not intended to be drinking solo that evening. Her very tardy friends entered just a few minutes behind my departure and, drawing fresh barstools up to her table, they delved into animated discussion, the topic of which I could have no possible clue. It certainly seemed lively enough, and for a moment, I wondered if our little contest exposed itself somehow, and felt no small sense of dread in that realization. This was not the case, however, and much to my relief. As Jennie and her recently arrived entourage relocated themselves closer to the bar, she waved me over and asked me to join them, and I accepted without hesitation. The remainder of the evening passed in high spirits as we conversed about wines, books, movies, travel, and art. All-in-all, an excellent night out on the town.

Don't Make Me Repeat It

Listening is definitely an art form, but is not limited to words. The nuances of body language, word usage, and context also play an important role. Sure, you can pay for dinner and pay for drinks, but failing to pay attention, focusing only on your own needs and perspectives, one will never know the woman at all. In addition, by removing or delaying sexual innuendo from dialogue and keeping a safe ‘distance’ gives a person the opportunity to learn about the person they are meeting. The problems and conflicts that may occur later on in relationships can be wholly avoided by friendly, unpresumptuous chitchat held within the first few minutes of meeting. The man who won’t listen only finds out much later, and perhaps too late, that his immediate and impulsive choice is one that he (and she) will come to regret. Whether we are speaking of the barroom or the boardroom, discretion and attention can bring welcome payoffs and decrease future misunderstandings.

In case you might be wondering, I never used the phone number.

“Do not forget, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “that there are two kinds of beauty, one being of the soul and other of the body. That of the soul is revealed through intelligence, modesty, right conduct, generosity, and good breeding, all of which qualities may exist in an ugly man. When one’s gaze is fixed upon beauty of this sort and not that of the body, love is usually born suddenly and violently.” (Miguel de Cervantes, from Don Quixote)

February 13, 2005

Laugh With Me


Freilich (Theo Tolby)

“If you don't learn to laugh at trouble, you won't have anything to laugh at when you grow old.” (Edgar Watson Howe, 1853-1937, American Journalist, Author)

“We cannot really love anybody with whom we never laugh.” (Agnes Repplier, 1858-1950, American Author, Social Critic)

Last week I made a phone call to an old chaver of mine who, in spite of his past friendship with an apikores, is now a well-respected Rov and Mechanech in NYC. He was actually quite happy to hear from me. It had been at least ten years since we last spoke, and it was refreshing to catch up on old times, if only for the few minutes we had. As you can imagine, he is a very busy person.

The conversation began something like this:

“Nu? Vus macht a Yid?”

“ Baruch Hashem alles gut! Vehr ist dus?”

“Gedenkst mir nit? Just how many apikorsim call you with sha'alos?”

“Aronovich??? Mechaya maysim! Vooh bist du gevven?”

“Ich blayb noch in Golus. Begashmiyus u beruchniyus.”

(He switches to part English now.)

“You’re an apikores like I’m a midget Black Muslim rodeo clown. Kumm baldt tzurik and stop this naarishkeit.”

"I'll think about it."

"Trach nit tzu fil. That was always your biggest problem."

M.M. was always a very serious fellow, even for a Litvak, and I laughed hearing him joke around like that. Maybe the years have softened him, too. That laugh brought back some old memories and feelings. That is what this article is all about. The conversation brought up some old zichronos I thought had been dormant or even lost. (Then again, would I have picked up the phone if they were?)

One would think that after 15 or 16 years of being physically, emotionally, and philosophically ‘frei’ that the feelings associated with Yiddishkeit and the inner yearning of the Pintele Yid would disappear or at least show some signs of atrophy. Apparently, the essence of the Jew doesn’t know what ‘surrender’ means. Inneveynig in hartzen, die Yiddishe neshama redt noch, albeit quietly and intermittently. It’s true. The reality is that one cannot just up and leave this life; who you are follows you everywhere, and I’m still looking at and beyond the world through chasidishe oygen, even though my seychel sometimes tells a very different story. I’m still divided. Shnayim Ochazin beTalis. I admit it. There is no shame in saying it. I’m not out to prove anything right or wrong at this point. I’m still wondering who I am or if it even matters. Again.

There remains machlokes, sefeykos, inconsistencies, fears, and plain old atzlanus. Swapping out lifestyles is not as easy as it looks. The issues of meaning and purpose still plague my psyche. That won’t ever change. But am I to offhandedly disregard something once such a powerful force in my life that I am willing to shed it like a snakeskin, when that very skin, in so many ways shaped and protected the creature that grew inside it? I can live with the doubt and the contradictions. That much is commonly human. Ober die Yiddishe neshama redt noch, and I’m hearing it, every so often, loudly and clearly above the din of my own internal machinations.

Reflecting back on my past self, similar to the addict in 12 Step recovery who inventories his past ways of living, I might imagine myself no longer that same person, and those images of a world filled with Shabbos or YomTov, chasidishe levush, streets with shtibelach on every corner, and the Rebbe’s tisch seem now, years later, like a movie with the leading role being acted by someone who vaguely resembles me, but isn’t me at all. Sometimes it appears out of focus on a faded movie screen, or as a choppy silent film with single-word subtitles playing an endless loop of Shmoneh Esreis, Melave Malkas, or Bletle Gemara, and it is unbearable to watch. I look back and can’t believe it was me doing it! At least, that’s what I tell myself now. Sometimes.

Other times these recollections feel more like an old lover from a relationship that ended without closure; where one day you just up and leave without even a goodbye. You portray yourself eloquent as Cicero, enumerating in ascending order of importance your concerns and objections to that person, as every word flows with masterful ease and expression, evoking any and every emotion you desire from her should your paths ever cross again. Yet when reality strikes and you stand there, all of the sudden confronted those old fears and feelings come flooding back over you and you freeze, solid and dumbfounded in your emotional tracks, regressing back to where you were when you knew her, still full of the lust, the anger, the longing, and the doubt. It as if nothing had changed, no time has passed, and all the mental gymnastics you prepared yourself to demonstrate are forever lost and forgotten. There is no indifference or apathic disinterest to a lover, and likewise, no such neutrality exists toward my previous life as a frumme Yid. I can rant and rave and poke fun at various aspects of the Yiddishe Derech from the safe distance of cyberspace and relative anonymity, but when confronted by it, face to face, the façade of proud and belligerent apikores vanishes. Perhaps it is only out of respect.

I did enjoy much about being a Chasidishe Yid. I loved the Chasidishe Leben. I loved the way we argued, the way we davenned, and the way we loved and hated each other in the same breath. I loved the bitachon in Hashgacha Protis, thinking that I personally and deeply mattered to the Thing that mattered most in the Universe. I miss the unique comeraderie, the beis medrash, and the heimishe simchas where close friends and mishpocho would gather in somebody’s small apartment where we’d drink, sing, and argue ourselves silly until it was either time for shachris or until an angry wife showed up to drag her recalcitrant husband home. Of course, there are things I will never like, but those same things I don’t like about one lifestyle are generally the same things I won’t like about another. Maybe I’m just too hard to please.

Mostly, I miss that special laughter. The Jewish laugh is the greatest laugh in the world and at the same time the saddest. Yidden recognize the world both for what it is and the way we envision it to be, and ne’er the twain shall meet. If that irony or that internal contradiction could be expressed as a simple sound, that sound would be the Jewish laugh. One would think that after all we, as a people, have been through that laughter would be a task difficult for a Jew to master. Perhaps the simple fact that we can still do it, in spite of our heritage and our own over-bloated sense of self-importance and seriousness is proof enough of a Ribono Shel Olam, who humbles us, yet allows us to enjoy our own inept struggle against both the world and ourselves. Who knows?

Rabi Akiva laughed in the face of defeat and suffering. Of course, he had his reasons. The laugh coming from the pain is a sunrise that follows a dark and sleepless night. Whenever the Jew finds doubt or trouble, this all encompassing and all-embracing laughter wells up from inside the Jew. Perhaps it is the collective Yiddishe subconscious telling us “I told you so!” This laugh is part joy, part sadness, part love, part hate, part obstinacy, and part acquiescence to things as they are. Rav Saadia Gaon said that when a person suddenly gains a straight perception of reality, the result is laughter. A flash of reality obliterates time-honored falsehoods, and the soul laughs.

I remember a photo of Rav Y.Y. Schneersohn OBM in which he was laughing open-mouthed with eyes wide from joy, and I have always imagined that this is the kind of face a Jew should wear as his levush. (If you know someone who has this photo, have him/her send it to me.) There is a story told of his arrest and interrogation by the NKVD, where an agent pressed a gun to his head and demanded the Rebbe name his collaborators. The Rebbe laughed. To him, no believing Jew would be afraid to declare, "I believe in Olam Haba." As he saw things, a loaded gun brings the existence of Yenne Veldt into such crisp and clear perspective, that the alternative is instantly reduced to hevel ve shtuss.

Be my friend and laugh with me. If you are at odds with what you do, what you think, and the world around you, then laugh! You will never be laughing alone. Maybe we can find some clarity together.

“If you like a man's laugh before you know anything of him, you may say with confidence that he is a good man.” (Fyodor Dostoevski 1821-1881)

“Among those whom I like or admire, I can find no common denominator, but among those whom I love, I can: all of them make me laugh.” (W. H. Auden 1907-1973)

February 12, 2005

Urban Wildlife II: A Providential Surprise


מה-רבו מעשיך יהוה כולם בחכמה עשית
מלאה הארץ קניינך

As many of you already know, I am an ardent lover of all things nature. Any and all living beings; whether furry, feathered, or finned I count amongst my friends though, as expected, they do not and cannot always reciprocate the sentiment. Today, however, something happened that elevated those already high sentiments to an entirely new level. It was something that 99.999999% of humanity will never experience and perhaps never even consider as possible. This very day, from within the midst of the mundane, I touched the life of a member of an endangered species. Its life has been saved, and mine has also been altered in a special way, though perhaps with a bit less urgency, tumult, and loss of plasma.

Who would have thought that a 'nobody' Jew from Brooklyn would find himself linked with one of the rarest and finest species of bird, and, to compound the irony, to have this occur right smack in the middle of a humdrum average workday in the center of a busy city? Certainly I never would have envisioned anything like it or the circumstances through which this contact came to be. One would expect such a thing to happen to a park ranger atop a rocky cliff, and not to a grey-collar desk jockey in the city. Imagine for a moment, you are now quite unexpectedly confronted with something rare, beautiful, magnificent, and yet fragile; weighing the option to safeguard its existence or to casually ignore its presence. It is as if millions of years of Nature have been placed right at your feet. For myself, there was never a choice in the matter.

While sitting at my desk sorting through the usual stacks of files, papers, tickets, invoices, and other such forms and folders that make my job the inspirational event it is, I was informed in passing that a large bird, identified first as a small hawk, had been wounded, and was hobbling around in the snow across the street from our office. Without any hesitation whatsoever, being the nature lover and always interested in wildlife, I dropped everything and leaped into action. It’s easy to get me away from my desk most of the time anyhow. I thought for a brief moment, as I was heading out the door to investigate, that my employer would probably be at least a little upset at my leaving the office for a non-work related incident such as animal rescue, and figured that if he was such a person who would object my saving the life of a living thing, that I wouldn’t want to be working for him in any case. Of course, they know me all too well, and offered no objections to my impending absence. (Fortunately, the whole affair only took an hour or so to resolve, and soon enough I was back at my desk, once again dreaming of being somewhere else.)

As soon as I reached the sidewalk, sure enough, atop a mound of snow partially grayed by passing cars and rock salt sat an adolescent Peregrine Falcon, one of the rarest birds in the Midwest, and still on the endangered species list in many states and throughout Canada. From the coloring and streaks on its face it appeared to be a male. I had never seen one this close before. Its left wing had been hurt somehow and was bleeding, leaving a trail of pinkish-brown spots in the snow as it hopped away from my approach in an effort to make an escape. I raced back to my car, from where I retrieved the necessary tools for trapping the poor creature, as I generally cart around what I might need for any number of small emergencies should the occasion arise. Patience is, of course, the key to handling any creature, man or beast, and the peregrine, long cherished as a hunting companion, is already psychologically predisposed to contact with man. Peregrines were the favorites of falconers for many centuries. Songbirds seldom survive human contact, even when that contact is benevolent, unlike their larger predatory counterparts.

This bird was badly wounded but still feisty enough to elude my first attempts at snaring it. Armed with a soft voice, a bit of patience, a pair of ski gloves, and a large box I inched my way closer to the grounded bird until I was able to gently cradle it in my hands and place it into the box. The falcon had cornered itself against a chain-link fence, leaving itself no other avenue of escape. It was clearly stressed, too, which was evident from its open-mouth ventilating. Since birds are not rabid, I had no worry about being scratched or bitten. My hands are chewed up from work and the cats anyhow, and any pain I would have had to endure to save the falcon would have been well worth it considering the payoff.

The capture was relatively easy as captures go. The next challenge would be transporting the injured bird to a state-approved facility for veterinary care and rehabilitation. I made several quick and sometimes angry phone calls and finally, after several tries, found a veterinarian able to take the falcon in right away. (One would be amazed at how many clinics offer ‘emergency’ service and yet have answering machines or voice mail greetings as their front line response to frantic pet owners and animal rescuers.) It was a nice bonus that this facility was within a few miles of my office. I would, if it had come down to it, driven hundreds of miles to save this amazing creature, but I'm still glad that I didn't have to. Left flightless from injury in the cold and wet while being exposed to stray dogs, cats, and stupid humans, this falcon would not have been long for this world. It certainly stood a better chance of survival in the back seat of my Jeep, though the experience of being cooped up could not have been a pleasant one, even when cuddled up with an old sweatshirt left inside the box for warmth and padding.

It is nothing short of Providential that news of the bird should reach me at such a time and in such a place. It is no small coincidence and damned lucky for that bird to have been injured within sight and range of probably the onlyperson in a five mile radius who a)knew what it was, b)knew what to do, and c) was available and willing to do it. When many people object to certain aspects of Evolution, they tend to overlook a most important and crucial part of it; the good fortune of being in the right place at the right time. No creature, no matter how well suited to its environs, how fast or strong, or however well bred can exist for very long without facing up to the vagaries of luck, and survival depends as much on empty fate as it does biological predisposition. Luck is not something that you can classify as a mechanism, and though statistical analysis offers us insight into probabilities, luck remains left out of the Evolutionary conversation.

Last report the Peregrine was doing fine, and other than a broken wing, blood loss, and the stress of injury there seemed to be nothing seriously wrong with the bird. As updates come in, I will post them. The falcon is scheduled for rehabilitation in one of the state-approved wildlife centers and this reluctant fool plans on keeping up with its progress every step of the way. It is not everyday one gets to participate in preserving nature, let alone the uncommon opportunity to save something as rare and unique as the Peregrine Falcon. I am humbled and honored to have done some small part, though I know that Evolution will not remember me at all when the day is done. To be forgotten is not the worst thing they can say about you after you’re gone.

I can go into the history of the Peregrine Falcon, its physiology, habitat, and other important facts, but there are a number of informative links that do a much better job. Here are a couple of good sites for more information:

http://raysweb.net/specialplaces/pages/falcon.html

http://www.nature.ca/notebooks/english/pfalcon.htm

“Whatever else may be shaken, there are some facts established beyond warring; for virtue is better than vice, truth is better than falsehood, kindness than brutality. These, like love, never fail.” (Quintin Hogg 1845-1903)

February 05, 2005

Suicide


King's Sadness (Henri Matisse)

“Whoever wants supreme freedom must kill himself. He who cares enough to take his own life is God.” (Fyodor Dostoyevsky, in The Possessed 1871)

“There is but one truly serious philosophical problem, and that is suicide. Judging whether life is or is not worth living amounts to answering the fundamental question of philosophy.” (Albert Camus, from The Myth of Sisyphus 1955)

I watched TV again (big mistake) and saw a piece on HBO about suicide. Unfortunately, this “doctored-mentary”, much like the others I’ve seen on this topic was one-sided and biased to the ‘pro-life’ position. The segment was almost bearable until the end when there sat a 40 year old man, possibly the producer, bawling and blubbering about his older brother’s suicide some two years previous, lamenting the loss of his mentor and guide through life. There were the usual banalities such as “I still don’t know how to go on”, “I feel my future has been ripped from me”, or “I have lost part of myself.” Dear Mr. Producer, if you couldn’t go on without your brother, then how are you still alive and functioning? This is typical of the melodramatic bullshit that permeates anti-suicide rhetoric.

That was about all I could tolerate and began hoping that this fuckwit was going to pull out a .357 and blow his own head off right there on camera. No such luck, however. Instead, the viewing audience was dragged through a few more excruciating moments of clichéd melodrama complete with streaming tears and hugs from his co-producers, all the while meant to remind us of how precious life is and how much the abrupt loss of a loved one affects our lives. I do sympathize. I know that this man was feeling genuine anguish. I know what it’s like to lose someone you love dearly. Yet, this kind of melodramatic overacting was unnecessary and if his pain was as intense as his brother’s suffering was, he’d kill himself, too. Otherwise, he should keep to the fond memories of the good times, mourn appropriately, and cease and desist from playing the codependent little “feel sorry for me my brother killed himself” child. Making an HBO documentary is worth some money anyhow, so he can be comforted while standing in line at the bank, and thank his brother for all the money he’s now making off his untimely demise.

(That guy’s situation reminds me of a joke told by a comedienne. She had decided to break up with a man she was dating and he told her “If you break up with me, I’ll kill myself. I can’t live without you.” Six months later, she dialed his phone number, and when he answered she asked “You’re alive? What’s the deal?”)

It is highly insensitive and narrow minded to pass judgment on those who commit or contemplate suicide. Dear Selfish Fuckwit, did you ever bother to consider THEIR pain? Did you even notice what was going on? Or are you so incredibly fucking self-centered or self-absorbed that you would expect them to continue living in what is to them an obvious and overbearing misery; one so powerful it demands defiance of biology and societal norms? And without concern for consequences? Would you force your loved ones to remain alive and in pain, in order that you shouldn’t suffer the distress of missing them?

For those who believe they would never consider suicide as an option, let me pose a question. How much pain would you have to be in, and for how long could you endure that pain, before you would wish for death to make that pain go away? Part of the problem is also that we don’t consider emotional illness or emotional pain as part of or as severe as physical pain, which is why so many are willing to pass judgment over one who commits suicide at ninety-five from depression, but not over one who commits suicide because of terminal illness twenty-five. I don’t see a real difference. Death is only a matter of sooner or later and always provides immediate and effective results.

There is pathology to suicide. Cross-sections of the human brain have been analyzed both structurally and chemically and there are definite suicidal characteristics to some people’s physiology. No kidding. The biology always has to be there, too. Suicide is generally connected to psychological and/or psychiatric problems, but not always problems that are endemic or systemic, but grow from situations of great stress and pain that act upon a normally healthy individual, creating the type of chemical ‘atmosphere’ that fosters depression, anxiety, and suicidal tendencies. The claim made in this documentary is that suicide is a result of a breakdown of the decision making processes when, in fact, it can be a very rational and deliberate course of action. It is common to apply a moniker of ‘senseless’ to an act we neither understand or, most likely, simply do not condone. Suicide makes, in many cases, perfect sense. We just don’t always see it.

Those who are in emotional pain aren’t always telling us in words. Life is about putting on a happy face and big smile. The pessimists, the cynics, and the skeptics are just nay-sayers no one cares to party with, and people think we might be suicidal, yet it is those who put on the happy faces who in many cases, well beneath the surface, carry a great and heavy emotional burden. That is why you hear such things as “No one saw it coming” and “But she seemed so happy.” Since our society insulates itself so well from pain and suffering by deflecting and sheltering, we can’t admit to it or see it when it’s happening. Another heavy price we pay for social dishonesty. The pessimist, the cynic, and the skeptic love brutal honesty and won’t be killing themselves anytime soon. They, too, have the internal conflicts produced in the struggle between facade and reality, but have long since developed the coping mechanisms necessary to function. Besides, we nay-sayers want to hang around to see just how bad it really gets and, at some point, have the pleasure of saying to the world “I told you so!”

I don’t buy into that argument that life is always worth living and there are other viable options or “the sun will come out tomorrow.” The suicidal are not that stupid either. They are just in unbelievable pain. Enough pain to make them very bold and motivated enough to make them defy their own biological will to live and the selfishness of a society that demands they remain alive at all costs. This is not limited to right here right now sort of pain either. Few people are driven to the edge by a toothache. The type of pain we are speaking of is protracted, with no end in sight. The sufferer asks “When will it end?”, and gets no reply, while knowing all along what will cure the ‘disease’ instantly. This societal demand that we forge on, no matter what the circumstance, is nothing more than self projected ideas of life thrust onto another in a position that few have taken the time and effort to understand. It is symptomatic of the control-freakism of a society hell-bent on constraining the lives and deaths of its citizens to such an extent that it allows a police officer to shoot and kill a man threatening suicide, for simply defying the order not to jump from the bridge.

I am also fully in favor of assisted suicide. Dr. Kevorkian, who I had the pleasure of meeting some years ago, is a reluctant hero. Sure, he’s eccentric and bit creepy, but who else would take on such a controversial cause or make such a personal sacrifice for that cause? The concept of creating sanctuaries for self-destruction or assisted death is a positive one. It would permit a public forum where individuals and society as a whole could get back to an honest view of life, death, and suffering. All aspects of suicide could be approached rationally and openly, and the societal dishonesty and sheltering we currently promote would soon disappear. We’d be all the better for it, too. The misguided notion that suicide is a coward’s way out or that it is sinful, and therefore to be stopped at all costs, is basic to the problem in our approach to it, and further prevents honest dialogue.

I do not wish to get into a theological debate over souls and afterlife. As a materialist, I do not accept any superstitious notions or spiritual fantasies. The twisted logic of the religious mind does not rely on evidence, and without evidence, how do you make a case? To engage in theology or morality would lead us into the same old questions with the same old answers and the same old results. Without accepting a vast array of non-evident beliefs and superstitions, such an argument, though clearly valuable to some, has no meaning to me whatsoever.

A self-imposed death is another option among the many options we have available. If things are so bad that you don’t wish to continue, and one sees no foreseeable betterment in living, then by all means, DON’T continue living. It’s that simple. The only thing I ask is that people PLAN their deaths a little bit better. Please, don’t leave a mess, don’t do it in public, don’t do it in front of your children, and try to tie up the other loose ends before you go. Most botched suicides are not planned out beforehand. Death, as in life follows the adage “those who fail to plan, plan to fail.” Yes, one can fail miserably, even at death. Lots of people do it all the time. The jack-ass who parked his SUV on the railroad tracks is a perfect example of someone who mismanages a suicide attempt to the extent of endangering others in the process. Once he gets into the California Penal system, he’ll wish he had stayed in the driver’s seat.

I have already planned for my eventual demise. Should I become incapacitated or unable to function normally (some say I don’t function ‘normally’ now), I would choose to be euthanised to end the pain and suffering. Sigmund Freud, who suffered for many years from jaw cancer and underwent many surgeries, ended his life with the help of a physician and a heavy overdose of morphine. We are told it was a peaceful death. I see no good reason to live in torment, or to be a burden upon either society or my family and friends. If society does not prepare the way for me, I will find others who will or take it upon myself.

Assessments of suicidal behavior should be no different than the assessments we make about other behaviors/diseases, and should be conducted with both compassion and scientific sensibility. Certainly none of us acts in a vacuum and there are consequences felt by those left behind in suicide’s wake. We must always, however, consider the deceased first and foremost. His/her level of distress must remain the deciding factor as to how we are to cognitively and rationally approach our own healing process. To emotionally incapacitate ourselves by pondering the past or clinging to the imaginative pictures of what could have been, we not only form unnecessary judgments of the deceased, but hinder our own emotional recovery. What’s done is done. If we can learn something from this to help another, so be it. If not, then our own lives still need nurturing.

Allow those in pain their peace.

“Amid the miseries of our life here on Earth, suicide is God’s gift to man.” (Pliny the Elder, 23-79 AD)

February 04, 2005

A Brief Intermission



Since I have been really, really busy in the file mines and haven't had much energy for posting new articles, I thought that at least I could share some of my favorite poetry with everyone in the meantime. I'm going to get some sleep and have a social life. Happy Reading!

Pantheist, by Robert Service

Lolling on a bank of thyme
Drunk with Spring I made this rhyme. . . .

Though peoples perish in defeat,
And races suffer to survive,
The sunshine never was so sweet,
So vast the joy to be alive;

The laughing leaves, the glowing grass
Proclaim how good it is to be;
The pines are lyric as I pass,
The hills hosannas sing to me.

Pink roses ring yon placid palm,
Soft shines the blossom of the peach;
The sapphire sea is satin calm,
With bell-like tinkle on the beach;

A lizard lazes in the sun,
A bee is bumbling to my hand;
Shy breezes whisper: "You are one
With us because you understand."

Yea, I am one with all I see,
With wind and wave, with pine and palm;
Their very elements in me
Are fused to make me what I am.

Through me their common life-stream flows,
And when I yield this human breath,
In leaf and blossom, bud and rose,
Live on I will . . . There is no Death.

Oh, let me flee from woeful things,
And listen to the linnet's song;
To solitude my spirit clings,
To sunny woodlands I belong.

O foolish men! Yourselves destroy.
But I from pain would win surcease. . . .
O Earth, grant me eternal joy!
O Nature - everlasting peace!

Amen.

This piece was written on a World War One battlefield amidst the chaos of death and destruction. It is both a work of hope and an affirmation of resignation to those forces greater than ourselves, that we, as individuals, have little control over or understanding of. I am always comforted by this poem and reminded that even in the midst of catastrophe, be it personal or communal, that Nature's beauty exists, reemerges, and the course of life continues in spite of man's overwhelming sense of self-importance and pride. We are of this Nature, within this Nature, and will return the parts we have used of Nature back into Nature when the time comes.

This is also a statement against war; a sentiment I strongly endorse. The honeybee knows no allegiances to rulers and feels no nationalistic or religious fervor, thus is not driven to murder his brother in the name of some political or social end.