Things I Hated At 25 That I Like Now…

A friend asked me to write down a list of things I like now that I hated when I was 25. Here they are.

 

1. Science – When I was 25 I saw science as a soulless, reductionist view of the world. To me science robbed the world of its "magic" and joy. Now science is a doorway to wonder. The more I learn, the more I clearly see how things work, the more beautiful they become. Understanding the mechanics of things does not take away their emotional content. My appreciation of life is more profound in the land of science that it ever was in the kingdom of magic.
   

 

1. Calm Discussion – At 25 I loved having heated debates. I still engage in them now at times, but they no longer the same appeal for me. I once heard Professor George Forell assert what he called Forell's Law: "The amount of heat generated in a discussion is inversely proportional to the amount of light shed on the subject." I was certain he was suffering from the early onset of Alzheimer's. How could one reach the truth without a passion for truth? Today, experience has taught me the wisdom of Professor Forell's words. The more emotional I become about a topic the more I reduce my level of understanding.
   

   
    

2. Being Free of Drugs and Alcohol – At 25 I needed drugs and alcohol to deal with the unpleasantness of life. I even thought and argued that hallucinogens and psychedelics would free my mind. Perhaps moderate use was possible, but at some point I crossed the invisible line into addiction. I remained addicted until age 40. Today I cherish the clarity of thought that I have found without drugs and alcohol. I do not think others need to give up drugs and alcohol. Far from it. If I were in charge I would legalize all illicit drugs, tax them and use the revenues to help people who wanted help. I am neutral on the use of drugs. Some people use them safely and well. I am not one of those, and thankfully I no longer feel the desire to "use drugs like normal people". Life is wonderful enough without enhancements.
   

 

1. Reality – As stated, at 25 I was abusing drugs heavily. In retrospect I think I simply substituted drugs for religion. I was raised in a very religious household. I think in many ways I was "addicted" to the certainty and dualistic thinking of religion. The answer to all questions could be found in the Bible which came directly from God Almighty. This certainty gave me great peace and comfort, but it was built on brittle dogma. Once the dogma cracked under the reality of life in an uncertain world I filled the void with drugs. Today, without drugs or religion I feel lighter and the sun shines more brightly.
   

 

1. Embarrassment – At 25 I constantly worried about what others thought of me, that they would not like me. I still feel this at times, but far less often. I may not be wiser but I am not fearful about showing my ignorance or even my ass when the occasion warrants. At the risk of sharing too much information, I will say that (for reasons to lengthy to cover here) I once stood nude at my hotel window, peed into a cup and then drank it. Some have and continue to see this act as a sign of insanity. I do not. No one was hurt, offended perhaps, but no physical harm was done. I sometimes wonder if our puritanical belief that the body and its functions are "nasty" is not a greater sign of insanity than peeing into a cup and drinking it. Not to worry. Such actions are not a regular activity on my part. Most of the time I even wear a T-shirt when I swim, so that people are not subjected to the "nasty" flab of the old white dude. I know the rules and obey them at least most of the time.
   

 

1. Uncertainty – At 25 I was still on the hunt for "the" truth. I thought my prey could best be pursued through metaphysics, philosophy and spiritual means. If I could only find the right teacher, the right book, the right meditative practice I was sure that I would achieve enlightenment. Enlightenment. Oh how I longed for that blessed land of the "truth" where I would once more feel the safe haven of certainty. Today I welcome uncertainty. How boring life would be if all questions truly were answered? I prefer the angst and uncertainty of skepticism and science to the smugness I had when I was on a spiritual path. When someone engages me in evidence free discussions of "truth" I am like the little old lady in the Wendy's commercial. I can't resist thinking, "Where's the beef?"
   

 

1. Periods of Celibacy – At 25 my gonads drove my life. Now, in part due to age and in part due to temperament I enjoy periods. Oh all right, I do engage in self-gratification and so I am not a true celibate. But I often find good friendships are destroyed once the Rubicon of sexual intimacy is crossed. People's self-image seems to be more tightly linked to sex than just about anything else I can think of, except religion. After sex with a friend one of us invariably seems to feel a need to for a "stronger" more committed relationship. Once this happens the friendship tends to be replaced by role playing. Instead of sharing from joy, I find myself sharing from duty. So, many times, celibacy is the best course for me. Besides, given my sexual ineptitude, a good conversation generally lasts longer and is more enjoyable.
   

 

1. Being Alone – At 25 I was desperately afraid of being alone. I spent much of my time thinking about how to make people like and love me. As I have aged, I feel less and less of a need to prove myself to anyone. I sometimes worry I am becoming the old codger who steals kid's soccer balls when they trespass on his lawn. Thankfully, I have evidence to the contrary. I often travel and have found myself starting up conversations with most everyone who will pause to pass the time of day. Coffee shops, grocery stores and book stores have replaced bars as places to meet people. Yes, I am the garrulous old fart who wanders over sticks out his hand and asks, "Hi, I'm Dale. What's your name?" Many people turn away but whenever I find myself in a new city I soon have at least two or three people who smile when they see me and who welcome a conversation. So, I guess in one sense I am not afraid of being alone because at long last I feel I am part of the human race a family of over 6 billion. With a family that large I will never be truly alone. I just hope they don't all show up for Christmas dinner.
   

 

1. Freedom From Causes – When younger I was very concerned about the fate of the world and solving its problems. I constantly looked around for the right cause to join. Once I found "IT" I pushed IT to the limit (at least mentally) and discounted anything or anyone who had nothing to add to the IT. I viewed everyone through IT colored lenses. Today, I have no causes. I do visit a few to argue my point of view, but I hardly ever meetings or participate in hierarchies. In fact, I am pretty much an "anti-causist", with one exception. Kindness. I have a goal of acting with kindness at all times. I am not successful but for me the goal remains valid. I could wax on about this, but I have done that in other videos. I will leave it with the simple idea that if I have a cause it is to act with kindness. I do this not for philosophical or religious reasons, but because kindness is like gravity for me, ever present, inscrutable and mandatory.
   

   
    

2. Myself – One of my least favorite things at 25 was myself. I felt I was broken, flawed and filled with sin. I spent the next 30 years or so trying to find a way to fix myself or be deserving of forgiveness and love. This was a path of great misery. Today, I have not achieved "enlightenment" and frankly I hope I never do. I might get the idea that I should start a church or something. Now I often have peace with being Dale, just Dale – unadorned, unequivocal and free from the need to prove anything to anyone anymore. I get annoyed with people tell me how much better life would be if I understood this book, this philosophy, this teacher, etc. They seem determined to invite me to think of myself as broken and in need of "help", or alternatively as a source of wisdom who should "help" others. This broken and healing or sinning and forgiving model of life has not been useful to me, at least in the long term. It places me on a path filled with illusions. Far better for me (and probably for others) if I live my life as just plain Dale – the weird old dude who likes to write, play with his grandkids, hug his friends and sometimes make videos – the kind of fellow that you might sit and share a cup of coffee with. I like this old dude. I think he is a fine fellow. He needs no fixing as far as I can tell, and definitely is not interested in "fixing" anyone else.

Li’l Bit

Li'l Bit scratched her hip. Her dress rose up above her knee. She put a finger in her mouth. The finger was chewed to the quick, but Bill didn't mind. He stared at the tan line on her thigh.

"So what you doin' today?" he said.

Li'l Bit slid a flip flop forward. She looked down at the sidewalk, tilted her head to one side and looked at up at him. Her hair was the color of winter honey.

"Just pickin' up a few things for Mamma," she said.

Bill was a senior at Robert E. Lee. Li'l Bit was in her last year at Jackson Junior High. Bill was a halfback for the Rebels. Li'l Bit played clarinet in Mr. Stoskopf's concert band. Bill had gone to hear her last week. Her performance made his penis burn and his stomach twitch; the same burning and twitching he felt right now.

Li'l Bit chewed her lower lip until it turned red. She tossed her hair back, put both hands on her hips, and thrust them forward. Bill was going commando again. Pearl, the Judge's maid, had told him a thousand times that it would give him an infection.

"You just keep on doing that Mr. Bill," she would say, "And you'll get a rash or a blister or somethin'. Just see if you don't."

Bill shifted his stance causing his jeans to rub against his pecker. The rough stimulation and Li'l Bit's flirting almost brought him to climax. To calm himself, he inhaled deeply and blew out an airy whistle.

Li'l Bit leaned forward to within an inch of his face. "So you just gonna stand there huffin' and blowin' like a furnace, or you gonna offer a girl a soda?"

Bill slouched, stuck his hands in his pockets and squinted. He hoped he looked like James Dean or at least Montgomery Clift.

"Maybe I will, maybe I won't. What's it to ya?"

Li'l Bit threw her head back and laughed. Bill stared at her throat. The skin shouted for a hand to caress it.

"It's just me Bill. Who you tryin' to kid? You look like you got gas."

She grabbed Bill's arm and began pulling him toward Hinckley's Creamery. "Let's go. Mamma will worry if I'm too late."

The sun shone through her cheap cotton dress. The straps of her training bra peeped from beneath the collar. Bill heard that she let some boys play with those straps; maybe even more than play.

She said, "Come on slowpoke. They close in a half hour, and like I said Mamma will be worried."

***

Sitting across from her inside Hinckley's, Bill watched her take the straw from her vanilla shake, lick it clean and suck the malt from it before laying it on the table. She took a huge gulp of malt leaving a cream moustache. Her eyes closed and tears formed.

"Damn. Ice cream headache," she said. She banged her forehead with the heel of her hand.

Bill leaned over, took her hand and put it on her throat. She pulled back; her eyes round, her mouth open. Bill jerked his hand away.

He said, "Judge told me it helps if you put your hand on your throat. Says it warms the blood."

"Oh," said Li'l Bit, "My blood is warm all right. I thought you was…"

"You know I would never do nothin' to hurt you Li'l Bit."

Li'l Bit leaned forward, her voice a whisper. "Course I know that. That's wasn't it. It was how you touched me. Like you thought you and me was…"

The smell of vanilla malt made Bill's face warm. He felt like he was wearing an oven instead of pants. He could not look at her.

They stared at the table top and drank in silence.

Li'l Bit said, "Aww… Look at you. You embarrassed? Think you did somethin' wrong or somethin'? Don't worry, you silly willy. It was nice. Real nice."

She reached out a tiny hand and raised Bill's head. He looked into eyes that he was sure could hold the universe with room to spare. They held his gaze then crinkled into a smile. She punched his shoulder.

"Silly willy", she said.

He said, "I ain't no silly willy."

She giggled. "Yes you are. You're my little silly willy."

"No you're the silly willy."

"I bet you remember this one," she said. "Silly willy, bo billy, bonana fanna fo Filly…"

She stood and began shimmying as she sang. She raised her arms and snapped her fingers for the chorus.

"Come on everybody! I say now let's play a game. I betcha I can make a rhyme outta anybody's name…"

She grabbed Bill's hands and tried to pull him up. He refused, but began to clap in time to her dance. Li'l Bit increased her tempo. Mr. Hinckley came over and stood behind her.

Ignoring Bill's pointing finger, Li'l Bit grinned, winked and sang on. "Chuck, Chuck, bo buck, bonana fanna fo…"

A meaty hand spun her around.

"Now just see here Missy, there'll be none of that in here," said Mr. Hinckley.

Robert Hinckley was a tall man. Like Bill, he had played for the Rebels – an all conference tackle, but years of "tasting" new flavors and "cleaning up" leftover ice cream had given him a gut that would frighten a Chinese Buffet. He was a Deacon in the local church and taught a Bible Study about the Old Testament prophets. He was not known for his sense of humor.

Li'l Bit pushed Mr. Hinckley's hand off her shoulder and sat down. The universe's eyes narrowed to lasers and beamed red fire in Mr. Hinckley's direction.

Mr. Hinckley loomed over the table - arms crossed, his tiny mouth frowning atop its triple row of chins. "Just what the heck is going on here?"

Li'l Bit said, "Just folks tryin' to live a little fun you old coot."

"I've had just about enough out of you missy," said Mr. Hinckley. He pulled back a hand to slap her, paused, and slapped the table instead. He turned his ox like head to Bill.

"You're from a respectable family son. Your Father's a Judge and your Mamma's President of the Eastern Star."

He jerked his thumb toward Li'l Bit. "What the hell are you doing with this tramp?"

Bill looked at Li'l Bit. The eyes of the universe rounded into the eyes of the deer he had shot last month. It was on Warren's Ridge; his first time with a rifle. The Judge had decided it was time for Bill to take up "a civilized man's weapon" and put down the scatter gun, a tool of poor white trash, colored folk, and others of low birth and questionable means. Bill winced when he missed the kill shot and hit a lung. When Bill and the Judge finally caught up, the dogs lay gasping outside the thicket where they had run the deer to ground. Bill and the Judge pushed through the brush. The deer lay with its legs sprawled but its head held high. Its breath was hoarse and watery. Its eyes begged for help, but seemed to know none was to be had. The Judge carefully placed the barrel of his revolver over its heart and fired. The eyes faded.

Like the deer, Li'l Bit's eyes begged for help. Like the deer, she knew none would be coming.

Bill said nothing. Every word Mr. Hinckley had said might just as well have come from the Judge's own mouth. The Judge would skin Bill alive if he heard of him hanging out with one of the Tuckers. Everybody knew the Tuckers were trash. They lived in trailers. Tucker women had babies from so many different fathers that keeping track would have required an army of accountants. Tucker men drank, fought and gambled; never holding a job for more than a few days.

"None of you Tuckers will ever own so much as a pot to piss in," the Judge once said to Eustus Tucker, Li'l Bit's Uncle. Eustus wanted to join Shady Grove Baptist Church, where the Judge was head deacon.

"My answer is no of course," said the Judge. "Frankly, I'm surprised a drunk and no account like you even has the nerve to ask."

No, Bill knew he could never be with Li'l Bit, but Li'l bit had a special power. Boys and men she had never met offered to carry her books or brought her flowers. Last Christmas, her Uncle Eustus spied on her while she was in the shower. Afterward he went to her Mamma and his sister, Ms. Ora.

"Watch that one Ora," he said. "She has body that will put her in Hollywood or Hell 'afore she finishes high school."

"Probably," said Ms. Ora "But I'm tellin' her to get it while the gettin's good. She needs to catch a rich man, a respectable man, while she still has your looks. Otherwise she'll end up just like me, with a trailer full of kids with no last names."

Bill wasn't sure if Li'l Bit had ever slept with anyone. He hadn't. He lied about it to avoid getting teased in the locker room. He was afraid of how he felt about Li'l Bit. She made him laugh. He felt truly alive when he was with her, but he knew he could never face the Judge.

The Judge was clear about his plans for Bill's future. He would study the law, like the Judge, like his grandfather and his grandfather; on and on back to Judge Watkins Jenkins, head of the first white family to settle in Silsbee. His family honor and responsibility ran deep, much deeper than his feelings for Li'l Bit. No. It was clear. Bill must go along with Mr. Hinckley.

Li'l Bit knew it before Bill. She looked down at the table top and ran her hand over it, wiping away some unseen speck of dirt.

Bill said, "Sorry Mr. Hinckley. We didn' mean no harm nor nothin'. Did we Li'l Bit?"

Li'l Bit continued polishing the table. "No. We didn' mean no harm. We was just gettin' ready to go anyways. I gotta get home to Mamma."

Bill said, "Yeah. That's right. I expect you're ready to close up anyhow Rob, uh I mean, Mr. Hinckley."

"Yes," said Mr. Hinckley. "Yes I was. Can I call the Judge and tell'im you're on your way home?"

"No need. I'll be home soon enough," said Bill.

Outside he tried to take Li'l Bit's hand. She yanked it free.

"Don't. You best not touch me. I'm a 'tramp'." She crossed her arms and glared at him.

"You might catch somethin'. Worse, somebody might see you. Might get the wrong idea. Ruin your reputation, your family, your…"

Bill held her shoulders. "Li'l Bit please… You know it ain't that way. I'll make it right. You know I will…"

Li'l Bit shook herself free. "All I know is you'll shit and fall back in it,"

She started crying. "How could you Bill? What was you thinkin'? I thought you liked me. Don't you like me? Don't you like me even a little?"

The deer eyes returned. Bill stood mute. Li'l Bit turned and ran picking up speed with every step. Bill ached to follow but remained rooted where he stood. He was an oak, from a long line of oaks that sheltered and supported the little town of Silsbee. Li'l Bit disappeared around a bend in the road.

"She's a deer - born yesterday and likely dead before tomorrow," said Bill. "Trees stay put. Deer run wild."

***

Bill came home to Silsbee during breaks from Rice. He visited Hinckley's Creamery every time. No one was there to sip a vanilla shake. He went to High School reunions despite his hatred for them. No one was there to shimmy or play the Name Game song. He even visited Ms. Ora.

"She just high-tailed it out of here after graduation," said Ms. Ora. "Ain't nobody seen hide nor hair of her since then. Say, ain't you that Jenkins boy she was seeing?"

"Well, we never really 'saw' one another formally. I mean we never…"

Ms. Ora laughed. "Yeah, I know you never. I taught her good. I may not know where she went, but I do know how she went."

"How she went?"

"Yessir. That girl was pure when she left. And I know that for a fact."

"Uh, if you don't mind my asking, how could you possibly know a thing like that? I mean daughters tell their mothers most anything they want to hear. Don't they?"

"Maybe some do. Not Li'l Bit. I know 'cause Doc Weber tol' me when he treated her for cancer down there," said Ms Ora pointing to her groin.

"Oh my God. She had cancer? How?"

"Doc says it was from them pills I took while I was pregnant."

"Jesus. Why didn't anybody tell me?"

"Oh don't worry honey. They caught it early and just cut it right out. She was up and around in a week. Good as new in a couple of months."

"Thank God for that much. So Doc said she was a virgin?"

"That's what he said. She stayed that way as far as I know. Doc had to check her every month during her senior year."

"I'll be tied…"

"You look as shocked as Doc was," said Ms. Ora.

"Why would he be shocked?"

Ms. Ora cackled. "Lordy, lordy, you fancy folk sure do lie a lot. Mostly to yourselves. Child, he was shocked because of what you 'n everybody else in this shithole been sayin' and thinkin' 'bout her since she was twelve."

***

Bill returned briefly to Silsbee after getting a law degree from Virginia. He rented offices over the bank and tried starting up the Judge's old practice. He married Helen McGregor. She didn't shimmy but she made a nice home for Bill and gave the Judge two grandchildren, Sandy and Bruce.

After a few years of chasing ambulances and writing wills Bill decided Houston offered better opportunities.

"I wish you would stay here son," said the Judge. "You know you don't really need to work. I can…"

"I can't live that way, Judge. Sorry. I just can't," said Bill.

"I know son. I guess you wouldn't be my son if you could."

Bill joined Brevers, Drew and Wilkins, and settled three multimillion damage suits against Aramco. He became one of the Firm's youngest partners. He bought a small ranch outside of the city and hired a private tutor for the children and sent them to academies. He took an apartment in the city to cut down on the commute. One evening he was eating linguini at Da Marco's and there she was.

Li'l Bit wasn't little anymore. The packaging was marvelous –understated hair and makeup, a black dress and heels spiked high enough let her change light bulbs without a ladder. Bill put down his fork and watched in fascination.

She sat with two other women Bill was sure he recognized from an ad somewhere. The women were chatting with each other but they stopped immediately whenever Li'l Bit spoke, nodding at everything she said.

Bill rose when Li'l Bit went to the restroom and positioned himself at the end of the bar near her table. When she returned she saw him and stopped for a moment before walking over. Bill thought he saw a tremble in her step, but he decided he was mistaken. A woman as beautiful as the one before him must have the self confidence of Cleopatra.

"Bill? Is that you?"

"One and the same," said Bill.

Once more eyes that held the universe with room left over swallowed Bill. She said, "Oh my lord. It is you."

"I am indeed Bill Jenkins. Bill the barrister at your service. Would you like a business card?"

The scent of vanilla beans washed over him; vanilla, and something else. Something exotic. Sandalwood? Cinnabar? No. Not exotic. It was something familiar, a scent made exotic by his distance from it. Vanilla ice cream melting in Silsbee sunshine? Yes that was it. He had left that scent somewhere in years of dusty libraries and numbing domesticity. He realized Li'l Bit had been talking for several minutes. He had no idea of what she had said.

"…and then I met Jared," said Li'l Bit.

"Jared Harris? The hedge fund manager?"

"That's him."

Li'l Bit put her left hand on Bill's arm. The ring finger bore a diamond big enough to be fake.

"Looks like somebody's doing well," said Bill.

She said, "You should talk. Are those slacks Dormeuil?"

Bill laughed. "Yeah. A long way from the jeans I wore the last time we were together. The ones I wore when I cured your ice cream headache."

"I remember. We were singing that song. What was it? Silly willy, bo billy, bonana fanna fo Filly…?"

"Actually, I believe it was more like – Chuck, Chuck, bo buck…"

She joined him for the finish. "…bonana fanna, fo FUCK…"

"I'm pretty sure that's the one," said Bill.

The head tilted back and the neck cried for his touch just as it had all those years ago. Li'l Bit let out a laugh straight from Silsbee. Diners at nearby tables stopped and looked around to see if someone had been injured.

Bill felt happier than he had in years. He wanted to keep the laughter going forever.

He said "Careful Li'l Bit. You don't want to get us thrown out of here like you got us thrown out of Hinckleys."

The eyes of the universe turned black.

"The name is Florence. Florence Tucker. Soon to be Florence Harris."

"I guess I never knew your real name."

"Your kind never does."

"Christ. You know that I didn't mean any offense L'il, er Florence."

"You did not offend me Mr. Jenkins. You simply reminded me of my place. A place and a time I have long ago excised from my memory. Please excuse me. I must return to my friends."

"But I'm your friend. I've always been your friend."

"I'm afraid that word is not in your lexicon, at least not in its traditional meaning."

"Come on. Li'l, er, Florence. I'll make it up to you. I'll…"

She turned on a single stiletto to face him once more. "You'll what Mr. Jenkins? You'll be my friend?" Scarlet lips parted in the smile of a Great White.

"I can think of no better rejoinder than the one I gave the last time you sputtered your kind intentions toward me – 'You will shit and fall back in it Mr. Jenkins.' That is precisely what you will do. That is the full extent of your kind's ability to care about others."

"But…"

"It is impolite to begin a sentence with a conjunction Mr. Jenkins. Surely even lawyers know this simple rule."

As she walked away, Bill could see that the perfection of her neck continued down her back. The line of the black dress dipped to the top of her ass. It was the finest ass Bill had ever seen. It's hemispheres danced in unison and Bill felt the burning he had felt when pretending to be James Dean for a girl in Junior High.

Bill gave up the apartment in the city. He told Helen he needed to spend more time with the family. Delighted, she made sure he had a hot meal to come home to, no matter how late he arrived.

***

Bill's life settled into the routine dream of suburban life. Work, softball, soccer, graduations, and beige colored love with Helen. On holidays, he would take the children to hear the Judge tell stories of the Jenkins clan. They especially liked the one about Wilhelm Jenkins fighting with Sam Houston. Bill pretended to listen while sipping century old Scotch. The Judge sensed his boredom.

"Let's go get us a deer son. We'll head on up to Warren's Ridge and get us a big old buck. That'll lift your mood. I still have your old rifle around here somewhere."

"No Judge. I'm sorry," said Bill.

"What's the matter son? Are you sick? Should I call Doc Warren?"

"No, I'm not sick", said Bill.

"Well what then?"

"Truth is I don't like hunting deer. Never have really."

The Judge snorted like an old tired bull. He said, "Now that's just crazy talk. We Jenkins have hunted deer before God named grass. Are you gonna' stand there and tell me, after all this time, that you never liked hunting deer?"

"No sir. I never have. Not one little bit."

Be Cause

The titles scream at me everywhere, in my email, in conversations with friends, on the television, on the radio, even on my eyelids when I try to rest at night -Amnesty International, Save the Children, ACLU, Human Rights Council, Americans for Freedom, Jews for Jesus, APAC, AVAZ, AA, NA, Christianity, Buddhism, Islam, even my local favorite - Uptown Bill's Small Mall. They shout, "Adopt our cause and change the world, or at least your neighborhood." It's enough to make a body consider renting the Unabomber's cabin and starting an Anthrax mail campaign.

Today, I sit across from a professed Buddhist. He asks, "Who is your sangha?" My sangha? I'm supposed to have a sangha?

I reply, "I don't have one."

He says, "It gets awful lonely out there."

Out where? In the world? I should feel lonely if I cannot recite a list of organizations and groups I belong to and support? At such times I feel as if I am from some other planet. I hardly ever feel lonelier than when I sit among a particular group of people who profess a common belief or cause. Inevitably, I feel trapped, as if the members will soon tie me to a chair (or at least stare at me pointedly) and insist that I pledge allegiance to their beliefs. Those around me start to look like Chatty Cathy dolls. Pull their string and they will recite the approved phrases. Eventually, something deep inside me resists. "Shut up." it says, "Just shut the fuck up." This practice does not lead to popularity.

In my more grandiose moments, I feel a wondrous connectivity as I walk down the street or sit in a local coffee shop. It's a much deeper connection than I feel when I am in a "special" group. I see all of life as my sangha. My membership card is my DNA. I start up conversations with almost everyone I meet. How could they not want to stop and chat with someone like me? When I am filled with such enlightenment I insist that others realize it. I smile and nod sagely as I listen to their whining. I puff out my chest and congratulate myself for being one of the few that is truly open to and understanding of the world's wonder. The universe becomes my sangha, my church, my political party. I begin to consider setting up a non-profit organization or a church to collect dues and carry my legacy forth unto future generations.

I have learned that such states likely are caused by small seizures in my temporal lobe. They are great fun nonetheless. In the sangha of Dale there is no need for priests, teachers, policemen, or politicians. My sangha is open to anyone who acts with kindness. If they want to tell me about how dangerous it is not to follow their spiritual teachings, if they want to carp about the ignorance of other groups, or if they want me to hate and judge non-members they are not welcome. Filled with hormonal wisdom and joy I try to "teach" others to find their own path to "kindness" as I define it. I do it for the "purest" of motives. After all, it's painful to know I'm the only possessor of universal truth. It would be uncivilized of me not to share it.

In calmer times, I'm less prone to evangelizing, but my discomfort with groups remains. Their "fellowship" seems as imaginary, if not more so, than the sangha of Dale. Their "causes" or "rules" for membership feel like cellular membranes designed to keep out the "undesirables" or those who are "toxic" to the group. Clearly group "membranes" are natural. Perhaps we could not exist without them. Perhaps without membership in groups we would simply dissolve into a morass of formless goo. I don't know. I do know that when I force myself to align with the expectations of a group or its teacher I feel like a patch of goo. The stronger or more passionate the group's "cause", the gooier I become.

I think I'll avoid special groups for a while. Causes blind me. The more I focus on a cause the dimmer my life becomes. Everything I see, taste, touch or feel is filtered; its value determined by how well or how poorly it supports the cause. Eventually, I lose contact with the wonder of my brief time in this world. So let me be free of groups today. Let me experience my connection to the universe even if it is just a figment of my imagination stemming from some strange spark inside my skull. I sometimes worry about choosing this path. I wonder if my life will be meaningless without a recognized cause or purpose, that I will be lonely and filled with pain, that I may even be hated by those pursuing causes. Oh well. I prefer to risk pain for the sake of joy than to sacrifice joy to avoid pain. If I must have a group or sangha, let it be like an amoeba whose only membrane is kindness; an amoeba moving and flowing past more rigid groups and their important causes. Anyhow, amoebae have more DNA than humans (231 times more) and they can survive by eating most anything (even poop). They just don't feel the need to brag about it.

Mind Killing Slippers

I awoke in fear this morning. I do not have a name for this fear. It is fuzzy, not like the sharp fear that causes me to leap back from the edge of a rooftop. It is strangely comfortable, like an old pair of slippers that pinch my feet but that I wear anyway because they are near the bed when I get up. When I take off them off and try to shake out whatever it is that is pinching me nothing comes out. I look inside. It's dark and stinky but I see nothing. So I put them back on again and my "magic" slippers pinch my feet once more. Again and again, I take them off, shake them and look inside. Again and again, I put them back on and the pinching returns.

I sigh and go make some coffee. Then I sit and write. At least for a while, but then the pinching begins again and I find myself thinking about it rather than the words on the page. Damn slippers. Damn pinching. Damn fear. I stomp my feet. No use. The pinching grows stronger, commanding my entire attention. Abandoning my writing, I stomp and hop around the room like a dancing like a fool. The pinching increases until I fall to the ground, curl into a ball and curse myself for continuing to wear the same old slippers, day after day, year after year.

I wonder sometimes why I continue to wear them. They are familiar but that's not the only reason. I have borrowed slippers from other people, but they pinch even worse than mine. I have bought new slippers, and for a time their shiny newness can distract me, hiding the fact that their pinch is far harsher than my old familiar pair. Resigned to my fate I return to my own pair even though wearing them often feels like mental death.

I think the only solution is to learn how to walk barefoot. But I fear this most of all. There are so many things that can hurt feet made tender by a lifetime spent in slippers. Stones can bruise. Bottle caps carelessly tossed aside by partiers can cut and wound. Glass from broken picture frames can slice. And those are just the inanimate threats. What about all the creepy crawly things that purposefully seek to poke and sting? What about the insensitive people who may ignore my barefoot state and stomp on my toes? What of the truly evil ones who wear hobnailed boots and hunt down those who foolishly expose their feet to the open sky? Yes. There is much to fear in the world of naked tootsies, but if the alternative is a mind killing life in slippers, then let me wander the world with my feet "au naturel".

I am no stranger to the barefoot life. I remember a time without slippers; a time when I refused to wear any shoes at all. In the hot, damp summers of Southeast Texas I spent endless hours running across cement, hot tar, sticker grass and gravel with nothing between me and the sweet earth. My feet developed deep calluses, natural slippers to protect themselves. Stones bruised my feet. Sometimes I got cut by glass. Sometimes my calluses peeled, leaving me exposed to pain. Sometimes I peeled away the calluses by myself, a dangerous enterprise that often resulted in bleeding. My feet showed me the nub and texture of life, engaging with gritty sand, rough concrete and hot tar; being caressed by the soft grass, tickled by rainwater and cooled by tile floors. They endured fire ant stings and stickers the size of knitting needles. Unquestioning, they stuck their toes in cow pies just to "see what it would feel like". With no need for lacing or shining, they climbed the crusty bark of trees to let me see the highway leading out of my neighborhood. Through it all they kept me awake to the wonder of the world by keeping me fully engaged with it.

So, let me toss these pinching slippers aside. Let me avoid borrowing someone else's shoes, or heaven forbid, thinking that the solution is to "buy" a new pair. I will grow calluses based on what really is rather than wear slippers as protection against what I imagine. I will be bruised, cut and probably need stitches sometimes. I may step in a few cow pies again, either by accident, or just for the hell of it. But don't worry, I promise to rinse off before I visit.

Florida

A few photos from Florida.

Another Secret

(Blame it on Fran Lebowitz and Christopher Hitchens – May God Bless Them)

 

Absolute honesty? No secrets? Is that any way to live? Or rather, is there any other way to live? As in all things I can only speak for a party of three – moi, myself and I. And, as usual, I am not sure of the answer. Secrets can easily become a poison in my brain; seeping into my heart to destroy all hope of happiness. Does that mean I would never keep any secrets? Never is a pretty big word. I hope that I would have avoided telling the Nazis that Anne Frank was hiding upstairs in her house. But most secrets in my life are not of the Anne Frank variety. They are about things that would embarrass me or others. While embarrassment can sometimes feel like death, its consequences are far less permanent and it's a lot less expensive since it requires no priest or ceremony.

Should I reveal secrets about the details of my personal life as I often do on this blog? Obviously, I have decided to do so. My justification is survival. I try to avoid hurting people, but not to the extent that I present a false picture of my thoughts and actions. It is very important that I try to live a life as free from illusions as possible. Illusions and hallucinations have kept me locked up in mental institutions – a reluctant denizen in the land of "mental illness". Every recovery from a mental crisis has been due to a willingness to be completely honest, to let go of all my delusions and face the realities of my life. Focusing on concrete thinking and actions has been vital to recovery, and maintaining the little "sanity" I have found.

Unfortunately, I often hurt others when I try to be honest about myself. I regret this, but I am not sure what to do about it. I try to balance my need to be honest with the practice of kindness and consideration of other's feelings. Often I fail, and reveal or say things that hurt others. I don't like hurting other people, but to be frank and very politically incorrect, I like hurting myself even less. I selfishly want to live and to be free of mental institutions – both states of being require me to have as few secrets as possible, especially secrets that include lying to myself about who I am and what I believe. In the past, I told people that I believed in the divinity of Jesus Christ and the Holy Trinity. I worked very hard to act as if I believed the party line in the hope that one day I would be graced with true belief. It didn't take.

Now, at this late stage of life, I am tired of the charade. I didn't truly believe that Mary gave virgin birth, that Jesus arose from the dead or that all of us would be able to sing in heaven. I only believed this a tiny bit as a child, about the same way I believed in the tooth fairy. I knew the tooth fairy probably wasn't real, but if somebody was going to give me a quarter, I was all for it. I knew that Jesus probably wasn't real, but if I got lots of presents on his birthday, who was I to quibble? No, I never fully believed the Jesus story then and I don't have a shred of belief in it now. I have been and remain agnostic, or perhaps even atheistic on the matter. I choose to say agnostic most of the time because that tends to upset people less. If I really want to be safe, I just call myself a non-believer. People will hang an atheist given half a chance. A non-believer generally can skate by with a good talking to.

Before I continue, let me say I am not one of those dogmatic atheists or agnostics. To me the difference between atheist and agnostic is not worth quibbling over. In my opinion atheists and agnostics arguing over who has the right kind of disbelief is like Catholics arguing with Lutherans about transubstantiation or some such. The participants may find it entertaining but the rest of us will be better served if we just go have a snack, take a nap and come back when they are finished.

I was very sheltered as a child. I didn't know what an agnostic was. I needed to fit in. I lacked the strength and courage to say what I truly believed. I wish now that I had said, "I don't know" when someone asked me if I believed in the Bible and Jesus. That would have been honest. That would have been real. But it wouldn't have been prudent. Many people would have hated and judged me for expressing my uncertainty. So, I took a deep breath and shouted along with the rest that I did believe; that I truly, truly, truly did believe. In fact, I often thought of Jesus as the loser of the Christmas duo – Santa got milk and cookies, Jesus got whips and nails. As a reward for belief, give me milk and cookies any day.

I worked very hard at being a "model" believer. I smiled at church. I spoke up frequently; clarifying other's points of confusion about the Bible's meaning; steering them on the correct path to salvation. Being a natural born liar, it was easy for me to make up meanings and rationalizations on the spur of the moment. When others nodded at the wisdom of my fabrications I came to believe them myself. I slept well. I was confident in my ability to answer any and all questions. I knew that when challenged by a "heathen" I could easily grab a Bible verse, and with a little elaboration, fit it to the question at hand. Once, I was even asked to deliver a sermon. But it was no use. In my heart I knew my "answers" came from inside the brain of Mr. Dale Hankins, no matter how often others told me I was inspired, or that the Holy Spirit was speaking through me.

Over the years, the internal conflict from this deception became increasingly excruciating. It is very hard to live as if you believe something when in your heart you know you're lying, even if you truly love your work. I considered going into the ministry and was telling others of the joys of salvation, but inside things were unraveling as I had more and more questions. As instructed I went to the church elders.

I asked, "Why do we serve grape juice at communion rather than wine? Why don't we follow Jesus' example from the Last Supper?"

The answer came. "Because we don't want to tempt alcoholics; Jesus hates alcohol."

I continued, "But it doesn't say that anywhere in the Bible does it?"

The answer, "Paul tells us not drink much wine."

"But much wine isn't no wine," I said.

They answered, "Well, they had to drink wine; the water is bad over there."

Like a deer hound on the scent I asked, "But many cities in Israel were situated near artesian wells. Besides, if Jesus didn't want people to drink wine he would have just purified the water at the wedding rather than turn it into wine."

"Well young man. Clearly you are having a crisis of faith. Please pray on this. Continuing to question only hurts your faith and the faith of those around you. You don't want to hurt others do you?"

Dejected, I took my questions as evidence of my hatred of Jesus, or of the Devil's influence on my life. I have no direct proof, but I am relatively certain that deluding myself and others about my true thoughts was and remains, the chief conflict at the root of my "mental illness" - a secret lie that can cause me to mistrust everything I say and do. Well, it could have had something to do with all the drugs I did back in the day as well, but let's not quibble.

I blame no one. I am able to make an ass of myself without any assistance. I've had years of practice. All of us face challenges in life. All of us make choices. All of us face consequences. Sometimes the choices we make as children have disastrous consequences later in life. When that happens, we have yet another choice – change, adapt and move on, or build ourselves a little cage of prejudice and dogma. We must chose a life of growth or become rigid and inflexible. I cannot say for others, but rigidity and I are not happy campers. You might even say that I am inflexible about my desire to remain open rather than rigid in my beliefs.

Does this mean that I might come to believe in something like the divinity of Jesus? Yes. I suppose that if he were to appear before me in the flesh, if I were granted Thomas' experience, I might reconsider. However, barring that eventuality, I believe that a divine Jesus is just as likely as a divine Gaia. I have equal amounts of concrete evidence for the divinity of Jesus and Gaia, which is to say none, or at least none that I have been able to decipher. Gaia at least, did me the honor of sending an apparition of herself to me while I was withdrawing from psychotropic medications in a Japanese hotel room. Rather than face an extended period in a mental institution, I declined Gaia's kind offer of a commission as the world's newest savior and ascension to the ranks of godhead. Thus far, the triune Christian God of Jesus, Yahweh, and the Holy Ghost, has left me with a somewhat darker alternative – accept their existence on blind faith or burn in hell.

Some will say that I am just being stubborn, that I am refusing to believe even though there is ample evidence for belief contained in the natural world. "Look at how wonderfully it is designed," some will say. "Isn't that enough evidence for you to believe in Jesus, his virgin birth and his resurrection from the dead?"

No. I do not see nature as proof of Jesus' and Yahweh's existence much less their divinity. To me, the beauty and wonder of nature are just as much evidence for Rama, Shiva, Zeus or Thor as they are for Jesus or Yahweh. Come to think of it, Yahweh's portrait on the Sistine chapel bears a striking resemblance to Zeus and Thor. Are they related?

The scientific method has been far more useful to me than religion in understanding and appreciating the beauty and wonder of nature. To me, when I do not understand something it makes more sense to say "I don't know" or "Let's see what we can find out about that" than it does to claim that there is no need for further study, that we can find the answer to all things worth knowing in an ancient holy text. I like not knowing. I like uncertainty. I like continuing to learn from many, many books – some of them with no pictures. What wonder is there in a world whose full meaning can be contained within a single holy book like the Bible?

I speak of Christians because I am most familiar with their faith, having been taught it as a child. But all religions seem to have one or more holy books that they claim to be the fountainhead of all knowledge and wisdom worth having. This level of certainty frightens me. If every religion is certain of the accuracy of their book above all others, then what hope is there of peaceful coexistence? If every religion acts as a barrier to change how can we deal with the challenges facing us? How can we survive? What sort of programming can we expect on television in the future? Who wants to watch 3D reruns of David and Goliath forever?

This is why the scientific method of knowledge is more helpful to me. I resist using it to the fullest possible extent but eventually I come around. The scientific method requires me to make predictions based on my "belief", idea or hypothesis, to test it and then adjust it based on the outcome. The scientific method requires me to listen to and address questions from my peers. The scientific method requires me to admit the possibility that new evidence will require me to change my ideas especially the ones I hold most dear. There is nothing like watching a long held belief twist slowly in the flames of new knowledge before vanishing in a whiff of smoke. It's almost as good as sex. Wait a moment, I overstate the matter. It's almost as good as sex with myself.

I've never encountered a religion that encourages the same level of questioning, examination and revision as science. All religions evidently require, or at a minimum encourage, their followers to accept with minimal or no question that theirs is the true or preferred path. All of them seem about as open to change as a practicing alcoholic. This is only natural. If you've had the main stage for millennia you likely will retire only with the greatest reluctance, cursing the new actor as you do so.

I know there is no reason for me to hold a grudge. I know my limits and tendency toward grandiosity far too well to assume I have a right to judge others (I'll leave that to nature herself). I've even mastered a modicum of kindness during this life. For a time I was angry at church members. Today I bear them no ill will. They are doing as they believe, and many are among the kindest most generous people I know, especially if you agree with their faith. I ask only that they grant me the courtesy of letting me believe or not believe as I see fit.

If you practice religion remember that it is a practice and that none have mastered it. Please do not judge me too harshly for my moments of fun at your expense. You are welcome to share and poke fun at any aspect of my life as you see fit. Believe me when I say I have been there before you and have beaten you to the punch. I have jabbed at my faults to the point of bleeding many times before. You may raise a twinge or two if you are particularly violent, but you are unlikely to do any permanent harm.

So there it is, yet another little secret revealed. Another fig leaf removed from the enterprise known as Dale Hankins. I mean no one any harm (Please pardon my little jabs, it is difficult being so clever and having so little opportunity to express it). I have found, and continue to find, many powerful teachings in religions. I don't know if Jesus existed, but his existence is not required for me to appreciate the wisdom of, "Do unto others as you would have them do unto you." Similarly, I do not know if Socrates really existed. Yet his teaching that "The unexamined life is not worth living," has proven true time and time again in my life. I will continue to question and explore life. Asking questions and continuing to learn are the most human things I know how to do. I'm content to leave the religious practice of "blind faith" in the hands of those with stronger constitutions. When I have tried it I ended up in the hospital eating mashed potatoes with a plastic spoon.