tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29234248168396090662024-03-17T17:43:53.430-07:00Ken Ring BlogThe Official Blog of Dr. Kenneth RingKevin Williamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10028779062267448624noreply@blogger.comBlogger99125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2923424816839609066.post-26621063956331027172024-03-17T07:09:00.000-07:002024-03-17T07:09:55.019-07:00“To Every Thing There is a Season”<div>By <a href="http://www.kenring.org/about.html">Kenneth Ring, Ph.D.</a></div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">To Every Thing There is a Season</div><div style="text-align: center;">A Time to Blog, and a Time to Not</div><div style="text-align: center;">(with apologies to the author of <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ecclesiastes" rel="nofollow">Ecclesiastes</a>)</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvq0s07VFWmJ21hJ8e5Le_f2IQC-NfzRNdOGVO3056vioSTSaR4Sie2DbIMgAmMbMVeQs2l0CSCBeJSH9UXbfIACAjkjc8VNrf-ArIYxzSA2nuztb554JfWHunWQn0zPNTlL1f1T8gzfxMM6PdT0I-MDa04HZFu7-CHCXVB6sihoXMR3anCtDo_E0C2nA/s280/geoff-dyer.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="280" data-original-width="199" height="280" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvq0s07VFWmJ21hJ8e5Le_f2IQC-NfzRNdOGVO3056vioSTSaR4Sie2DbIMgAmMbMVeQs2l0CSCBeJSH9UXbfIACAjkjc8VNrf-ArIYxzSA2nuztb554JfWHunWQn0zPNTlL1f1T8gzfxMM6PdT0I-MDa04HZFu7-CHCXVB6sihoXMR3anCtDo_E0C2nA/s1600/geoff-dyer.jpg" width="199" /></a></div>I spent much of the last week plodding through an intermittently entertaining book by one of my favorite authors, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Geoff_Dyer" rel="nofollow">Geoff Dyer</a>, though in the end, I agree with many Amazon reviewers that it was not one of his best. But it was the title that lured me to read it, <a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B09CNFV2KS/?tag=iandsorg-20" rel="nofollow">The Last Days of Roger Federer</a>. (Dyer has a penchant for clever titles. The first book of his I read years ago, he entitled <a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0024NP5C4/?tag=iandsorg-20" rel="nofollow">Jeff in Venice, Death in Varanasi</a>, which was followed by <a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B000XUAES0/?tag=iandsorg-20" rel="nofollow">Yoga for People Who Can’t Be Bothered to Do it.</a>) </div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">As some of you may remember, I have been an ardent Fedhead for many years, and Dyer who loves to play and watch tennis has long admired the elegance of <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Roger_Federer" rel="nofollow">Roger Federer</a>, probably the most beloved tennis player, and maybe the best, of all time. But Roger was eventually forced to retire several years ago because of recurrent knee injuries. And he soon will be followed to the sidelines by several of the great tennis players of this era – <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rafael_Nadal" rel="nofollow">Rafael Nadal</a>, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Andy_Murray" rel="nofollow">Andy Murray</a>, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Stan_Wawrinka" rel="nofollow">Stan Wawrinka</a> -- leaving only the obnoxious <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Novak_Djokovic" rel="nofollow">Djokovic</a> as the lone survivor of that quartet of tennis legends. Now it’s time for a new generation of tennis stars to shine. To every thing there is a season. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">This week I’ve also been watching a bit of the current big tournament, which is taking place in Southern California. I happened to catch just a little of the match of one of the legends of women’s tennis, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Venus_Williams" rel="nofollow">Venus Williams</a>, who is 43 years old, which is ancient by tennis standards. Offhand, I can’t think of any professional tennis player still on the circuit as old as she. But in recent years, it has been sad for me to watch her since she usually loses in the first round to unheralded youngsters, twenty years or more her junior. Venus can still hit the ball hard and occasionally can win a set, but her performance in this tournament was typical. She won the first set and then lost the next ten games and the match. To a quick exit once again.</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">It was painful for me to watch her. She moves so slowly now and takes forever to serve. She may still love to play, even if she knows she will lose, but many of her fans, like me, can only wonder when she will finally realize it’s time to put her racquet away. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7lp6uEkjubvA1EgEs0rIRzcGKmhtIP3v6FrfM8RQVcO-kiRA8em-a9Mvscg3FzS4FJG1iMK_qIoXc30QU4iJ1uoVg2313hBG0fEBwomg1fOjKcxU8a2aNiPCTqsRq-t0wMxx58-ugRpy15Cb5khWnfl3s8vl91kgpDKu0RGSeoWHRcq3fuYqsnbiZVrE/s271/jmw-turner.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="271" data-original-width="197" height="271" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7lp6uEkjubvA1EgEs0rIRzcGKmhtIP3v6FrfM8RQVcO-kiRA8em-a9Mvscg3FzS4FJG1iMK_qIoXc30QU4iJ1uoVg2313hBG0fEBwomg1fOjKcxU8a2aNiPCTqsRq-t0wMxx58-ugRpy15Cb5khWnfl3s8vl91kgpDKu0RGSeoWHRcq3fuYqsnbiZVrE/s1600/jmw-turner.jpg" width="197" /></a></div>Dyer’s book does talk about Roger and other tennis players, but actually most of his book, which is really about endings, is devoted to other writers, artists, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jazz" rel="nofollow">jazz musicians</a>, etc., and how their working lives have ended. Sometimes, as with two of his heroes, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ludwig_van_Beethoven" rel="nofollow">Beethoven</a> and the great English painter, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/J._M._W._Turner" rel="nofollow">J. M.V. Turner</a>, they end at the zenith of their creative life. But mostly they don’t. Mostly they are like Venus and sometimes, like her, don’t know when to hang ‘em up. It’s really a sad book, reading about the final days of these creative spirits. And even Dyer himself, though only in his early sixties, can see his own end coming, though he still thinks it’s “in the distance.” </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Reflecting on this book, and also thinking about the passing from the scene of most of the tennis players I have loved to watch in recent years, I began to think I should follow my own advice and not get to the point where I become an embarrassment to myself or my friends and few remaining fans.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">So I’ve decided to give up the blogging life.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">But I have another oddball reason for making this decision now. If I’ve counted correctly, this is the 100th blog I’ve written over the past four years. And I just have “a thing” about such round numbers. Whenever a novel ends on exactly page 400, I am thrilled. Even when reading books, I often try to stop on pages that are multiples of one hundred. It’s daffy, I know, but that’s just the way I am. So if this is my 100th blog, I think, given my numeral obsessions, it is a perfect time to stop.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">But, of course, I have other reasons. For one, in the past few months, I’ve noticed that I keep making typos when I write. I’ve never been a good typist, but the kind of errors that have been cropping up in my texts are sometimes bizarre, as if my fingers have a contrary mind of their own. If it wasn’t for spellcheck, my blogs would be riddled with frequent and often weird miscues. As I’ve said, this is something recent and a bit disturbing.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">For another, I know I can’t write as well as I used to. When I look at some of the <a href="http://www.kenring.org/books.html">books I wrote years ago</a>, or even some of my earlier blogs, I can only mourn a certain loss in my verbal fluency. And sometimes I can’t seem to find the word or phrase I want to use and am forced to resort to my Thesaurus. And I know I’m not the only old duffer to whom this happens. It also occurs to great writers I admire, as I learned from Dyer’s book:</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDru1-TgZhmBooA7v4oFSpYXXIch0lnNVUWUNj6bCQh988bqKsutOKuBqWzAAP2Z0X_tV4DwqlLfzYuP8MQTY4EfX03nSJ3vsvak5Sjj2vm7fZ-h3UXz8Ioaz8aUDGLmIdlQiv-s6-368oCtkQjpFHG_5ZJqr3eyt6sOLr0vZpqzjLBnRwdx534QnGtEk/s291/john-updike.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="291" data-original-width="203" height="291" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDru1-TgZhmBooA7v4oFSpYXXIch0lnNVUWUNj6bCQh988bqKsutOKuBqWzAAP2Z0X_tV4DwqlLfzYuP8MQTY4EfX03nSJ3vsvak5Sjj2vm7fZ-h3UXz8Ioaz8aUDGLmIdlQiv-s6-368oCtkQjpFHG_5ZJqr3eyt6sOLr0vZpqzjLBnRwdx534QnGtEk/s1600/john-updike.jpg" width="203" /></a></div>Hard to believe, but even <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Updike" rel="nofollow">[John] Updike</a>, in his mid-seventies, confessed: “With ominous frequency, I can’t think of the right word. I know there is a word; I can visualize the exact shape it occupies in the jigsaw puzzle of the English language. But the word itself, with its precise edges and unique tint of meaning, hangs on the misty rim of consciousness.” Dyer goes on to comment:</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>“It’s just that the sentences lack many of the qualities that made the prose of twenty or forty years earlier such a joy to read.”</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">But even reading books is more difficult for me these days. One the reasons I had a hard time with Dyer’s book, aside from its small font, is that I have to wear a patch over my right eye to be able to read books now. And although I can still read with good comprehension, more and more, especially after lunch, I find that I grow drowsy and am reading the same lines over and over. Plus, I read very slowly now. It seems to take me forever to get through a book now (unless it’s a novel, but sometimes, even then).</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">And there’s the life, or the half-life, of my body. I usually like to joke about all my infirmities and will continue to do that, but, really, I am not having a lot of fun dealing with my physical struggles and having to take so much time with body maintenance issues. Not only can I no longer see well, I can’t hear well either. But even worse are my increasingly weak and unstable legs. The other day, when I went out to put my garbage bin away, I slipped and fell hard to the ground. I couldn’t get up for several minutes until I managed to turn the bin on its side and hoist myself up. I was banged up and bleeding, but fortunately I didn’t break anything. I was lucky. This time. But what about next time?</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I used to be able to ride my stationary bike, but when that was no longer possible, I could at least walk up and down my street. But no more. Now all I can do is pad around my house like a zombie, reminding myself, “don’t fall, Ken!” Needless to say, I can no longer travel and haven’t been able to do so for years. Now the best I can do is to wander out to my patio, once the weather warms up, to sit among my azaleas and watch the clouds drift by. If this keeps up, I will end my days as I started them 88 years ago – by crawling.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Enough. You get the picture. And please don’t think I’m trying to evoke your sympathies. I know I’m lucky still to be able to enjoy life as much as I can, and I remain grateful not only for what I can still do, but for the life I’ve been privileged to have. It’s been a good life and I have been blessed in so many ways. To feel otherwise would only be churlish and run the risk of my turning into a cantankerous old fart. No, despite everything, I am still happy. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/1627876987/?tag=iandsorg-20" rel="nofollow" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="246" data-original-width="164" height="326" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqguj0dCGNVP-S5LdjYmueSof7PTmC0mOFdLejzVxTaUso7cmmG_XfNH31NKPKzXyH_U8qpSQVrSPdS7J7ajja_AO24mQoQ8GvVXbEbBZP02YlUOaYuyascHQtCrqiyWauNg90nqR_3FRQYF-jPlrx9W5I5Wy7q0h6byMjyBx8ZILpfT3WSW5TQT1hTJg/w217-h326/waiting-to-die.jpg" width="217" /></a></div>But <i><a href="https://www.google.com/search?q=entre+nous" rel="nofollow">entre nous</a></i>, after having written so much recently about <a href="https://www.kenringblog.com/2024/01/what-you-can-expect-to-experience-when.html">NDERs and their desire to return “home,”</a> I have to admit that I often feel that I am just “passing the time,’ trying to keep myself entertained, while waiting for the good Lord to allow me, at long and longing last, to return home. Still “<a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/1627876987/?tag=iandsorg-20" rel="nofollow">waiting to die</a>” after all these years!</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Nevertheless, I wouldn’t want to end this blog by giving you the impression that I am only preoccupied with my own difficulties nowadays. I still grieve for <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Palestinians" rel="nofollow">the Palestinians</a> suffering so many terrors and privations in <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gaza%E2%80%93Israel_conflict" rel="nofollow">Gaza</a>, for the Israelis who died from the brutal savagery of <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hamas" rel="nofollow">Hamas</a> and for <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Israel%E2%80%93Hamas_war_hostage_crisis" rel="nofollow">the captives</a> – those who are still alive – who are not yet free, and for the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ukrainian_resistance_in_Russian-occupied_Ukraine" rel="nofollow">Ukrainians</a> who seem sure to lose the war after losing so many lives already. It is a dark and dangerous time we are living in.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">And of course I follow the domestic and political news, too, again with a feeling of foreboding about what it portends for our country. Those of you who have read my blogs will know where my sympathies and antipathies lie. I will just say that’s one more reason that I hope I will not live to see the results of <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/2024_United_States_presidential_election" rel="nofollow">the next election</a>.</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">But, as usual, I have another peculiar reason for that, and again it has to do with my obsession with numbers. I’ve always been fascinated by <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Prime_number" rel="nofollow">prime numbers</a>, and some of them I have found so distasteful that I simply can’t bear them. For example, for me 79 is very bad prime. So when I was 78, I couldn’t stand the thought of turning 79, so I decided not to. I just declared I would remain 78 until I could go straight to 80. So you can imagine how I feel about the dreaded prospect of becoming 89. No way, José! If I should have the misfortune of surviving another year, it’s 90 or bust.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Finally, a word to all of you who have been reading these blogs of mine for the last several years.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/1627879994/?tag=iandsorg-20" rel="nofollow" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="243" data-original-width="162" height="339" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8Kx1etMU7sVJ3rya_nrMloRKlkRyKDIpa3l4Th0jhGjh5eFtt27qcPBlDsC31ndKeDZ0lXcdUW7wyIbpIcq43CGyVyk_esOsT6hDFy6r56jKOHhcnHGczaphCfvKlnGHVVgimW5LVQeFEpBsn-Ccaq930KcnkcBLveM9jLPIVUHklzmqq3mIdgj6gHQ0/w226-h339/blogging-toward-infinity.jpg" width="226" /></a></div>Thank you. Thank you so much. Even though many people have read them, I especially want to thank those of you who have taken the time and trouble to write to me. Sometimes with just a line or two, but often with long and thoughtful commentaries, mostly appreciative ones, but sometimes with comments from readers who have taken issue with me or tried to set me straight on various matters. I have been grateful for all of them and for all of you. You have enriched and enlivened my life so much during these years, and I shall miss you. I hope you will miss me, too, but we’ve had our pleasures with each other, haven’t we, during this season of <a href="https://www.kenringblog.com/">my blogging life</a>. To every thing there is a season, and with <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Spring_training" rel="nofollow">spring training for baseball</a> coming up soon, I guess that will have to be the kind of season I will now look forward to. Take me out to the ball game – even if’s it only on TV.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div>Kevin Williamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10028779062267448624noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2923424816839609066.post-23387872612853032732024-03-06T05:37:00.000-08:002024-03-06T05:37:12.540-08:00Life in the Wrong Place<div>By <a href="http://www.kenring.org/about.html">Kenneth Ring, Ph.D.</a></div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Not to be born at all</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Is best, far best that can befall,</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Next best, when born, with least delay</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>To trace the backward way.</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>For when youth passes with its giddy train,</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Troubles on troubles follow, toils on toils,</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Pain, pain forever pain;</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>And none escapes life's coils.</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Envy, sedition, strife,</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Carnage and war, make up the tale of life.</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"> -- <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sophocles" rel="nofollow">Sophocles</a></div><div><br /></div><div>“It’s just one part of nature eating another part of nature,” he said.</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy7Dtj-9jTHlkci2fYLrzEl3ZrS0EeufSnkz320aTjC95ZXLHRL7gDvLpIehPEkcgfNdN9jyo_J0X1lBtsKe5-LcaRbPzIbzrin47LGyMzP7mB8rQggaf1GD9TzRN3jNbq-ED4OuVOOZ5aHBwD-BeXjfDYAkIhjkvdGB55lTGlGcoAZ-ZDUMvbz7cmkqw/s219/catapillar.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="152" data-original-width="219" height="152" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy7Dtj-9jTHlkci2fYLrzEl3ZrS0EeufSnkz320aTjC95ZXLHRL7gDvLpIehPEkcgfNdN9jyo_J0X1lBtsKe5-LcaRbPzIbzrin47LGyMzP7mB8rQggaf1GD9TzRN3jNbq-ED4OuVOOZ5aHBwD-BeXjfDYAkIhjkvdGB55lTGlGcoAZ-ZDUMvbz7cmkqw/s1600/catapillar.jpg" width="219" /></a></div>I was looking at a caterpillar munching on a leaf from a tree I had been gazing at in rapture for several minutes during my second <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/LSD" rel="nofollow">LSD trip</a>. My guide, an impish fellow professor with a devilish twinkle in his eye, was trying to reassure me that this was only “the way of the world,” and that I shouldn’t be upset. But I was. Somehow, I was horrified at the sight of <a href="https://www.google.com/search?q=rapacity">nature’s rapacity</a>. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I was reminded of this incident the other night when I was watching a documentary about the <a href="https://www.fws.gov/story/aggressive-birds">violence of birds</a>. We don’t usually think of these delightful winged creatures as aerial savages, but they certainly are, as this documentary makes clear. Of course, we already knew that some of the birds of Australia are legendary for their viciousness, but surely not the stately swan. But, yes, even swans can attack unwanted interlopers with ferocity.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">After seeing his documentary, I was led to reflect on the <a href="https://medium.com/afwp/discovering-the-violence-of-nature-2f540e1fde9d">violence of nature</a> generally, but particularly that concerning animals. Their world seems to be divided between predators and prey, and to see defenseless animals in the midst of being devoured by more powerful adversaries can turn one’s stomach, so, more often, we prefer to turn our eyes away from such a horrifying bloody spectacle. The old adage, “red in tooth and craw” comes readily to mind. What a world we live in.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Of course, we humans are the alpha predator of the planet, and by now we are well on our way to causing the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Holocene_extinction" rel="nofollow">extinction of all the megafauna</a> on the planet we have left. We not only eat other animals, but we kill them with impunity. If we kill another human being and are apprehended, we can be tried for murder, but if we <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Holocaust_analogy_in_animal_rights" rel="nofollow">kill other animals</a>, there is, with few exceptions, no court in the world where we can be brought to justice. Meanwhile, we are free to treat (or mistreat) the animals we like to eat by penning them up, confining them to cages where they can barely move, shooting them full of hormones, and then slaughtering them. Pity the lot of such animals. What a world we live in.</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhYvzajiI5UYuAyUXXq_pqlbaqgFS8Nb84ufukyKBLRtxqZmLo5DEbC3Fl0fI8HjC8U9LRU3cv3lK_wTEtZyNw_HdGF8PJjQoNlnqd0PLqX7hReeLvpeCkShimsemB1d1qF59sceOFmvEZXB2m1Qu_EuBMg6MOVKk0TtD4iQM5Hx9G85SLaOVLb98NanE/s267/nuclear-weapon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="267" data-original-width="197" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhYvzajiI5UYuAyUXXq_pqlbaqgFS8Nb84ufukyKBLRtxqZmLo5DEbC3Fl0fI8HjC8U9LRU3cv3lK_wTEtZyNw_HdGF8PJjQoNlnqd0PLqX7hReeLvpeCkShimsemB1d1qF59sceOFmvEZXB2m1Qu_EuBMg6MOVKk0TtD4iQM5Hx9G85SLaOVLb98NanE/s1600/nuclear-weapon.jpg" width="197" /></a></div>Naturally, we don’t limit our killing to animals. We humans have been in the business of <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/War" rel="nofollow">killing other humans</a> for many thousands of years, including bashing in the skulls of Neanderthals and sending them the way of 99.9% of all creatures that have ever walked or crawled on the earth – to extinction. And once we discovered the spear, we were on way to devising all sorts of weapons for torture and killing until we have reached the age of <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nuclear_warfare" rel="nofollow">nuclear warfare</a>. Now, when we read history, doesn’t it seem that we are really reading about one battle after another, one war followed by the next, with no end in sight? This history of our world is written in the color of blood. What a world we live in. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Think about all the soldiers (and civilians) who, over the centuries, have been slaughtered or maimed for life because of our penchant for endless war-making. Really, to try to imagine the scale of <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Suffering" rel="nofollow">human suffering</a> because of all the wars and other forms of savagery we have unleashed on one another is impossible. We are a violent and sick species.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">And then I can scarcely fail to mention the truly monstruous villains responsible for the death of millions during warfare and instances of <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ethnic_cleansing" rel="nofollow">ethnic cleansing</a> and <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Genocide" rel="nofollow">genocide</a> – vile men like Hitler, Stalin, Mao, Pol Pot, and now I suppose we need to add Vladmir Putin to this list given his cruel and heartless slaughter of so many innocent penned-up, starving <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Palestinian_genocide_accusation" rel="nofollow">Palestinians in Gaza</a>.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">And, of course, I haven’t space to mention other heinous monsters from the more distant past.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">In this respect, we are more like chimpanzees than <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bonobo" rel="nofollow">bononos</a>. Of course, chimps are very smart and we are fond of them since they “are so like us” in so many ways. But as <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jane_Goodall" rel="nofollow">Jane Goodall</a> pointed out years ago, they are also violent and warlike. You don’t want to mess with chimps either.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Even the sports we enjoy watching like football, boxing, hockey and so forth are devoted to trying to hurt your opponents. Ever witness the spectators watching a boxing match? Not a pretty sight, to say nothing of the pugilists involved in beating each other until one collapses on the canvas. We love our <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Blood_sport" rel="nofollow">blood sports</a>, too.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">And then I think of women – women who not only have often to endure the <a href="https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC3093177/">agony of giving birth</a>, but then who may themselves die in childbirth. Or even when they do survive may sometimes find that the baby they have struggled so to bring forth is horribly deformed, and now they have to deal with that, too. Or even if the baby seems to be fine at birth, he or she may yet die when young, causing their parents untold grief. To how many millions of women has this happened over the centuries! The numbers must be legion.</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">And I won’t do more than allude to other forms of <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Domestic_violence" rel="nofollow">suffering to which women are subjected</a> by the violence of the men in their lives including their husbands. Men are cruel, and women often suffer from their cruelty. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Then, we must not forget the future we all face when we get old and infirm and are often subject to <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Old_age" rel="nofollow">years of intolerable pain</a> before we are released into death. To say nothing of the enormous expenses we can expect to incur in the last years of our lives.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHI7aENQ3Rghh4ZwWqguoXEHRp0EoUis5VktZ5pqK2yEvi9k3Ova0iLdMA_Qmv4Aa7kefY71HLACcaPg7P_hJRv-2UiOQpuR4R0gJive7jkmhW4FhdxkM5G7L7X0cXkjm8dW9fYezr3UEZ8rVP0Lgtoz9ArJjTn73Y4N5EuGVeiMqLaA3ErgDmKTmxXb0/s295/in-praise-of-failure.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="295" data-original-width="200" height="295" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHI7aENQ3Rghh4ZwWqguoXEHRp0EoUis5VktZ5pqK2yEvi9k3Ova0iLdMA_Qmv4Aa7kefY71HLACcaPg7P_hJRv-2UiOQpuR4R0gJive7jkmhW4FhdxkM5G7L7X0cXkjm8dW9fYezr3UEZ8rVP0Lgtoz9ArJjTn73Y4N5EuGVeiMqLaA3ErgDmKTmxXb0/s1600/in-praise-of-failure.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>I recently finished reading a very stimulating book called <a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0B3JW344F/?tag=iandsorg-20" rel="nofollow">In Praise of Failure</a>. In it, there is a story about a very unusual but brilliant Romanian writer by the name of <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Emil_Cioran" rel="nofollow">E. M. Cioran</a>. He was famous not only for his books, but for his life a dedicated idler. He felt that there was no point in working in a meaningless universe, so he never did.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">But he could not escape a brutal end to his life. It is a cautionary tale that I hope will never happen to you or me, but does to so many.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Toward the end of his life, Cioran developed Alzheimer’s and, though he loved to walk, he could no longer find his way home. Then he started to lose his memory, though not his sense of humor. Someone asked him if he were Cioran. He replied “I used to be.” When a friend read him passages from his book, <a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07D1GC9NX/?tag=iandsorg-20" rel="nofollow">The Trouble with Being Born</a>, he listened carefully and then exclaimed, “This guy writes better than I do.” It was all downhill rapidly from there. Cioran soon couldn’t name the most familiar things and then he forgot who he was altogether.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">One reads this with a shudder.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I could go on for many pages with this litany of horrors, but I won’t. Instead, I will just remind you of the diseases we are all subject to, thanks to the microbes and viruses of this world. The <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Black_Death" rel="nofollow">Black Death</a> that wiped out a third of the population of Europe in the middle of the 14th century and raged with periodic outbreaks for centuries afterward. “<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Spanish_flu" rel="nofollow">The Spanish Flu</a>” that killed millions at the end of the First World War and immediately afterward. And of course, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/COVID-19" rel="nofollow">COVID</a>, in our own time.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Years ago, I read a popular novel by <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Irving" rel="nofollow">John Irving</a> called “<a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07J44W78R/?tag=iandsorg-20" rel="nofollow">The World According to Garp</a>.” The theme and motto of that book was simple and devastating: The world is not safe.” Indeed. It is an <a href="https://www.google.com/search?q=abattoir" rel="nofollow">abattoir</a>. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">What I have written so far, though disturbing and even frightening, is not exactly news. We all know this, though we prefer not to think about such horrors. But there is another one, potentially far worse, that you probably haven’t heard of, but you are about to.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO7hJOh0bTfJSlSufbefxDfeuJUcRxemr3mMQXgYpRdGJTngxibOrmzo2XgIitEVdCJETNtqjUDJDsuWa-MmPxxg7eIlk6VwABNNgiBZMNJuS-PAwfR2vqi_-TzRy6gdtllHej7lrF7brUNqsISa8RNBVvkcq8STDx16qHHJ8PtHwIFQlvHwUnCVZudkw/s238/cme.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="176" data-original-width="238" height="176" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO7hJOh0bTfJSlSufbefxDfeuJUcRxemr3mMQXgYpRdGJTngxibOrmzo2XgIitEVdCJETNtqjUDJDsuWa-MmPxxg7eIlk6VwABNNgiBZMNJuS-PAwfR2vqi_-TzRy6gdtllHej7lrF7brUNqsISa8RNBVvkcq8STDx16qHHJ8PtHwIFQlvHwUnCVZudkw/s1600/cme.jpg" width="238" /></a></div>Ever hear of <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Solar_wind" rel="nofollow">solar winds</a>?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">These are storms that form in what we tend to call “outer space,” and they can be deadly in their consequences.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I’ve just read a truly frightening article about them in the latest issue of The New Yorker. It was entitled: “<a href="https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2024/03/04/what-a-major-solar-storm-could-do-to-our-planet">What a Major Solar Storm Could Do to Our Planet</a>.”</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">These storms are unpredictable and cannot be controlled. They’ve been happening forever, but we mostly have been unaware of them because until recent times, we haven’t had thousands of satellites in the sky and become so dependent on a constant supply of electricity to power our computers and other such now indispensable technologies for modern life.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">But now, suddenly, we have begun to realize our vulnerability.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">To illustrate the potential dangers we face from this menace, here are a couple of quotes from the article:</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>The potential consequences are as sweeping as our technological dependence. In 2019, the Federal Emergency Management Agency, surveying the landscape of possible disasters, concluded that only two natural hazards have the capacity to simultaneously affect the entire nation. One is a <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pandemic" rel="nofollow">pandemic</a>. The other is a <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Coronal_mass_ejection" rel="nofollow">severe solar storm</a>.</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>Extensive <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Coronal_mass_ejection#Impact_on_Earth" rel="nofollow">damage to satellites</a> would compromise everything from communications to national security, while extensive <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Electrical_grid" rel="nofollow">damage to the power grid</a> would compromise everything: health care, transportation, agriculture, emergency response, water and sanitation, the financial industry, the continuity of government. The report estimated that recovery from a [severe] storm could take up to a decade and cost many trillions of dollars.</i></div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">It could also result in the death of millions of people and usher in a new dark age, which would take years to recover from. Nothing would ever be the same.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">“The world is not safe.” </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">More than that, it seems to have been a mistake.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">************************* </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRmFO5E1PZ7Pil0rKKng-Lm6Do1N-Hu9xGBt4H8j8qfgsx5CLFQqZSkCsnrzPjsmQpgNrCM5QrrSvdY8C5waNJIzaIML34DTYKt8pyWV1HuE80va6ZeN8x7UYuGu8vW9AC2klf_1sruXdShpEL-vS9jCE6PjGabejdF72InKJNXB3nrIlo8eJnJUC6Ef4/s269/woody-allen.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="269" data-original-width="198" height="269" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRmFO5E1PZ7Pil0rKKng-Lm6Do1N-Hu9xGBt4H8j8qfgsx5CLFQqZSkCsnrzPjsmQpgNrCM5QrrSvdY8C5waNJIzaIML34DTYKt8pyWV1HuE80va6ZeN8x7UYuGu8vW9AC2klf_1sruXdShpEL-vS9jCE6PjGabejdF72InKJNXB3nrIlo8eJnJUC6Ef4/s1600/woody-allen.jpg" width="198" /></a></div>Of course, there are many wonderful things in our world – the beauties of nature (at least when the sun shines), the splendors of humanity’s achievements, many good and lots of great people, the elegance of <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Roger_Federer" rel="nofollow">Roger Federer</a> on the tennis court, the leaps of Baryshnikov on the ballet stage, holding a newborn in one’s arms, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Coup_de_chance" rel="nofollow">Woody Allen’s latest film</a>, and so forth. The list of things to be grateful for could obviously go on for many pages.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">We can also be thankful for saints, but as the great French aphorist, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/La_Rochefoucauld" rel="nofollow">La Rochefoucauld</a>, remarked, “For every saint, there are a thousand knaves” (Actually, that was me, not him).</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">But, still, there is no gainsaying that this is still a perilous world we live in, and no one lives in it without suffering and dying. That’s obvious, too, of course. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">These considerations have led some people to conclude that this world of ours, as I suggested above, was a mistake and should never have been brought into existence. And, more than that, that it was actually not created by God at all, but by a malevolent entity usually called “the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Demiurge" rel="nofollow">demiurge</a>,” which is usually said to be a warped god of “corruption, decay and darkness.”</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">People who take this view are called <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gnosticism" rel="nofollow">Gnostics</a>, and in the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/History_of_religion" rel="nofollow">history of religion</a>, they have had a sizable and influential following, although orthodox Christianity did its best to wipe them out and was largely successful.</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Nevertheless, many <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nag_Hammadi_library" rel="nofollow">Gnostic gospels</a> have survived, including the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gospel_of_Philip" rel="nofollow">Gospel of Philip</a> that holds “that the world came about through a mistake.” Further, the one that made it and botched it wanted to create an imperishable and immortal world, but failed miserably. Instead, the Gnostics say, he was just a clumsy creator, “the originator of an embarrassment of cosmic proportions.” As a result, the world we find ourselves in is an unfortunate and misguided one, which the demiurge should never have attempted because such an undertaking was beyond his capacities.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">According to the Gnostics, the demiurge was driven by “passion, ignorance, and recklessness.” Flawed and limited as he was, he nevertheless was able to create “mankind and the universe that we all still inhabit.” </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Thus, if we follow the Gnostic view here, we are living in the wrong place, in a world that should never have been, and from which “the true God” was absent.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Such an interpretation of our “fallen world” helps to explain the so-called <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Problem_of_evil" rel="nofollow">problem of evil</a> (that <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gottfried_Wilhelm_Leibniz" rel="nofollow">Leibniz</a> first called “<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Theodicy" rel="nofollow">theodicy</a>”) in which a supposedly beneficent and omnipotent God was seemingly incapable of preventing bad things, like wars, volcanoes, earthquakes and floods, from happening. Well, according to the Gnostics, He couldn’t because the true God is not present in our world, which is ruled and was ruined by the demiurge.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Which leaves us with the obvious question: Where, then, is <a href="https://near-death.com/god/">the true God</a> to be found?</div><div><br /></div><div>******************** </div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I think by now, you must know the answer to this question. At least you should if you’ve been reading <a href="https://www.kenringblog.com/">my blogs about NDEs</a> all these years, especially my most recent ones.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">How many times have you read the <a href="https://iands.org/research/nde-research/nde-archives31.html">NDE accounts</a> I have cited and quoted from in which an NDEr states that this is not the real world, but a kind of dream world from which they awaken to true reality once they enter the world of Light? It’s there that they so often say that they are finally “<a href="https://near-death.com/homecoming/">home</a>,” where they belong. And it’s there that they <a href="https://near-death.com/god/">encounter the Light</a>, which they know intuitively is God, the true God, the God of infinite and unconditional Love, a Love so intense and overwhelming that their only desire is to merge with it and never leave its embrace.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">In short, this world of Light is immediately recognized as our true home because it is only there that we encounter for the first time the God we had believed was in the physical world. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQEQxQh4yAlUCK82xWg85JLbOQ9xxIx16TkBCvV1Mjtzp9U55u2JwVBjUNKi1jBFLHQTATSAVwtYUpAS_5thXOSYNMRC3wAfnShu4mMF9ob6brOUkiYlqNKcnRmRWzmWuQ0hBAvmpX036XFEKrikTuiFAIx8eb4JooLFXWwU_k_xRsdI5zX8Prac9TUQQ/s299/why-an-afterlife-obviously-exists.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="299" data-original-width="200" height="299" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQEQxQh4yAlUCK82xWg85JLbOQ9xxIx16TkBCvV1Mjtzp9U55u2JwVBjUNKi1jBFLHQTATSAVwtYUpAS_5thXOSYNMRC3wAfnShu4mMF9ob6brOUkiYlqNKcnRmRWzmWuQ0hBAvmpX036XFEKrikTuiFAIx8eb4JooLFXWwU_k_xRsdI5zX8Prac9TUQQ/s1600/why-an-afterlife-obviously-exists.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>Instead of citing some of these narratives again, I will simply quote a few from a recently published book by a Swedish author named <a href="https://www.amazon.com/stores/John-Irving/author/B000APTDJ4/?tag=iandsorg-20" rel="nofollow">Jens Amberts</a>. He entitled his book <a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/1785359851/?tag=iandsorg-20" rel="nofollow">Why an Afterlife Exists</a>. These are some of the stories from the lips of NDErs that convinced him of his claim:</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>The minute I woke up on that hillside in <a href="https://near-death.com/heaven/">heaven</a> I knew that that was more real than any time I've ever spent here on <a href="https://near-death.com/earth/">Earth</a>. And I knew instantly that my <a href="https://near-death.com/time/">time</a> here was really but a <a href="https://near-death.com/introduction-to-dreams-and-the-afterlife/">dream</a>. It's real to us when we're in it, but once I was there in heaven I realized that's more real, that felt more real, and it made much more sense to me than anything here. In heaven, it's so clear, so real, so rational, so logical, but yet emotional and loving at the same time. Immediately I knew that was real. Immediately.</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>Now, what heaven looks like. ”OMG” doesn't even describe how beautiful this place is. Heaven is, there are no words. I mean, I could sit here and just not say anything and just cry, and that would be what heaven looks like. There are mountains of beauty, there are things in this realm, you can't even describe how beautiful this place is. There are colors you can't even imagine, there are sounds you can't even create. There are beauties upon this world that you think are beautiful here. Amplify it over there times a billion. it's incredibly beautiful, there are no words to describe how beautiful this place is, it's incredibly gorgeous. </i></div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>I went into the light, and as I was moving up into the light, I just started to <a href="https://near-death.com/intense-emotions/">feel so good</a>. Like the higher that I went into the light, and the more that I moved up and further away from Earth, the better I felt. And the feeling of pleasure does not really apply to this Earth, like nothing can compare. Like if you took everything that you were in favor of, like maybe getting a massage, in a hot tub, your favorite music, your favorite food, your favorite drink, everything that you love, happening to you all at once, no matter what it is, all at once, it would not even closely compare to the pleasure that was just within that light. And as you moved further into [it], like further away from this Earth, the pleasure felt even better. </i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>You know how people say that it's like a dream? Like living life is like a dream and then the other realm is the real world? I wouldn't even say that that's even a remotely accurate description. It was just such a minute, insignificant little experience that I had on Earth, that was just so short and temporary, that I might as well just forgotten it. Yeah, it was just, it was nothing. It was like, yeah, he's back home” kind of a thing. You know how people say it feels like you're home? I would go further and say that it felt more like I was there forever. It's way beyond just a feeling of being at home, that doesn't describe it very well. It's like I never left there. To be honest, I think we're all kind of there, we’re just perceiving ourselves as being here at the moment. But we never actually completely leave that realm, I don't think. It's just a short little experience, that's all. That's all life is.</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">So, when you still find yourself suffering in this difficult and sorrowful world, be assured that as real as it seems, it’s not the real world at all. One day you will wake up from this nightmare and find that you are home where you belong in the world of Light and in the presence of the true God.</div>Kevin Williamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10028779062267448624noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2923424816839609066.post-87513688948899818242024-02-05T05:41:00.000-08:002024-02-05T05:41:12.396-08:00Introducing My Stellar Son Dave - the Apple of His Old Man’s Glaucomic Eye<div>By <a href="http://www.kenring.org/about.html">Kenneth Ring, Ph.D</a>.</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">My son, David, was, in the end, a welcome, if unexpected, addition to my family. After my wife Susan and I got married in March of 1969, we took off on a cross-country honeymoon on our way to California where I was to spend my sabbatical leave in Berkeley. Each of us had a daughter by a previous marriage, and when our kids met, they decided they would like to be sisters. So, Susan and I, with some measure of misgivings and ambivalence, which turned out to be well-warranted, decided to oblige them by marrying. The girls would join us later. This was our honeymoon and we were determined to have a ball on the way out to California.</div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Susan assured me that, as she had been on the pill forever, there was no chance of her getting pregnant any time soon.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Famous last words, as they say.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Dave was the product of her miscalculation, but it was one of her best since that boy turned out to be a joy and a father’s pride – but then, I am proud of all my kids.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjasEJRejoxjm62e5C2whq2-nyayX12kiYnUrVjVXE1wdvG6HwECCYL-yBwgUafnJZT-s9sge4RmmFtOEgyk8ruhpcRqkBCyRwGaHoulZA8AordhArN8KWvAPkx1OUiTKX3C3t3X1EUB6Ey0jn3ukWvI-YTd1ozxl5tYyIQBKXRXVmK1kk-lzJYsYHzoGQ/s1129/photo-01.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="761" data-original-width="1129" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjasEJRejoxjm62e5C2whq2-nyayX12kiYnUrVjVXE1wdvG6HwECCYL-yBwgUafnJZT-s9sge4RmmFtOEgyk8ruhpcRqkBCyRwGaHoulZA8AordhArN8KWvAPkx1OUiTKX3C3t3X1EUB6Ey0jn3ukWvI-YTd1ozxl5tYyIQBKXRXVmK1kk-lzJYsYHzoGQ/w398-h268/photo-01.jpg" width="398" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">As a boy, Dave was a charmer – so very sweet and loving. Cool, too. This photograph shows him in his youthful exuberance. He was always breaking his big glasses during those years. After one such mishap, he greeted his optician by saying, “Long time, no see.” A born wit. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">Indeed, at least with regard to his sense of humor, he has taken after his old man. For example, when I was in high school, I was voted “class wit.” Dave, not to be undone, was voted “class clown.” But even when he was young, he was funny and possessed an antic and zany wit. When asked what he wanted to be when he grew up, he said, “a head of lettuce.” Another time, when he was about three years old, we were having dinner at a local restaurant when Dave had to go to the bathroom on his own. But when he came out, he shouted so all the restaurant patrons could hear, “Mommy, I shit in the toilet!” Yes, Dave was really an exuberant and funny kid.</div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">And he has only got better with age. Perhaps his greatest coup as a wit occurred when we had travelled to Hawaii for a vacation when Dave was a teen-ager. Originally, I had planned to go with my then wife, Barbara, and my daughter, Kathryn, but by the time it came for us to travel, my wife and I had split up. I still had her ticket, however, so I invited Dave to go in her stead.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Now, in those days, travel by air was not the fraught and security-ridden affair it is now. It was much more casual. For example, I once used a ticket that a friend of mine named Ronna Kabatznick had given me. Although I did not enjoy being addressed as Mr. Kabatznick, I was grateful to get a free ride on that flight. Anyway, when we flew to Hawaii, Dave used my soon-to-be ex-wife’s ticket. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">All went well until our return home on New Year’s Eve. When Dave handed the stewardess (as they were called in those days) his ticket, she said, “What a minute. This says Barbara.” Without missing a beat, Dave corrected her. “No,” he said, that’s BarBARrah. That did the trick. Dave is not only a card but a crafty kid, quick to quip on his feet.</div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">But I hasten to add, there is a depth to Dave that you wouldn’t infer from these jocular anecdotes I’ve used to introduce him to you, and you will learn about that soon enough.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">These days, Dave works at a posh private school in Eastern Connecticut. For a time he was its chief librarian, but in recent years, he’s become an English teacher (another way we are similar, both being teachers) as well as coaching its cross-country running team. And although not a part of his school duties, he’s become quite a hit as an actor in the town’s amateur theatrical productions. In any case, at this school the staff is sometimes invited to give what is called a “chapel talk,” where the students and faculty gather to hear the speaker. Dave, still relatively new to the school at the time, used the occasion to introduce himself to his audience. So, without further ado, I am now going to paste in that talk and use it to introduce Dave to you in a way that will show you that he is more than a wit, but a very wise fellow with depth of soul. Take it away, Dave…. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div>Good morning. </div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">Many of you know – or have seen - my son Max. He’s the blond, curly headed, nearly 5-year-old, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mevlevi_Order" rel="nofollow">whirling dervish</a> that you might see as a blur around the dining hall. Max is now in kindergarten. He starts his school day sitting on a rug for “circle time,” when his teacher reads his class a story. Every night at bedtime, we read him stories. Max loves stories. We humans - we <i>love </i>stories. From the dawn of language, humans have shared stories. Before the written word, stories were told orally, and passed down from generation to generation, altered and elaborated on. Stories - be they told, read, or watched - take us places, teach us, scare us, humor us, and humble us. </div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">And when stories are shared with friends or with the whole community, we all have the potential to gain a new perspective on life - to see things in a new way, and hopefully to appreciate something or someone in a way that wasn’t possible before. Before I begin my story, I thought I’d share a few random things about me - perhaps just to give you all a chance to know me a bit differently - and to put this story into a context.</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">(1)<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I was born just 30 minutes from here during a December snowstorm in 1969.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">(2)<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I was voted class clown by my high school senior class peers.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">(3)<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>My father is one the world’s leading authorities on <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Afterlife" rel="nofollow">life after death</a> or <a href="https://www.kenringblog.com/2024/01/what-you-can-expect-to-experience-when.html">near-death experiences</a>.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">(4)<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>My sister - technically my half-sister - is half black, my mother having broken what were some <i>serious </i>taboos back in the early 1960s.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">(5)<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I can speak pretty decent German. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">(6)<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>In addition to Connecticut, I’ve lived in Key West, Boston, Cape Cod, Portland, Maine, London, Amsterdam, Toronto, Zurich, New York City, and Long Beach, California.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">(7)<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I’ve hiked over 200 miles of the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Appalachian_Trail" rel="nofollow">Appalachian Trail</a>.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">(8)<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I’ve traveled to, among many other places, Malta and Madrid, Poland and India, Kazakhstan and Uzbekistan.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">(9)<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I’ve been a dishwasher, a bus driver, a flower delivery person, a parking lot attendant, a deputized official of the town of Wellfleet, a waiter, a tour guide, an English teacher, a graduate student, a consultant, a marketing director, a systems analyst, and only just recently a boarding school librarian.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">(10)<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span> I grew nearly 5 inches during the summer between my junior and senior year of high school.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">(11)<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span> I’ve run a marathon - in a nor’easter storm.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">(12)<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span> One summer while working in a lumber yard, I was the unfortunate victim of a forklift accident and broke this arm in half.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">(13)<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span> I was one half of a tandem team that amazed crowds as I could throw grapes well over 150 feet so accurately my friend could catch them in his mouth. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">(14)<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span> For several years, I often wore a large afro wig to big events - parades, road races, and even my own wedding reception.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">(15)<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span> And here’s something else most of you don’t know: I moved to Pomfret about three years ago shortly after the most trying circumstance of what had been an otherwise carefree and adventurous life.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">As some <i>most certainly</i> know, life is a weird and wondrous <i>thing</i>. After spending the first 17 years of my life in rural northeastern Connecticut, I was quite determined to leave and didn’t think it likely I’d ever return to live. But life <i>rarely </i>goes according to plan. Some 17 years after leaving Connecticut I ended up marrying Linda - a woman who, while raised in Texas, had ancestral Pomfret roots. In fact, going back several generations, Linda’s third great aunt’s husband, Charles Grosvenor, sold the very land upon which this chapel was built to one William Peck, Pomfret School’s founder and first headmaster. Charles Grosvenor's wife was Elizabeth Mathewson who - now pay close attention here - was the sister of Edward, who was the father of Henry, the father of Jane, who was the mother of Polly: Linda’s mother. </div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">My in-laws live just down the road from here on what Pomfret old timers still know as the Mathewson Farm. Many of the Mathewsons are buried in a family plot in a nearby cemetery few of you have probably ever noticed, though all of you have surely driven past. The Pomfret Street Cemetery is just a hundred yards down the hill from the Vanilla Bean on the road leading to Putnam; it’s nearly across the street from the Xtra Mart. There’s a small white sign near the road away from which leads a rarely traveled grass covered path. It passes through the heavy, but never locked iron gates to the small and infrequently visited graveyard. On sunnier autumn mornings, the often-overgrown grass is wet with dew; light trickles through the canopy of leaves and illuminates the mostly ancient stones. Many engravings are hard to read: weather worn, beaten by years of sun, snow, wind and rain. The Mathewson plot is toward the southeast corner, where a prominent, and no doubt expensive marker notes the location of the family. There you’d find, among many Mathewsons, Darius, George, Amaryllis, Hannah, Helen, Henry, Edward, and Elinor. Linda’s beloved grandmother, Jane Mathewson Bush, who went by the term of endearment ‘Newie’ has one of the newest headstones. She died just over 20 years ago in 1992. </div></div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">But Newie’s grave is not the most recent one in the Pomfret Street Cemetery. Buried next to Newie, underneath a marker installed just a few years ago is another Mathewson descendant: <i>our</i> son, Leonardo Mathewson Ring. </div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;">Leo only has but one date on his stone - for he was dead the day he was born, July 20th, 2009 - one month shy of his due date.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Before this event, I often delineated my life into chapters: my youth, college, Boston, Europe, and so forth. Now I divide my life into two parts. Before Leo and After. Leo’s absence - and his presence - continues to guide my life. But for you to truly understand - and I hope benefit from this story - you ought to hear about the wondrous circumstances of his birth.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Linda and I got married when we were each 34 years old - just over eight years ago. We were older than some newlyweds, but certainly not old. We looked forward to having a family, something we’d talked about while we were dating and engaged. However, after a year of not having any success, we grew concerned. We sought medical help. We were examined inside and out, poked, prodded and pricked; our genes scanned for abnormalities and our personal histories scoured for clues. Our medical histories were laid bare before us and our medical inquisitors; no stone - or kidney - was left unturned. After months of examinations, the result of all the testing was that they couldn’t find <i>anything </i>wrong with us. Nothing. As far as the doctors were concerned there was no known medical reason for our not getting pregnant. It’s what maddeningly known as “unexplained infertility” and about as unsatisfying an answer as one could get.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">Not to be deterred, we made the next logical step and sought <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Assisted_reproductive_technology" rel="nofollow">fertility assistance</a>. This is when we learned, intimately, about abbreviations like IUI, IVF, and ICSI. Linda had to get numerous <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fertility_medication" rel="nofollow">hormone injections</a>. Instead of romantic candle-lit dinners for us, our Saturday nights involved carefully filled syringes, alcohol swabs, and Band-Aids. Our efforts to have a baby, something that by all rights ought to be very private, became the common and public knowledge of our families, our friends - even our remote acquaintances. We went through two years of treatments only to have exactly zero success. It was tiring, at times embarrassing. There were nights, after yet <i>another </i>failed attempt that Linda and I sat <i>together </i>on our couch, but very <i>alone </i>with our own disappointments and unanswerable questions. </div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Eventually we sought the second opinion of a <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Reproductive_endocrinology_and_infertility" rel="nofollow">fertility specialist</a> at Massachusetts General Hospital. He reviewed our now extensive and bulging medical file and also concluded that there was no reason why we weren’t getting pregnant. He said that given that fact, and our history of treatments, there was no reason for us to keep on trying. My chest tightened. Air vanished from the room. We were left with little reasonable hope that we’d ever have our biological baby. Then the doctor paused and looked at us and said that he had a question. He said, <i>“What does being a parent mean to you?”</i> This was the first time anyone - a friend, a doctor, a fertility specialist - <i>anyone </i>had asked us that. He said that if being a parent means getting pregnant, then I am not sure what we can do for you. But if being a parent means being a father or a mother, then there are many ways that can happen. And that was the first day that Linda and I seriously considered adopting.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">In April of 2007 – just shy of our three-month wedding anniversary, we decided to proceed with <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Adoption" rel="nofollow">adoption</a>. I could - and perhaps should one day - give a seminar on the adoption process. It’s a daunting thing to undertake. There are scores of choices to be made and unlike people who conceive a baby, Linda and I had to fill out dozens of forms, get police and FBI background checks, letters of recommendation, provide years of back tax records; we had to demonstrate that our water was potable and that our cats didn’t have rabies. I’m pretty sure that the parents of those of you who are not adopted had no such hurdles to clear. For them it’s possible it might have been a simple as a lobster dinner and a chocolate dessert.</div></div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Many of you know the result of our efforts: Max! Linda and I were at the hospital in Newton, Massachusetts when Max was born in November of 2007. We spent three wonderful, stressful, and awkward days with Max’s birth mother and her parents in the hospital. On the fourth day, when we arrived to the hospital, the birth family was gone and shortly thereafter, we walked out of the hospital with our baby. I drove and Linda sat in the back seat with Max. I looked in the rearview mirror and saw tears streaming down her cheeks. After more than three years of trying to grow our family, after medical exams, treatments, hope and wishes dashed time after time after time, after adoption counseling and filling out more forms than a hopeful CIA agent, we were, at last, parents. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">And you know what? When you come home with a 5 lb., 11 oz. infant, and he’s counting on you to take care of him, it didn’t really seem to matter by which way he came to us. Max was our son and we his parents. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">The months passed and our lives, in respect to being parents, was no different than that of other new parents. We were so busy that we - or at least I - only gave fleeting thoughts to where our next child would come from. We still held out hope that we’d have a biological child of our own, but knew that the chances were slim. The prospect of another adoption was a bit too expensive and onerous for us to undertake. So we just let the days and weeks and months pass. We enjoyed Max’s every developmental change, took literally thousands of pictures, and went about our lives.</div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">One month after Max’s 1st birthday, in December of 2008, while we were visiting relatives in Texas for the holidays, Linda went out in the evening to catch up with some old high school friends. I stayed home with Max. I was asleep when near midnight Linda came home. I heard her come quietly into our room. I sensed her leaning down toward me. She whispered in my sleepy ear, “I’m pregnant.” It felt like a dream, but it wasn’t. Unbeknownst to me she’d purchased a home pregnancy test that evening. It was positive. When, a few days later, we returned to Massachusetts, the doctors confirmed it. She was pregnant - and without any fertility treatments. We were beyond the moon. And for the next seven months, we stayed that way. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">Now keep in mind, this is late 2008, early 2009 - the same period of time that the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Great_Recession">global economic meltdown</a> began. Jobs were being shed by the tens of thousands every month, homes were losing value at rates not seen since the Great Depression. And we were caught in the very middle of it! My job went away, but our mortgage didn’t. My job prospects at the time were slim and as stressful as that might sound - or as you might imagine, all of it was counterbalanced by the fact that Linda and I were going to have a baby; Max was going to be a big brother. </div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Ever since Max was born, Linda and I had been drifting away from wanting to live in or near the city. We were tired of traffic, noise, commutes, and concrete. We craved space - both literal and metaphysical. So with a baby on the way, my job gone and our condominium’s value sinking by the week, we took it as a cosmic sign to make a leap of faith. We planned our escape from Salem and decided to move to <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pomfret,_Connecticut" rel="nofollow">Pomfret</a>. Pomfret - the ancestral home of Linda’s family; Pomfret a town just a short drive away from my childhood hometown - where I thought I’d only return for high school reunions! It would be here, in this bucolic and idyllic haven, close to our families - and our roots, that we’d raise our family: Max and his little brother or sister.</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">We made plans. I got re-certified to teach high school English in Connecticut. We found a house to rent, started to look for the second car we’d need in the country. In between making plans, we went to birthing classes and packed boxes. We didn’t know exactly what I’d do for work, but felt confident that everything would pan out. After all, Linda and I had made several leaps of faith in our lives. We’d taken several chances in order to lead a fulfilling life, and each time, it had worked out.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The date is now July 17, 2009. The baby is one month away from its due date. I’d found a used Honda up in Lowell and after getting a ride up there from my sister, was driving it back down Rt. 3 toward Salem. It was mid-morning, the sky was bright, blue - and though warm, I don’t remember it being humid. I was listening to the radio, and feeling how the car felt on the highway. It was a Friday and Linda would be off for the weekend. My sister and her family were visiting from Texas, renting a house in Marblehead. We would all spend the weekend together enjoying each other’s company. Everything was going according to plan. It was all going according to plan....</div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;">My cell phone rang. Linda was calling. I answered.</span></div></div><div><br /></div><div>She said, “You need to come to the hospital.” </div><div><br /></div><div>“Something’s wrong,” she said weakly. “They can’t find the heartbeat.”</div><div><br /></div><div>“I’m on my way,” I said.</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">But my brain struggled to figure out how to cut across the North Shore of Boston to Beverly Hospital. I had to both navigate the complex web of roadways and at the same time grapple with what was happening, what to do. My mind raced with every possibility and though I wanted to believe there was some other potential outcome, I couldn’t help but consider the worst. Quickly - and really without much warning, I began to seethe. There, in my new/used Honda I threw what could only be described as a tantrum. I slammed the steering wheel with my fists; I punched the roof of my car, and yelled as loud as I could. I was angry, hurt, bewildered, and scared. Life had just punched me in the gut and kicked in me harder in the teeth. And even as my rage poured forth from my core, I was also keenly aware that I needed to purge the anger out of me - <i>for Linda</i>. I simply could not be in a state of anger when I went in the room. I had to be calm. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;">And I was.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">I walked into the room to find Linda in a hospital bed being attended to by nurses and a doctor. Indeed, they couldn’t find the heartbeat and soon we found out it was because there was no heartbeat. The baby had died in utero. It would take three days before we could deliver Leo. Three very, very, odd days. Odder still: going to a funeral home to arrange for the cremation of your newly stillborn infant son. And here’s the kicker - the doctors couldn’t tell us why Leo died. There was no known medical reason. It just happened. I know what you’re thinking. This is a real downer, Mr. Ring. I hope it has a happy ending. It does, sort of; but at the time, that wasn’t a given.</div></div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Six weeks after Leo was born, Linda and I moved to Pomfret as planned, just with one less child than we’d planned on moving with. We spent several weeks and months in a daze, with only Max able to pull us out of our wanton sadness. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">But here’s the thing - the thing I want you to remember. Somehow, coming from the soaring high of thinking we were going to have a baby to the crushing low of his being born still, I gained something. It’s called <i>Perspective</i>.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">Through this trauma and in the personal search for meaning that followed, I had to make some kind of sense of the senseless, find comfort in the pain. And here’s what I’ve come up with: Though Leo hasn’t aged a day since he was born, I’ve grown. I have gained so much from the experience. To me, Leo is wholly present in his obvious absence. If Max’s presence is like an electric current, constantly giving off energy, Leo was like a bolt of lightning that flashed brilliantly, struck me, changed me, and then lingered only in essence - a scent in the air, an aura of light, morning mist, the babble of a brook, a latent image just beyond my peripheral vision. His corporeal being might be gone, but his influence continues to guide me.</div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">You know, it might sound odd in light of what I’ve revealed so far, but I am grateful for what happened. I <i>am </i>grateful that Linda and I initially had trouble conceiving, for it brought Max into our lives and I can’t imagine our life without him. And I am grateful that Linda did eventually become pregnant - that it happened - spontaneously. That we got the joy of watching her belly grow, that we got to experience the excitement and anticipation of an impending birth, <i>even though</i> it didn’t end as we’d hoped. And I am grateful that Linda and I have each other, that we have gone through these great tests of character and marriage. We are richer for it and our relationship is stronger as a result. </div><div> </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">And here’s another direct consequence. It took a couple of years to be able to breathe deeply enough to be able to consider having another child, but in our hearts, Linda and I knew that Max wasn’t going to be an only child. We again relied upon the generosity of our family, and humbled ourselves to the stacks of forms, fingerprints, and background checks that is the adoption process and signed ourselves up again. But this time it wasn’t a matter of months, as we’d been lucky enough with Max. It was nearly a year and a half. You might just imagine our elation and our relief when we got a call last May telling us that we’d been chosen to be the parents of a healthy, baby, girl.</div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Ruby Jane Ring is four months old and had events not transpired as they did, <i>exactly </i>as they did, she wouldn’t be with us. And that’s another scenario I can’t fathom.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>So what’s the point, Mr. Ring? I am glad you’re doing okay now, but what’s this got to do with me? My life?</i> Well, one day, if it hasn’t already happened, life is going to punch you in the gut and then kick you in the teeth. Sadly, the question isn’t if, it’s when, how hard, and how often. But the more important question is how will you respond? </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Listen, I didn’t make lemonade out of lemons, it’s not that trite. Challenges, no matter how humbling, traumatic, or seemingly unfair, are opportunities for growth. It’s like muscles that have to be torn to grow stronger, or lungs that have to burn with effort before you can breathe easier. Life’s hurdles, they beg you to jump - jump right in, if you will.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I haven’t been at Pomfret long - but I’ve been present in enough chapel talks to know we all face tests and I know about the strength of the individuals who comprise this community and of this community as a whole.</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">Let me be clear. I’ve not gotten past what’s happened. It’s fixed inside of me. Often when I’m in this chapel, listening to senior talks, Mr. Fisher or other chapel speakers, there’s better than a 50% chance I’ll tear up. And sometimes, it’s not just for the obvious reasons. When I watch student dancers embracing the moment. When I see a student sing a solo, or play an instrument. When I spot an instant where one of you students has a moment of real growth, I find myself welling up with … unguarded emotion, I guess? Is it joy, sadness, pride, melancholy, hope, love? It’s all of that. It’s a celebration of life - your rich and promising lives. But there’s some grief, too.</div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Grief for Leo who won’t one day give his own Senior Chapel talk.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">And that’s kind of what life is like - at least to me right now. It’s a mixture of tremendous gifts - Linda, Max, Leo, Ruby, and each of you, this community that gives so freely, so easily. And it’s also periods of great iniquity. <i>Life is unfair.</i> You won’t always get what you deserve. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">So here’s your challenge, <i>my challenge - our challenge:</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Be grateful for every moment. Try not to regret the past. Or worry about the future. Do <i>not </i>forget that you are lucky, no matter how unlucky you may occasionally - or even persistently feel.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">And while life will assuredly not go according to plan, be open - be very, very open to where it takes you. It’s a weird and wondrous thing.</div><div><br /></div><div>***********************</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Dave got a standing ovation after giving that talk, which was delivered more than ten years ago, not long after Dave began working at the Pomfret School. Many in the audience were moved to tears; so was I when I re-read it. Dave is in his early 50s now, and here’s what my boy looks like today:</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOuzVUreD-evirWLSQ8YT4mNLgFmDuNZHmAYITYlh02NbqFmX26APxE4-R6OkZrw5td3pxM0vxLK2-wm8ZPmORiqWyKEWFJBYRFERvK0YqetfFzMAOhtyS0icIooLg0KN9fe_CtQKCFfDSsdrnbY4_URkdUZNsLjG7qpdc5aK910N3bYi-0nX0vqBkb88/s1047/photo-02.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1047" data-original-width="785" height="413" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOuzVUreD-evirWLSQ8YT4mNLgFmDuNZHmAYITYlh02NbqFmX26APxE4-R6OkZrw5td3pxM0vxLK2-wm8ZPmORiqWyKEWFJBYRFERvK0YqetfFzMAOhtyS0icIooLg0KN9fe_CtQKCFfDSsdrnbY4_URkdUZNsLjG7qpdc5aK910N3bYi-0nX0vqBkb88/w310-h413/photo-02.jpg" width="310" /></a></div><br /><div>And here is a photo of Dave, Linda, Max and Ruby Jane, as they look today.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjExjX1cr_eTk_BLtqruCAq9ue0HYIUJlKziL5XM0nkjhYI-x_ce0mmv5j0MVi6jJW2EAQKLwy5piQjjY0928jY13KO4mNbLNrX7S3AVRrvlffIY42f_oELJpHXW1_VeOxZCIfv6iCgIxtv6VqHmK6pr1dshnJGwMNHPs8FyyvQ7OhS_bdMqOQt_bFygwI/s1185/photo-03.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="857" data-original-width="1185" height="411" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjExjX1cr_eTk_BLtqruCAq9ue0HYIUJlKziL5XM0nkjhYI-x_ce0mmv5j0MVi6jJW2EAQKLwy5piQjjY0928jY13KO4mNbLNrX7S3AVRrvlffIY42f_oELJpHXW1_VeOxZCIfv6iCgIxtv6VqHmK6pr1dshnJGwMNHPs8FyyvQ7OhS_bdMqOQt_bFygwI/w571-h411/photo-03.jpg" width="571" /></a></div><br /><div><span style="text-align: justify;">I think you can now see why I am so proud of my son, and I hope you have enjoyed getting to know him and his wife as well as their three children.</span></div>Kevin Williamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10028779062267448624noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2923424816839609066.post-48414814347326010762024-02-03T10:38:00.000-08:002024-02-03T10:38:12.510-08:00What We Are Now Learning About What Really Happens At Death, But Not Just More About NDEs<div>By <a href="http://www.kenring.org/about.html">Kenneth Ring, Ph.D.</a></div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I just watched a fascinating video that I found on PMH Atwater’s latest newsletter. Once I saw it, I knew I would want to share it with you because it makes a perfect follow-up to my long blog on NDEs.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">It runs about 45 minutes and is narrated by Dr. Sam Parnia who is one of the most prominent physicians to study what happens when we die. He is of course thoroughly familiar with NDEs, but the first part of his video deals with what we are now learning about what actually tales place at and immediately after death, and how brain functioning can sometimes be restored after we die biologically. The first part of the video also features a slew of other doctors who are giving us a new view of death, which is absolutely mind-blogging. This video is really about the new frontier in after-death studies.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The second half of the video then does segué into a number of accounts of NDEs that pretty much follow the pattern I described in my last blog. But when you hear the voices of these NDErs, they are so much more impactful than just reading about NDEs. In this segment, my good friend and longtime colleague, Dr. Bruce Greyson, is also featured as one of the principal narrative voices.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Overall, this video is sure to give you lots to think about, so if you can make the time to watch it, I guarantee you will not be disappointed. On the contrary, you will be stimulated to learn what these eminent physicians (and other scholars) have discovered about mortality. It’s not what you think!</div><div><br /></div><div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Rethinking Death: Exploring What Happens When We Die</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">By Parnia Lab at NYU Langone Health</span></div><div><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_18UdG4STHA"><span style="font-size: medium;">https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_18UdG4STHA</span></a></div></div>Kevin Williamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10028779062267448624noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2923424816839609066.post-55692287634983790112024-01-25T06:32:00.000-08:002024-01-25T06:32:23.820-08:00What You Can Expect to Experience When You Die: Revelations from Some Extraordinary NDErs<div>By <a href="http://www.kenring.org/about.html">Kenneth Ring, Ph.D.</a></div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">“And death, which alike levels all, alike impresses all with a last revelation, </div><div style="text-align: center;">which only an author from the dead could adequately tell.” </div><div style="text-align: center;">-- <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Herman_Melville">Herman Melville</a></div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">[Author’s Advisory: This blog is very long, but to get the most out of it, I strongly suggest that you try to read it at one sitting when you will not be interrupted.]</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Actually, it’s misleading to suggest that anyone can tell you what you will experience when you die. Despite the title of this blog, I would never be so presumptuous. But what I can tell you is what some remarkable NDErs have to say about what<i> they</i> experienced once they passed through the portals into the house of death. As you read their accounts, I think you will agree that their revelations are so astonishingly mind-blowing as to leave you speechless with wonder. Be prepared vicariously to enter into a world that is utterly beyond anything you have known on earth. If you can absorb this, I can virtually guarantee it will stun you to learn what may await you – if you are as lucky as some of the people whose experiences you will be reading about shortly.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNNNcKUy0wcz8ogyPJYBc_SusvMejVGcxoNx1GuVI5qAfdJ14sV0znFfDEx46E3n38fOEz-NB31FFwqqpsxi2dHwDq3_2defaGawzesrdRKo3O4_Arq2n_U6oCkbjbBTtH5lF0Ve7WPf7fl2zlcJTLLh3EhCkCP5PT8s23ec6QHH6WoiS8HCHiwGZND8Q/s293/anke-evertz.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="293" data-original-width="219" height="249" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNNNcKUy0wcz8ogyPJYBc_SusvMejVGcxoNx1GuVI5qAfdJ14sV0znFfDEx46E3n38fOEz-NB31FFwqqpsxi2dHwDq3_2defaGawzesrdRKo3O4_Arq2n_U6oCkbjbBTtH5lF0Ve7WPf7fl2zlcJTLLh3EhCkCP5PT8s23ec6QHH6WoiS8HCHiwGZND8Q/w186-h249/anke-evertz.jpg" width="186" /></a></div>In writing this narrative of what you can expect when you die, I will be drawing on the testimonies of a number of NDErs, most of whom I know personally, but my chief source will be a German woman named <a href="https://anke-evertz.de/">Anke Evertz</a>, the author of a remarkable book entitled <a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0BMK4RPHQ/?tag=iandsorg-20" rel="nofollow">Nine Days of Eternity</a>. You will learn a great deal about her story as we proceed. Also, there will be many quotes in this blog from these NDErs, some of them long extracts, for who is more qualified than they to play the role of Melville’s “authors from the dead?”</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Now, with this preamble dispatched, let’s begin this long journey into the <a href="https://near-death.com/afterlife-evidence/">afterlife</a>.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">One of the first things that many people report when they suffer an event that brings about a near-death crisis is a very definite sense that they have <a href="https://near-death.com/out-of-body-experiences-and-the-nde/">left their physical body</a>. Not only that, but they often report that they can see it from an outside perspective. This is what happened to Anke, as she relates in her book:</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i></i></div><blockquote><div style="text-align: justify;">A feeling of detachment came over me and from that pivotal moment on, there were two of me, and I felt barely any connection to my physical body.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Suddenly, as if I’d been catapulted out of my body, I was able to see myself from the outside. One second, I was in my body and the next I’d become detached from it, although I was still fully conscious and alert … I was experiencing it all from a spot some six feet away from my body.</div></blockquote><div style="text-align: justify;"><i></i></div><div>This experience soon led to a feeling of tremendous exhilaration, freedom and the thrill of being fully alive:</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><blockquote>I felt no connection to my body whatsoever; it didn’t even feel like it belonged to me. It was as if my body itself was home to all the pain, sadness and heaviness of the past few years of my life, whereas I finally felt free of it all, unburdened at last. I couldn’t remember ever feeling so free and light. I was like a bird that’s’ spent its life in a tiny cage and has suddenly been set free … but all the time, l was feeling more alive than ever in my limitless, bodiless state.</blockquote></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDsn0RAz7QOmXNYhRQX-CzWhjr_C67xyMcSgzNSaZ_Dcs3Vn_XsGIamCekTh9GnmO7LRxZd5k_WptoZfDlPMfwmJ8eOgGnyDleRqNbsSSG8P_FshvWUO0qmBNFaj6vjUNiRdxLgQDN87InZzjifRRGzwM04HaegC5mbe2I_Z_PA7R58_ySQDE4GaEor7U/s286/obe-woman.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="286" data-original-width="219" height="248" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDsn0RAz7QOmXNYhRQX-CzWhjr_C67xyMcSgzNSaZ_Dcs3Vn_XsGIamCekTh9GnmO7LRxZd5k_WptoZfDlPMfwmJ8eOgGnyDleRqNbsSSG8P_FshvWUO0qmBNFaj6vjUNiRdxLgQDN87InZzjifRRGzwM04HaegC5mbe2I_Z_PA7R58_ySQDE4GaEor7U/w190-h248/obe-woman.jpg" width="190" /></a></div>Here, we have to pause to reflect on the meaning of Anke’s initial experience of being in a bodiless state. This aspect of NDEs often does not receive the consideration it deserves because of the emphasis that is usually given to what comes afterward.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">But here’s the first thing you need to take in. You are not just your body. <i>You exist in a dual form.</i> There is your physical body, but you learn in an NDE that there is more to you than that. You also are a soul, or, if you prefer, a spirit, and indeed <i>that is what you really are</i>.</div><div><br /></div><div>This is the first lesson you learn in an NDE.</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">And here things get complicated because of language, which will force us to take a brief detour from the journey that Anke has just embarked on.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Many people who have NDEs make a point of saying that words can never capture their experience. That it is, in essence, ineffable, something that eludes our ordinary language. Here we have to remember that our ordinary language is body-based. While in your body, you are limited in <a href="https://near-death.com/time/">time</a> and space and feel yourself to be separate from the world outside yourself. But when you are out of your body, you see that this is an illusion. When you are out of your body, you are boundless; you no longer live in time, but in eternity, which is not everlasting time, but timelessness itself. In your body-based consciousness, you can only speculate about the afterlife. When you are out of your body, you just know.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Not everyone who enters into death is aware of leaving their body in the way that Anke did. Some simply find that they have left time and entered eternity, as happened to one of my good friends named <a href="https://www.amazon.com/stores/Joseph-B.-Geraci/author/B09MSKTPSK/?tag=iandsorg-20" rel="nofollow">Joe Geraci</a> who told me this:</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i></i></div><blockquote><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUS-Rz2SJhZDKkzfJKdkEVZu-lbP198WkGVVfDhDxtPzgbe_Ae2heeYyfiMoNGDypqE0BdNPsvbx-KxQ7d94L01dG_Ra9OVH9FBwR5Jhj3TQ1WUcA3DjDPlsbJXay8AteZuzT1-AXZD2R_c3myS2SRQXpaIOT2S4ieNsjxOatvx5ABBG2Efp7G-b9XLDQ/s240/joe-geraci.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="240" data-original-width="217" height="186" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUS-Rz2SJhZDKkzfJKdkEVZu-lbP198WkGVVfDhDxtPzgbe_Ae2heeYyfiMoNGDypqE0BdNPsvbx-KxQ7d94L01dG_Ra9OVH9FBwR5Jhj3TQ1WUcA3DjDPlsbJXay8AteZuzT1-AXZD2R_c3myS2SRQXpaIOT2S4ieNsjxOatvx5ABBG2Efp7G-b9XLDQ/w168-h186/joe-geraci.jpg" width="168" /></a></div>It was a total immersion in light, brightness, warmth, peace, security. I did not have an out-of-body experience. I did not see my body or anyone about me. I just immediately went into this beautiful, bright light. It’s difficult to describe; as a matter of fact, it’s impossible to describe. Verbally, it cannot be expressed. It's something that becomes you and you become it. I could say, “I was the peace, I was love.” I was the brightness, it was part of me … You just know. You’re all-knowing – and everything is a part of you … It’s just so beautiful.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">It was eternity. It’s like I was always there and I will always be there, and that my existence on earth was just a brief instant.</div></blockquote><div style="text-align: justify;"><i></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;">There is a lot to unpack here. To begin with, can you imagine what it must feel like to see your entire life as if it were just a brief flicker in time? But this is what Joe realized when he was able to view his life from the perspective of eternity. Joe also makes it clear that there was no way that mere words could ever convey his experience. When you exist in eternity, you are unbound from space and time and your body, but our ordinary language is constrained by and structured in a spatial and temporal framework. Only when you leave ordinary language at the door can you begin to appreciate the nature of eternity, your true home. Finally, though this is only implied by Joe’s account, you still retain your sense of personal identity, but what you are is so much more than the limited local self you call your ego.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Now we come to the most important thing I have to tell you about the afterlife. This will require a little background first.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPKHTXPgn0EHWyut-Ny04DBpwWO3mVdrITU2f0vnnvVDylKO3uhcYagDTOfJe_ybZVrKgck85_Mp_VZwDVts_rp3BVaIh5LUku_FvLGHUHbjbeNlFN-_uAZn05vfHhTrNr-K6MrUnIftQlUwHIk29bspjJK9F0IvJx0nrKqb-_MZfKDhf4saMuNYBV69g/s246/life-at-death.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="246" data-original-width="164" height="246" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPKHTXPgn0EHWyut-Ny04DBpwWO3mVdrITU2f0vnnvVDylKO3uhcYagDTOfJe_ybZVrKgck85_Mp_VZwDVts_rp3BVaIh5LUku_FvLGHUHbjbeNlFN-_uAZn05vfHhTrNr-K6MrUnIftQlUwHIk29bspjJK9F0IvJx0nrKqb-_MZfKDhf4saMuNYBV69g/s1600/life-at-death.jpg" width="164" /></a></div>Not to brag, but my book, <a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/0688012531/?tag=iandsorg-20" rel="nofollow">Life at Death</a>, which I published in 1980, is now regarded as the first major scientific investigation of NDEs. It followed directly from <a href="https://lifeafterlife.com/">Raymond Moody</a>’s groundbreaking book, <a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B00JTYBWMI/?tag=iandsorg-20" rel="nofollow">Life After Life</a>, which gave us the term, “the near-death experience.” In my book, I found quite a few instances, as had Moody, when a respondent indicated that he or she had been aware of a “Presence” or sometimes just “a voice.” But whatever it was, it was something that was able to communicate <a href="https://near-death.com/telepathy/">telepathically</a> to the individual. </div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">At the time, I failed to appreciate just how important this Presence (as I shall call it from now on) was or just what it was. But I can tell you now that it holds the key to the mystery of the NDE. And in what follows, I will attempt to unlock the door to the afterlife. For this purpose, I will first draw on the experience of Anke and afterward on that of another NDEr I know very well.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Here, then, to begin with, is a long extract from Anke as she tries to describe her encounter with the Presence once she becomes aware of it:</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i></i></div><blockquote><div style="text-align: justify;">‘Everything is OK, Anke.’ A soft, melodious voice carried through the room.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Startled, I turned in the direction that I thought the voice was coming from and saw a radiant figure smiling invitingly at me. It was as high as the ceiling and the light it emanated was so indescribably bright that I could barely make out a body. I stood spellbound beside the bed [clearly out of her body] for what felt like an eternity staring at the figure.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I’d never seen anything so beautiful. This figure made of soft celestial light had the power to change everything it touched…</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The figure, the presence, was more than just light, and more than a spectrum of colors … I sensed that the figure was emanating a somewhat masculine energy. I immediately felt safe and protected because it felt as if he knew me.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">‘All your questions will be answered …’ As the figure came closer still, I could feel myself being drawn into his luminous energy field.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;">I had the extraordinary sense that I was no longer bound by structure of material density. It was like an inner liberation, and I felt a happiness that I’d never experienced in my life. I felt completely safe embedded in this energy field, in this unlimited space bound by a great unconditional love … I felt freer and lighter and more alive than ever before. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I could not only see this light but also feel it and experience it in all my senses. It felt limitless, as if it was coming from nowhere and everywhere at the same time. The light brought out in me overwhelming yet glorious feelings and sensations.</div></blockquote><div style="text-align: justify;"><i></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;">It's the light of a living, universal consciousness that pervades everything in existence. It makes you feel a complete, pure and <i>unconditional </i>love – none of the emotions we experience as human beings come close to it.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2E6ZS4sqUGM4wlO_ygRtVYUbB_U9FidybB5YAoV_OdxyakGua-7PuqZbJP7ZdoixBo1cRGORGv6WmTMmXmQX4WFctpAOCfPRebFojmj8j9HGZDkDDZm-EJx5AsqJhdyz9JOHumAXSA_2tO44ZEWujLtjCaFs2EiJniGwikcuJLenGsWXEskB3Ww7eiRM/s294/tom-sawyer.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="294" data-original-width="217" height="228" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2E6ZS4sqUGM4wlO_ygRtVYUbB_U9FidybB5YAoV_OdxyakGua-7PuqZbJP7ZdoixBo1cRGORGv6WmTMmXmQX4WFctpAOCfPRebFojmj8j9HGZDkDDZm-EJx5AsqJhdyz9JOHumAXSA_2tO44ZEWujLtjCaFs2EiJniGwikcuJLenGsWXEskB3Ww7eiRM/w168-h228/tom-sawyer.jpg" width="168" /></a></div>Other people are aware of speeding at a tremendous rate toward the golden light in which the Presence is to be found. This is the kind of experience that happened to a good friend of mine, who became one of the best known NDErs in the early days of my research. I would like to say that it was I who discovered <a href="https://near-death.com/thomas-sawyer/">Tom Sawyer</a> (yes, that was his actual name – another story for another day), but it was really the other way around. Tom had discovered me by reading my first NDE book,<i> Life at Death</i>. After that, he made contact with me and came to visit me at “<a href="https://www.kenringblog.com/2021/11/ndes-early-years-personal-history.html">The Near-Death Hotel</a>” in Connecticut. That visit changed both of our lives, and we remained good friends until Tom died several years ago. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Here is what Tom told me about his experience of dying as he sped toward the light:</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i></i></div><blockquote><div style="text-align: justify;">Then all this time, the speed is increasing … Gradually, you realize … you're going [at] least the speed of light. It might possibly be the speed of light or possibly even faster than the speed of light.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">You do realize that you're going just so fast and you're covering vast, vast distances in just hundredths of a second …</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">And then gradually you realize that way, way off in the distance -- again, unmeasurable distance -- it appears that it might be the end of <a href="https://near-death.com/tunnel/">the tunnel</a>. And all you can see is a white light … And again, remember that you are traveling at extreme speed. [But] this whole process only takes … [say] one minute and again emphasizing that you might have traveled to infinity, just an unlimited number of miles.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">You then realize that you are coming to the end of this tunnel and that this light is not just a brilliance from whatever is at the end of the tunnel - it's an extremely brilliant light. It's pure white. It's just so brilliant. . .</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">And then, before you is this – excuse me [he pauses here] - is this most magnificent, just gorgeous, beautiful, bright, white or blue-white light [another pause]. It is so bright, it is brighter than a light that would immediately blind you, but this absolutely does not hurt your eyes at all … It is so bright, so brilliant, and so beautiful, but it doesn't hurt your eyes. And the next series of events take place - oh, within a millisecond, they take place -- more or less all at once, but of course in describing them I'll have to take them one at a time.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The next sensation is this wonderful, wonderful feeling of this light … It's almost like a person. It is not a person, but it is a being of some kind. It is a mass of energy. It doesn't have a character like you would describe another person, but it has a character in that it is more than just a thing. It is something to communicate to and acknowledge. And also in size, it just covers the entire vista before you. And it totally engulfs whatever the horizon might be….</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Then the light immediately communicates to you … This communication is what you might call telepathic. It's absolutely instant, absolutely clear. It wouldn't even matter if a different language was being spoken … whatever you thought and attempted to speak, it would be instant and absolutely clear. There would never be a doubtful statement made.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The first thing you're told is, "Relax, everything is beautiful, everything is OK."</div></blockquote><blockquote><div style="text-align: justify;">...You're immediately put at absolute ease. It's the most comfortable feeling that you could ever imagine. You have a feeling of absolute, <a href="https://near-death.com/god/">pure love</a>. It's the warmest feeling. [But] make sure you don't confuse it with warm in temperature, because there's no temperature involved. Whatever your senses would feel absolute perfect - if it's temperature, it's a perfect temperature. If it's either an exciting emotion or a placid emotion, it's just perfect and you feel this and you sense this. And it's so absolutely vivid and clear.</div></blockquote><blockquote><div style="text-align: justify;">Then the thing is, the light communicates to you and for the first time in your life … is a feeling of true, pure love. It can't be compared to the love of your wife, the love of your children, or some people consider a very intense sexual experience as love and they consider [it] possibly the most beautiful moment in their <a href="https://near-death.com/life/">life</a> - and it couldn't even begin to compare. All of these wonderful, <a href="https://near-death.com/intense-emotions/">wonderful feelings</a> combined could not possibly compare to the feeling, the true love. If you can imagine what pure love would be, this would be the feeling that you'd get from this brilliant white light.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"></div></blockquote><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div>************************</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit0Pf1s89REKhm2cZ7WbD4deSIItUDq9-ff06esHseMcCVV9f__5pRe80G8oOHpInY_W_8ONCDCxQzMjz4zhJwjKCptiXuhORP9W04W016GDahAJzaiXeLseQwe7JxH2_2pp1iZsba3_DN5ipr1119Xn5Hxrv4jwvNDcMa9QrPY0OQvNOsJ7bhaE7uwzE/s235/raymond-moody.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="235" data-original-width="198" height="222" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit0Pf1s89REKhm2cZ7WbD4deSIItUDq9-ff06esHseMcCVV9f__5pRe80G8oOHpInY_W_8ONCDCxQzMjz4zhJwjKCptiXuhORP9W04W016GDahAJzaiXeLseQwe7JxH2_2pp1iZsba3_DN5ipr1119Xn5Hxrv4jwvNDcMa9QrPY0OQvNOsJ7bhaE7uwzE/w187-h222/raymond-moody.jpg" width="187" /></a></div>What is this Presence? <a href="https://lifeafterlife.com/">Raymond Moody</a> called it “<a href="https://near-death.com/raymond-moody/#a02">a being of light</a>,” and I think that’s still a pretty good generic description of this Presence. But Tom is clear, and so is Anke, that it is <i>not </i>a person, and has never been one. Indeed, the Presence tells Anke: “I’m much more than you think. I’m not a person or an individual entity. I’m part of you … I’m connected to everything that makes you what you are.” What it appears to be is your True Self, which is how Anke sometimes refers to it, though most of the time she just calls it her “nameless teacher.”</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">What is most stunning to learn about this Presence whatever it be, is that it seems to be omniscient about you. It knows your innermost thoughts, it knows your history, not only from your present life, but has knowledge of the <a href="https://near-death.com/reincarnation/">innumerable lives you have already lived</a>. In the deepest and most undeniable sense, the Presence is who you really are.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Not only that, but as it conveys to Anke, <i>it has always been with her.</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">But just here, we must pause again to clarify a confusion about language. Words like “always” and “never” are adverbs that relate to a temporal dimension of our embodied life. However, the Presence doesn’t live in time, but in eternity. So when he says he has always been with her, he is forced to use a linguistic expression out of convenience that is not accurate. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Her nameless teacher has “always” been there throughout all of her lives. Some sample quotes:</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i></i></div><blockquote><div style="text-align: justify;">“I’m always there.”</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">This light had always been by my side.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Just when I felt I’d identified a beginning and end of my current life, my teacher unveiled further glimpses of the countless other lives that I’d already lived, repeating with a smile, ‘I’m always there.’</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">In every one of my incredibly different lives, my teacher’s unmistakable golden light had been by my side. </div></blockquote><div style="text-align: justify;"><i></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;">This is true for you, too. Each of us has a Presence, a being of light, that has “always” been with us throughout the eternity of our being. We are never alone and never without the Presence’s benevolent guidance. However, it can usually only manifest to us in conditions of bodily extremity, such as when we undergo a near-death crisis.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">What follows are some of the teachings that Anke’s Presence conveys to her so that she can better understand the nature of reality from the standpoint of her life as an eternal being:</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i></i></div><blockquote><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJijCp25o3hjKqfIOqLcaDP1hQf0AvMehngBu-dcHSa9zsguEjVgCmH4MkXBJX4xPyXeUWgIEZk0zzIHm2lJgTga9HPNCu95UimPt7pCBeUw1wUy39-GFpO3Y5lIU5Oq6cnxpgN-q8pzwv1Zz69gEyA_XpjGJ5rYt58Vq0kaUvTGKZxXYyKFQNbsXddVI/s198/telepathy.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="135" data-original-width="198" height="135" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJijCp25o3hjKqfIOqLcaDP1hQf0AvMehngBu-dcHSa9zsguEjVgCmH4MkXBJX4xPyXeUWgIEZk0zzIHm2lJgTga9HPNCu95UimPt7pCBeUw1wUy39-GFpO3Y5lIU5Oq6cnxpgN-q8pzwv1Zz69gEyA_XpjGJ5rYt58Vq0kaUvTGKZxXYyKFQNbsXddVI/s1600/telepathy.jpg" width="198" /></a></div>As soon as you think a thought, everything that it entails is thought into existence simultaneously. When a question arises, so do all its possible answers.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Time as we know it in the material world is completely absent – everything is happening right now and therefore all at once. We labor under the illusion that a past and future exist … The soul isn’t subject to space and time. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Our soul stores all our experiences from previous lives, and it knows our higher purpose and path, our current life plan and its challenges – and the solution to those challenges – that come with it. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I felt his infinite wisdom, his endless compassion, and all that I imagine goodness to be. But the most wonderful thing was the incredible love he had for me. I’d never felt so loved, and in such an unconditional, appreciative, and personal way. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">[He] began to teach me using the <a href="https://near-death.com/telepathy/">universal language of telepathy</a> … He knew what I was thinking before I thought it, and the answers I received from him were often so extensive, complete and multilayered that understanding them pushed me to the edge of comprehension. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The first thing he showed me was a <a href="https://near-death.com/life-review/">review of my life</a> to date. I was shown that even insignificant events had been a piece in a bigger picture and found that I could identify a deeper meaning behind incidents I’d long forgotten about.</div></blockquote><div style="text-align: justify;"><i></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0EeVZHhvZUKrVC4-zbL8nVXTCU7UHqIki0DO_2KaWSWkPL4_DNDeQEkKSmXcLviBTN0O_3ODjRbGlinY19-hyuNjFLpPJm4ttKrovpnF-U8VVPeOalEfhtn_zJn05flZhoCzZYlSAj0zKjCeOIiAWkai0M_qov70EAdcPHq9OtCWlujfhgAqPPyw2GMI/s251/reincarnation.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="182" data-original-width="251" height="175" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0EeVZHhvZUKrVC4-zbL8nVXTCU7UHqIki0DO_2KaWSWkPL4_DNDeQEkKSmXcLviBTN0O_3ODjRbGlinY19-hyuNjFLpPJm4ttKrovpnF-U8VVPeOalEfhtn_zJn05flZhoCzZYlSAj0zKjCeOIiAWkai0M_qov70EAdcPHq9OtCWlujfhgAqPPyw2GMI/w242-h175/reincarnation.jpg" width="242" /></a></div>Anke sees everything all at once [no time] as if projected on a large screen and experiences what she felt and thought during these scenes. There ensues a long discussion of her life review, and it’s clear that one has <a href="https://near-death.com/pre-existence/">a life plan</a> and a purpose, just as all of us do.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">She is shown “scenes from the countless <a href="https://near-death.com/reincarnation-and-the-nde/">past lives</a> that she [and her mother] had spent together. Sometimes her mother in this life is her brother in a past life, etc. Ditto for her father. She sees how they have all been connected … Indeed, all of the people in her life now were a part of this tapestry. “From this perspective, all these individuals were like the cast in the film of my life, in which I played a leading role.” </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Every situation we encounter in our lives … is in accordance with a higher purpose … Everything that happens is part of a perfectly formulated plan.</div><div><br /></div><div>************************</div><div><br /></div><div>Tom Sawyer’s narrative tells us a very similar story:</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i></i></div><blockquote><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJpX4DJA7x1egPWeTYh0ZAJwOiKQVwoVT9tLqS5AV36zi_N7E5wXHVvX2ohTHlrsRv2V34Bb_ZyhnxHdpJXROvlhjZi-zcUclvht6aNb32B2CqPwrX0WSBehbEwoRRdLQNKHhoaWSjLVvD2BBP9e3LcLACaPcjfzT-AlPEQOlLv-nFexPooijKMOzZ_oE/s287/total-knowledge..jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="287" data-original-width="219" height="249" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJpX4DJA7x1egPWeTYh0ZAJwOiKQVwoVT9tLqS5AV36zi_N7E5wXHVvX2ohTHlrsRv2V34Bb_ZyhnxHdpJXROvlhjZi-zcUclvht6aNb32B2CqPwrX0WSBehbEwoRRdLQNKHhoaWSjLVvD2BBP9e3LcLACaPcjfzT-AlPEQOlLv-nFexPooijKMOzZ_oE/w190-h249/total-knowledge..jpg" width="190" /></a></div>The second most magnificent experience … is you realize that you are suddenly in communications with absolute, <a href="https://near-death.com/forgotten-knowledge/">total knowledge</a>. It's hard to describe … You can think of a question … and immediately know the answer to it. As simple as that. And it can be any question whatsoever. It can be on any subject. It can be on a subject that you don't know anything about, that you are not in the proper position even to understand and the light will give you the instantaneous correct answer and make you understand it. . .</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Needless to say, I had <a href="https://near-death.com/faq/">many questions answered</a>, many pieces of information given to me, some of which is very personal, some of which is <a href="https://near-death.com/religion/">religiously orientated</a> … one of the religious-orientated questions was in regards to an afterlife and this was definitely answered through the experience itself … There's absolutely no question in my mind that the light is the answer. Upon entering that light … the atmosphere, the energy, it's total pure energy, it's total knowledge, it's total love, pure love everything about it is definitely the afterlife, if you will.</div></blockquote><div style="text-align: justify;"><i></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Tom concludes this account with a statement clearly implied by what he had already described; it is a recurrent motif in many NDE narratives:</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i></i></div><blockquote><div style="text-align: justify;">As a result of that [experience], I have very little apprehension about dying my natural <a href="https://near-death.com/death/">death</a> … because if death is anything, anything at all like what I experienced, it's gotta be the most wonderful thing to look forward to, absolutely the most wonderful thing.</div></blockquote><div>************************</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">We come, finally, to the last of the revelations that Anke’s Presence is prepared to disclose to her. And when you learn what it is, you may be bowled over and stupefied or simply incredulous or possibly dismayed. But like a character in a <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hermann_Hesse" rel="nofollow">Hermann Hesse</a> novel, you are about to learn the secrets of this cosmic magician, who has been conducting this tour of the afterlife for Anke. But what Anke now experiences is how the Presence can change his form at will, and how the realities in the afterlife are created. And most astonishing of all, that she can do it, too. She again becomes aware of the Presence’s golden-yellow energy field, and then, for the first time, he shows himself as a human body:</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i></i></div><blockquote><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioyTrwmVeihHZf2BekF8XCYLme-QbMP2ht0bjsolISMwUzPLiaDL18ZmT8U67j0YLTZQt6S_rdqlm1FiZTuOxB9zinJzi-qI0AGAa_oL9fWJnSYjd_J2irfGyVAMR7g8SH-KH8LAsmEiWU8CWbY3nx6isUj3NEiJ1hhnzvhO9Oy9Ag5jmvAnovSv6xaR0/s237/the-light.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="237" data-original-width="197" height="237" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioyTrwmVeihHZf2BekF8XCYLme-QbMP2ht0bjsolISMwUzPLiaDL18ZmT8U67j0YLTZQt6S_rdqlm1FiZTuOxB9zinJzi-qI0AGAa_oL9fWJnSYjd_J2irfGyVAMR7g8SH-KH8LAsmEiWU8CWbY3nx6isUj3NEiJ1hhnzvhO9Oy9Ag5jmvAnovSv6xaR0/s1600/the-light.jpg" width="197" /></a></div>Never had I gazed into such loving eyes; they made me feel as if they knew me inside out. Whole worlds were reflected in them – they were like a gateway to the universe and far beyond.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Then, with a slight movement of his fingers, the Presence transforms himself into a little boy, then with a snap of his fingers, we were in a beautiful garden. Then, he snapped his fingers, and a beguiling beautiful woman appeared … although the word “beautiful” barely begins to describe her. She wore a long dress bathed in light with a delicate golden belt. Countless sparking diamonds formed each strand of her long golden-blonde hair. But the most striking thing about her was the large sparkling diamond on her forehead, which shimmered in all colors.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The woman’s warm-hearted gaze expressed everything that we humans try to put a name to using terms like love, wisdom, and truth. All of this was united in her. “Let me show you reality,” I heard her say as our surroundings transformed once more … We were on a snowy mountain top.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">“These are all reality,” Anke. Reality is a creative process that’s continually drawing on itself and creating itself anew in each moment. This continuous re-creation is a playful, curious and wholly conscious process …</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The Presence returns and undergoes more transformations. He showed himself as <a href="https://near-death.com/jesus-and-the-nde/">Jesus</a>, the <a href="https://near-death.com/kenneth-ring-on-ndes-and-tibetan-buddhism/">Buddha</a>, a <a href="https://near-death.com/native-americans/">Native American chief</a>, a bear.</div></blockquote><div>************************</div><div><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: justify;">So to quote from a famous <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Beatles" rel="nofollow">Beatles</a>’ album, what we learn from “this <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Magical_Mystery_Tour" rel="nofollow">magical mystery tour</a>” is that the Presence which manifests as the Light and that exudes a LOVE that is beyond compare can appear in any form it wishes. And we can also now understand is that the afterlife is a mind-built world, ever-changing, and responsive to our own background, desires, interests and creative impulses. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Another good example of the ability of the Presence to change forms at will in response to our character and background is provided by the late <a href="https://near-death.com/mellen-thomas-benedict/">Mellen-Thomas Benedict</a>, whom I first met in 1981. I would later write about him in my book, <a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/1930491115/?tag=iandsorg-20" rel="nofollow">Lessons from the Light</a>. Here is what he told me:</div><div style="text-align: justify;"></div><blockquote><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpNcVBT-yzcJawrpTsUZtDjtxag9lwClwa2e1T8sgzt47uHpJ2MHtWugZPnmkwQmgZzpsY3qLd_b70QLV_Ua7bvk81b50tw00oIADkSgWPnrVvGERJABsE76q1kJUMotZkXdigzbFA1-cxcGJdOW44RhldmBvBebF1XcLhGREn4x0Jy8sU4wsj1m0TKR4/s198/jesus-buddha-krishna.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="189" data-original-width="198" height="189" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpNcVBT-yzcJawrpTsUZtDjtxag9lwClwa2e1T8sgzt47uHpJ2MHtWugZPnmkwQmgZzpsY3qLd_b70QLV_Ua7bvk81b50tw00oIADkSgWPnrVvGERJABsE76q1kJUMotZkXdigzbFA1-cxcGJdOW44RhldmBvBebF1XcLhGREn4x0Jy8sU4wsj1m0TKR4/s1600/jesus-buddha-krishna.jpg" width="198" /></a></div>The Light kept changing into different figures, like <a href="https://near-death.com/jesus-and-the-nde/">Jesus</a>, Buddha, Krishna, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mandala">mandalas</a>, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jungian_archetypes" rel="nofollow">archetypal</a> images and signs. I asked the Light, “What is going on here? Please, Light, clarify yourself for me. I really want to know the reality of the situation.” I cannot really say the exact words, because it was sort of <a href="https://near-death.com/telepathy/">telepathy</a>.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The Light responded. The information transferred to me was that your beliefs shape the kind of feedback you are getting before the Light. If you were a Buddhist or Catholic or Fundamentalist, you get a feedback loop of your own stuff. You have a chance to look at it and examine it, but most people do not. As the Light revealed itself to me, I became aware that what I was really seeing was our <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Higher_consciousness#19th-century_movements" rel="nofollow">Higher Self</a> matrix.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">We all have a higher Self, or an oversoul part of our being. It revealed itself to me in its truest energy form. The only way I can really describe it is that the being of the higher Self is more like a conduit.</div></blockquote><div style="text-align: justify;">This helps us to understand that certain features in NDE accounts are not what they appear to be. For example, when people who have an NDE report meeting and being embraced by Jesus, it’s not what it seems. Instead, it’s the Presence that manifests in that form, a form that makes sense to the individual who experiences him in that way. I don’t think there has ever been an NDE in which Jesus identifies himself as such; people just intuitively identify the Presence as Jesus. He knows what moves our hearts.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Another example of how the Presence can transform itself into any one of a number of forms has just been brought to my attention by my webmaster, <a href="https://near-death.com/about/">Kevin Williams</a>. It concerns a very unusual case of multiple NDEs that all occurred at the same time. Here is a brief account that Kevin sent to me:</div><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://near-death.com/may-eulitt/" style="text-align: justify;"></a></div><blockquote><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://near-death.com/may-eulitt/" style="text-align: justify;">May Eulett</a> was struck by lightning at the same time as her cousin and a friend. All of them appeared in each other’s NDE (a "group" NDE) and experienced the same thing with the exception of some aspects of their NDE. Here is an excerpt:</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><blockquote style="text-align: justify;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-pFhiW6L-lGTCG80zjR4CyTdpQ0q1spkV_HqcEeajK8d8dKHM4Evw-ekhLF5pmks8lYTaWT-6bexpewJf1dC3edZp7uVzf-yA4m-aPigKqhBBhpGwe52iB3KDiVoHbOJh_Wupec4Y6aWEsz2LJpCKh8sJSqxZ9foQdfhGmolUZFE6Oh7ZhI4V2Jaffcw/s255/may_eulitt.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"></a></blockquote></div></blockquote><div style="text-align: justify;"><blockquote style="text-align: justify;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-pFhiW6L-lGTCG80zjR4CyTdpQ0q1spkV_HqcEeajK8d8dKHM4Evw-ekhLF5pmks8lYTaWT-6bexpewJf1dC3edZp7uVzf-yA4m-aPigKqhBBhpGwe52iB3KDiVoHbOJh_Wupec4Y6aWEsz2LJpCKh8sJSqxZ9foQdfhGmolUZFE6Oh7ZhI4V2Jaffcw/s255/may_eulitt.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="255" data-original-width="197" height="221" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-pFhiW6L-lGTCG80zjR4CyTdpQ0q1spkV_HqcEeajK8d8dKHM4Evw-ekhLF5pmks8lYTaWT-6bexpewJf1dC3edZp7uVzf-yA4m-aPigKqhBBhpGwe52iB3KDiVoHbOJh_Wupec4Y6aWEsz2LJpCKh8sJSqxZ9foQdfhGmolUZFE6Oh7ZhI4V2Jaffcw/w171-h221/may_eulitt.jpg" width="171" /></a>We saw that the sparkling lights were tiny, transparent bubbles that drifted in the air and sparkled on the grass. We realized that each tiny sparkle was a soul. To me, the valley appeared to be <a href="https://near-death.com/heaven/">Heaven</a>, but at the same time I knew that James and Rashad were seeing it differently. James saw it as the Gulf of Souls. Rashad saw it as <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nirvana" rel="nofollow">Nirvana</a>, and somehow we knew all this without speaking. The light began gathering at the far end of the valley, and slowly, out of the mist, a pure white being began to materialize. I saw an <a href="https://near-death.com/angels-in-near-death-experiences/">angel</a> with a strong, bright face, but not like you’d usually imagine. She was closer to a strong, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Valkyrie" rel="nofollow">Viking Valkyrie</a>. I knew she was the special angel that watches over the women of my family, and I perceived her name to be Hellena. James saw this same being as his late father, a career Naval officer, in a white dress uniform. Rashad perceived the being to be the Enlightened One, or <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Buddha" rel="nofollow">Buddha</a>.</blockquote></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div><div><span style="text-align: left;">Soon Anke learns how to create her own reality, as if by magic. She first tries to create a Christmas tree and was astonished to find that she could, just by imagining it.</span></div><div></div><blockquote style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1rD5y6ccEQOZ8t6fYf4klekXFzZDRFJKNGfgFgF6gk1G-8hryADeBbmZ2RM6tydMmmw4OiildvrXMHW5ok2pMINi-BQbLzEq51r2LroqOn0GaWswXT-BSnWGokP4j7Sepsh4Jh2M1VrjPMVPl9fpN4x5N9cILWkU-_QNP5Jk_4gqmgXJAHQVWkhIGeIE/s148/christmas-tree.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="148" data-original-width="115" height="148" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1rD5y6ccEQOZ8t6fYf4klekXFzZDRFJKNGfgFgF6gk1G-8hryADeBbmZ2RM6tydMmmw4OiildvrXMHW5ok2pMINi-BQbLzEq51r2LroqOn0GaWswXT-BSnWGokP4j7Sepsh4Jh2M1VrjPMVPl9fpN4x5N9cILWkU-_QNP5Jk_4gqmgXJAHQVWkhIGeIE/s1600/christmas-tree.jpg" width="115" /></a></div>A small, beautifully formed Christmas tree stood before me. It was the first thing that had come into my mind … I only had to think of a Christmas tree and there it was (as real as my teacher was). </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">It was pure magic. One after another, a multicolored umbrella, a streetlamp, a pond with a rowboat and every animal imaginable all appeared. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i></i></div><div><br /></div><div>Her teacher says, “You create your own reality with your thoughts.”</div></blockquote></div><div>Anke is not the only NDEr who has described the wonder of creating your own environment after you die. One of my very good friends is <a href="http://pmhatwater.com/">PMH Atwater</a>, who has had three NDEs, and is a very popular author of many very worthwhile books on NDEs. Her latest book, <a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0C6TRFL54/?tag=iandsorg-20" rel="nofollow">Edge Walker</a>, is her autobiography. In it, you will find this ebullient description of what she discovered during one of her NDEs. </div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"></div><blockquote><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkHtIuq2DBHDKmrhl8fx3_-3bwsAYFcvNZPya9fk-1xPIQwmXhGy7rPmMmijxEmZyai3e_kzU9xdhhvR2sn3MF96UTRcvIrb6dA-GMZ0LIXf9q5e2Z6dTIgrKhY5g6qC4jOnWBqBXREhd21pQrtnSD9TC9teMOJ7H-8O0uz4toK1fh9IkfXTCv4wWnv40/s263/pmh-atwater.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="263" data-original-width="200" height="226" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkHtIuq2DBHDKmrhl8fx3_-3bwsAYFcvNZPya9fk-1xPIQwmXhGy7rPmMmijxEmZyai3e_kzU9xdhhvR2sn3MF96UTRcvIrb6dA-GMZ0LIXf9q5e2Z6dTIgrKhY5g6qC4jOnWBqBXREhd21pQrtnSD9TC9teMOJ7H-8O0uz4toK1fh9IkfXTCv4wWnv40/w172-h226/pmh-atwater.jpg" width="172" /></a><div style="text-align: justify;">First, I decided to create and shape a house, a specific type of house. Exact details were fixed in my mind – seeing each part, noting proportions, readying myself to project to what seemed as if a definitive space in front of me. I then released that thought. I held true to my goal and there it was, the same house I had envisioned. I ran to it, at least it seemed as if I did. I kicked the foundation, opened and shut windows, stomped across the green floor of the front porch, fingered the brass doorknob, gave a slap to each of the three porch pillars. As near as I could tell, this was the four-square white house with steeply pitched roof that I had envisioned. Right here. Right in front of me. Real! </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">For something animate, I chose to create a large oak tree complete with huge gnarled roots, a canopy of limbs, leaves and birds and fliers of all types. Each detail was pictured in my mind, then I aimed for a particular spot some distance away. Presto! It happened! Not only was the tree beautiful, it was complete with individual leaves, textured bark, and insect holes. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I proved it! A human such as myself could create from scratch. Thoughts are things!</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">On a binge of non-stop creation, cities took form, along with people, dogs, cats, trash cans, alleys, telephone poles, schools, books, pencils, cars, roads, lawns, birds, flowers, shrubbery, rain, suns, clouds, rivers. And everything moved on its own and had breath, noise, language. All manner of activity occurred aside and apart from anything I designed - then went about their own business according to their own pleasure and perception. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">And Jesus: I wanted so much to see him. I wanted to thank him for the role he played in history and the examples he gave for others to follow. His life and mastery of being had deeply affected me. Instantly he was there. No, there was no sense or need to bow down and worship him as if he were some kind of God figure. He was my elder brother whom I had not seen for a long, long time. The mood was joyous. We laughed and hugged. I expressed the thanks held deep within me. </div></blockquote><div>*********************</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Our tour of the afterlife must end here, not because there isn’t much more to our lives after death, but because we cannot go further. You have to remember that NDErs like Anke, Joe, Tom, Mellen-Thomas and PMH have only entered the vestibule of the house of death after which they return to their time-bound physical bodies on earth.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">We know there is more, that there must be more, and that eventually most of us will find ourselves having to reincarnate after having been shown what kind of life and challenges we need for our soul’s growth after which we find the mother whose womb awaits us. And then, down the chute we go into another life. Life after life.</div></div>Kevin Williamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10028779062267448624noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2923424816839609066.post-84221363114807315712024-01-16T05:54:00.000-08:002024-01-16T05:54:48.429-08:00The Revenge of the Orcas<div>By <a href="http://www.kenring.org/about.html">Kenneth Ring, Ph.D.</a></div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjACmrv4D95_QIQ4hEOcskGOQ9cZw3E7XNfJ4cnkbNLPRbSHL1Eq84uSSSKAciye0I2oQblL_FFvbRgatrPo14FeS6ppmDFRWtmh7vSKnINyHZLqrmHYxVwo7MkupNDFoo8V91mBIZGvpwVD-JbSSbt79W-8XszR7H9FWl6XGwyulf4nsJ1KnvgtNQ1UDs/s226/orcas-jumping.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="226" data-original-width="219" height="226" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjACmrv4D95_QIQ4hEOcskGOQ9cZw3E7XNfJ4cnkbNLPRbSHL1Eq84uSSSKAciye0I2oQblL_FFvbRgatrPo14FeS6ppmDFRWtmh7vSKnINyHZLqrmHYxVwo7MkupNDFoo8V91mBIZGvpwVD-JbSSbt79W-8XszR7H9FWl6XGwyulf4nsJ1KnvgtNQ1UDs/s1600/orcas-jumping.jpg" width="219" /></a></div>Several years ago, I wrote <a href="https://www.kenringblog.com/2020/09/a-whale-of-story.html">a blog about orcas</a>, who are often referred to as “<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Orca" rel="nofollow">killer whales</a>, “although, confusingly, they are actually a species of large-bodied <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dolphin" rel="nofollow">dolphins</a>. They’re just whale-sized denizens of the ocean. In fact, they are the largest species of dolphins in the world. They can range in size from 23 to 32 feet and can weigh up to 6 tons! </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">In my blog, I told a number of stories about how these <a href="https://www.carlsafina.org/blog/woo-woo-whale-magic">orcas who appear to have a kind of telepathy</a> had helped to rescue people whose boats had got into trouble or whose owners had become lost and disoriented in the fog. Typically, a group of orcas would suddenly appear and somehow “knew” where the owners of the boats lived and would escort them to their ports and safety. There was even an instance when a pod of orcas all at once stopped feeding and swam to a location where they found a woman who was drowning and saved her life. (It later turned out that the woman had attempted suicide.) Indeed, such stories are well known among <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Marine_biology" rel="nofollow">marine biologists</a> who have studied the behavior of orcas.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_xmAP0qft4knSz4hctGAmJWjeWn-Q6oZ8v7WZ1QgPYRiXykNlXbKjB5TzM_-MJqPiUogq0myGq4vpi36_gFX6JSyddWf9blx8Zp7Qo8J30J0A7wxr6Di-2IYniwrIBGDu96LRsvAKQzswe9CpYRaLmPry3jLDxqVoOV-dGyQ8G14UTFg5l3zX9Acj-aU/s258/carl-safina.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="258" data-original-width="217" height="236" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_xmAP0qft4knSz4hctGAmJWjeWn-Q6oZ8v7WZ1QgPYRiXykNlXbKjB5TzM_-MJqPiUogq0myGq4vpi36_gFX6JSyddWf9blx8Zp7Qo8J30J0A7wxr6Di-2IYniwrIBGDu96LRsvAKQzswe9CpYRaLmPry3jLDxqVoOV-dGyQ8G14UTFg5l3zX9Acj-aU/w199-h236/carl-safina.jpg" width="199" /></a></div>This is perhaps one of the most paradoxical things about killer whales. Despite the fact that they have been hunted down and savagely slaughtered by humans for many years, not only do they not respond in kind, but only with kindness itself. As the naturalist and ecologist <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Carl_Safina" rel="nofollow">Carl Safina</a>, who has studied orcas extensively, remarks, “The fact is, killer whales seem capable of random acts of kindness.” However, I don’t think that’s quite accurate. Their acts of kindness are not random; they are targeted and deliberate. Furthermore, as deadly as these orcas can be in hunting down their prey, there has never been a recorded instance of orcas in the wild harming, much less killing, a human being.</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">But perhaps this is changing. Consider, for example, the following case that comes from <a href="https://www.newyorker.com/culture/2023-in-review/the-year-of-the-orca">a recent article in The New Yorker</a>:</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><blockquote>On the night of May 4th, the skipper <a href="https://www.livescience.com/animals/orcas/orcas-have-sunk-3-boats-in-europe-and-appear-to-be-teaching-others-to-do-the-same-but-why">Werner Schaufelberger</a> was sailing the Swiss yacht Champagne toward a Spanish port town on the Strait of Gibraltar when he heard a loud rumble. His first thought was that the boat had hit something, but he quickly realized that the vessel was under assault—by a group of orcas. “The attacks were brutal,” Schaufelberger told the German magazine <a href="https://www.yacht.de/">Yacht</a>. Three orcas, the large black-and-white dolphins also known as killer whales, worked in tandem; a large orca rammed the boat from the side while two smaller ones gnawed at the rudder until it was destroyed and the yacht was taking on water. Schaufelberger radioed for help, and the Spanish Coast Guard sent a helicopter and rescue cruiser to collect the four people on board. None were injured. The only casualty was the Champagne itself, which sank while being towed toward land.</blockquote></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;">This not an isolated incident either. These attacks, which started in 2020, have continued and, if anything, have become more numerous as well as more vicious. The orcas involved in these deliberate assaults near the Strait of Gibraltar comprise a group about fifteen individuals who generally work as a team. They seem to have <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Orca_attacks#2020s" rel="nofollow">sunk three boats</a> (and attacked others) in 2020, and according to the article in The New Yorker, </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><blockquote>The orcas have continued their disruptions—with encounters happening almost every day in May and June … One sailor said that the orcas had playfully thrashed his boat around “like a rag doll,” removed the rudders, and left him marooned for days.</blockquote></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;">A captain of a boat reported an original attack three years ago, and said that recently they had honed their strategy and had detached both of his ship’s rudders. In late October, several of these orcas spent more than an hour battering another yacht off the Moroccan coast. Eventually, the crew had to be rescued.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">It is as if these orcas have become a kind of seafaring mafia, and as one wag put it, they are now engaged in <a href="https://www.npr.org/2023/06/13/1181693759/orcas-killer-whales-boat-attacks">orca-nized crime</a>.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="309" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/UcL3MUrvIbo" width="372" youtube-src-id="UcL3MUrvIbo"></iframe></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="text-align: justify;">Why is this happening now? Why have the orcas, at least in this area, turned savage whereas before they seemed benevolently disposed toward humans and, as I said, were known to rescue them from perilous situations. But lately, they seem to be willfully and maliciously causing these dangerous and indeed life-threatening rampages. How come?</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Various authors and lay persons have already proposed several theories, and there is not as yet any consensus on the matter, certainly not among experts. However, it is hard to avoid speculating on the matter, and what I will offer here is only my own hypothesis.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnCYmh5q352NSPsKgwoxWP0vpKcKYZhBsA9UZ1gsqJKD17NanimEsOVe2OmcqHhzzTVigzY3b7IyabMCc2cd_KbFZyn8_pXmf6XVjgwDxWHr-ALOogNDEe3FwFdCMezlCQSBaUPv8EO97bdy7ntEbN4CM4RD4y__PZbTeGdelsgbO_dcUz8mS2Ou0E0dY/s237/white-gladis.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="143" data-original-width="237" height="143" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnCYmh5q352NSPsKgwoxWP0vpKcKYZhBsA9UZ1gsqJKD17NanimEsOVe2OmcqHhzzTVigzY3b7IyabMCc2cd_KbFZyn8_pXmf6XVjgwDxWHr-ALOogNDEe3FwFdCMezlCQSBaUPv8EO97bdy7ntEbN4CM4RD4y__PZbTeGdelsgbO_dcUz8mS2Ou0E0dY/s1600/white-gladis.jpg" width="237" /></a></div>To begin with, it’s known that a particular adult female, dubbed <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Iberian_orca_attacks">White Gladis</a>, was involved in many of these incidents, with others who were mostly juveniles. Some have suggested that White Gladis had been injured by a boat or by fishing equipment, and was attacking the vessels because she had learned to see them as a threat. That’s at least a plausible possibility.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">But perhaps more telling is the fact that these Iberian orcas are critically endangered. It appears that there are only about forty of these orcas still alive. I don’t know how many have already died, but we can guess who is responsible for what is assuredly a sharp reduction in their ranks. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Even when I was writing years ago about the orcas in the Pacific Northwest, it was already clear that their numbers were in <a href="https://www.opb.org/article/2023/03/15/understanding-whats-behind-a-shrinking-population-of-endangered-killer-whale/">precipitous decline</a> owing to various factors, but certainly the toxicity of the oceans and the navy’s use of punishing sonar were among the main causes. And it is now well known, and I’ve written about this, too, that our oceans are full of crap, plastics, fishing nets, and all sorts of debris that are harmful to marine life. We human beings are very good at poisoning our environment, including the oceans. Now the alpha-predator of the planet, we also have a talent for extinguishing most varieties of <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Megafauna" rel="nofollow">megafauna</a>, and the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Climate_crisis" rel="nofollow">climate change crisis</a> we are all experiencing will only accelerate that dreadful and lamentable trend. </div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgozd9syO9ZO0h_pcVS2RB-ddoOtXzcNzVMUQryfi5069VmAXThcsH08iWjFjrgVvr6WOJiF-qvrh7U1Na0Cj12jBqQgdPulB5-_42JD54bGUZ5xPi5GfxX6BPSu0EKNKbS78bZR_-ry7auAbDArqV41LpCkeLuR61yGp3c7oOLF9XtDCGdD3eWFInQ7Go/s293/ocas-and-young.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="293" data-original-width="238" height="293" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgozd9syO9ZO0h_pcVS2RB-ddoOtXzcNzVMUQryfi5069VmAXThcsH08iWjFjrgVvr6WOJiF-qvrh7U1Na0Cj12jBqQgdPulB5-_42JD54bGUZ5xPi5GfxX6BPSu0EKNKbS78bZR_-ry7auAbDArqV41LpCkeLuR61yGp3c7oOLF9XtDCGdD3eWFInQ7Go/s1600/ocas-and-young.jpg" width="238" /></a></div>Orcas are very smart creatures. They have to live in the marine environment most of us only see from the surface. They can tell which way the sea winds are blowing and smell the rotten stench that is beginning to pervade their waters, to say nothing of the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Marine_debris" rel="nofollow">dangerous debris</a> that they now must encounter and try to evade. And surely, being the savvy and telepathic animals that they are, they know who is responsible, so that when pleasure-loving yachtsmen, who may be oblivious to all the undersea dangers orcas have to confront daily, come with their boats, what can they expect? And who else can the orcas attack, anyway? So it’s easy to imagine the boat strikes as acts of defense by a group facing existential threat. In short, all this may well represent the revenge of the orcas. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Although this is my own provisional interpretation, I am far from alone in suggesting it. And while this is a serious matter, regardless of its cause, it can also be the fodder for a kind of playful whimsey as the author of the article in The New Yorker points out: </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i></i></div><blockquote><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>A world away from the Strait of Gibraltar, at the Minnesota State Fair, a crop-art contest got so many political-orca entries, one observer noted that “‘Let orcas eat the rich’ was literally an entire subgenre.” It was a tidal wave of cheeky projection: the orcas were comrades, applauded for a revolutionary uprising, striking a blow for <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Climate_justice" rel="nofollow">climate justice</a> one yacht at a time.</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"></div></blockquote><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_MmKWb47faCJthL5P189b7b1ORhj3fAZnjsin2axNLnM4T61XdEK6Ip5_cTxZfRueuL5nNVdi48_cBv9OAyAJ8zfK4YqQUxcBZKeAJ68vJ8xnKQMaU-D-2CMoE3p1nNxsr3t94yWhJ7SOofQGnrMZEGSKEJpKeM0vEvFc0VBDSvcF4HYDgAaqjmkr2AE/s239/tilikum.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="195" data-original-width="239" height="195" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_MmKWb47faCJthL5P189b7b1ORhj3fAZnjsin2axNLnM4T61XdEK6Ip5_cTxZfRueuL5nNVdi48_cBv9OAyAJ8zfK4YqQUxcBZKeAJ68vJ8xnKQMaU-D-2CMoE3p1nNxsr3t94yWhJ7SOofQGnrMZEGSKEJpKeM0vEvFc0VBDSvcF4HYDgAaqjmkr2AE/s1600/tilikum.jpg" width="239" /></a></div>Still, until recently, such incidents have been rare, and so far as I know, they have been narrowly localized to the Iberian area. Nevertheless, they could signal a disturbing trend that we should be alert to monitor. After all, although <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Orca_attacks" rel="nofollow">no orcas in the wild have been known to kill human beings</a>, several orcas kept in captivity and trained to perform at marine amusement parks <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Orca_attacks#Captive_orca_attacks" rel="nofollow">have attacked their human trainers</a>. One named <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tilikum_(orca)" rel="nofollow">Tilikum</a> actually killed three people. When aroused and mistreated, they can turn deadly.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">All the same, in the interest of balance, I have to mention that some marine biology experts have been warning against the dangers of <a href="https://ecologyforthemasses.com/2019/02/07/seeing-ourselves-in-animals-the-pitfalls-of-anthropomorphism/">anthromorphizing the behavior of orcas</a>. No matter what may underlie the attacks, these experts aren’t buying the kind of interpretation I have proffered in this blog: “It is,” they write, “unfounded and potentially harmful to the animals to claim it is for revenge for past wrongs or to promote some other melodramatic storyline.”</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">And yet … As the author of The New Yorker article, concludes: </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><blockquote>Can you blame us, though? We love charismatic <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Megafauna" rel="nofollow">megafauna</a>. And orcas, in particular, have <a href="https://www.npr.org/2023/12/04/1216950808/rizz-oxford-word-of-the-year-swiftie">rizz</a> … Orcas occupy a sweet spot in terms of how humans see wildlife: they’re captivatingly alien, but the presence of trained orcas in film and amusement parks has taught us to think of them in relation to our own culture—often as a symbol for nature reacting to human overreach. When such creatures start ramming the boats associated with the rich, it’s natural to want to connect the dots.</blockquote></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Well, you know how I connect them. What about you? Let me know….</div>Kevin Williamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10028779062267448624noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2923424816839609066.post-57005424466225988662024-01-09T05:41:00.000-08:002024-01-09T05:41:23.372-08:00NDE Videos from the Past and Present<div>By <a href="http://www.kenring.org/about.html">Kenneth Ring, Ph.D.</a></div><div><br /></div><div>Dear Friends,</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Recently, an old friend with whom I did an informal TV show forty years ago got in touch and sent me the YouTube version of that old show. It’s very amusing, starting with a spilled tall glass of water and ending with a kiss. It also features me singing my near-death song, “<a href="https://www.kenringblog.com/2021/11/ndes-early-years-personal-history.html">I’m Out of My Body at Last</a>.” But in between the fun and games, there’s a lot of serious talk about NDEs. So if you’d like to see what I looked and sounded like forty years ago, click on the video. It will take about a half hour.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="303" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/bPT2xbKZl4U" width="365" youtube-src-id="bPT2xbKZl4U"></iframe></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">Also, as a special bonus, I will offer something that those of you interested in NDEs will definitely want to watch. This one is just a nine minute recent video narrated by one of the most remarkable NDErs I have come across in recent years. I have just ordered her book, <a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0BMK4RPHQ/?tag=iandsorg-20" rel="nofollow">Nine Days of Eternity</a>, which has been a best seller in Europe, and may want to blog about it once I’ve had a chance to read it. Her name is <a href="https://anke-evertz.de/">Anke Everitz</a> and her story is fascinating. She was nearly burned to death, was put into a coma for nine days, and had a series of revelations during her NDE that were most remarkable. To get just a brief sampling of her story, click on the video:</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/oU61Oy7Dc0M" width="380" youtube-src-id="oU61Oy7Dc0M"></iframe></div><br /><div>I hope you’ll enjoy watching both videos and learning more about NDEs from doing so.</div>Kevin Williamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10028779062267448624noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2923424816839609066.post-33261318367590542142024-01-04T06:46:00.000-08:002024-01-04T06:46:06.587-08:00My Life as the Jack of Spades<div>By <a href="http://www.kenring.org/about.html">Kenneth Ring, Ph.D.</a></div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVsxqLRYxs_h2FAnt-A-Sr0sOddxAz8dKXzaWqbZkM0pD3ghGb50V7ZdOob5nftwgb30cwpKsY7VDgaKvGQnXo_SJMtmr9Tmb1HUsIWWSpCgMK6FHAOwBl2sCdp2W6SkEI2sa4P8FM99GVikl-no_1sQmK3kxACX0W5MLVVIDd0orcZksg2jy8m7dauG4/s567/jack-of-spades.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="567" data-original-width="417" height="222" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVsxqLRYxs_h2FAnt-A-Sr0sOddxAz8dKXzaWqbZkM0pD3ghGb50V7ZdOob5nftwgb30cwpKsY7VDgaKvGQnXo_SJMtmr9Tmb1HUsIWWSpCgMK6FHAOwBl2sCdp2W6SkEI2sa4P8FM99GVikl-no_1sQmK3kxACX0W5MLVVIDd0orcZksg2jy8m7dauG4/w163-h222/jack-of-spades.jpg" width="163" /></a></div>Most nights, to end the day, I turn to the latest novel I’ve been reading, and when I finish my reading stint, I sometimes play a game or two of solitaire before heading toward bed. I usually win only about once in a dozen tries or so, but the partial reinforcement keeps me hooked. Unfortunately, in the game of life, I have had even worse luck, for there I have drawn the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jack_of_Spades" rel="nofollow">Jack of Spades</a> as my calling card.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">If you don’t know your playing cards, you may not appreciate the significance of that card. There are of course kings and queens, and all of them are shown with two eyes. But the Jack of Spades is one of the only two jacks with but a single eye showing, and that, alas, is how I look today. Ken as the Jack of Spades, and very definitely not the jack of all trades, as you will see.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_vt6sqfHQ1h-WENO3W4HnmLzdwapi42QLo7gBGj1OLBHIn0Mj8TrK-LgfMtpK7kGckM9edU-O-9uO2vY9qMFgm3GUJna7HVlpBFwyg4Lz5WZN0xqVvTgIbK8jiw8yu79fp0SVKc2Q_DP095X7hLiSIy_TeSX6bOrAeIGfvfmRQBPk2JjML6FT4nJEQ_E/s625/ken-with-eye-patch.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="625" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_vt6sqfHQ1h-WENO3W4HnmLzdwapi42QLo7gBGj1OLBHIn0Mj8TrK-LgfMtpK7kGckM9edU-O-9uO2vY9qMFgm3GUJna7HVlpBFwyg4Lz5WZN0xqVvTgIbK8jiw8yu79fp0SVKc2Q_DP095X7hLiSIy_TeSX6bOrAeIGfvfmRQBPk2JjML6FT4nJEQ_E/s320/ken-with-eye-patch.jpg" width="246" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">So why I am now sporting this piratical eye patch, you ask. Well, the answer is as simple as it is distressing. For the last month or so, I had found it increasingly difficult to read my books and even to read articles on my iPad. I couldn’t figure out why, but then I remembered that in my right eye, which is effectively blind because of my <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Glaucoma" rel="nofollow">glaucoma</a>, I have long had what is called a “<a href="https://www.downstate.edu/patient-care/find-treatment/areas-of-care/ophthalmology/eye-disorders/macular-pucker.html">macular pucker</a>,” which is sort of a winkle in one’s <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Macula" rel="nofollow">macula</a>. It had been stable for years, but lately, it seems, it is starting to spread, and I believe I am now showing the first signs of <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Macular_degeneration" rel="nofollow">macular degeneration</a>. (I will find out when I consult my eye doctor in a couple of weeks.) Fortunately, my left eye whose vision isn’t that great, but is my only relatively “good” eye, does not seem to be affected, so like a man who has to rely on just one lung, as was the case for the Norwegian composer, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Edvard_Grieg" rel="nofollow">Edvard Grieg</a>, I will have to depend on a single eye. I have become the Cyclops of <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kentfield,_California" rel="nofollow">Kentfield</a>.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyyJH0VNCS1YdGqeKug8l1Q7Eza3c25nmUSkFrvclbdWOP35RuU5eradCJvNEE9_D8fvB7urwb1CGf2TCgrDe1SDIy9JXuYYfKy4r3LxH3xE1Ecn3EE_fzgMSsJOqUHUX4nKLWrJfa1Vj-vMZ45t84ySPs4_y932EliyDEAfkzY1ywd3R_JK3lCfb2lHI/s140/nystagmus.gif" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="70" data-original-width="140" height="117" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyyJH0VNCS1YdGqeKug8l1Q7Eza3c25nmUSkFrvclbdWOP35RuU5eradCJvNEE9_D8fvB7urwb1CGf2TCgrDe1SDIy9JXuYYfKy4r3LxH3xE1Ecn3EE_fzgMSsJOqUHUX4nKLWrJfa1Vj-vMZ45t84ySPs4_y932EliyDEAfkzY1ywd3R_JK3lCfb2lHI/w234-h117/nystagmus.gif" width="234" /></a></div>I was born with a very rare ocular deformity whose incidence is only about 0.14% in the general population, which means it occurs in slightly more than one in a thousand births – my bad luck! This condition used to be called <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nystagmus" rel="nofollow">congenital nystagmus</a> but that term has been replaced by infantile nystagmus since it is now known that it develops in the months after birth, and not at birth. What it signifies is a kind of uncontrollable eye wobble.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Nobody knew that I had this condition or such poor eyesight when I was a pre-schooler. According to what I was told, it wasn’t discovered until I was six years old. I think what might have clued people into my eye problems was the fact that, in order to stabilize my vision as much as possible, I had learned to turn my head to the left. According to what I learned when I was finally able to see an eye doctor, this movement would apparently help my <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fovea_centralis" rel="nofollow">fovea</a> to attain its best possible vision, even though because of my extreme <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Myopia" rel="nofollow">near-sightedness</a>, it still wasn’t that good.</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">If you were to see photographs of me as a kid and teen-ager, you would see that instead of looking straight at the camera, I am often gazing off to my left. This caused me problems. I looked goofy. I also remember when at sixteen, when I went to get my driver’s license, the examiner thought I wasn’t paying attention to the road, and warned me, saying something like, “Kid, if you keep looking out the window instead of the windshield, you are never going to get your license.” In fact, I flunked that test and didn’t get my license until I was 17 – by faking it. By the time I was an adult, I had learned to control this condition enough to cease looking to my left, but by then the damage to my psyche had been done. My poor vision has been the bane of my life.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPfA6peNDgDuYA0JNtCC4NEYWEhV3i6ZlsE_v_NB3tNQWMymBAmeYp3D8iPCu2t9paWflYqJcYnZLAn8aeYhshB7Im7EaDLQ1lmR2kRYmcG9llKzqd2Y7CahxQM2GaTDgRwpf5Mo-0lKp_BaVlLgxl9C7evgKhRcTDDtCOI9u2kj7MFnjedH7W3DG9hA8/s877/glasses.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="377" data-original-width="877" height="98" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPfA6peNDgDuYA0JNtCC4NEYWEhV3i6ZlsE_v_NB3tNQWMymBAmeYp3D8iPCu2t9paWflYqJcYnZLAn8aeYhshB7Im7EaDLQ1lmR2kRYmcG9llKzqd2Y7CahxQM2GaTDgRwpf5Mo-0lKp_BaVlLgxl9C7evgKhRcTDDtCOI9u2kj7MFnjedH7W3DG9hA8/w226-h98/glasses.jpg" width="226" /></a></div>In school, I always had to sit as close to the front of the class because otherwise I couldn’t read what was on the blackboard. In math classes in junior high school, it was difficult for me to follow the proofs that the teacher was chalking up on the backboard. I had to learn to compensate in various ways.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I remember when I went to see my eye doctor when I was in junior high – a man that I always remembered because of his unfortunate name, Millard Gump – his telling me that it was very unusual for kids with my condition to do well in school. I would not let that stop me, no matter my lousy vision and the odd looks my appearance sometimes caused me to suffer. (“Hey, four eyes, whatcha looking at?”) Needless to say, the way I looked, combined with my general clumsiness (about which I will say more later), did not exactly make me any girl’s idea of a “dreamboat” once my gonads kicked in. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">(By the way, before I forget, I can’t resist interrupting this story of my troubled youth as a visual <a href="https://www.google.com/search?q=maladroit" rel="nofollow">maladroit</a> with a sidebar about the funny names of doctors I have consulted over the years of whom Millard Gump was the first. Eventually, there was my proctologist, Dr. Speer; and for twenty years, my urologist was Dr. Piser, who lacked only a second “s” to make it his name perfect; and, finally, my retinal specialist, Dr. Ai – I kid you not.)</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9GoZjuGKu_X4cJsuj_xrEkMQereNZ_YZuWFqKwYjZbQHmYjiEFxO3FAJhEfqIrzIcCUAGi2onjri5sByvKAxae6b8C-Et0vvaVL-Ql2v5JaN2W0oYccnXMtrXLRb5oHSKwo60EvWXt-gJtL1Ftgi2Gogm4DEIUCKzKDxyJP6ZkB3FjAjZQYcIAjujizU/s800/seal-of-uc-berkeley.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="800" height="178" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9GoZjuGKu_X4cJsuj_xrEkMQereNZ_YZuWFqKwYjZbQHmYjiEFxO3FAJhEfqIrzIcCUAGi2onjri5sByvKAxae6b8C-Et0vvaVL-Ql2v5JaN2W0oYccnXMtrXLRb5oHSKwo60EvWXt-gJtL1Ftgi2Gogm4DEIUCKzKDxyJP6ZkB3FjAjZQYcIAjujizU/w178-h178/seal-of-uc-berkeley.jpg" width="178" /></a></div>Although I eventually learned to do well in school (and actually graduated <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Phi_Beta_Kappa" rel="nofollow">Phi Beta Kappa</a> from <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/University_of_California,_Berkeley" rel="nofollow">Berkeley</a>), my life outside the classroom was marked by a decided lack of success. I don’t know if this had anything to do with my bad vision – I’ve always wondered – but I was never able to do the sorts of things that most boys do easily. When in grammar school it rained during gym periods, we had to go into the gym to dance. I remember my hands sweating because I could never dance – I had no sense of rhythm, much less grace in movement. Those periods were a torture and an embarrassment for me. When I was given a bike, I lost control of it and was nearly killed by a truck. I decided riding a bike was not a good idea and gave it up. I tried piano lessons, but seemed to be born with two left thumbs. I flunked out of cub scouts when I failed to figure out how to tie a knot. I remember an incident when I was playing with my friends in an empty lot near my house and at one point, we had to jump over a muddy swamp. I froze; I was afraid to do it. We sometimes walked on railroad tracks, but when I tried, I would always fall off. Roller skates? Forget it. Ice skating – I would never dare. And so on.</div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Even when playing sports like those I really enjoyed, such as baseball, I was a flop. I was always chosen last and placed in right field. I could do all right in softball, but not in hard ball. I was always afraid of being hit by a pitch and in a forerunner to little leagues, I compiled a miserable batting average of .207, though it did include one triple. When fly balls did come my way, I could never track them; you can’t catch what you can’t see. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Not only was I a klutz about most physical things, but I had absolutely no mechanical ability whatever. When my mother re-married when I was ten years old, my stepfather turned out to be very good at all things mechanical and could fix anything. I tried to bond with him and show interest in what he was doing, but it was hopeless. I was no good at that sort of thing, and he soon saw it was a waste of time. And I was a menace, too. Once when my dad was doing some electrical work in the kitchen, I got a really strong shock that scared the hell out of me. I decided to stick to non-electrical books.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6NNBYNvnqO6zYLhuy2sHals0d5mPtmBPezzgxD6i-ITHUVSERoScj6KvOCVulkLlgKgLNFe0jw3wwcStzEOBC3YHFAEAwtirGk40-FT27cLzIylkPgV00BJFrF3MQKhpPyCG3SfZc-vlLUqfI-F-nLyQ8NTPq59C7ZXYztU7EtjEKC0PjdOFhrqTZkX4/s452/thomas-carlyle.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="452" data-original-width="330" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6NNBYNvnqO6zYLhuy2sHals0d5mPtmBPezzgxD6i-ITHUVSERoScj6KvOCVulkLlgKgLNFe0jw3wwcStzEOBC3YHFAEAwtirGk40-FT27cLzIylkPgV00BJFrF3MQKhpPyCG3SfZc-vlLUqfI-F-nLyQ8NTPq59C7ZXYztU7EtjEKC0PjdOFhrqTZkX4/w165-h225/thomas-carlyle.jpg" width="165" /></a></div>When I got into junior high school, we were obliged to take “shop.” That is, learn to work with tools. I was and have always remained afraid of tools other than a hammer or screwdriver. I never read the works of the historian <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thomas_Carlyle" rel="nofollow">Thomas Carlyle</a>, but I have always resonated to what he said about tools, viz., machines are inherently aggressive. Touché Thomas. It was also in junior high that I had to confront the fact that, despite my biological father having been an artist, I could not for the life of me draw. I remember I got a D+ in art class, which was a gift. In high school, although I was an outstanding student, we had to pass a swimming test in order to graduate. I nearly flunked it, but managed to pass, thanks to the kindness of my instructor.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The list could go on, but you get the picture. Something was radically wrong with my brain and my body. It was stupid. The only thing I was good at was reading, writing and learning languages. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I take that back. There were actually two things that occurred in junior high that finally came to my rescue and began to repair my very low self-esteem. I had been a somewhat pudgy kid when I was in grammar school, but before I went on to junior high, I had begun to shoot up in height and become slender. I also turned out to be fairly good looking after all. And best of all, I found that I could run. In fact, I became a track star and set school records for the 50 and 75 yard dashes, and also anchored the final lap of relay races, which I ran barefoot. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I don’t have a good photograph of me in those years, but I do have one taken when I was ten and a half that will show you the kind of kid I was developing into.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGsNdbpVaUjhgQ4t924RS3crL4fj_jo_qmqWJ6smgW5AkEKV-lcTrrbCv6J-VvcXupgowA4AaEzXmhRAS0gQ8WUO5vad4tl4daRFR1U2PEQ4eOMAcfEWE5HdoDM6kx7gCwxI0ByxHTbE8hVcrXClV2a_LWniREfaWN3z5CGkNsqDmRtW15xx0jY4zCgpw/s637/young-ken.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="637" data-original-width="448" height="517" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGsNdbpVaUjhgQ4t924RS3crL4fj_jo_qmqWJ6smgW5AkEKV-lcTrrbCv6J-VvcXupgowA4AaEzXmhRAS0gQ8WUO5vad4tl4daRFR1U2PEQ4eOMAcfEWE5HdoDM6kx7gCwxI0ByxHTbE8hVcrXClV2a_LWniREfaWN3z5CGkNsqDmRtW15xx0jY4zCgpw/w363-h517/young-ken.jpg" width="363" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Eric_Hoffer" rel="nofollow">Eric Hoffer</a> was a longshoreman in California who could write. He wrote <a href="https://www.amazon.com/stores/Eric-Hoffer/author/B000APSDOU/?tag=iandsorg-20" rel="nofollow">several wonderful books</a> during the 1950s, which were very well thought of and which I read. It’s been many years, but I remember learning two things from him. One was that nature was pitiless and one must not romanticize it. The other was that, in his opinion, he had reached his peak at the age of 5 after which he began to decline. Likewise, I think I reached my peak in junior high – looking back at them now, they were my golden years.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">The other important thing that occurred during that time that bolstered my woeful self-esteem was the interest taken in me by an English teacher, Evelyn Murray. She encouraged me to write; she thought I showed talent as a writer. She believed in me. We stayed in touch for several years afterward. What would I have become without her seeing something in me that no one else had noticed?</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B00L8F9PD4/?tag=iandsorg-20" rel="nofollow" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="438" data-original-width="305" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjM2MmLVsQP1GCu3fT0QobOYfTlQx1Qivp_9u7BVkFhIVlI484b8PtNt2AsfJ8uFXQB-5Q9PBCWdBlwHunH0fURG5VTm0dWywYjD4BPDx8SAy2rohO6Z0cxlxS_lMNFYcO1fmN8Ttp05wxUwfSfep4qF4HitqehWQmC1p5EsB1REUzB1UkIjzXe7I_A3I/w157-h225/lessons-from-the-light.jpg" width="157" /></a></div>Well, as my life developed after that, especially in college and graduate school, I had more success, and not just in my studies. With women, too. I learned that I was attractive to women and have had many rewarding amorous relationships in my life. And that I could indeed write. I would never really become a scholar, but I did become a successful and respected author, particularly for <a href="http://www.kenring.org/publications.html">my work on near-death experiences</a>. And the father of three wonderful children of whom I am very proud.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I still had problems with my vision, however. I always sweated bullets before having to go for a renewal of my driver’s license because my vision remained poor. Indeed, for a period of seven years after I became a young professor, I drove without a license because I was so afraid of failing to pass the vision test. I finally succeeded, but it was always touch and go at the DMV. But eventually I drove across the country, back and forth, three times, and never had an accident. Kind of a miracle, eh? I had to give up driving at 86, and though I hated not being able to drive any longer, I was so relieved never to have to go back to the damn DMV. </div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Actually, now that I think of it, I did have one experience when I was a young professor that finally gave me an idea of what it must be like to see well. When I was about thirty years old I decided to try using <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Contact_lens" rel="nofollow">contact lenses</a>. In those days, they were “hard” lenses, and, naturally, given my lack of dexterity, I found it difficult to insert them properly. I also didn’t like the way they felt – I was always conscious that I had something “foreign” in my eyes. But I could finally see amazingly well, so clearly. I was thrilled. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Nevertheless, there came a day during the summer when I had to change a flat tire. Sweat poured into my eyes, and I had a terrible time completing my task. After that, I decided to go back to wearing glasses, and pitched the contacts. Never did go back to them.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqk1tHr_wfZ7Isu1WfwMkpsBZOo7HmRGabiXwau6IEExcBCy1GYCPl-c5hPYeG6U_wqvb9UKCiW0vIdpa_iFBplNRULI0JRhFQSJ3zKyDXAZXman_0qg32PM9AhAkJUaXGWQH6C_BqhAMC9SgbzPj_08YaFP-a2MpMuZkZIDJ3JRjpBiuo3SUiNxY1DHk/s318/glaucoma.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="159" data-original-width="318" height="106" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqk1tHr_wfZ7Isu1WfwMkpsBZOo7HmRGabiXwau6IEExcBCy1GYCPl-c5hPYeG6U_wqvb9UKCiW0vIdpa_iFBplNRULI0JRhFQSJ3zKyDXAZXman_0qg32PM9AhAkJUaXGWQH6C_BqhAMC9SgbzPj_08YaFP-a2MpMuZkZIDJ3JRjpBiuo3SUiNxY1DHk/w212-h106/glaucoma.jpg" width="212" /></a></div>Eventually, however, I did develop more serious eye problems. I started to have <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Glaucoma" rel="nofollow">glaucoma</a> at sixty, so I’ve had to deal with that and take thousands of eye drops for almost the last thirty years. I’ve had <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cataract" rel="nofollow">cataract</a> surgery, too, and even worse, a partial <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Corneal_transplantation" rel="nofollow">corneal transplant</a>, which was one of the worst and most traumatic ordeals of my life. And in recent years, my vision has continued to deteriorate so that it’s now harder for me to follow the ball watching tennis on my TV or see the news and sports commentators clearly (or hear them that well, for that matter). And, as I said at the outset, now in having to read, I’ve had to embrace my life as a one-eyed jack of no trades. I’m not worried that I will go blind – I hope that I will die before that happens and like <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Helen_Keller" rel="nofollow">Helen Keller</a> who was convinced that she would see after she died, I believe I will finally see perfectly then. Can’t wait!</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">So that’s the story of my ocular and other misadventures in life, so far. It didn’t start well, and my poor vision was often my <a href="https://www.google.com/search?q=b%C3%AAte+noire" rel="nofollow"><i>bête noire</i></a> growing up, but just as people hoping for racial justice sing “We shall overcome sometime day,” I think I’ve managed to overcome my own visual struggles and a body that just isn’t good for much except for a few things that have made my life, and I hope the lives of others, worthwhile.</div>Kevin Williamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10028779062267448624noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2923424816839609066.post-81938549591137577922023-12-21T06:55:00.000-08:002023-12-23T06:34:29.882-08:00Scribo, Ergo Sum<div>By <a href="http://www.kenring.org/about.html">Kenneth Ring, Ph.D.</a></div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDzDE6kQY0lHLkkB_4RUFX_hxh7Qp1DioPjMNBev_9r1bMQiBYbchlwOS6GIK7_OR_H9l7sVUpaP8WYagIY4kXrLu_itkdbdaWxCtZeQBv127jowLuwsiA2JaUyse_9XM_e_4o7wXD0uDeXwT-F8Nb8WUC9i7fg1ZdVhqknbn7oCXMXW1tf6R2LqbNg3E/s200/i-write-therefore-i-am.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="198" data-original-width="200" height="198" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDzDE6kQY0lHLkkB_4RUFX_hxh7Qp1DioPjMNBev_9r1bMQiBYbchlwOS6GIK7_OR_H9l7sVUpaP8WYagIY4kXrLu_itkdbdaWxCtZeQBv127jowLuwsiA2JaUyse_9XM_e_4o7wXD0uDeXwT-F8Nb8WUC9i7fg1ZdVhqknbn7oCXMXW1tf6R2LqbNg3E/s1600/i-write-therefore-i-am.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">You don’t have to know much Latin (I myself am a Latin dunce, never having studied it in school) to figure out the meaning of my title. “<a href="https://www.google.com/search?q=%22Scribo+Ergo+Sum%22" rel="nofollow">I write, therefore I am</a>.” Whether I write to live or live to write, or possibly both, writing is what I’ve been doing for most of my life. But as I’m finding it increasingly difficult to find things to write about, especially during these dark times for our world, I’m beginning to wonder whether if I stop writing my blogs, will I continue to exist? Maybe I think that as long as I write, I can stave off my death. I’m not ashamed to admit I will cleave to any superstition I can get.</div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">As some of you know, I recently managed to survive my 88th birthday, a three-day extravaganza during which I received many kind greetings from my family, friends, ex-students, and even a few of you fans of mine for which I belatedly thank you. I gained several pounds in the process, as I had also received a chocolate cake and other sweets, and am now in recovery (and on a diet!). Anyway, here I am at 88.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR2RaEsX0wvWaPFyPwM3_Jza9ETzd9aXFAoBgbX6jbkKmQfyGGAwDNaey1iqcgg21OsH6r6uk7PrZiOXqSdfYjaDeUdlkblnmr-CeEsZPVCXfH8j7_84H17UP4Ytq0ClhDbZK3m5OToCU0a7-S-IfQsgrwkqrFdeDcZ2YbAOzUNYKcYwWgEHQXOboXwNA/s1903/photo-01.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1903" data-original-width="1430" height="467" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR2RaEsX0wvWaPFyPwM3_Jza9ETzd9aXFAoBgbX6jbkKmQfyGGAwDNaey1iqcgg21OsH6r6uk7PrZiOXqSdfYjaDeUdlkblnmr-CeEsZPVCXfH8j7_84H17UP4Ytq0ClhDbZK3m5OToCU0a7-S-IfQsgrwkqrFdeDcZ2YbAOzUNYKcYwWgEHQXOboXwNA/w350-h467/photo-01.jpg" width="350" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">As we approach the nadir of the year and Christmas, now a week away as I write, this should be a joyous and celebratory time, but apart from my birthday festivities, I don’t find I have much joy in my heart, only sadness and dismay about the present and apprehension about the future. So it’s hard for me to write the kind of upbeat and humorous blogs I like to craft at such a downbeat time for our sorry and imperiled world.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Case in point: <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gaza_Strip" rel="nofollow">Gaza</a>. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjivgcIURPc-rI787bA6x1OYuYHXZZh5-AKgIiJGSkXylFGyirwkpSAYv8itJxEzRG16yR0JkBoC4AP56rfiJNKS46d2CSNmQhEv83fR5OjRvcSJuEbViRn2vVRKL8cAsEvYElDzerg5qHaUu8NOk_mM5JLHZno1YxUUGsmxqA6NUus2cfaNG7y_8135Sc/s237/flag-of-palestine.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="116" data-original-width="237" height="116" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjivgcIURPc-rI787bA6x1OYuYHXZZh5-AKgIiJGSkXylFGyirwkpSAYv8itJxEzRG16yR0JkBoC4AP56rfiJNKS46d2CSNmQhEv83fR5OjRvcSJuEbViRn2vVRKL8cAsEvYElDzerg5qHaUu8NOk_mM5JLHZno1YxUUGsmxqA6NUus2cfaNG7y_8135Sc/s1600/flag-of-palestine.jpg" width="237" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">If you’ve read any of my <a href="https://www.kenringblog.com/2023/11/why-i-am-no-longer-jew.html">blogs about Israel</a> and the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/2023_Israel%E2%80%93Hamas_war" rel="nofollow">current war</a>, you will know that my sympathies lie with the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Palestinians" rel="nofollow">Palestinians</a> now crowded and trapped like rats in a cage in Gaza while being subjected to relentless attacks by Israel, which so far have killed a number fast approaching twenty thousand, many of them children.</div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I think of them at night, in the cold and rain, shivering without food or shelter, and without hope, many of them on the verge of starving, fearful about the next attack, wondering if they will live or die or, if they survive, whether they will be maimed for life. And even if they do survive, all of them will suffer from post-traumatic stress, probably for most of their lives. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">And where will they go, once the carnage finally stops? Their houses are destroyed, Gaza is quickly turning into a mountain of rubble and reeks of stench, and the Gazans have no outlet. They are refugees, millions of them, with nowhere to go.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Can one die of heartbreak? That’s how I feel most of the time, and certainly whenever I think of those poor souls, huddled together, with mothers screaming and weeping over the death of their children.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0aIJWGLzdHdYj0dk8VqVuj5t3PiPUAlZjyV6p6siFRErKoAhZFSWLBAXLux2oNH0HYfEqb2r_Bw5Yxv70a-RcM2jU1WY8_UZI_QohyUUXb1ETFw4E987z7WmLQr4qVUyUBUPlq4kfzBH0H_lnQiwahXoR0rR3E8u8XjVaJYZ9-DW5VQHHVIy9qdp3IQA/s269/mosab-abu-toha.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="269" data-original-width="219" height="269" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0aIJWGLzdHdYj0dk8VqVuj5t3PiPUAlZjyV6p6siFRErKoAhZFSWLBAXLux2oNH0HYfEqb2r_Bw5Yxv70a-RcM2jU1WY8_UZI_QohyUUXb1ETFw4E987z7WmLQr4qVUyUBUPlq4kfzBH0H_lnQiwahXoR0rR3E8u8XjVaJYZ9-DW5VQHHVIy9qdp3IQA/s1600/mosab-abu-toha.jpg" width="219" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Still, these are abstractions, statistics, nameless persons we can never know. But there’s one man whose misfortunes I have been following from the outset. His name is <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mosab_Abu_Toha" rel="nofollow">Mosab Abu Toha</a>. He is a 31-year-old award-winning poet, married, with two children. </div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I first came across him by reading <a href="https://www.newyorker.com/news/essay/the-agony-of-waiting-for-a-ceasefire-that-never-comes">one of his articles in The New Yorker</a>, which was heartrending. At the time, he had just discovered that his house in Gaza had been destroyed, and his precious library of books that he had spent years collecting and gone to great lengths to preserve, had all gone up in smoke. I felt so terrible about that, knowing how much my own books mean to me, I immediately tried to send him some money to replace his lost books. I tried to do so through a <a href="https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/mosab-toha">poetry foundation</a> to which Mosab belonged, but it was all in vain. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Later, I read that he had been detained, imprisoned and tortured, having been (falsely) accused of being connected with <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hamas" rel="nofollow">Hamas</a>. He was eventually released, but the damage had been done. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">This morning, over my breakfast, I began listening to a <a href="https://www.newyorker.com/podcast/political-scene/mosab-abu-tohas-harrowing-detention-in-gaza">podcast of an interview with Mosab</a> that was conducted by the editor of <a href="https://www.newyorker.com/">The New Yorker</a>, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/David_Remnick" rel="nofollow">David Remnick</a>. In the first part, Mosab tells how he was detained, forced to strip naked before a young solider, beaten, kicked in his face, sworn at and brutalized before being arrested. Horrible. (I couldn’t listen to the rest; I had to take a break.)</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">But I don’t only think about people like Mosab and his fellow Gazans. I also think about the Israelis who were killed in the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/2023_Hamas-led_attack_on_Israel" rel="nofollow">October assault by Hamas</a> and of all those families waiting in fear about the fate of the <a href="https://www.bbc.com/news/world-middle-east-67053011">hostages that Hamas abducted</a>, some of whom we now know have been killed, including, most recently, three by mistake by <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Israel_Defense_Forces" rel="nofollow">IDF soldiers</a>. The Israelis, too, are suffering grievously and many of them are still enraged with <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Benjamin_Netanyahu" rel="nofollow">Netanyahu</a> and <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cabinet_of_Israel" rel="nofollow">his government</a>. Israel, too, will be a long time recovering from this.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigD2U0iTJUQIFaUqhMB6WYbJas0e3SQptZqk4HVok-3rwHfyN2-Gqdj3EguzunR_Wbp7i_r_9t5X8bXYTo_itARusuB9lDTe_v6TjjfAQigPlx89T0kHaIwHNe9tZmmitdaX7g8P_DZpMmQv6S1cFQkrrDCP-0BWnGUiQ0tbKOUayvPYHAzNC_cx_XrhM/s239/ukrainian-russia-war.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="185" data-original-width="239" height="185" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigD2U0iTJUQIFaUqhMB6WYbJas0e3SQptZqk4HVok-3rwHfyN2-Gqdj3EguzunR_Wbp7i_r_9t5X8bXYTo_itARusuB9lDTe_v6TjjfAQigPlx89T0kHaIwHNe9tZmmitdaX7g8P_DZpMmQv6S1cFQkrrDCP-0BWnGUiQ0tbKOUayvPYHAzNC_cx_XrhM/s1600/ukrainian-russia-war.jpg" width="239" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Hard to be full of good cheer when one is mindful of what’s going on the Middle East. And, there is still <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Russo-Ukrainian_War" rel="nofollow">Ukraine</a>, too, whose hopeless war, stalemated and stuck in <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Trench_warfare" rel="nofollow">trench warfare</a> like that of the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/World_War_I" rel="nofollow">First World War</a>, has almost been forgotten. From all that I’ve read and seen, there is no chance that Ukraine will survive intact as a country. Their soldiers fought and still fight valiantly, but it seems clear that <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Russian_Armed_Forces" rel="nofollow">Putin’s forces</a> will outlast them and that Putin has already won, even if he hasn’t been able to conquer and subdue the Ukrainians.</div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I was only two years old in 1938, but it seems like 1938 to me, the year before the world was engulfed in the conflagration of the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/World_War_II" rel="nofollow">Second World War</a> that would last six years, during which sixty million people died, and which wasn’t even over when it was over. I really fear what lies ahead in the years to come.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">And then there is all this <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/2023_Israel%E2%80%93Hamas_war_protests" rel="nofollow">turmoil on our nation’s campuses</a>, including some of our leading universities, which has caused such difficulties for university presidents who are trying to walk a fine line in contending with all the forces that seem to be raging on our campuses, including my own university, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/University_of_Connecticut" rel="nofollow">UCONN</a>, where I taught for many years. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">On many of these campuses, an organization called <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Students_for_Justice_in_Palestine" rel="nofollow">Students for Justice in Palestine</a> has been very active and vocal in pressing the case for Palestinians, and many Jewish students are involved in this movement, too. But other Jewish students, who support Israel, are often afraid to wear a <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kippah" rel="nofollow">kippah</a> on their heads lest they be assaulted or otherwise threatened. Fear and turmoil and unrest continue, though these may abate during final periods and then the holidays. But they will not stop. It’s hard to see where this will go, and meanwhile rancorous debates continue about <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Settler_colonialism" rel="nofollow">settler colonialism</a> and Israel’s savage warfare. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">When we look at the dismal and depressing state of <a href="https://www.pewresearch.org/politics/2023/09/19/americans-dismal-views-of-the-nations-politics/">politics in America</a>, we find no relief from the dark clouds that hover overhead that also presage worse times to come.</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilKqnhdd6xq_kmUujACREEdWgHi3ZrjPMzsRqckQhMHlcYQpTXsY1I2hQ1w4AYHz4ka3pL3Jd4Dfb0CSKFQc8OLmuxFxGW5jfmhPXXHs_VWVE-s95lXujumGdLSOFLLX8UegNrX3sye5dEO7gs_je1uiEy7PrUuKy1gCWAugEhViADEerPO06bjCJpcQ8/s242/trump.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="242" data-original-width="237" height="242" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilKqnhdd6xq_kmUujACREEdWgHi3ZrjPMzsRqckQhMHlcYQpTXsY1I2hQ1w4AYHz4ka3pL3Jd4Dfb0CSKFQc8OLmuxFxGW5jfmhPXXHs_VWVE-s95lXujumGdLSOFLLX8UegNrX3sye5dEO7gs_je1uiEy7PrUuKy1gCWAugEhViADEerPO06bjCJpcQ8/s1600/trump.jpg" width="237" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I’ve never been a fan of <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Joe_Biden" rel="nofollow">Biden</a>, and for many reasons, but in the next election, we seem to have a choice of a doddering and etiolated President, a <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Donald_Trump" rel="nofollow">wacko conspiracy theorist</a> with a famous name, and a would-be dictator with a foul mouth who is bent on vengeance and who, if elected, would probably sound the death knell for democracy. To say nothing of the obstructionist and mostly <a href="https://accountable.us/hall-of-shame/">delusional Republicans</a> in Congress who seem like fractious children playing in a sandbox. Is this what America has come to? A land of mass murders every week, mendacious and ineffectual politicians, and an electorate, half of whom, seemingly in thrall to a deranged cult leader, have gone off the rails?</div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I grew up during a very different time in the fifties when my cohort was called “<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Silent_Generation" rel="nofollow">the silent generation</a>,” as we slept through the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dwight_D._Eisenhower" rel="nofollow">Eisenhower years</a>. I did go to <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/University_of_California,_Berkeley" rel="nofollow">Berkeley</a>, but that was before the sixties broke out all over and Berkeley had its moment with the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Free_Speech_Movement" rel="nofollow">Free Speech Movement</a>. How different things seem now when mayhem and raucous dissension threaten to turn into violence as the fabric of democracy continues to unravel.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Didn’t the great historian, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Arnold_J._Toynbee" rel="nofollow">Arnold Toynbee</a>, say something to the effect that most empires start to rot from within after a couple of centuries or so? Perhaps that is what’s happening to our country even before we mark the 250th anniversary of its founding. <i><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sic_transit_gloria_mundi" rel="nofollow">Sit transit gloria mundi</a></i>.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I used to take solace in my reading, but lately even there, I find myself reading about even worse times and people even more vile than those who vie for our attention on the stage of our dysphoric times.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B004KZOWEG/?tag=iandsorg-20" rel="nofollow" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="331" data-original-width="217" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXhAPvAc2R_pD7nIGGgzSWdSK0WnKhmojRGSsDQNKcmfVZ0HarcMHCyf0bemOGyTfGAOhcErw1-gHplreBvmAHw6e_t7OjfO3DuvJGSLPTqs9qw3SSTI2qSPW2ajOIyYXhXAoiE_NAuhRXzC8aBHOG-uHH0xN0jUxpd_2rOwoyhg586yf7CKopYN08qtQ/s320/king-leopolds-ghost.jpg" width="210" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I’m currently reading two books (and various articles) about <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Democratic_Republic_of_the_Congo" rel="nofollow">the Congo</a>, both written about twenty years ago. One is a book called <a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B004KZOWEG/?tag=iandsorg-20" rel="nofollow">King Leopold’s Ghost</a>. Do you know about the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Leopold_II_of_Belgium" rel="nofollow">Belgian King</a> who raped the Congo beginning in the mid-1880s, and over more than twenty years enslaved millions of Blacks and in the process of extracting ivory and rubber, killed about ten million people? Leopold, who oddly enough never set a royal foot in the vast region he plundered, was motivated by an overweening amount of cupidity. He was a moral monster of almost unparalleled brutality. And he had many others whose help he enlisted who also enriched themselves of the spoils to be extracted from the Congo’s rich resources, including the famous explorer, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Henry_Morton_Stanley" rel="nofollow">Henry Stanley</a>, who discovered <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/David_Livingstone" rel="nofollow">Dr. Livingstone</a> to whom he definitely didn’t say, “Dr. Livingstone, I presume.” He is another odious and hateful figure in this mostly now forgotten <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_massacres_in_the_Democratic_Republic_of_the_Congo" rel="nofollow">genocide</a>.</div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The other book is actually a novel written by <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Barbara_Kingsolver" rel="nofollow">Barbara Kingsolver</a>, who lived in the Congo as a child. Her book is called <a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B000QTE9WU/?tag=iandsorg-20" rel="nofollow">The Poisonwood Bible</a>. I’m only partway through it, but so far, it deals with a later period of the Congo’s history, but one still marked by the effects of Leopold’s malign legacy. It, too, is a sad tale of what that stricken land and its people have suffered.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B000QTE9WU/?tag=iandsorg-20" rel="nofollow" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="327" data-original-width="219" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdADmgMwW1o4T0jBoAiE8awWn7ZyooxWEUw3gCD9wjao67F50fXKu5zgqYuW4K1-O2wMJuIZ-FeR_4r7qSwpTt22181i1ySkeQHAxkEXBqlo5C9zmfD7xxIGNzUFiLxBj3cv1ARZ7cm7mcHhdz49pRuIPFtW2Xo2_lOa8ejF-aMCwbRjse54DPYYhYSbc/s320/the-poisonwood-bible.jpg" width="214" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">And the suffering goes on today. There is still an on-going war that is being waged by various contending forces during which it is estimated that as many as six million people have died. Today others toil to scratch out a living. The Congo, you see, is still rich in copper and especially cobalt, which is used in your smart phones and in the batteries for your electric vehicles. Exploitation is still the name of this wretched game, long after King Leopold went to his grave. The West still profits while the Africans suffer and die. </div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">What a world. Please let me off at the next stop. I don’t really want to continue to live in such a benighted and doomed planet, which has far too much toxicity and not nearly enough love. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Well, sorry for this rant, my friends. I hate to be such a downer at this time of year when we are all supposed to be cheerful and whoop it up at new year’s when the ball falls and the confetti flies. But, at least for me, and perhaps for some of you, this does not seem to be the time for rejoicing and seasonal hoopla. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Please pray for peace, and for those who continue to suffer from the tragedies and horrors of our own time. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">But for now, I will leave you with this image of hope:</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx6UA0Wt2G4Rj_FwOwIc8MSdORk6gnU6ociQdw2DOTeet5bagHoYWUkgzBYX3NAOO1OSyWRXRF0Mz3_DvbsORqKlDPzCQ4D4fW33L60_YtByWQFnpufUvFGZkrxi2czKg1-I7UttwWuKVQsEzo12vt6pP6XTSFj79nfewqlw-3VdwWEuUvPc6uxVAmgac/s680/children-say.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="496" data-original-width="680" height="396" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx6UA0Wt2G4Rj_FwOwIc8MSdORk6gnU6ociQdw2DOTeet5bagHoYWUkgzBYX3NAOO1OSyWRXRF0Mz3_DvbsORqKlDPzCQ4D4fW33L60_YtByWQFnpufUvFGZkrxi2czKg1-I7UttwWuKVQsEzo12vt6pP6XTSFj79nfewqlw-3VdwWEuUvPc6uxVAmgac/w544-h396/children-say.jpg" width="544" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>Kevin Williamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10028779062267448624noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2923424816839609066.post-35923695989263633922023-12-05T08:00:00.000-08:002023-12-05T08:08:40.696-08:00On the Art of Kvetching<div>By <a href="http://www.kenring.org/about.html">Kenneth Ring, Ph.D.</a></div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5ENVJ9Zdk4DAWZ5IoRyedUanXuoJU8CPGOaTM-HbRbJaiih5Wfq_oS5Ncv2J3rNFvDGCnBVawBKPfBmjH5xN1SEDWd8xGp-Q-IaQHfGEgFFGEKPtyRjXCdQSMjn53N1DGnE6SzWZuhb4WGxQpugOSve8J-uKDodQ2PQh4TQCjYvZsQoSmopYGYjo8O2M/s241/kvetch.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="237" data-original-width="241" height="237" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5ENVJ9Zdk4DAWZ5IoRyedUanXuoJU8CPGOaTM-HbRbJaiih5Wfq_oS5Ncv2J3rNFvDGCnBVawBKPfBmjH5xN1SEDWd8xGp-Q-IaQHfGEgFFGEKPtyRjXCdQSMjn53N1DGnE6SzWZuhb4WGxQpugOSve8J-uKDodQ2PQh4TQCjYvZsQoSmopYGYjo8O2M/s1600/kvetch.jpg" width="241" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Since I turned out to be a flop as a <a href="https://www.kenringblog.com/2023/11/zen-and-ken.html">Zen practitioner</a>, I have decided to return to and cultivate a spiritual practice I know I am good at – the art of the <a href="https://www.chabad.org/library/article_cdo/aid/4029348/jewish/What-Does-Kvetch-Mean.htm">kvetch</a>.</div></div></div></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Even if you are not Jewish, as, until my recent decision to <a href="https://www.kenringblog.com/2023/11/why-i-am-no-longer-jew.html">become a Jewish apostate</a>, I was for many years, I can assure you that you don’t have to be <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jews" rel="nofollow">Jewish</a> in order to learn to kvetch. Anyone of any religion or none (actually, some of the world’s leading kvetchers are <a href="https://near-death.com/an-analysis-of-the-ndes-of-atheists/">atheists</a>) can become a kvetch adept with a little practice.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I’m assuming that you already know what it is to kvetch. Basically, it is to complain with humor. For example, when you wake up with a backache, as I often do, you could just mutter, or, if you are an <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anglicanism" rel="nofollow">Episcopalian</a>, you could pretend to feel fine since talking about one’s body is thought to be unseemly – or you could kvetch by saying something along the lines of “Oy vey, my aching accursed back. If this keeps up, I’m gonna have to take myself to the nearest body shop and demand a backectomy!”</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguV0kVUiFWuZH_56KrijgLAwIgEgZ-2EIhkt0drCoHaBqiAaLSNL4SwOxqMFmzvMEp1m_fqgiHHF9TX9SsURv4PQ9Tf9Dflga7OJapX8UoaVMJTT51buGwHTiCM5j_OCo6mObQkGwAdDXEljvUp0DycpBnsrNu_clnRDj2umThbop4yi09616CQL5Jm20/s183/don-rickles.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="183" data-original-width="150" height="183" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguV0kVUiFWuZH_56KrijgLAwIgEgZ-2EIhkt0drCoHaBqiAaLSNL4SwOxqMFmzvMEp1m_fqgiHHF9TX9SsURv4PQ9Tf9Dflga7OJapX8UoaVMJTT51buGwHTiCM5j_OCo6mObQkGwAdDXEljvUp0DycpBnsrNu_clnRDj2umThbop4yi09616CQL5Jm20/s1600/don-rickles.jpg" width="150" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">You get the idea. Jews are particularly good at this because, if you know anything about <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jewish_history" rel="nofollow">Jewish history</a>, and who doesn’t, Jews have had a lot to complain about. Which is one reason why during the 20th century, about <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jewish-American_comedy" rel="nofollow">eighty percent of comics were Jews</a>.</div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Of course, Jewish humor often has a hostile edge to it and sometimes it is not even subtle, as, for example, the nasty humor <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Don_Rickles" rel="nofollow">Don Rickles</a>, if anyone remembers him. And, yes, it can be cruel to joke about other people, but to lampoon oneself, ah, that’s the way many comics make a living. That’s their shtick, as we <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Yid" rel="nofollow">Yids</a> (or in my case, erstwhile Yids) like to say. Consider <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Woody_Allen" rel="nofollow">Woody Allen</a>, who before he became a well-known film director (and an alleged pedophile), was a <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Stand-up_comedy" rel="nofollow">standup comic</a> who amused audiences by making fun of himself. (And, by the way, is there any other kind? Have you ever heard of a sitdown comic? Besides, if you ever saw the film, “<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/My_Favorite_Year" rel="nofollow">My Favorite Year</a>,” which is actually one of <i>my </i>favorite films, you might remember being taught that you must never attempt to tell a joke sitting down.)</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYSaAgC68nODuU2_f-pq3Ldn9KNSXRq1H5y-nijEUgIcx53KJyQ5HaftchNkoMpiAzokErX01KhFXOcUV7ZCXcVClSDBdY0VdrZQTHHT5-bgYobmGu7_5ddh-h9-uU3vklNtc1gdH4J8nKcBuHtpoSyO67dQApxnRzqdLWpuaeOOYdwdmOPNYAT4PXygE/s253/woody-allen.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="253" data-original-width="197" height="188" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYSaAgC68nODuU2_f-pq3Ldn9KNSXRq1H5y-nijEUgIcx53KJyQ5HaftchNkoMpiAzokErX01KhFXOcUV7ZCXcVClSDBdY0VdrZQTHHT5-bgYobmGu7_5ddh-h9-uU3vklNtc1gdH4J8nKcBuHtpoSyO67dQApxnRzqdLWpuaeOOYdwdmOPNYAT4PXygE/w147-h188/woody-allen.jpg" width="147" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">But back to kvetching. Several years ago when I was in my early eighties and still in my prime, I wrote a humorous piece, with a lot of kvetching in it, and it got such a good response that it actually led to my becoming a blogger in what I continue to regard as my advanced middle age (I am about to amass as many years as the number of keys on the piano). And since I am now running out of both time and things to write about, I thought it might be worthwhile to share that blog again with you. I figured that in these incredibly sad, dark and dystopian times, you might appreciate a little levity, if only as a distraction from the news about wars, mayhem and Republicans.</div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh545qPJzkkEPCZtglMfQITCcVQcNFJaNoL0CTQrfwZuz1XjJkn-iQnoBLlQdwQ9oZNIrhd-r0iWmeYCouEuGUAHowpoM7jCZgfjE2_FxRs1ZUV8mOOKLMFgwOMnApyS9XCMIsBdJjYCZNJ9LCaILUbnlE3x34Yqs1WJAROn7i_tMwSsDmH_SnxtykfgpM/s300/born-to-kvetch.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="192" height="242" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh545qPJzkkEPCZtglMfQITCcVQcNFJaNoL0CTQrfwZuz1XjJkn-iQnoBLlQdwQ9oZNIrhd-r0iWmeYCouEuGUAHowpoM7jCZgfjE2_FxRs1ZUV8mOOKLMFgwOMnApyS9XCMIsBdJjYCZNJ9LCaILUbnlE3x34Yqs1WJAROn7i_tMwSsDmH_SnxtykfgpM/w155-h242/born-to-kvetch.jpg" width="155" /></a></div>Of course, some of you may have already read this blog, but so what? A good blog, like an erotic billet-doux, is worth re-reading. Why should a good blog be read only once and then be, like Don Rickles, forgotten? And if you haven’t read it, well, you’re about to. I hope you enjoy it and learn something about the art of kvetching in doing so. Who knows, it might induce you to take up the art itself. The world, after all, could use all the kvetchers it can get.</div></div></div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">As for me, I plan to continue to hone my kvetching skills by delving into a new book that just arrived at my door, courtesy of Amazon. Its title (and I’m not making this up; this really happened just as I was finishing this prologue): <i>Born to Kvetch.</i> Some things are just too good to be false.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b style="font-size: x-large;">Waiting to Die</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">The bright realization that <i>must</i> come before death will be worth all the boredom of living.</div><div style="text-align: center;">-- <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ned_Rorem" rel="nofollow">Ned Rorem</a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">What’s it like, <a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/1627876987/?tag=iandsorg-20" rel="nofollow">waiting to die</a>? Of course, it’s different for everyone. I can only say what it’s like for me. On the whole, it’s rather boring. </div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Don’t get me wrong. I still have many pleasures in life and – knock on silicon – I’m lucky not to be suffering from any fatal illness, though if I were, that would certainly add some drama in my life. I could then follow the example of the poet <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ted_Rosenthal" rel="nofollow">Ted Rosenthal</a>, who after contracting leukemia, joyfully called his friends and said, “Guess what’s happened to <i>me</i>!” Well, no thanks. I’ll take my boring life any day and intone a hymn of gratitude every morning I wake up with only the ordinary indignities of an old man – coughing, wheezing and sneezing, and, oh, my aching back!</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYeFlRpuGFrmE7A4Aqpy4Li-ZTi7H9GouBszamwb5JPnyvbCdZdVfd9IK_sYSIHLd7C_fj31oLn9CCHT1weVVg9Hi584vewNXlPWY5rbKtUtFJ9euxgub3XD7BXIh75FR85wZ5_E7uD83n96suI1-PM1KdzCmS7h-rWfIxUPMgcoyZaBNby_zxq99Ey90/s319/pieces-of-my-mind.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="319" data-original-width="220" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYeFlRpuGFrmE7A4Aqpy4Li-ZTi7H9GouBszamwb5JPnyvbCdZdVfd9IK_sYSIHLd7C_fj31oLn9CCHT1weVVg9Hi584vewNXlPWY5rbKtUtFJ9euxgub3XD7BXIh75FR85wZ5_E7uD83n96suI1-PM1KdzCmS7h-rWfIxUPMgcoyZaBNby_zxq99Ey90/w165-h239/pieces-of-my-mind.jpg" width="165" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">But still….I’m used to having productive work -- writing books, helping other authors with their books, being involved in various professional pursuits, and so forth. But recently I published my last book, which I puckishly entitled, <i>Pieces of My Mind Before I Fall to Pieces</i>, which was a kind of potpourri of stories and interests from my later years, and just after that I wrote what I expect to be my last professional article, the foreword to a colleague’s memoir. Now what? More precisely, what do I do with my time now that I have clearly entered the epilogue to my life? Honestly, I feel as if I have stepped over the threshold into my afterlife before dying. </div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Of course, I can watch films – I’ve become quite a “film buff” in my later years; I still have interesting books to read. I am blessed with a wonderful girlfriend. Still, since life has become a spectator sport for me, and I can no longer travel, except locally, I find that I am spending more time on my sofa, honing my couch potato skills, <a href="https://www.kenringblog.com/2023/06/the-sporting-life.html">watching sports</a>. Yet I must confess that even they have lost a good deal of their allure for me. My home town baseball team, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/San_Francisco_Giants" rel="nofollow">The San Francisco Giants</a>, finished in the cellar last year; in golf, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tiger_Woods" rel="nofollow">Tiger</a> has gone away; in basketball, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Michael_Jordan" rel="nofollow">Michael Jordan</a> is long gone; and in tennis, which is now the only sport I follow with some avidity, it is chiefly because of the great <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Roger_Federer" rel="nofollow">Roger Federer</a>. Nevertheless, I can only wonder how long he can at 36 continue to produce one miracle after another? Surely, he, too, will begin his inevitable decline soon, and with his descent from the heights of glory, my interest in tennis will also flag. So what will be left then? I will tell you.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWOW_APKM8Q0p1qCHDPsAtUnsXUvbHBExjaSAr-ilY-9Rw7WRCfP9vTynqJP8twO-IjEwvgOWlg6Ycy1swLDGQ29sS7BUF4wEuoqNJtFCFBqwcy44cChIrcJ_yUZo9oDhGE9pRUxmk_J_cYiwm-KR1-PJJfthHKjVzjD-Qp_RiWW3YEILNnEv6RCZTPkE/s320/ken-watching-sports.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="313" data-original-width="320" height="351" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWOW_APKM8Q0p1qCHDPsAtUnsXUvbHBExjaSAr-ilY-9Rw7WRCfP9vTynqJP8twO-IjEwvgOWlg6Ycy1swLDGQ29sS7BUF4wEuoqNJtFCFBqwcy44cChIrcJ_yUZo9oDhGE9pRUxmk_J_cYiwm-KR1-PJJfthHKjVzjD-Qp_RiWW3YEILNnEv6RCZTPkE/w358-h351/ken-watching-sports.jpg" width="358" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">The body. Mine. It has already become my principal preoccupation and <i><a href="https://www.google.com/search?q=b%C3%AAte-noire" rel="nofollow">bête-noire</a></i>. These days, I can’t help recalling that <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Francis_of_Assisi" rel="nofollow">St. Francis</a> referred to the body as “<a href="https://catholicstand.com/brother-ass-holiness-body/">brother ass</a>.” It seems I now spend most of my time in doctors’, chiropractors’ or dentists’ clinics, as they strive to preserve my decaying body parts by inflicting various forms of torture on me that would even impress <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tom%C3%A1s_de_Torquemada" rel="nofollow">Torquemada</a>, or doing physical therapy in what is most likely a vain attempt to delay the encroaching onset of wholesale physical deterioration. Really, is this any way to run a navy? There are many days when I think the only surgery that will preserve me would be a complete bodyectomy.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjomt68sKL7AfAynulNVaIAr9D6XOy6MiM5L0kxDQuHqW0S9fDOcl9BrtmP_gMssHui2pEYxC6HFbV_XnKpZFgNyYoy5CgOKLCUbPNcmmfcKBsYKtg2W-aHJ-FpY9G1xSQTsVOxzdyTDQJAz7zHOrOD5u7PNgup6QjNRoCU1Bn1wimVu0bMbO-3AWigzzg/s256/bette-davis.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="256" data-original-width="218" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjomt68sKL7AfAynulNVaIAr9D6XOy6MiM5L0kxDQuHqW0S9fDOcl9BrtmP_gMssHui2pEYxC6HFbV_XnKpZFgNyYoy5CgOKLCUbPNcmmfcKBsYKtg2W-aHJ-FpY9G1xSQTsVOxzdyTDQJAz7zHOrOD5u7PNgup6QjNRoCU1Bn1wimVu0bMbO-3AWigzzg/s1600/bette-davis.jpg" width="218" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Well, okay, I realize this is only par for the course of the everyday life of an octogenarian. Wasn’t it <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bette_Davis" rel="nofollow">Bette Davis</a> who famously said “old age is no place for sissies?” It isn’t for wimps like me either, it seems. (I can often be heard crooning, “turn back the hands of time….”) Still, I wouldn’t go so far as the saturnine <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Philip_Roth" rel="nofollow">Philip Roth</a> who said that old age is “a massacre.” I guess at this point I find myself somewhere between Davis and Roth, but the waiting game still seems to be a losing proposition and I might very well come to think of my current boredom as the halcyon days of my decline.</div></div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Nevertheless, consider a typical day in the life of this old wheezing geezer. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">It begins with the back. Every day does. In the morning, you get up, but your back doesn’t. It hurts. Even though you take a hot shower before bed, by the time you wake up your back has decided to take the day off. When you try to use it, as for example, when you bend over to pick up the comb you’ve dropped into the toilet, it begins to complain.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">And finally, it gets so bad, you have to lie down on your once neatly made bed, remove half your clothing, and apply some ice to it while listening to mindless music and cursing the day when some enterprising hominid decided it would be a good idea to change from the arboreal life to a bipedal one. Big mistake. The next one was the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Neolithic_Revolution" rel="nofollow">invention of agriculture</a>, but never mind. We were talking about the back and its vicissitudes.</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">Nevertheless, a little later, you decide to take your body out of a spin. “Don’t look back,” the great <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Satchel_Paige" rel="nofollow">Satchel Paige</a> advised, “something might be gaining on you.” In my case, it’s the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Death_(personification)" rel="nofollow">man with the scythe</a> whom I hope to outstrip for a few more years. </div></div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Of course, the back, which had only been moaning quietly before now begins to object vociferously, asking sourly, “what the hell are you <i>thinking</i>? Nevertheless, you press on, thinking your will will prevail, and your back can go to hell. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">\But the next dispiriting thing you notice are all these chubby old ladies whizzing by you as if they are already late for their hair appointments. How humiliating – to be passed by these old biddies! You think about the days in junior high when you were a track star, setting school records in the dashes and anchoring the relay races, which you used to run in your bare feet. Then you ran like the wind. These days, you are merely winded after trudging a hundred yards. </div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkQfzSy2OVKNDfQqA_AkghRllW1-4vCGm73rd-B5x9OaBWWgDkjv2yw3e1mT3GoGklOSnCkyqD18Y9TpcMVDwbtRD3MQyQpjGB0oH4oei4NKGqwlw2dHw_zTNsdSkPydF5bbjraPhyphenhyphenv1lhDPZ2tzVQ6fnMFDTSCQVp0KQ5CD5yUYozmKjOrjb1krkL6iU/s236/fat-people-exercising.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="136" data-original-width="236" height="136" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkQfzSy2OVKNDfQqA_AkghRllW1-4vCGm73rd-B5x9OaBWWgDkjv2yw3e1mT3GoGklOSnCkyqD18Y9TpcMVDwbtRD3MQyQpjGB0oH4oei4NKGqwlw2dHw_zTNsdSkPydF5bbjraPhyphenhyphenv1lhDPZ2tzVQ6fnMFDTSCQVp0KQ5CD5yUYozmKjOrjb1krkL6iU/s1600/fat-people-exercising.jpg" width="236" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">When you can go no further, you turn around only to become aware of still another distressing sight. Actually, it <i>is </i>your sight – or lack of it. It ain’t working. You could see pretty well after your corneal surgery last year, but now you can’t see worth shit. What is that ahead of you? Is it a woolly mammoth, a Saint Bernard or merely a burly ex-football player? Where are the eyes of yesteryear? Gone missing. Well, they didn’t give me any guarantees as to how long my vision would last before it decided, like my back, to begin to object to its continued use outdoors. The way of all flesh doesn’t stop with the flesh; it continues with the cornea, so now I am cursing the darkness in the middle of a miasmal morning.</div></div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I finally arrive home in a disconsolate mood, but now it is time to hop onto my stationary bike, which is the only kind I have ever been able to ride since my balance is worse than that of an elderly inebriate on New Year’s Eve. I used to be able to pedal reasonably fast and for a long time. But lately someone must have snuck in to affix some kind of a brake to the bike since suddenly it seems that I am pumping uphill at an acute angle. Heart rate is up, speed is down, my old distance marks are a treasured memory, which I can only mourn. All I am aware of now is the sound of someone huffing and puffing.</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi22Zz9ZDWKmlL8Z5LtLiEFk8gZrdZSrUl6m1gNUBvVFwgLwKfVxKaAQpC57QTXCQ1_PKlQ_3RFAZssGNPGIJgX41zM7msl5b9Z0dV2dZmkhKoduKChRTtAcoLYTxMWVr3zkkKDGMa5FfNXJ300o0hg1S5qX-Gk6DPOnpuzNXPWXeTDMkouqZW26dAiFPs/s260/prostate.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="216" data-original-width="260" height="216" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi22Zz9ZDWKmlL8Z5LtLiEFk8gZrdZSrUl6m1gNUBvVFwgLwKfVxKaAQpC57QTXCQ1_PKlQ_3RFAZssGNPGIJgX41zM7msl5b9Z0dV2dZmkhKoduKChRTtAcoLYTxMWVr3zkkKDGMa5FfNXJ300o0hg1S5qX-Gk6DPOnpuzNXPWXeTDMkouqZW26dAiFPs/s1600/prostate.jpg" width="260" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">At last the torture is over, but now I really have to piss. That damn <a href="https://aaurology.com/men/enlarged-prostate-bph/">enlarged prostate</a> of mine has no patience – it must be satisfied <i>now</i>! I race into the bathroom, unzip my fly before it is too late, and make sure, because I have my girlfriend’s admonitions in my ears as I piss that she will behead me if I continue to treat the floor as an auxiliary pissoir, I am pissing very carefully into the toilet bowl. Of course, these days, my urinary stream is a sometimes thing. It starts, it stops, it pauses to refresh itself, it pulses, stops, dribbles, starts up again with what seems to be its last mighty effort to produce something worthwhile and finally drips itself into extinction.</div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I’m relieved, however, because at least I haven’t soiled my pants this time. But wait. What is that? Pulling up my pants, I can feel some urine on my left thigh. How the hell did it get in there? Is there some kind of silent secondary stream that runs down the side of my leg when I am otherwise preoccupied with trying to keep my penile aim from going astray?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Now I have to find a towel to wipe off the offending liquid and just hope my girlfriend won’t say, when I return to the kitchen, “what is that funny smell, darling?”</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYBVIW_ik6S3192ZsETj5x_V7_lFG5OLVTjEVfgVxG4ia5uS7Q3OBhhptjKS7RTOxLTM9_xJ41IRWJ8c7L6e0m94CxSQu5m8LAKXjx1guPe5kYhBBkidn3R-F0eJ40gRQF7EiwfApDtRE_uZt2VLHDiyrRNGbRtSWdaPty637pceEWfqF6CCJaapQvqHY/s227/bowl-of-cherries.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="178" data-original-width="227" height="178" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYBVIW_ik6S3192ZsETj5x_V7_lFG5OLVTjEVfgVxG4ia5uS7Q3OBhhptjKS7RTOxLTM9_xJ41IRWJ8c7L6e0m94CxSQu5m8LAKXjx1guPe5kYhBBkidn3R-F0eJ40gRQF7EiwfApDtRE_uZt2VLHDiyrRNGbRtSWdaPty637pceEWfqF6CCJaapQvqHY/s1600/bowl-of-cherries.jpg" width="227" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Well, you get the idea. Life is no longer a bowl of cherries, or if it is, some of them are turning rotten. And naturally I can’t help wondering how long I have to go before I <i>really </i>cross that final threshold into the unknown. For years, I’ve joked that <a href="https://www.kenringblog.com/2023/08/the-day-i-turned-thousand-months-old.html">I’ve wanted to live to be 1000 – months – old</a>. Now I’m at 984 and counting. I’m getting close, and it’s no longer just a joke. </div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">And of course I now also have to wonder what will be next? I mean, after I die, assuming I will ever get around to it. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Well, in my case, I have some inklings because I’ve spent half my life <a href="http://www.kenring.org/publications.html">researching and writing about near-death experiences</a> and in the course of my work I’ve interviewed hundreds of people who have told me what it was like for them to die – at least for a few moments – before returning to life. And what they have told me has been, I am frank to admit, profoundly reassuring. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxWWmxaitCnuN6ST6Kg6VQzvJrM1H6jQWxI35mvxoNkFLGiDxaMrSCHiemypW88Db6OTnpV7GAIPYhg5u_yE2QFb5UdjWmN2S9DCKXZmy3ng8t6bCU_S96tGZMGrtmRKZVKYEnaZI9HSQof697gISdd2f6XIg4OaBsKuZtcDVsdWsyPDMWoF-ViGkFwFY/s220/peace.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="182" data-original-width="220" height="182" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxWWmxaitCnuN6ST6Kg6VQzvJrM1H6jQWxI35mvxoNkFLGiDxaMrSCHiemypW88Db6OTnpV7GAIPYhg5u_yE2QFb5UdjWmN2S9DCKXZmy3ng8t6bCU_S96tGZMGrtmRKZVKYEnaZI9HSQof697gISdd2f6XIg4OaBsKuZtcDVsdWsyPDMWoF-ViGkFwFY/s1600/peace.jpg" width="220" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I remember one woman who said that in order to grasp the feeling of peace that comes with death you would have to take the thousand best things that ever happened to you, multiply them by a million and <i>maybe</i>, she said (I remember her emphasis on the word, “maybe”), you could come close to that feeling. Another man said that if you were to describe the feelings of peace that accompanied death, you would have to write it in letters a mile high. All this might sound hyperbolic, but I have heard such sentiments from many near-death experiencers. Here’s just one more specific quote from a man I knew very well for many years, telling me what it was like for him to die: </div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><blockquote>"It was a total immersion in light, brightness, warmth, peace, security … I just immediately went into this <a href="https://near-death.com/god/">beautiful bright light</a>. It’s difficult to describe … Verbally, it cannot be expressed. It’s something which becomes you and you become it. I could say “I was peace, I was love.” I was the brightness. It was part of me … You just know. You’re all-knowing – and everything is a part of you. It’s just so beautiful. It was eternity. It’s like I was always there and I will always be there, and <a href="https://near-death.com/earth/">my existence on earth</a> was just a brief instant."</blockquote></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoAOFUeffa7anhNo_IIboaPkY5MJJ3T-lGHUv8ep0P7cQs1yUXKtuNWvXlrSrDdg7vY0FISkhePvbRtYjKm1JKuzfyuve1H0_Gor1P0o4YqEZfHzCXrBVJqxZsAoulzHFLEBdHID1x4p7Fmn7GYOS7dBihtulqPUiWliltI62uEJCPoA1u5Ckg3uHwVHU/s289/walt-whitman.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="289" data-original-width="215" height="289" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoAOFUeffa7anhNo_IIboaPkY5MJJ3T-lGHUv8ep0P7cQs1yUXKtuNWvXlrSrDdg7vY0FISkhePvbRtYjKm1JKuzfyuve1H0_Gor1P0o4YqEZfHzCXrBVJqxZsAoulzHFLEBdHID1x4p7Fmn7GYOS7dBihtulqPUiWliltI62uEJCPoA1u5Ckg3uHwVHU/s1600/walt-whitman.jpg" width="215" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">After listening to so many people describe what it was like for them to die, it is easy for me to imagine what it might be like for me – for anyone – to take that final journey. And many great writers have said much the same thing as those I have interviewed have told me about what is in store when we die. <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Walt_Whitman" rel="nofollow">Walt Whitman</a>, for example, who wrote “And I will show that nothing can happen more beautiful than death.” And <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Herman_Melville" rel="nofollow">Herman Melville</a>, with even more eloquence, said, “And death, which alike levels all, alike impresses all with a last revelation, which only an author from the dead could adequately tell.” It seems that in our own time, these authors from the dead are today’s <a href="https://near-death.com/experiences/">near-death experiencers</a>, and the revelations they have shared with us appear fully to support the claims of these famous <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/19th_century_in_literature" rel="nofollow">19th century American authors</a>.</div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">So having immersed myself in the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Near-death_studies" rel="nofollow">study of near-death experiences</a> for so many years, I’m actually looking forward to my passage when my time comes. Still, I’m not looking forward to the dying part. In that regard, I’m with Woody Allen who quipped, “I’m not afraid of death; I just don’t want to be there when it happens.” I just hope that all those stories I’ve heard about how wonderful death itself is aren’t some kind of a spiritual <i><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Trompe-l%27%C5%93il" rel="nofollow">trompe l’oeil</a></i>, a cosmic joke played by a malevolent god. Or as that marvelously antic diarist and composer, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ned_Rorem" rel="nofollow">Ned Rorem</a>, whimsically jested, “If, after dying, I discover there is no <a href="https://near-death.com/afterlife-evidence/">Life After Death</a>, will I be furious?”</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7eW1QY_RxiR-0r260CyI86FAsQ7SmV1faA9ggdTo28V1vNpgpwUtnmPDJecADG8OnOpqvVDQ5WGpzrwIO5pP6tAtB2l2N2EOQphNnIlyXGtPiK3tXkVHOpleHibegvg8qNXTwxrp1krtHA-k4XeU-JIpDV0nLLvTJqd6raxiS5XAUlge2H8QAfv-_6yc/s265/heaven.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="265" data-original-width="220" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7eW1QY_RxiR-0r260CyI86FAsQ7SmV1faA9ggdTo28V1vNpgpwUtnmPDJecADG8OnOpqvVDQ5WGpzrwIO5pP6tAtB2l2N2EOQphNnIlyXGtPiK3tXkVHOpleHibegvg8qNXTwxrp1krtHA-k4XeU-JIpDV0nLLvTJqd6raxiS5XAUlge2H8QAfv-_6yc/s1600/heaven.jpg" width="220" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Of course, when I am faced with the imminence of death, I hope I’ll be able to comport myself with some equanimity, but who knows? Think of <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Seneca_the_Younger" rel="nofollow">Seneca</a> who wrote so eloquently about <a href="https://near-death.com/ken-ring-suicide-nde-research/">suicide</a>, and then horribly botched his own. Well, naturally, I’m not planning to hasten my death by such extravagant means, though I wouldn’t refuse a kind offer of <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Assisted_suicide" rel="nofollow">a little help from my doctor friends</a> to ease me on my way if I’m having trouble giving birth to my death. It can, after all, be a labor-intensive enterprise. I just hope I can find myself on that <a href="https://near-death.com/heaven/">stairway to heaven</a> I’ve heard so much about and can manage to avoid a trip in the opposite direction. </div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Meanwhile, when did you say <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Roger_Federer" rel="nofollow">Federer</a> will be playing his next match?</div>Kevin Williamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10028779062267448624noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2923424816839609066.post-53400929981860048182023-11-28T07:03:00.000-08:002023-12-04T11:40:00.123-08:00Zen and Ken<p>By <a href="http://www.kenring.org/about.html" rel="nofollow">Kenneth Ring, Ph.D</a></p><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>Zen Man</b></span></div><p style="text-align: justify;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu2GvcdQjE_9zXiwKspHZy5D4KE_bIFq6hBVhPAd_OQnGipspaAD8leDR6ofL5QgwJkiTd62Ii1fLn05jU1iMrb5uFOhxzGiP4t25VJ4UUFElmMn8jeZ_wCeZwq_bygsCWHuGEXGi8N_CQGvei6VYegHpIxjhV2mNr7AsBiHJD2P0JWui3WiTgs250ZTk/s220/zen.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="213" data-original-width="220" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu2GvcdQjE_9zXiwKspHZy5D4KE_bIFq6hBVhPAd_OQnGipspaAD8leDR6ofL5QgwJkiTd62Ii1fLn05jU1iMrb5uFOhxzGiP4t25VJ4UUFElmMn8jeZ_wCeZwq_bygsCWHuGEXGi8N_CQGvei6VYegHpIxjhV2mNr7AsBiHJD2P0JWui3WiTgs250ZTk/s1600/zen.jpg" width="220" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">When I was in my late thirties, I decided to get serious about my spiritual life. I had already been strongly drawn to <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Zen" rel="nofollow">Zen Buddhism</a> and, generally, to <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Japanese_aesthetics" rel="nofollow">Japanese aesthetics</a>. I was fascinated by <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Culture_of_Japan" rel="nofollow">Japanese cultural practices</a> and had become intrigued with Zen, which had for so long been an integral part of Japanese spiritual life. I loved gazing at <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Japanese_dry_garden" rel="nofollow">Japanese rock gardens</a> (and had visited one twice in Dallas). Although it took many years before I actually was able to travel to Japan, and, still later, to discover the films of the masterly Japanese film director, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Yasujir%C5%8D_Ozu" rel="nofollow">Yasujiro Ozu</a>, I already felt the pull of Zen, which likewise had exercised an immediate appeal to me.</div><p></p><p style="text-align: justify;">So, being a young professor at the time, I started <a href="https://www.amazon.com/s?k=zen+buddhism+books" rel="nofollow">reading books about Zen</a>. But I quickly realized that reading books, though informative, was not Zen. After all, as the old saying goes, if you want to know what food tastes like, it will do you no good to spend your time looking at menus. Zen is a <i>practice</i>, not a religion.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">To do Zen, one had to meditate doing a form of meditation called <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Zazen" rel="nofollow">zazen</a>.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">So I got myself a little <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Florensi-Meditation-Foldable-Ergonomic-Comfortable/dp/B08CF452XL/?tag=iandsorg-20" rel="nofollow">Seiza bench</a> that enabled me to sit on my butt with my knees on the floor (I could never even come close to assuming the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lotus_position" rel="nofollow">lotus posture</a>), and tried to <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Meditation" rel="nofollow">meditate</a>, with indifferent success. It was not long before I knew if I were to pursue this seriously, I would have to take myself to <a href="https://www.google.com/search?q=zen+centers+near+me" rel="nofollow">Zen centers</a> and receive instruction there. </p><p style="text-align: justify;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkhLBrL4XesFUIqU-Mvvd1LRveu_0x42UFKX0p-OhjasAdpS-V1u9_FpcPsoV-sSbLCO4xsycPWnhkLecYWs996Wx3TpMEy1PmmTAsrZWWHuGOVhykvVgDI4Ss_XOyYk9lpOQ4sD2oSwrNICIr2kJAGsgx6raL-SoyR3SgIjssWuffvNvZNqfdoERLhxg/s215/philip-kapleau.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="175" data-original-width="215" height="175" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkhLBrL4XesFUIqU-Mvvd1LRveu_0x42UFKX0p-OhjasAdpS-V1u9_FpcPsoV-sSbLCO4xsycPWnhkLecYWs996Wx3TpMEy1PmmTAsrZWWHuGOVhykvVgDI4Ss_XOyYk9lpOQ4sD2oSwrNICIr2kJAGsgx6raL-SoyR3SgIjssWuffvNvZNqfdoERLhxg/s1600/philip-kapleau.jpg" width="215" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">And so I did. I travelled to Rochester where there was a well-known Zen center with a famous teacher, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Philip_Kapleau" rel="nofollow">Philip Kapleau</a>; I also went to a <a href="https://providencezen.org/">Zen center in Providence</a>. But I finally lucked out when I found there was actually a <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Zen_master" rel="nofollow">Zen master</a> who conducted zazen sessions in a home not ten miles from the university where I taught. I soon learned that he had a small but devoted following and was himself an exceptionally gifted man – not only a Zen master, but a poet, translator and psychotherapist (I later sought him out for therapy). I came to have enormous respect for this man and learned a lot from being with him.</div><p></p><p style="text-align: justify;">Nevertheless, I found sitting (i.e., zazen) difficult. It was very hard on my knees and physically taxing. Still, I persevered. I knew Zen would not be an easy path to walk. But I enjoyed the atmosphere at that house and had already been drawn to the quietude of the Zen centers I had previously visited when sitting with other Zen aspirants. I really did feel “at home” in such settings, even if my knees did not. </p><p style="text-align: justify;">In Zen, there are special intensive Zen sessions lasting several days called <i><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sesshin" rel="nofollow">sesshins</a></i>. My first one lasted three days, and, frankly, it was a bitch, though I found it worthwhile. I finally decided I needed to undergo a longer one, so I signed up for a weeklong sesshin in Massachusetts. </p><p style="text-align: justify;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4dfZARDjm-DmF6rp7axUX0PyshGgfUaaizBGCjLYyKfFeBdunDVrA3_IZ_EhZqm8ErO6s1tdMXzPgHnGxaKJ7gXdpk7IjxPTkOlh3kEgeJH5i1Q3YZ3bQcY5jtdcYX48P4zpc0QmiaafN0QJGdSZeXGKW0xFyrJWpOYdCZFpm2SJbNas7RYYz35WiTGE/s233/zen-meditation.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="233" data-original-width="213" height="233" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4dfZARDjm-DmF6rp7axUX0PyshGgfUaaizBGCjLYyKfFeBdunDVrA3_IZ_EhZqm8ErO6s1tdMXzPgHnGxaKJ7gXdpk7IjxPTkOlh3kEgeJH5i1Q3YZ3bQcY5jtdcYX48P4zpc0QmiaafN0QJGdSZeXGKW0xFyrJWpOYdCZFpm2SJbNas7RYYz35WiTGE/s1600/zen-meditation.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I had a paradoxical reaction to it. It was one of the most profound experiences of my life and its effects lasted for days afterward. My mind was calm and serene, absent its usual chatter. A sense of stillness pervaded my consciousness and I experienced the world in a different way, which was beautiful. </div><p></p><p style="text-align: justify;">At the same time, it left me with no desire to go through another ordeal like that. Regretfully, I found that despite Zen’s appeal for me, I did not have what it took to become a dedicated practitioner of Zen. I could definitely see its value; I just wasn’t prepared to pay its price.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">So I had to admit that I had flunked <a href="https://www.learnreligions.com/introduction-to-zen-buddhism-449933">Zen 101</a>. Besides, by then <a href="http://www.kenring.org/publications.html">my work on NDEs</a> was taking up more and more of my time, and that was where the excitement was for me. And it didn’t require sitting!</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Nevertheless, I never lost my interest in Zen or in <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Buddhism" rel="nofollow">Buddhism</a> generally. I still “hung out” in those circles and at conferences. I even danced one memorable night with a well-known Zen teacher in San Francisco, and for a time I became very friendly with a <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dalai_Lama" rel="nofollow">Tibetan lama</a>. I met him once at his home in England where we drank saké together. And another time, when we were both speakers at a conference in California, he actually gave me a backrub when my back was ailing, and it really helped, too! He was very jolly and had a great sense of humor, but I never studied with him – I just enjoyed his company. </p><p style="text-align: justify;">Finally, I should mention that the woman I had lived with during my “Zen years” had also been practicing Zen with me, but unlike me, she stuck with it and became a Zen teacher herself. We have remained loving friends ever since we separated as lovers, and I’ve spent a lot of time hearing about her Zen-based life and listening to some of her recorded <a href="https://austinzencenter.org/teisho/">teishos</a> (a sort of discourse on Zen practice).</p><p style="text-align: justify;">So much for my abortive life as a Zen practitioner, but just recently I finally learned “the secret of Zen,” and before long, I will reveal it to you.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>Huston Smith</b></span></div><p style="text-align: justify;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVhDimhukcnoYq8V0Sh0sblkQyNgh9EA1CwXjSwARnAYxAV8yxGZKdiFR28tEjODY_EBntu1w0wkfKH2sKDJ5jJCrroGLshGwT1PGbaU88rzsanPclRi8BV7vf2sEBCep5W6GS9xczCV71BOnOBWWjjAnhs4Wxi9GHDUKPSgdV6mG1ZFGIGtMV4SSbOVs/s257/huston-smith.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="257" data-original-width="220" height="257" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVhDimhukcnoYq8V0Sh0sblkQyNgh9EA1CwXjSwARnAYxAV8yxGZKdiFR28tEjODY_EBntu1w0wkfKH2sKDJ5jJCrroGLshGwT1PGbaU88rzsanPclRi8BV7vf2sEBCep5W6GS9xczCV71BOnOBWWjjAnhs4Wxi9GHDUKPSgdV6mG1ZFGIGtMV4SSbOVs/s1600/huston-smith.jpg" width="220" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Someone who truly did practice Zen in a serious way is the famous scholar of religion, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Huston_Smith" rel="nofollow">Huston Smith</a>. He is best known for his bestselling book on religion, originally called <i>The Religions of Man</i> and, later revised and expanded, it was renamed <a href="https://amzn.to/40Tt3cI" rel="nofollow">The World’s Religions</a>. It has now sold millions of copies, and it is a wonderful introduction to the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/World_religions" rel="nofollow">religions of the world</a>. Smith also authored about a <a href="https://www.amazon.com/stores/Huston-Smith/author/B000APX9CG/?tag=iandsorg-20" rel="nofollow">dozen other books</a>, and though I haven’t read any of them, I have read several articles by him. In any event, he was a renowned and eminent scholar and lived to a great age, dying a few years ago at 97.</div><p></p><p style="text-align: justify;">I knew Huston, but was never really friends with him. We just had a nodding acquaintanceship when we would encounter each other at conferences or, once, at <a href="https://www.esalen.org/">Esalen</a>. That is, we would just nod at each other and sometimes exchange a few pleasantries. I know he was familiar with my work on NDEs, and of course I had read his book on religion, but we were never really drawn to each other. He had actually grown up in China, the son of Methodist <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Missionary" rel="nofollow">missionaries</a>, and wherever I looked at him he really did seem to have the visage and bearing of an old <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wise_old_man" rel="nofollow">Chinese sage</a>. Huston was widely beloved, both venerable and venerated, and, frankly, I was somewhat in awe of him. He had an august and serene presence of the sort that only a spiritual adept could evince.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Oddly enough, the only time I actually had a conversation with him was years later when I met him in an eye doctor’s waiting room. I had taken my mother there so she could be examined for her glaucoma, which had developed when she was in her early eighties. (I’ve had glaucoma since I was sixty, but my mother was a late bloomer.) But this was not an upscale office. It was full of down-and-out people like my mother, who by then was indigent and on Medicaid. I was shocked to see Huston there, and he seemed to be embarrassed when he saw me. Still, he was pleasant and kindly and we had a warm exchange. It proved to be the last time I was to see him. </p><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>The Secret of Zen</b></span></div><p style="text-align: justify;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0979N6GPL/?tag=iandsorg-20" rel="nofollow" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="306" data-original-width="221" height="306" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj-6n_aR-GtG4f432wBBEhM7_KPOhDpgnRdc6s9nL5fawlMhrq7cSNairvcuk6kyTOs9Q73KDhzojQh_mbh27Ue1O_Zl4MRFW-ntYoRA_2i9IpTdZn612ybRnX0w1zoUmbPjssuN_86eTc6kWNffmfVQvEtk4xKm6SkAtek09ZGFYY5kJP_kdD9r6zzCw/s1600/secret-of-zen.jpg" width="221" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I spent Thanksgiving this year quietly by myself, mostly reading during the day and taking care of my ailing body. I was still recovering from some very nasty oral surgery a few days ago whose details I will spare you apart from saying it was the worst and most painful experience I had ever had in a dentist’s chair. Extracting in infected molar, which took over two hours, was like giving birth. There were times when I wasn’t altogether convinced I would survive or even wanted to. I’m better now, but the healing is slow and I won’t be able to get my sutures out for another week or so. Meanwhile, I can only eat “soft” foods in little itty-bitty bites, which will explain why I could not participate in any elaborate turkey festivities this year and just had to settle for some of Amy’s ravioli for dinner. </div></div><p></p><p style="text-align: justify;">Nevertheless, that evening, I received a delightful surprise, courtesy of a dear friend, now in England, who was kind enough to forward me something she had received from an American colleague.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">You will now see why I was tickled all shades of pink to receive it. Here’s what my friend sent to me:</p><p style="text-align: justify;"><i>At the end of Huston Smith’s extremely arduous month-long practice period in a <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Japanese_Zen" rel="nofollow">Japanese Zen monastery</a> (the last week without sleep for most of the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Monk" rel="nofollow">monks</a>; though as a sybaritic Westerner, Huston was allowed 3 hours nightly), Huston went to pay his respects to the teacher, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/S%C5%8Dk%C5%8D_Morinaga" rel="nofollow">Goto Roshi</a> (from whom, he says, “a Marine sergeant could have learned a few things”). </i></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><i>Goto Roshi then proceeded to knock Zen off its pedestal.</i></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><i><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Koan" rel="nofollow">Koans</a> can be a useful exercise, he said, but they are not Zen.</i></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><i>And sitting in meditation, he went on -- that is not Zen.</i></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><i>Then why had I been torturing myself with koans and body aerobatics, I wondered, and what the hell, then, was Zen?</i></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><i> "You will be flying home tomorrow," he said.</i></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><i>"Don't overlook how many people will help you get home -- ticketing agents, pilots, cabin attendants, those who prepare your meals."</i></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><i>He bowed and placed his palms together, demonstrating <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Glossary_of_Buddhism#G" rel="nofollow">gassho</a>, the gesture of gratitude….Then he did a gassho to me.</i></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><i>"Make your whole life unceasing gratitude," he said. </i></p><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>"What is Zen? Simple, simple, so simple.<br /></i><i>Infinite gratitude toward all things past;<br /></i><i>infinite service to all things present;<br /></i><i>infinite responsibility to all things future.<br /></i><i>Have a safe journey home."<br /></i><i>And he gave me a wonderful smile. "I am glad you came." </i></div><p style="text-align: justify;"><i>Huston Smith. (2009). <a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B001NLL1RQ/?tag=iandsorg-20" rel="nofollow">Tales of Wonder</a>. HarperCollins </i></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><i>Huston’s autobiography published on his 90th birthday.</i></p><p style="text-align: justify;">*********************</p><p style="text-align: justify;">There you have it, friends – the secret of Zen. It is one of Zen’s many paradoxes that you are still required to sit until your balls ache and your knees start to scream. That, at least, is not so simple, but I still prefer Goto Roshi’s version of Zen.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">And now for a final word from our sponsor….</p><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>On My Last Legs</b></span></div><p style="text-align: justify;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcoyXfvZxfhjGiMrdyimoWiqzNHZOXvknr7_5Fo8iYq5GWGr9l_u8-wfGROP_UWMhUJ74fjD3NQg5ercySjooHi3FN5FgfxwlRRV_uzxN1LuDV9QREKX3yUkDtUaRlyJ-LAiTB7qG-VVm4VfKbyFygdWQtFNG8Kg3TByNNQ1NAJVuSXGlJmBiUX_jXlq8/s318/ken-and-mother.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="318" data-original-width="219" height="318" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcoyXfvZxfhjGiMrdyimoWiqzNHZOXvknr7_5Fo8iYq5GWGr9l_u8-wfGROP_UWMhUJ74fjD3NQg5ercySjooHi3FN5FgfxwlRRV_uzxN1LuDV9QREKX3yUkDtUaRlyJ-LAiTB7qG-VVm4VfKbyFygdWQtFNG8Kg3TByNNQ1NAJVuSXGlJmBiUX_jXlq8/s1600/ken-and-mother.jpg" width="219" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">My mother died at the age of 88. In her last years, living in a nursing home in Berkeley, she was unable to walk. When I inquired as to the reasons, I remember being told that my mother was suffering from “contractures.” I had no idea what that meant. I don’t think I pursued the matter. The fact was that my mother could no longer walk. And that was that. From then on, she would be confined to a wheelchair.</div></div><p></p><p style="text-align: justify;">In those days, when I would visit her, I would take her out for a spin, so to speak, pushing her chair around the level streets in her neighborhood, chatting away while my mother, for the most part, remained silent, stoical and forbearing. She once told me that I talked too much.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">She never did walk again, of course. She mostly lay in her bed, quiet and uncomplaining, waiting for death to come.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">In a few weeks, I will turn 88. In the last year, my legs, already weakened by years of <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Spinal_stenosis" rel="nofollow">spinal stenosis</a>, have become even more unsteady and fragile. For various reasons, I have not been able to exercise since the beginning of the year, but I used to be able to walk down and back on my street. No more. I can’t even walk to the end of my little court without stopping a number of times, so I no longer even try. My daughter, Kathryn, gave me some leg strengthening exercises in hopes that they would help me, but when I try them, they just strain my back and put it out of alignment. At least I am spared from having to do any more zazen!</p><p style="text-align: justify;">I have to be very careful now when I walk, very mindful, which is the only form of Zen practice I can still manage. I must avoid making any sudden changes in direction. When I get up from my chair from which I watch my TV, I do so very gingerly. I hold onto surfaces as much as possible, lest I fall. I do stumble a lot as I shuffle about, but so far I have managed to avoid falling. Since I live by myself, falling could not only be serious, it could be a calamity. I’m not sure I could get up again.</p><p style="text-align: justify;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW-wZm_P_N64gEq6Z9JUL05ui3AVU_HutbfrhxR1IiIKr5BC65nlVmoFAONh5ugJLPsIAa9Z2XU_D8yNORHZkPpDO27qTKcoFfu0UoSFVT0gvzaKs_oTuFv4U6192ZDTOGAvOMq3igUUqtdu_77SBjdY5wZj4tNHedUrcLAwXI4LInE8cM9PLFVkgAmOE/s229/old-age.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="229" data-original-width="214" height="229" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW-wZm_P_N64gEq6Z9JUL05ui3AVU_HutbfrhxR1IiIKr5BC65nlVmoFAONh5ugJLPsIAa9Z2XU_D8yNORHZkPpDO27qTKcoFfu0UoSFVT0gvzaKs_oTuFv4U6192ZDTOGAvOMq3igUUqtdu_77SBjdY5wZj4tNHedUrcLAwXI4LInE8cM9PLFVkgAmOE/s1600/old-age.jpg" width="214" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Right now, I am writing this while sitting in my computer chair, which I have rigged up to ease the pressure on my back. Since it has wheels, I’m thinking I might have to begin using it as my non-motorized vehicle to scoot around the house. Fortunately, my house is small and all on one level. I might have to locomote that way if my legs finally give out like my mother’s did.</div><p></p><p style="text-align: justify;">I am my mother’s son, all right, and I seem to be following her course toward immobility.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Of course, I have no intention of winding up like she did. Sure, like everyone who has ever lived, one day I will die. But how and under what circumstances, that is the question I am pondering. I’m definitely not going to end up in a nursing home like she did. No way! I want to remain in my house until I croak, even if I have to crawl around the floor. But no, before it comes to that, I will have to find a way either to live with some dignity or to do myself in.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">I have long joked that my body has expired before I have, and that’s true. But I have been lucky – knock on Formica – that as of now I am not suffering from any great pain, just the tedium of crippling infirmity in my small-compass life as a shut-in. For the most part, it’s not really that bad, and there are many days (I will elide the rest) when I feel tolerably well and can enjoy my life.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">But as I grow weaker and more unsteady on these last legs of mine, which formerly and for many years had been so sturdy and reliable, I can see that the end is in sight. Whether it is in the distance or, figuratively speaking, around the corner, who can say? All I know is that I’d better watch my step. In any case, I’m determined to live on my own terms until the good Lord relieves me of the burden of my life.</p>Kevin Williamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10028779062267448624noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2923424816839609066.post-23275088656205322022023-11-15T06:38:00.000-08:002023-11-16T09:32:15.480-08:00Why I Am No Longer a Jew<p>By <a href="http://www.kenring.org/about.html">Kenneth Ring, Ph.D.</a></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: justify;">[Dear Friends. I had inadvertently omitted a passage toward the end of my blog about Israel yesterday. So here is the complete version. If you already read the blog, all you have to do is scroll down to the last few paragraphs to see the addition. If you haven’t read the blog, it is now complete, so you can read it straight through to the end. My apologies for my oversight.]</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I am Jewish and according to what I have been told, am descended from a long line of <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lithuania" rel="nofollow">Lithuanian</a> rabbis. However, in my family, my mother and all her siblings rejected <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Judaism" rel="nofollow">Judaism</a>, and some of them were outright atheists. One of these was my Uncle Bill, and it was from him that I received my first lessons and indoctrination into the world of <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Freethought" rel="nofollow">freethinkers</a> and radical politics. So I never had any religious training, never had a <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bar_and_bat_mitzvah" rel="nofollow">bar mitzvah</a>, and, indeed, hardly knew any Jews outside my own family until I got to graduate school at the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/University_of_Minnesota" rel="nofollow">University of Minnesota</a>.</div></span></div><p></p><p style="text-align: justify;">Still, although I had an aversion to <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Orthodox_Judaism" rel="nofollow">Jewish orthodoxy</a> and was completely secular in my approach to Judaism, I was always proud to be a Jew. I loved Jewish comics growing up, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Woody_Allen" rel="nofollow">Woody Allen</a> films, lox and bagels, and always felt comfortable with Jews. They were, after all, “my people.” Indeed, several of my wives were Jewish. I even spent a couple of years in my late sixties reading a great deal of <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jewish_history" rel="nofollow">Jewish history</a>. That deep immersion into Jewish history, which of course included many accounts of <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Holocaust" rel="nofollow">the Holocaust</a>, just served to reinforce my sense of Jewish identity. </p><p style="text-align: justify;">Nevertheless, some years ago, when I was in my early seventies, quite by chance, I became aware of how badly Israeli Jews were treating <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Palestinians" rel="nofollow">Palestinians</a>. Actually, I had been aware of this, but had never felt drawn to learn more. Once I did, I determined to travel to <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Israel" rel="nofollow">Israel</a> and the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/West_Bank" rel="nofollow">West Bank</a> to see things for myself. Doing so changed my life and my feelings about being Jewish, as I will recount in what follows.</p><p style="text-align: justify;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjutWQ5YGvzIl6ROIJL3vBmg-gFtVY702AiUQQD_qz5hR57z0s__eBWBydOe6ePVePGql4GTn2blBvpmxIWCyy-Pr3NrQSQWcrUMRa_oDAXtiRxP6GS94t5Sxd33C67jUnEGZzYGz8UCd0Zjbd1DCEc8QV4CJVSbHv3MIMxDY3eC6UAfqkflG5rbf4ZdOQ/s216/flag-of-palestine.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="109" data-original-width="216" height="153" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjutWQ5YGvzIl6ROIJL3vBmg-gFtVY702AiUQQD_qz5hR57z0s__eBWBydOe6ePVePGql4GTn2blBvpmxIWCyy-Pr3NrQSQWcrUMRa_oDAXtiRxP6GS94t5Sxd33C67jUnEGZzYGz8UCd0Zjbd1DCEc8QV4CJVSbHv3MIMxDY3eC6UAfqkflG5rbf4ZdOQ/w303-h153/flag-of-palestine.jpg" width="303" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Those of you who read my recently reposted blog about Israel I wrote last year will know I have become very critical of Israel, particularly in regard to its treatment of Palestinians. Here, I want to tell you what has led me, within the past few days, to make a radical rupture in my life. I now mean to disavow my Jewish heritage and identity. Here’s why.</div><p></p><p style="text-align: justify;">In 2008, I traveled with then girlfriend, Anna, with a peace delegation to Israel and the West Bank. We were there for two weeks. For a good part of our time there, Anna and I traveled throughout the West Bank and were able to stay with or otherwise talk to many Palestinians.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Although we had seen any number of documentaries about life in Palestine and read several <a href="https://www.amazon.com/s?k=palestian+occupation" rel="nofollow">books on the occupation</a> before leaving on our trip, nothing could have prepared us for what we were able to witness with our own eyes and learn from talking to Palestinians.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">We saw mounds of rubble and destruction everywhere. We saw many signs saying, in both English and Arabic (as we were told), “Death to the Arabs.” We saw how they were treated roughly and humiliated by young <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Israel_Defense_Forces" rel="nofollow">Israeli solders</a> manning the innumerable <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Israeli_checkpoint" rel="nofollow">checkpoints</a>, as we walked through the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Palestinian_tunnel_warfare_in_the_Gaza_Strip" rel="nofollow">tunnels</a> and turnstiles with them. We saw the conditions under which they were living, their lack of water and other necessities, the roads they were forced to take, the roads they were forbidden to use. </p><p style="text-align: justify;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9alw5Fqqhwc5XkaQ-znmZyvmU9NaekKANcD_3DByfSnXEv7I7OsQwIvYtWROO1dfputhNCZwCd1gTn_B7oKYzgsDiHzfpzUBrwP4LV31rZBRoWyH0k7MWq4XzcQcVWnIV5TzbNNThxCVve48RY8BVt9LCY4o5ovcCuIzFIBetFYoUEuqQyOixO-o9ywo/s228/west-bank.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="228" data-original-width="200" height="228" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9alw5Fqqhwc5XkaQ-znmZyvmU9NaekKANcD_3DByfSnXEv7I7OsQwIvYtWROO1dfputhNCZwCd1gTn_B7oKYzgsDiHzfpzUBrwP4LV31rZBRoWyH0k7MWq4XzcQcVWnIV5TzbNNThxCVve48RY8BVt9LCY4o5ovcCuIzFIBetFYoUEuqQyOixO-o9ywo/s1600/west-bank.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">We saw many things that opened our eyes to the myriad ways in which Israel was determined to make life as miserable as possible for Palestinians and to encourage or compel them to leave the country. Israeli soldiers and vicious, hateful “<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Israeli_settlement" rel="nofollow">settlers</a>,” illegally occupying Palestinian lands, would routinely cut down their olive trees, harass or beat Palestinians, and confiscate their lands.</div><p></p><p style="text-align: justify;">Anna and I were shocked, dismayed, disheartened and appalled. We kept asking ourselves, “How could Jews, of all people, act like this?”</p><p style="text-align: justify;">In Israel and the West Bank, we met any number of “good” Israelis – <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Israeli%E2%80%93Palestinian_peace_process" rel="nofollow">peace activists</a> who were also strongly opposed to the horrors or the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Israeli_occupation_of_the_West_Bank" rel="nofollow">occupation</a>, and who were doing their best to curb the worst of its egregious abuses. </p><p style="text-align: justify;">We learned so much from them. But Anna and I were also struck by the kindness and generosity of the Palestinians we met who opened their houses and hearts to us, who treated us with such courtesy and warmth, when they had so little to spare (including their precious water). Yet, they could not have made us feel more welcomed. We learned a lot from hearing their stories, too.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">We visited them in some of the main towns in the West Bank to see how they processed their olive oils, we visited their theaters and cafes, we saw how they lived and also the deprivations under which they suffered. Here’s a photo of me talking to a couple of Palestinian kids (that’s Anna to my right) in Jenin.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgriSHMl1i6oMOW9vjnq48L0hQQwdRQJNnXND2jogFhsrH3GIjhKtHs_NDyu9qyr9BTet0PdHaUNHwWmwz3wXoXTS5Yo1o9LrmQSLD-937ASTQEGRHVYmpoNbmyTYlKSkg90I0rc7qiYqBDIupJx1k182CLDm2RgHDOmWmmM9Z3lphMe6u8Q6cFuXPS2L8/s1430/ken-in-palestine.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1073" data-original-width="1430" height="305" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgriSHMl1i6oMOW9vjnq48L0hQQwdRQJNnXND2jogFhsrH3GIjhKtHs_NDyu9qyr9BTet0PdHaUNHwWmwz3wXoXTS5Yo1o9LrmQSLD-937ASTQEGRHVYmpoNbmyTYlKSkg90I0rc7qiYqBDIupJx1k182CLDm2RgHDOmWmmM9Z3lphMe6u8Q6cFuXPS2L8/w406-h305/ken-in-palestine.jpg" width="406" /></a></div><p><span style="text-align: justify;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjsxuVxI1ylkiFD_ungKql4oOwFMx7Mnr2xqLHiewD-NENUUwRb-nS07-Hkeoy9LrQzFuATnLsQv7-fXxVQz6GzAS5o25FnPi9ZsvJDAg64hZ5p-wkkSaLX3vHqV_7RTFM6s5UpVKCPRxJZ0179bgJln9rUJX6mxfAY0tq3-MbhC_gMKWPlbd7d6qg-oY/s246/letters-from-palestine.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="246" data-original-width="164" height="246" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjsxuVxI1ylkiFD_ungKql4oOwFMx7Mnr2xqLHiewD-NENUUwRb-nS07-Hkeoy9LrQzFuATnLsQv7-fXxVQz6GzAS5o25FnPi9ZsvJDAg64hZ5p-wkkSaLX3vHqV_7RTFM6s5UpVKCPRxJZ0179bgJln9rUJX6mxfAY0tq3-MbhC_gMKWPlbd7d6qg-oY/s1600/letters-from-palestine.jpg" width="164" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">While we were there, we also met with a number of Palestinian professional people, including journalists and writers. I became fast friends with one of them, Ghassan Abdullah, and after I got back home, we collaborated on a book about the lives of contemporary Palestinians, some of whom I had met on our travels. The book, which we called <a href="https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1604944161/?tag=iandsorg-20" rel="nofollow">Letters from Palestine</a>, was published in 2010. Afterward, Anna, especially, became an ardent activist for Palestinian rights, and together we sponsored and helped to support a deaf Gazan girl. (Many Palestinian children in <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gaza_Strip" rel="nofollow">Gaza</a> have suffered extreme hearing loss or deafness because of the constant noise from drones and jets flying overhead, day after day, even when Gaza isn’t being attacked.)</div><p></p><p style="text-align: justify;">We were not allowed into Gaza while we were there, though I came to know many Gazans through the email messages they were able to send to me in connection with the book I co-edited with Ghassan. Most of these Gazans, mainly young people, were soon to suffer grievously when Israel launched one of its <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Israeli%E2%80%93Palestinian_conflict" rel="nofollow">periodic assaults on Gaza</a>. The school of one very bright Gazan engineering student was destroyed, preventing him from completing his education. Others suffered the destruction of their homes. Some, I’m afraid, were killed since I never heard from them again. Many of their stories, written while they were being attacked, are featured in the last portion of our book.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Which brings me, finally, to the unconscionable obscenity of what Israel is now doing to the long-suffering inhabitants of Gaza, who continue to be penned into their tiny enclave where they live, if they manage to survive this heinous onslaught, like prisoners in an open-air prison, with nowhere to go and no sense of what kind of future they will have. The lucky ones will be killed. Those who survive, whether wounded or not, will be traumatized for life.</p><p style="text-align: justify;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVn1-awA8N9cfCv1k0TRihKwgwrHgwZSsD6h6vcn3AeER1iZjqeqzcCuWD_mGXRMFTcZXjgu88mN1ucAwnFjl6kEM1ecH04akYKSmJ1dyoTFtTEyahJ83TQvYVnwyaHCiKGZBLaDx4hi9E837g-AGmlUHpzv9GP8czPxZwThWzaIMUjZw_BzX9v_8wYVA/s373/faria-odeh.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="373" data-original-width="278" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVn1-awA8N9cfCv1k0TRihKwgwrHgwZSsD6h6vcn3AeER1iZjqeqzcCuWD_mGXRMFTcZXjgu88mN1ucAwnFjl6kEM1ecH04akYKSmJ1dyoTFtTEyahJ83TQvYVnwyaHCiKGZBLaDx4hi9E837g-AGmlUHpzv9GP8czPxZwThWzaIMUjZw_BzX9v_8wYVA/s320/faria-odeh.jpg" width="238" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">You’ve seen the photos and videos. You’ve seen what has been happening at <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Al-Ahli_Arab_Hospital_explosion" rel="nofollow">the hospitals</a>. The lack of food, water, fuel and shelter, and so on. The relentless bombing day after day.</div><p></p><p style="text-align: justify;">As terrible as what <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hamas" rel="nofollow">Hamas</a> did to the citizens of Israel (and I hate Hamas, too), who have also suffered horribly and who still wait, with fear in their hearts, for the release of their <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/2023_Israel%E2%80%93Hamas_war_hostage_crisis" rel="nofollow">hostages</a>, hoping they are somehow still alive, nothing can justify the continuing barbaric assault on Gaza, effectively making the innocent Gazans, most of whom do NOT support Hamas, the victims of collective punishment, which is itself a war crime.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">As a result of Israel’s actions, there has been a steep rise in <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Antisemitism" rel="nofollow">anti-Semitism</a> throughout much of the Western world. And in the United States, as of the other day, there had been close to a 400% increase in anti-Semitism since <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/2023_Hamas_attack_on_Israel" rel="nofollow">Oct 7th</a>. It is the action of Israel that is making the lives of Jews throughout the world at risk now. It has never been safe to be a Jew, the perennial, often despised, outsider. Now, they are less safe and secure than they have been for many years. Who knows how much worse their situation will become in the years to come.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">I personally am not afraid, but given all that I’ve written and all that I have witnessed, I am now – because of Israel – ashamed to be a Jew. </p><p style="text-align: justify;">Do you remember when, a few years ago, the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Catholic_Church_sexual_abuse_cases" rel="nofollow">great scandal of the modern Catholic Church</a> erupted with the disclosure that so many Catholic priests had actually been pedophiles, and that the Church hierarchy had done all it could to conceal this terrible, devastating discovery? At that time, many Catholics, appalled by what they had learned, left the Church in disgust.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">The same thing has been true for me because of Israel’s reprehensible and heartless slaughter of so many innocents in Gaza. So I feel compelled, as an act of protest, to renounce my heritage and identity as a Jew. There are many Jews I still love, of course, and always will. But I no longer wish to be one.</p>Kevin Williamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10028779062267448624noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2923424816839609066.post-62732290807536286322023-10-19T13:08:00.000-07:002023-10-19T13:08:32.962-07:00What You Should Know About Israel<p>By <a href="http://kenring.org/about.html">Kenneth Ring, Ph.D.</a></p><p><i></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhpmmqh_WTlGxcP6jKW6Dxl5nZ7XJhNC0nCVG6_TQOBNTN1WJ6ZTOCMVjwIzbUuK8cPpn5TGe182W7w2EPwHJGHqtg95S8PY-GwhnYCHZampG_nnGnxRrJHyuilzfnimZ3uultLb16RoQOAzBk79VSmybKRa8gm63us7h5YIB7e7qmr73IjMtyVk1FS=s499" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="499" data-original-width="333" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhpmmqh_WTlGxcP6jKW6Dxl5nZ7XJhNC0nCVG6_TQOBNTN1WJ6ZTOCMVjwIzbUuK8cPpn5TGe182W7w2EPwHJGHqtg95S8PY-GwhnYCHZampG_nnGnxRrJHyuilzfnimZ3uultLb16RoQOAzBk79VSmybKRa8gm63us7h5YIB7e7qmr73IjMtyVk1FS=s320" width="214" /></a></i></div><p><i>In 2008, after having become aware of the situation of <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Arab_citizens_of_Israel" rel="nofollow">Palestinians in Israel</a>, I traveled there and to the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/West_Bank" rel="nofollow">West Bank</a>, to see things for myself. I wasn’t there that long, but I saw and learned a lot. And I also met and became friends with a number of Palestinians. After I returned home, I co-edited a book with one of my new Palestinian friends about the lives of contemporary Palestinians. The book, <a href="https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1604944161/?tag=iandsorg-20" rel="nofollow">Letters from Palestine</a>, was published in 2010. This is how it begins:</i></p><p></p><p>Early in February, 2008, I came into possession of a book about the conflict between Israel and the Palestinian people. Entitled <a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/0226755746/?tag=iandsorg-20" rel="nofollow">Dark Hope</a>, it was written by an American-born Israeli professor turned peace activist named <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/David_Dean_Shulman" rel="nofollow">David Shulman</a>. Although I had long been distressed over the seemingly intractable nature of this conflict and dismayed by what I knew of Israeli practices and politics in relation to the Palestinians, this was the first book I had ever read on the subject. By the time I finished it, it had changed my life completely.</p><p>Shulman, a man about sixty, turned out to be a distinguished professor of <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Indology" rel="nofollow">Indology</a> (he is also a <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/MacArthur_Fellows_Program" rel="nofollow">MacArthur Fellow</a>) on which subject he has authored many books. But <i>Dark Hope</i> of course was a book of a very different kind than those Shulman has written on the various areas of his own professional expertise. In it, he described, in hauntingly evocative prose, his work with an Israeli peace group called <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ta'ayush" rel="nofollow">Ta’ayush</a> in the West Bank. In summary, he and his colleagues would travel into the West Bank to help Palestinians with their agricultural work -- and to try to keep them from being attacked by Israeli settlers who would frequently harass, intimidate and often assault Palestinians as they tried to go about their work in the fields.</p><p>Shulman’s book begins with his forays into the hills south of <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hebron" rel="nofollow">Hebron </a>where many of the Palestinians who reside there are actually cave dwellers and pastoralists who have lived there for generations. However, this area is now an embattled zone because of the presence of so-called <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Israeli_settlement" rel="nofollow">settlements</a> or outposts whose inhabitants are Jews of the most strident ideological leanings many of whom are prone to violence. These settlers, who are often armed, want the land the Palestinians have lived on for hundreds of years, and <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Israeli–Palestinian_conflict" rel="nofollow">they are at war</a> with them in skirmishes that never seem to end. The Palestinians, who are forbidden to use arms, are defenseless, except for the intervention of <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Israeli–Palestinian_peace_process" rel="nofollow">peace activists</a> since the soldiers and police in this area are there specifically to protect and defend only the settlers. </p><p>The work of Ta'ayush and other peace groups is in effect to interpose themselves between the settlers and the Palestinians in an effort to fend off the former from attacking the latter. And since the peace groups are committed to non-violence, their members are often injured and suffer many other hardships in the course of their efforts to deter or deflect the settlers from their predations. Shulman himself has been beaten up more than once. </p><p>Although Shulman often writes in a restrained, unassuming and at times almost contemplative mode about the travails he and his comrades must endure in order to do this work, he is forthright when it comes to his depiction of the settlers he encounters who are well known to be among the most vicious in the country. At one point, after returning home from one typical day in the fields, he finds himself suddenly filled with fury, and writes:</p><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p>What we are fighting in the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mount_Hebron" rel="nofollow">South Hebron Hills</a> is pure, rarefied, unadulterated, unreasoning, uncontainable human evil. Nothing but malice drives this campaign to uproot the few thousand cave dwellers with their babies and lambs. They have hurt nobody. They were never a security threat. They led peaceful, if somewhat impoverished lives until the settlers came. Since then, there has been no peace. They are tormented, terrified, incredulous. As am I. What black greed, what unwitting hatred, has turned Israeli Jews into the torturers of the innocent? … I rage in my well-appointed kitchen; I am inflamed, crushed, mad with pain.</p></blockquote><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgkFeK-lhUW6JKRbkRMgTwtJy5dSV_CX8dG9f6sTGFh2aN5F9r50g9bWWjv0QL3b0ZDa8_i7l0tkrMIw2RuFPbpy4pvUCiEtO7d7fHBh-CxkpyCPPKHSRMl0J0rSoqWE6khqu1qW8VFWK0loTfHN5t-Y7HZwOkSUpJjJhGj39hpWpg1qfAzLIfYUK3g=s499" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="499" data-original-width="345" height="296" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgkFeK-lhUW6JKRbkRMgTwtJy5dSV_CX8dG9f6sTGFh2aN5F9r50g9bWWjv0QL3b0ZDa8_i7l0tkrMIw2RuFPbpy4pvUCiEtO7d7fHBh-CxkpyCPPKHSRMl0J0rSoqWE6khqu1qW8VFWK0loTfHN5t-Y7HZwOkSUpJjJhGj39hpWpg1qfAzLIfYUK3g=w204-h296" width="204" /></a></div><p>I was shaken by Shulman’s book, which was a revelation to me. Although I certainly could not claim to possess anything like his exquisite sensibility, his reports did enable me to see, and to see clearly through his eyes for the first time, just what life was like for the Palestinians living in such conditions. And even a person with only the most rudimentary sense of empathy could easily identify with Shulman’s anguish, while admiring his bravery and commitment, and feel something of the same explosive grief and anger that he could no longer contain. </p><p></p><p>Shulman’s book opened a door for me, and once I looked inside, I had to enter.</p><p>I decided I needed to read more, to inform myself further, so I quickly found some other books that could tell me more about the life and situation of the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Israeli-occupied_territories" rel="nofollow">Palestinians living under occupation</a> -- that is, living under the military control of Israel either in the West Bank or <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gaza_Strip" rel="nofollow">Gaza</a>. One of those books, <a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/1594513066/?tag=iandsorg-20" rel="nofollow">Witness in Palestine</a>, was written by a Jewish American woman named <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anna_Baltzer" rel="nofollow">Anna Baltzer</a>, and it helped to flesh out and provide an historical context for much of what Shulman had described in his book. Through reading Baltzer’s illuminating book, which allowed me to glimpse what daily life was like for many Palestinians, I was beginning to form a more definite impression not only of their suffering but the reasons for it.</p><p>By this time, I had started to share what I had been learning with my partner, Anna, and I remember one day I showed her a map in Baltzer’s book that depicted how many and how extensive were the Israeli settlements (they now number about 120, not including so-called temporary “<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Israeli_outpost" rel="nofollow">outposts</a>”) in the West Bank. Anna was shocked and appalled. And I remember her exact words, “I had no idea. We have to do something about this!”</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiBvdFrJ7Ah1cuWCuC2-Jo4DU0HBdSO-rVs8F3HKyvUbKVp1KMftQkI8Pw_caVgdWrJwacbR_J79SrfffbdC9hfPosKy5sGY6o1hSl-nAN5xctz6yxTCMvcWys52scOKQ3AdnBp0iO-KFfXIlLVE1T8TSEqj_1p1mlbd59dlBN-FeAjuH-kwXdSy0fc=s499" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="499" data-original-width="317" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiBvdFrJ7Ah1cuWCuC2-Jo4DU0HBdSO-rVs8F3HKyvUbKVp1KMftQkI8Pw_caVgdWrJwacbR_J79SrfffbdC9hfPosKy5sGY6o1hSl-nAN5xctz6yxTCMvcWys52scOKQ3AdnBp0iO-KFfXIlLVE1T8TSEqj_1p1mlbd59dlBN-FeAjuH-kwXdSy0fc=s320" width="203" /></a></div><p>By this time in my life, I was 72 years old, and had long been retired after spending nearly 35 years as a university professor and author. Although I had a passing interest in politics and world affairs, I had never been an activist, and I had no real desire to disrupt my pleasant life in Marin country, near San Francisco, where I was now living happily enough with Anna.</p><p></p><p>At this point, I should probably say a bit about myself, but mainly in order to show just why it was that by the time I read books like Shulman’s and Baltzer’s, I could scarcely do otherwise than walk through the door they had opened to me and begin to enter the world that their writings had unveiled.</p><p>I was born in San Francisco, grew up in the Bay Area, went to Cal-Berkeley with a major in psychology, got a Ph.D. from the University of Minnesota, became a professor and taught for many years at the University of Connecticut. My main area of research dealt with <a href="https://iands.org/ndes/about-ndes.html">near-death experiences</a> on which subject I wrote <a href="http://kenring.org/books.html">five books</a> and probably almost a <a href="http://kenring.org/publications.html">hundred articles</a>. During those years, 1977-2000, I traveled widely and lectured on near-death experiences and similar subjects all over the world. After I retired from teaching, I still continued to work in this field, but also explored and wrote about other topics, such as <a href="https://www.kenringblog.com/p/composers-i-have-known-and-loved.html">classical music composers</a>, and wrote some memoirs, too, but mostly about other people in my life, not myself.</p><p>As to what led to my strong response to Shulman’s and Baltzer’s book, it is necessary to go into my Jewish past in order to explain my Palestinian present. </p><p>My ancestors — both on my mother’s and my father’s side — came from <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lithuanian_Jews" rel="nofollow">Lithuania</a>. But I mostly only know about my mother’s side of the family. Her father, who was a <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cantor" rel="nofollow">cantor</a>, came to America in the early 1900s. He and his wife had five children, my mother being the last of them. However, all of these kids rejected the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Judaism" rel="nofollow">Jewish faith</a> and almost all of its rituals, and I myself was raised in a completely non-religious, even anti-religious, environment. Unlike most Jews, we didn’t even live in a Jewish community. In fact, I don’t think I even knew that I was Jewish until I was about 6 or 7. And I scarcely even knew any Jews outside my own family until I got to graduate school — there they all were!</p><p>Still, in those days, even though I had no use for Judaism itself (and still don’t), I was nevertheless proud to be a Jew because of the fact that so many outstanding people in the modern world were of Jewish descent — <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sigmund_Freud" rel="nofollow">Freud</a>, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Karl_Marx" rel="nofollow">Marx</a>, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Albert_Einstein" rel="nofollow">Einstein</a>, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/J._Robert_Oppenheimer" rel="nofollow">Oppenheimer</a>, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gustav_Mahler" rel="nofollow">Mahler</a>, and on into the night. Obviously, a lot of Jews were smart cookies, and even though we were a very small percentage of the world’s population (I think it’s now about 0.02%), our achievements as a people were vastly greater than our numbers alone could account for. And a lot of us were professionals, despite coming from humble backgrounds. For example, in my family, no one before me had ever gone to college. But in my cousinly cohort (four of my mother’s sibship had one kid each), I became a professor and author; my closest cousin, a cardiologist; another cousin a professor and outstanding jazz pianist; and a fourth cousin, a podiatrist, though he’s now internationally famous for some oddball research he does. In this respect, we are just typical Jews, though none of us cares a whit about being Jewish, and we virtually never talk about it.</p><p>But another reason I was glad to be a Jew was that <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/American_Jews" rel="nofollow">American Jews</a> had played a major role in the civil rights movement and were often found, again in disproportionate numbers, engaged in liberal causes — in causes on behalf of the underdogs in our society. My own family was not at all involved in activism of any sort, but we were liberal, and I had a Communist uncle who was very important to me when I was young, so I learned about the values Jews of this sort stood for at an early age.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhWQ_Yw5yGmckd-zESJqBwP7PusmW4AI0qCF34dVNmpv1PKCG8poSlHV-uR4lqnuvfwJuFtTpQ2KzbV28Z3jkeoXVVZrGx1Aoy_Iwg_Hf1jjRyPRZINa4ZCO7jRz--opEJ1IYf5hIrd00wlVNS7gGyuQFSt1nbGS3-HIkbW0ACcKOI6OAPwolvSM1V6=s275" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="275" data-original-width="200" height="275" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhWQ_Yw5yGmckd-zESJqBwP7PusmW4AI0qCF34dVNmpv1PKCG8poSlHV-uR4lqnuvfwJuFtTpQ2KzbV28Z3jkeoXVVZrGx1Aoy_Iwg_Hf1jjRyPRZINa4ZCO7jRz--opEJ1IYf5hIrd00wlVNS7gGyuQFSt1nbGS3-HIkbW0ACcKOI6OAPwolvSM1V6" width="200" /></a></div><p>In any case, I had my life and career, and though in the course of it I had met many Jews, that’s about as far as it went until one day a few years ago, I happened to read a book by an author, now deceased, I admired very much — <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/W._G._Sebald" rel="nofollow">W. G. Sebald</a>, a marvelous, highly original writer. He wasn’t Jewish, and he only wrote about the Holocaust rather elliptically, but his books got me wondering about my own Jewishness and Jewish history. So all of a sudden, I found myself delving into my Jewish past, individually and collectively. Over the course of a year or so, I must have read easily at least three dozen books on the subject, including several on <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lithuanian_Jews" rel="nofollow">Lithuanian Jewry</a>, which I found fascinating. And through this immersion in <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jewish_history" rel="nofollow">Jewish history</a> I learned a great deal about what had formed the Jewish people as well as what shaped the contours of my own psyche that I had never known or had only dimly appreciated.</p><p></p><p>Necessarily, I read a lot about what the Jews had suffered — the history of Jews, after all, is, with some notable exceptions, such as in <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Golden_age_of_Jewish_culture_in_Spain" rel="nofollow">medieval Spain</a>, pretty much a history of suffering, humiliation, horror and of course violent displacement and mass murder — not only during <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Holocaust" rel="nofollow">the Holocaust</a> but at earlier times, too.</p><p>But then I found myself wanting to read about other people who had suffered similar fates, so after a while I turned my attention to the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Armenian_genocide" rel="nofollow">genocide of the Armenians</a> by the Turks (who deny it to this day). I read four books alone on that topic. And then I started digging into the literature of other peoples who had endured similar terrible tragedies and genocides — the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_massacres_of_Indigenous_Australians" rel="nofollow">extermination of the Australian aborigines</a>, for example, or that of the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_Indian_massacres_in_North_America" rel="nofollow">American Indians</a> (of course I had read about that much earlier), the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Japanese_war_crimes" rel="nofollow">treatment of the Chinese by the Japanese</a> in the 20th century, the recent <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cambodian_genocide" rel="nofollow">genocides in Cambodia</a> and <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rwandan_genocide" rel="nofollow">Rwanda</a>, then other books on <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ethnic_cleansing" rel="nofollow">ethnic cleansing</a>, on World War I and II, the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Persecution_of_homosexuals_in_Nazi_Germany" rel="nofollow">history and treatment of homosexuals</a>, etc. — reading about the most vile, heinous, unspeakable cruelties, all in an effort to understand how people could do such things to other people. How they could act like beasts, not humans, worse than any animal, by engaging in collective acts of such barbarity and savagery that you could barely keep from vomiting when reading about it? In reading these books, I wound up taking a long trip through human-induced hell, always asking “Why?” How could people do such things to one another?</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgVJ6vMcdbwCQa6nmnEkaTpD2PGhG60VGQMu9MimAsnNd-45D60JzRIA3zp8Js2p4e08pqNHVYKgpNnht_N-B6wU8eZJlLBUfofvgCqJRebft6PfXaCzjXDL1t5V4CohLEton4CT56_hnw612Ng-_-Y8wOhLQIRdPb_Sxyh8RoM759vnu04IKdgEAP3=s292" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="292" data-original-width="205" height="292" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgVJ6vMcdbwCQa6nmnEkaTpD2PGhG60VGQMu9MimAsnNd-45D60JzRIA3zp8Js2p4e08pqNHVYKgpNnht_N-B6wU8eZJlLBUfofvgCqJRebft6PfXaCzjXDL1t5V4CohLEton4CT56_hnw612Ng-_-Y8wOhLQIRdPb_Sxyh8RoM759vnu04IKdgEAP3" width="205" /></a></div><p>It was at this point in my life that I came across <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/David_Dean_Shulman" rel="nofollow">David Shulman</a>’s book.</p><p></p><p>I had long detested Israel’s actions toward the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Palestinians" rel="nofollow">Palestinians</a>, but I never had had an inclination to go to <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Israel" rel="nofollow">Israel</a> (in fact, had an aversion to doing so), so I had never taken an active interest in the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Israeli–Palestinian_conflict" rel="nofollow">Israeli-Palestinian conflict</a>. But, as I had said, it was this book that first opened my eyes and shocked me into a realization.</p><p>In a nutshell, this is what I saw immediately. First, all the terrible crimes against various peoples I had read about had already taken place; they were matters of history. This crime — that the Israelis were guilty of toward the Palestinians — was happening now, and was on-going. Second, it was being committed by Jews — of all people! How could they adopt policies against non-Jews that were so unmistakably suggestive of those used <i>against</i> <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/History_of_the_Jews_in_Germany#Jews_under_the_Nazis_(1933–45)" rel="nofollow">Jews in Nazi Germany</a> of the 1930s? (Of course, as a psychologist, I could understand this, but as a human being, I could not countenance it.) Third, it was already clear to me that it was principally the support of the United States that was making all this possible. Americans, and especially many <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/American_Jews" rel="nofollow">American Jews</a>, were Israel’s best friend and its bank.</p><p>I felt ashamed to be a Jew, if this is what Jews had become. Furthermore, this was an injustice I could do something about now. Had to do something. I couldn’t stand the thought that some of the people of whom I had once been proud to be member had sunk to this level of depravity. I thought it was up to American Jews especially to speak out against this, and to do more than speak out — to stop it. (Subsequently I realized that it was not up to American or other Jews to “stop it,” but to support Palestinians in doing so -- but here I am only speaking of what I felt then.) </p><p>At that point, I became a <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Palestinians" rel="nofollow">Palestinian</a> in my heart.</p><p>So when Anna said “we have to do something about this,” I was ready. Shulman’s book was the trigger, Baltzer’s made me pull it, but clearly the gun had been loaded for some time. </p><p>“Let’s go,” I said.</p><p>**********************</p><p><i>Fourteen years have passed, and the situation of the Palestinians is no better. In fact, in many ways it is worse. And David Shulman, who is now about as old I was when I went to Israel, has continued to document and bear witness to the <a href="https://www.nybooks.com/articles/2022/02/10/lost-illusions-israel-palestine-david-shulman/">atrocities</a> that are still being perpetrated by the fanatical <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Israeli_settlement" rel="nofollow">Jewish settlers</a> in the South Hebron hills. Below is his most recent article on the subject, which also features a review of a recent book that tells the same story, only with more detail. So here is Shulman’s update for you.</i></p><div><b><a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08RJH5MH1/?tag=iandsorg-20" rel="nofollow"></a><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08RJH5MH1/?tag=iandsorg-20" rel="nofollow"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj3ebd7sc_KVdNw3ozaTWV9dzqbWfb3uVxrXeX1fUA-ZpO-2_nblfA7SwLzqLXdldQi9T3Bl9NgJywBrD03XMXEgrYdK-ROmTROlQz4oZLvfp8-KRMsf5XXz7nDEMGR6rOjfnTi9DZAVCn6fBFwFQWfOwwdINvXlmmuJB1Dqg3vpGMh17ycPHQO5BaP=s500" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="331" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj3ebd7sc_KVdNw3ozaTWV9dzqbWfb3uVxrXeX1fUA-ZpO-2_nblfA7SwLzqLXdldQi9T3Bl9NgJywBrD03XMXEgrYdK-ROmTROlQz4oZLvfp8-KRMsf5XXz7nDEMGR6rOjfnTi9DZAVCn6fBFwFQWfOwwdINvXlmmuJB1Dqg3vpGMh17ycPHQO5BaP=s320" width="212" /></a></div>The State of Israel vs. the Jews</b> by <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sylvain_Cypel" rel="nofollow">Sylvain Cypel</a>, translated from<br />the French by <a href="https://www.amazon.com/s?i=digital-text&rh=p_27%3AWilliam+Rodarmor&s=relevancerank&text=William+Rodarmor" rel="nofollow">William Rodarmor</a>.<br />Other Press, 360 pp., $27.99</div><p><i>November 10, 2021: </i>Twenty Israeli settlers, armed with guns and clubs, their faces masked, descend upon the hamlet of Halat al-Dab’ in the South Hebron hills. They attack the Palestinians who live there, smash windows, cars, and whatever else they find. Six Palestinians are wounded, at least one from gunshots. There are Israeli soldiers nearby who make no attempt to interfere and who leave the area while the pogrom is going on. I use the word deliberately. What happened that day in Halat al-Dab’ is not different in kind from the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nikolaev_massacre" rel="nofollow">pogrom in Nikolayev</a>, in Ukraine, in the early years of the twentieth century, when my grandmother’s brother was <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Khmelnytsky_Uprising" rel="nofollow">killed by Cossacks</a>.</p><p><i>September 28, 2021, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Simchat_Torah" rel="nofollow">Simchat Torah</a>, the end of the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sukkot" rel="nofollow">Sukkot holiday</a>:</i> Dozens of masked settlers storm the tiny Palestinian encampment of <a href="https://apnews.com/article/united-nations-bedouin-israel-middle-east-west-bank-1184890addc0a58a9075a8fc99474944">Mufagara</a>, also in the South Hebron hills, wreaking havoc. <a href="https://www.haaretz.com/misc/writers/WRITER-1.10125389">Basil al-Adraa</a>, an activist from the nearby village of <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/At-Tuwani" rel="nofollow">at-Tuwani</a>, reported that the settlers </p><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p>went from house to house, and broke windows, smashed cars with knives and hammers. A large stone they threw hit a 3-year-old boy, Mohammed, in the head, who is now in the hospital. The soldiers supported them with tear gas. The residents fled. I can’t forget how the villagers left their houses, terrified, the children screaming, the women crying, while the settlers entered their living rooms, like they were possessed with violence and wrath.</p></blockquote><p><i>September 17, 2021:</i> A convoy of activists from the Israeli-Palestinian <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Combatants_for_Peace" rel="nofollow">NGO Combatants for Peace</a> and other organizations is bringing a water tanker to a village near at-Tuwani, which has no access to running water. The army violently attacks the convoy with tear gas and stun grenades. Six activists and a journalist are wounded; one of the activists is thrown to the rocky ground by the senior officer in command and has to undergo surgery on his eye. Seven Palestinians are arrested.</p><p>No one should think that these events—a random selection—are aberrations or exceptions to the rule. They are now the norm in the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Palestinian_territories" rel="nofollow">occupied Palestinian territories</a>. Settler violence, backed up by Israeli soldiers, happens every day. Government ministers and high-ranking officers, including the army chief of staff, Lieutenant General <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Aviv_Kochavi" rel="nofollow">Aviv Kochavi</a>, make bland statements condemning the violence but do nothing to stop it. Some of them actively support it. The goal, by no means a secret, is to expel Palestinians from their homes and lands and, eventually, to annex as much of the West Bank as possible to Israel.</p><p>Any means to achieve this goal is acceptable. The minister of defense, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Benny_Gantz" rel="nofollow">Benny Gantz</a>, has recently outlawed six <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Human_rights_in_the_State_of_Palestine" rel="nofollow">Palestinian human rights</a> organizations on the pretext that they are connected to <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hamas" rel="nofollow">Hamas</a>.* The vehemence with which the government and the security goons have defended this pretext is evidence that they know it is false—yet another attempt to stamp out Palestinian protest and dissent. Some readers might be reminded of the days when the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/American_Civil_Liberties_Union" rel="nofollow">ACLU</a> was attacked by <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Joseph_McCarthy" rel="nofollow">Joseph McCarthy</a> as an alleged Communist front organization.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj75l7lmqML28gvefvfbvvwHn7H-Msl_9bs7AF43uKfZGo15t7gEIPZLZZ5Gd9CgWmJcZLxHe0anzKkeOVz1tNojVqUrC5ae2QUOfMZaprnq65wcx_Vvaj1gfaXvdkAZdutgjZ8SKS2hx32RvqwZKzWwOveTgePdLZzfhClcn9EgqxF6DTVXtGC8JNY=s291" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="291" data-original-width="203" height="291" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj75l7lmqML28gvefvfbvvwHn7H-Msl_9bs7AF43uKfZGo15t7gEIPZLZZ5Gd9CgWmJcZLxHe0anzKkeOVz1tNojVqUrC5ae2QUOfMZaprnq65wcx_Vvaj1gfaXvdkAZdutgjZ8SKS2hx32RvqwZKzWwOveTgePdLZzfhClcn9EgqxF6DTVXtGC8JNY" width="203" /></a></div><p>All of this is Israel in 2021. So what is a onetime liberal <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Zionism" rel="nofollow">Zionist</a> like Sylvain Cypel supposed to make of it? His father, Jacques Cypel, was an outstanding leader of labor Zionism in France and also the editor of the world’s last <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Yiddish" rel="nofollow">Yiddish</a>-language daily newspaper, <a href="https://www.nli.org.il/en/newspapers/unzwtc">Unzer Wort</a>. (It closed down in 1996.) The young Sylvain, bilingual in French and Yiddish, grew up in Bordeaux and Paris, where he was a member of a labor <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Zionist_youth_movement" rel="nofollow">Zionist youth group</a>. He went to Israel after high school, served as a paratrooper in the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Israel_Defense_Forces" rel="nofollow">Israeli army</a>, and studied at the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hebrew_University_of_Jerusalem" rel="nofollow">Hebrew University of Jerusalem</a>. After living in Israel on and off for twelve years, he returned to France, where he eventually became a senior editor at <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Le_Monde" rel="nofollow">Le Monde</a> and then editor in chief of <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Courrier_International" rel="nofollow">Courrier International</a>.</p><p></p><p>In <i>The State of Israel vs. the Jews</i>, Cypel describes the change that came over him in the years following the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Six-Day_War" rel="nofollow">1967 war</a>:</p><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p>I had always thought that when Israel was founded as a refuge for the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Persecution_of_Jews" rel="nofollow">persecuted Jews of the world</a>, justice had been on the Israeli side…. But I was gradually discovering that the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/1967_Palestinian_exodus" rel="nofollow">expulsion of the Palestinians</a> and the seizing of their land had been deliberately brutal.</p></blockquote><p>By the time he left Israel, he was an <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anti-Zionism" rel="nofollow">anti-Zionist</a>, hence ostracized by some former friends. He clearly couldn’t tolerate the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cognitive_dissonance" rel="nofollow">cognitive dissonance</a> that so many of us in the Israeli peace movement have to live with. As he puts it, “Israel was evolving into something no idealist could stomach: a racist, bullying little superpower.” The <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Raison_d'%C3%AAtre" rel="nofollow">raison d’être</a> of his book lies in documenting and substantiating this thesis.</p><p>Cypel’s trajectory is not unusual. I know quite a few originally left-oriented, idealistic Zionists who have been similarly disillusioned and who have given up on the Jewish state. Some of them think that from the very beginning, the Zionist movement was caught up in, indeed defined by, a teleology of increasingly violent crime against the Palestinian “other” who inhabits the same small chunk of land on the Mediterranean coast. I don’t subscribe to this overdetermined view.</p><p>But Cypel’s story has a particularly French, or rather <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/History_of_the_Jews_in_France" rel="nofollow">French Jewish</a>, dimension, spelled out in a chapter of his book subtitled “The Blindness of French Jews.” France was the first European country to <a href="https://www.jpost.com/international/on-this-day-french-jews-given-full-rights-under-the-law-680396">emancipate the Jews</a> (in 1791; their rights were confirmed and expanded in the following decades), and the Jews of France had good reason to identify with the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Libert%C3%A9,_%C3%A9galit%C3%A9,_fraternit%C3%A9" rel="nofollow">liberté, fraternité, and égalité</a> of the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/French_Revolution" rel="nofollow">French Revolution</a>, even if these slogans were often honored in the breach. But with the influx of more than 300,000 French-speaking <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/History_of_the_Jews_in_Algeria" rel="nofollow">Jews from Algeria</a> and elsewhere in the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Maghreb" rel="nofollow">Maghreb</a> during and after the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Algerian_War" rel="nofollow">Algerian War of Independence of 1954–1962</a>, the French Jewish community underwent significant changes. Many of the new immigrants to France carried with them bitter memories of their formal status as <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dhimmi" rel="nofollow">dhimmis</a>, a tolerated but humiliated minority, under Islam. They took vicarious pride in the rise of Israel and even felt a slight taste of revenge on their Arab oppressors.</p><p>And while French Jews are by no means uniformly “Israelized”—the term used by the historian <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pierre_Birnbaum" rel="nofollow">Pierre Birnbaum</a> to refer to an unthinking commitment to the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ethnic_nationalism" rel="nofollow">ethnonationalist</a> program of the Israeli right—Cypel has only harsh words for the community and especially for the organization that claims to speak for it, the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Conseil_Repr%C3%A9sentatif_des_Institutions_juives_de_France" rel="nofollow">Representative Council of Jewish Institutions in France</a>. He also mocks French Jewish intellectuals for their public silence when it comes to Israel.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhUK0Wat5BOeEpZuu9tV07TNZOpNC5Kt5zb3HSHREhD2k_bXHMGJ9-A7NpgOQ48h1Lr2JrNMpjXUceTTMMhKM6e1XJATNMeVrzTfM4d4B7g6oM1PwPPF0mxRR9r3uMA5d0MaXSlBjQZuMRLpHib4tue-w4QkMrUuY67HfX164eGuDhPsJ1ciqxAaQda=s278" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="278" data-original-width="250" height="278" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhUK0Wat5BOeEpZuu9tV07TNZOpNC5Kt5zb3HSHREhD2k_bXHMGJ9-A7NpgOQ48h1Lr2JrNMpjXUceTTMMhKM6e1XJATNMeVrzTfM4d4B7g6oM1PwPPF0mxRR9r3uMA5d0MaXSlBjQZuMRLpHib4tue-w4QkMrUuY67HfX164eGuDhPsJ1ciqxAaQda" width="250" /></a></div><p>There is another element in the transformation of this former Zionist into a ferocious critic of Israel. Cypel remembers from his childhood the war the French fought to maintain their colony in Algeria. As a student in Jerusalem in 1969—only seven years after Algeria achieved independence—he was shocked to hear Israeli students who “talked about the Palestinians exactly the same way French settlers there [in Algeria] used to talk about the Arabs.” French Jews on the left had mostly, sometimes passionately, opposed the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Algerian_War" rel="nofollow">French colonial war in Algeria</a>. Now it was all happening again in Palestine, even if the historical parallel was inexact. (The French colonists in Algeria had, at least in theory, a home country they could return to, unlike nearly all Israeli Jews.)</p><p></p><p>For Cypel, just out of the Israeli army and haunted by recent memory, the result was the discovery of the “yawning gap between the promise and the reality of Zionism.” But for people like me, who still remember the late 1960s and early 1970s in Israel, before the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Israeli_settler_violence" rel="nofollow">settler movement</a> began, those years call up memories of the old, moderately humanistic, mildly socialist Israel. Make no mistake: the underlying project of dispossession, or “thinning out” the Palestinian population, as it was then euphemistically called, was very much underway. And the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Israeli-occupied_territories" rel="nofollow">occupation</a> had clearly taken root. Israel was no utopia, yet it was utterly unlike the shameless hyper-nationalist state we have today. Cypel shows us, in strident but truthful tones, the dystopian world of an ethnocratic polity immersed in systemic repression, institutionalized hatred toward Palestinians, and <a href="https://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/quotidian" rel="nofollow">quotidian</a> criminal acts in the occupied territories, where a <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Settler_colonialism" rel="nofollow">colonial settler</a> regime is firmly in place.</p><p>He also gives us chapters on other kinds of transgressions, like the sale of sophisticated <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pegasus_(spyware)" rel="nofollow">Israeli spyware</a> to the world’s most cruel and despotic states, among them South Sudan, Saudi Arabia, and Myanmar, for use against their own citizens—a business, he writes, that earns “Israeli companies an amount estimated by various sources at between $1 billion and $3.4 billion a year.” He describes the increasing attacks on <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Human_rights_in_Israel" rel="nofollow">Israeli human rights</a> activists by the state security forces; the rehabilitation and relegitimation of <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kach_(political_party)" rel="nofollow">Kach</a>, the overtly racist party of thugs founded by <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Meir_Kahane" rel="nofollow">Meir Kahane</a>, now once again represented in the Knesset by the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Otzma_Yehudit" rel="nofollow">Otzma Yehudit</a> (Jewish Power) party; and the antidemocratic legislation initiated by the Israeli right, such as the “<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Basic_Law:_Israel_as_the_Nation-State_of_the_Jewish_People" rel="nofollow">nation-state law</a>” that enshrines inequality among Jews and non-Jews within the state. <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Economic_antisemitism" rel="nofollow">Jewish privilege</a>—and the concomitant discrimination against <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Arab_citizens_of_Israel" rel="nofollow">Israeli Arab citizens</a>—are now no longer a latent, though widespread, Israeli dream but a legal reality. All of this leads Cypel to quote with approbation—as the book’s epigraph—the late <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tony_Judt" rel="nofollow">Tony Judt</a>’s statement in 2003 that “the depressing truth today is that Israel is bad for the Jews.”</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgCEpi2NSGLKUwnS7ZPlTvaCZMrr5F2eBpOoZz0J8MhLvrrs2U5o3ZNkUzbnhZGs8JQy5ggD0nv0EfxV69GLSPl3RTz0a6yFLOHTd2iPRYY6_lHse4SAOdkhPkJpEcUa1DQV0A7GIb0b9fc-EaFNztwu5nJpW9exPhPqU0y3uO55vWSEWx17Sx2V3Dh=s396" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="396" data-original-width="220" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgCEpi2NSGLKUwnS7ZPlTvaCZMrr5F2eBpOoZz0J8MhLvrrs2U5o3ZNkUzbnhZGs8JQy5ggD0nv0EfxV69GLSPl3RTz0a6yFLOHTd2iPRYY6_lHse4SAOdkhPkJpEcUa1DQV0A7GIb0b9fc-EaFNztwu5nJpW9exPhPqU0y3uO55vWSEWx17Sx2V3Dh=s320" width="178" /></a></div><p>This seems a lot like saying that Italy is bad for the Italians, which may well have been true, in some sense, from the 1920s through the early 1940s but can hardly be an enduring theorem; or that the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Presidency_of_Donald_Trump" rel="nofollow">United States under Trump</a> was bad for the Americans. Most states, especially ethno-nation-states, are quite often bad for their citizens, and it sometimes, indeed often, seems that a self-destructive telos is built into the very notion of an ethnocratic nationalist polity. But Judt’s statement, and Cypel’s citation of it, smack of Jewish exceptionalism. For centuries the Jews, with good reasons to habitually fear the worst, have viewed any event in light of the question “Is it good or bad for the Jews?” Now they have a state of their own, and the question is still there. It might be better to ask if Israeli policies are good for Israeli citizens and for the Palestinians who share with them the land <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/West_Bank" rel="nofollow">west of the Jordan River</a>. To the extent that Jewish communities throughout the world support current Israeli policies, they, too, bear some responsibility for the evils of the occupation. On a good day, I sometimes manage to believe that a time will come when Israel will revert to its roots in the humane side of the Jewish tradition and the universal values articulated by the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Prophets_in_Judaism" rel="nofollow">Hebrew prophets</a>. That day seems far away.</p><p></p><p>There is not much point in rehearsing here the well-known litany of state terror and abuse that define the Israeli occupation. The information is there for all to see, in Cypel’s eloquent <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/J'Accuse%E2%80%A6!" rel="nofollow">J’accuse</a> and elsewhere (the website of the Israeli human rights organization <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/B'Tselem" rel="nofollow">B’tselem</a>, for example). The disjunction between the ethical vision of the biblical prophets and the reality of life in the West Bank and Gaza has already opened up a fissure between Israel and some <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jewish_left" rel="nofollow">progressive Jewish</a> communities in the Western world, especially in America (not yet, perhaps, in France, if Cypel is right). That gap, I believe, will widen. It also exists in the liberal, younger wing of the Democratic Party in the US. That doesn’t mean that the Judt-Cypel axiom is acceptable to these critics of Israeli policy. It does mean that new and perhaps more effective forms of pressure on Israel are beginning to take practical form.</p><p>It is important to note, however, from an internal Israeli perspective, that the days are over when presenting the crimes in the occupied territories to the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mass_media_in_Israel" rel="nofollow">Israeli media</a>, and thus to the wider public, might have some positive, constraining effect. Put simply, no one really cares. More precisely, judging by the results of the four recent elections, something like a third to half of the population ardently support the policy of repression, expulsion, and escalating violence directed at Palestinians. Many among the other two thirds or so are unhappy with this policy, but only a tiny minority are prepared to do anything to stop it.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh-x0gyKPZi8VHj3tEzrgxMyBw-eIezqgHnqm68R6-ms85Gy-BBMTqPxxQJr9-_YlFfvifPuQXihrLw0uFcVb4TSwapiAfTpdkeV7YYnR9Ct4JQf9Qebzd6_efAKLDuqscuERul6yIIrlZUjtpRGoPSxGvHDN2RBBk5NvF7o4edCZtjU3bRmC8k_-gJ=s318" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="318" data-original-width="200" height="318" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh-x0gyKPZi8VHj3tEzrgxMyBw-eIezqgHnqm68R6-ms85Gy-BBMTqPxxQJr9-_YlFfvifPuQXihrLw0uFcVb4TSwapiAfTpdkeV7YYnR9Ct4JQf9Qebzd6_efAKLDuqscuERul6yIIrlZUjtpRGoPSxGvHDN2RBBk5NvF7o4edCZtjU3bRmC8k_-gJ" width="200" /></a></div><p>That passivity and/or indifference constitute the heart of the problem. They are far worse and infinitely more consequential than anything the settlers or soldiers can do. Without the compliance of the vast majority of Israelis, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Israel_and_state-sponsored_terrorism" rel="nofollow">state-sponsored terror</a> on the West Bank could not continue to run wild. One can sometimes hear the clucking of tongues—not much more than that. Perhaps the great defender of human rights <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Michael_Sfard" rel="nofollow">Michael Sfard</a> is right when he says that someday, when the occupation has finally ended, nearly everyone in Israel will claim retroactively that they were against it from the beginning.</p><p></p><p>A form of mass protest did develop in Israel over the last two years with the aim of removing <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Benjamin_Netanyahu" rel="nofollow">Benjamin Netanyahu</a> from office—certainly a worthy goal. For months, many thousands, sometimes tens of thousands, came to Jerusalem every Saturday night to demonstrate outside the prime minister’s residence. Ultimately, they succeeded, at least for now. But Netanyahu was an easy target. How much mendacity, venality, and sheer selfishness on the part of a leading politician does it take to get a decent citizen into the streets? However, it was not the occupation that moved many of these protesters. They wanted to <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Trial_of_Benjamin_Netanyahu" rel="nofollow">rid themselves of a prime minister</a> who, in order to remain in power, was undermining the entire fabric of state institutions, including the courts, and who had cultivated a culture of rabid hatred for any opponent, from within or from without, along with a <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cult_of_personality" rel="nofollow">personality cult</a> such as one sees in authoritarian regimes.</p><p>Urgent ethical quandaries remain to torment those of us who live in Israel. What about the minimal moral basis of statehood, and the social contract rooted in some notion of decency, that political theorists from <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Locke" rel="nofollow">Locke</a> to <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Rawls" rel="nofollow">Rawls</a> and <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Michael_Walzer" rel="nofollow">Walzer</a> have posited? What happens to a state in which moral abominations serving <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Utilitarianism" rel="nofollow">utilitarian</a> considerations become routine? Does such a state forfeit its legitimacy? Can it redeem itself, and if so, how? Or is sheer force, in the end, immune to ethical considerations? Cypel quotes Netanyahu:</p><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p>In the Middle East, and in many parts of the world, there is a simple truth—there is no place for the weak. The weak crumble, are slaughtered, and are erased from history while the strong, for good or for ill, survive. The strong are respected, and alliances are made with the strong, and in the end peace is made with the strong.</p></blockquote><p>I’d like to bring such questions down to a concrete, more personal perspective. There is, unfortunately, no lack of instances we could examine. Here is one not atypical of the Israeli-Palestinian situation—the case of <a href="https://www.btselem.org/video/20210215_israeli_soldier_shoots_harun_abu_aram_during_attempt_to_confiscate_generator_khirbet_a_rakeez_1_jan_2021">Harun Abu Aram</a>, twenty-four years old, from the village of al-Rakiz in the South Hebron hills.</p><p>On January 1, 2021, Harun’s neighbor Ashraf was fixing a roof over his sheep pen. Five soldiers, apparently summoned by the settlers of the nearby illegal outposts of Avigail or <a href="https://touchingphotographs.com/2021/04/26/april-24-2021-homra-text-david-shulm/">Chavat Maon</a>, came to the village, invaded Ashraf’s house, and discovered there, horror of horrors, a small electric generator. (Al-Rakiz is not attached to the electrical grid.) The soldiers seized the generator. Ashraf protested. A scuffle developed. Harun’s father, Rasmi, came running to help his friend and, like Ashraf, was beaten and kicked by the soldiers. Harun, hearing what was happening, rushed to the scene. For a few minutes, there was a tug-of-war between the soldiers and the Palestinians, and the generator changed hands several times. Then one of the soldiers, standing to the side and in no danger, shot Harun at point-blank range, hitting him in the neck. He fell to the ground, his spinal cord severed between vertebrae six and seven.</p><p>The soldiers, now the proud owners of the generator, set up a roadblock at the main road in and out of the village. Here comes the worst part of the story. Rasmi and Ashraf managed to get Harun into a car in order to drive him to a hospital, but the soldiers, including the one who shot Harun, stopped the vehicle and shot at its tires, puncturing one of them. Miraculously, Ashraf managed to drive the car on three wheels past the roadblock and into the village of <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/At-Tuwani" rel="nofollow">at-Tuwani</a>, where Harun was transferred to another car, which, after running into another military roadblock, finally got him to a hospital. The doctors said that if they’d come ten minutes later, Harun would have died.</p><p>Harun is paralyzed from the neck down. After many months in hospital, he can again breathe without assistance. He is now in a specially equipped house in the town of Yata and requires twenty-four-hour care. His life is ruined. Before the incident, he was about to be married. The army demolished the house his father had built for the young couple, one of many recurrent demolitions in al-Rakiz. The soldier who shot Harun has not been punished, and the State of Israel has refused to take any responsibility for Harun’s fate or to cover any of the enormous costs of his hospital stay.</p><p>This is a single instance among thousands. The essential point is that whatever the soldier who shot Harun was thinking—maybe he panicked, maybe he was taught to hate Palestinians—the incident illuminates the inner logic of the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Israeli-occupied_territories" rel="nofollow">Israeli occupation</a> as a whole. A Palestinian should not have a generator, nor should he fix his fence or sheep pen. A Palestinian must never protest or disobey a soldier. A Palestinian can be killed by settlers or soldiers with impunity. A Palestinian will never receive justice in the military courts that operate in the territories. And so on. Given that logic, what happened to Harun, and to countless other Palestinians over the past decades, was natural, in fact inevitable. It is wrong to class it as a tragic mistake. Once the soldiers entered the village on their ugly mission, all the rest unfolded along familiar lines. The ultimate malice, no doubt a decision on the part of those same soldiers, took place at the two roadblocks.</p><p><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Charles_de_Gaulle" rel="nofollow"></a></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgpoFQCvo3d8jYbFDr7uU-mxZxWHC6e4gDwVBLD2V9GmGBjGmF5CASJUtqGqTiDhTXjv3aELaZiBHks8uJmLjTtN00I-NDfFHH_Jqsp4GCZj9LE2uVKp3GqUOsO3eoND13Inm7ifTk1x4CD-UgYyzc6sLArPch9j57xE6JQq8hOOHtYfia6yS-GBFvx=s304" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="304" data-original-width="196" height="304" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgpoFQCvo3d8jYbFDr7uU-mxZxWHC6e4gDwVBLD2V9GmGBjGmF5CASJUtqGqTiDhTXjv3aELaZiBHks8uJmLjTtN00I-NDfFHH_Jqsp4GCZj9LE2uVKp3GqUOsO3eoND13Inm7ifTk1x4CD-UgYyzc6sLArPch9j57xE6JQq8hOOHtYfia6yS-GBFvx" width="196" /></a></div><p><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Charles_de_Gaulle" rel="nofollow">Charles de Gaulle</a>, reelected president in 1958 to keep <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/French_Algeria" rel="nofollow">Algeria French</a>, came to realize that the very survival of France as a civilization among the nations of the world required that it extricate itself from Algeria. Israel has yet to achieve a similar understanding about the occupied Palestinian territories. Even one Harun vitiates the state’s claim to common decency and indelibly stains its ethical core. And Harun is by no means alone.</p><p></p><p>I don’t believe in a statistical calculus of morals. Any evil act has its own intrinsic horror, its own lurid integrity. We will never be able to tally up the number of crimes committed by Israelis against Palestinians and weigh them against the crimes committed by Palestinians against Jews, as if one side could “win” in the giant sweepstakes of victimhood. Ultimately, the two sides will either lose everything together or win together, despite their shared belief that the conflict is a <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Zero-sum_game" rel="nofollow">zero-sum game</a>.</p><p>What we can say is that the Israeli side is still, after fifty-five years, maintaining in the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Palestinian_territories" rel="nofollow">Palestinian territories</a> a system that ruthlessly causes the death or wounding of innocents in large numbers, just as it continues to steal more and more Palestinian land with the backing of the Israeli courts. It would also be fair to say that the situation is deteriorating from day to day. Those who know that situation firsthand also know that there is no possible way to justify it or to make sense of it without resorting to a claim that eternal Israeli supremacy over all Palestinians is a worthy and attainable aim.</p><p>—<i>January 12, 2022</i></p><p>*See <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Raja_Shehadeh" rel="nofollow">Raja Shehadeh</a>, “<a href="https://www.nybooks.com/articles/2021/12/02/what-does-israel-fear-from-this-terrorist/">What Does Israel Fear from This ‘Terrorist’?</a>,” <a href="https://www.nybooks.com/">The New York Review</a>, December 2, 2021.</p><p>********************</p><p>This is what you should know about Israel.</p>Kevin Williamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10028779062267448624noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2923424816839609066.post-31142500764086935622023-10-17T08:00:00.000-07:002023-10-17T08:00:54.120-07:00Spontaneous Contacts with the Dead<div>By <a href="http://www.kenring.org/about.html">Kenneth Ring, Ph.D.</a></div><h2 style="text-align: left;">Part I</h2><div style="text-align: justify;">My mother died in June, 2001, at the age of 88, which age I will reach this December. She spent her last years in a nursing home, no longer able to walk, and slightly but not seriously demented. (She always recognized me, however, and was able to converse.) During those years, my mother had a characteristic odor -- sort of a sour, spoiled milk, musty quality, but very distinctive.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFcP2rWqqc6qTp352wANKBB4PbphYZEMu_hedlrvZzKcK3Gs027-D46YQVk-IPxS918GtpZ_MS7GLLXndDzA5hTlle7NUBoikePKxX5rpVW92LhG-C-0Kn2h2JJVQ5gilbGj4kzyoQDYUS44xU4UIKoSoKxq2e5PtOSaakeJYf8amB1T5_NdiNr08qQVA/s485/amour-couple.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="290" data-original-width="485" height="191" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFcP2rWqqc6qTp352wANKBB4PbphYZEMu_hedlrvZzKcK3Gs027-D46YQVk-IPxS918GtpZ_MS7GLLXndDzA5hTlle7NUBoikePKxX5rpVW92LhG-C-0Kn2h2JJVQ5gilbGj4kzyoQDYUS44xU4UIKoSoKxq2e5PtOSaakeJYf8amB1T5_NdiNr08qQVA/s320/amour-couple.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />Some years ago, I went to see the film <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Amour_(2012_film)" rel="nofollow">Amour</a>, which is about a woman in her 80s dying a slow and painful death following a series of strokes. It is a great film, very moving, and the woman actress, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Emmanuelle_Riva" rel="nofollow">Emmanuelle Riva</a>, strongly reminded me of my mother in her later years. I kept reliving scenes of my being with her while simultaneously being absorbed in the film.</div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;">During most of it, I had my left hand under my chin, and soon I noticed that I was smelling that same unmistakable odor around my hand that my mother had given off. The odor lasted throughout the film. It was so obvious to me that afterward I asked my then current girlfriend if she could smell anything unusual when she sniffed my hand; she could not. By that time, I didn't bother to see if the smell had persisted, but while it lasted, it emitted a very strong malodorous stench.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">What I experienced is now called an <a href="https://near-death.com/after-death-communications/">after-death communication</a> (abbreviated ADC), and according to a new book on the subject, such olfactory ADCs are surprisingly common, making up some 28% of such cases. For example, here’s another one I have drawn from this book, which has some similarities to mine:</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>After I received a phone call from the respective doctor at the hospital where my mother died, I rushed to the hospital about 40 km from where I live. When I arrived in the town in which my mother died, the traffic lights turned red and I was forced to stop and wait for a while. There I sensed my mom's spirit: I smelled her. I could smell her presence. It was her unique smell and I knew at that moment that she was in the car visiting me. It wasn't just thinking she was there -- it was knowing that she was with me in the car. So I started crying tears of joy to be able to have her near me again and I spontaneously shouted joyfully: "Mom, you are here. You are here mom, aren't you?" It was an unforgettable experience which led to my intense research about life after death and after-death communication.”</i></div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZXCze6zqUohQM5cGJ6PCWhyGI2zCQgP-bFtqyY00ojkcFwCToLGzmhr7yG4XJ40g4XP8WUcKwtZ75UrB0ZDpPcyk6Hz_nOQIOgYbh-A8lF0XHqBGp9wAd9TSh-F-Z3x8rDI-PSW7HcN6WOZq4sj7U3KzmBaWAQDWHI_Zh2P9HAP5z-9kaU9j4wBmRBuA/s311/spontaneous-contacts-with-the-dead.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="311" data-original-width="200" height="311" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZXCze6zqUohQM5cGJ6PCWhyGI2zCQgP-bFtqyY00ojkcFwCToLGzmhr7yG4XJ40g4XP8WUcKwtZ75UrB0ZDpPcyk6Hz_nOQIOgYbh-A8lF0XHqBGp9wAd9TSh-F-Z3x8rDI-PSW7HcN6WOZq4sj7U3KzmBaWAQDWHI_Zh2P9HAP5z-9kaU9j4wBmRBuA/s1600/spontaneous-contacts-with-the-dead.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>This case, and others that I will cite in this blog, is drawn from a just published book entitled <a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0C8LP92ZJ/?tag=iandsorg-20" rel="nofollow">Spontaneous Contact With the Deceased</a>. The research reported in this book, which involves more than a thousand cases from three language groups (English, French and Spanish) is now the most definitive study of ADCs ever to be undertaken. But it is not just a collection of anecdotal testimonies, but a thorough, scientific analysis of such experiences, which inform the reader about how often they occur, under which conditions, and how they affect people who report them.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Thanks to this research, we can now estimate that the incidence of ADCs is between 50 and 60% in the general population, mainly, but not always, occurring to the bereaved. So they are surprisingly common, though not nearly so well known as near-death experiences. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The principal author of this book and lead investigator of this project is a Swiss researcher named <a href="https://www.evelyn-elsaesser.com/">Evelyn Elsaesser</a>, who happens to be a very dear and long-time friend of mine, someone to whom I am very deeply indebted. So before turning to the findings of Evelyn’s research, I would like to tell you a little about her and my connection to her.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheyb6Rmq0tPVPjsCKcXrDNkwD5h5YGS-lx2l3xYTXVG3z9WhZ1-Fy_UR6czCrWd4kszqkmcsnfuTsEUEv2vHnYyVshHkzGvjBZ68AeMB2Az_CCSeKmWRb3CurBucIKfK2es8MCGtx2vjhwIASurKLyeF7UyCBbGiJUYC0Ke9uDGmHdfhCIjbYE45k7Gho/s1024/photo-01.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="357" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheyb6Rmq0tPVPjsCKcXrDNkwD5h5YGS-lx2l3xYTXVG3z9WhZ1-Fy_UR6czCrWd4kszqkmcsnfuTsEUEv2vHnYyVshHkzGvjBZ68AeMB2Az_CCSeKmWRb3CurBucIKfK2es8MCGtx2vjhwIASurKLyeF7UyCBbGiJUYC0Ke9uDGmHdfhCIjbYE45k7Gho/w476-h357/photo-01.jpg" width="476" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">Around 1990, Evelyn introduced herself to me in an e-mail. She was then working on a book about NDEs and wanted to interview various experts in several different countries. She had selected me to be the representative of American researchers and asked if I would be open to be interviewed by her. Of course, I was flattered by her interest in me and my work, so I readily assented. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Not long afterward, she arrived at the <a href="https://uconn.edu/">University of Connecticut</a> and, after greeting her, we repaired to my private office for the interview. It took the rest of the day, lasting some six hours! (Evelyn recently reminded me that she told me she had ten pages of questions and I replied that I only had five pages of answers.)</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">It was the longest and most searching interview to which I had ever been subjected, before or since. I was really impressed with this woman, and, not surprisingly, we quickly became great friends.</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">A few years later, after I had just moved back to California, and was working on my book, <a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/1930491115/?tag=iandsorg-20" rel="nofollow">Lessons from the Light</a>, I became quite seriously ill. I had nearly completed work on the book, but was no longer able to finish it, and I really despaired of being able to do so. I had to give up on it.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Eventually, I recovered, though I still felt unable to return to the book. But I was invited to lecture about my work in <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Stuttgart" rel="nofollow">Stuttgart, Germany</a>, and since Evelyn lived near Geneva, she was able to meet me there. Evelyn asked someone to take a photo of us while we were having a meal. Here it is:</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAn_EfFFfGYcarKJOHNmWBaenpMKnDI8s1ZZCNK1NuALG5c8qYYCqv7R_MieM5Si4IKlfKR-XXUD4XEtGDgRLNpqsTafcFBF16bhDHuSgWutUqfSArihleYwEbNeHQrPcCcEJMDaOEbAedkqz638-lMPbOYd0ChZXsz3PNWXtSXX6IhM6BeRSOBEB5xiA/s987/photo-02.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="865" data-original-width="987" height="378" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAn_EfFFfGYcarKJOHNmWBaenpMKnDI8s1ZZCNK1NuALG5c8qYYCqv7R_MieM5Si4IKlfKR-XXUD4XEtGDgRLNpqsTafcFBF16bhDHuSgWutUqfSArihleYwEbNeHQrPcCcEJMDaOEbAedkqz638-lMPbOYd0ChZXsz3PNWXtSXX6IhM6BeRSOBEB5xiA/w432-h378/photo-02.jpg" width="432" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">You can see we were already quite chummy. I remember that encounter because I talked with Evelyn about my unhappiness and disappointment concerning my unfinished book.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">“Please let me help you,” she offered. And she did. Although I had done virtually all the writing for the book, Evelyn helped me to continue my research for it, and it was only with her help, involving many hours of work, that I was able to complete it. That book would never have seen the light and dark of print without Evelyn’s vital assistance. I felt so indebted to her that she is listed as a co-author of the book. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">But there was still a problem. Although my agent had always been successful in finding a good publisher for my previous three books on NDEs, he was unable to secure one for this book. But Evelyn again came to my rescue. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">A published author herself, she was very savvy about the world of publishing, and in short order, she had managed to find an excellent publisher for the book. Not only that, but she then became my new agent, and through her industrious and unstinting efforts, she secured the rights for many foreign editions of the book. As a result of her agenting work, this book has since become by far my most popular book and has continued to sell twenty-five years after its original publication. And next year, there will be still another updated edition of this book, not only in print, but as an e-book and audio book as well. Not to toot my horn too loudly, but I have been told by my current publisher that it is now regarded as “a classic.” None of this would have happened without Evelyn’s unwavering and selfless support.</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">On a subsequent trip to Europe, this is how I thanked her when she saw me off on my flight home:</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja9KOAbsAM9zbH0LJdnYA9jTPZ7-JD4GnLlHsxW5wJiTRhvESgCsUDSZbMl3tmmLTMDJ07EDFFoxxrqE1SwPwF7tBk0IqnAXZM88KYBs7OEdwWfvaFezGFn-H6xeltoTSdmHMz95TVYViCdcqlZcv66-q0nrQU4jGgS-WhAPx4KUxTp53uicEv5Bp7398/s1143/photo-03.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1143" data-original-width="881" height="448" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja9KOAbsAM9zbH0LJdnYA9jTPZ7-JD4GnLlHsxW5wJiTRhvESgCsUDSZbMl3tmmLTMDJ07EDFFoxxrqE1SwPwF7tBk0IqnAXZM88KYBs7OEdwWfvaFezGFn-H6xeltoTSdmHMz95TVYViCdcqlZcv66-q0nrQU4jGgS-WhAPx4KUxTp53uicEv5Bp7398/w346-h448/photo-03.jpg" width="346" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">Whether this was actually a “Hollywood kiss” like they do in the movies, where the leading man appears to kiss his beloved, but really doesn’t or the real thing – well, a gentleman never tells…. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Since those early years of our friendship, we have visited each other quite a few times, both in Europe and in California. Perhaps our most memorable encounter was at my home at the very end of the year 1999 when, as some of you will remember, it was the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Year_2000_problem">y2K year</a> when we were to roll over into the new millennium. There was global anxiety and uncertainly then because nobody knew for sure whether our computers, banks and ATMs would still function and, if they didn’t, what then? </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Well, we all breathed a huge collective sigh of relief when the digital world made its transition seamlessly. Evelyn and I celebrated this momentous day by joining many gaily dressed, if weary, new year’s revelers by walking across (most of) the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Golden_Gate_Bridge" rel="nofollow">Golden Gate Bridge</a> the next morning. What a great way to mark the beginning of the year 2000!</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Of course, since that time, Evelyn and I have exchanged not only more visits, but hundreds of e-mails and have remained the dearest of friends and collaborators.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">So much for our friendship. Now it’s time, at long last, to turn to Evelyn’s book and what it has to teach us about ADCs.</div><h2 style="text-align: left;">Part II</h2><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQQ5wohr8tIdQL66AjvbJNsCLjV3Yce4p4yVOo4o3ASdez5pc84bGLN8rjabfbc32xVja92yhoAvmI4R0h0vQpIDaxInUr9FElJMqU0tYQwNpZSHvrhM9xhU5ETqO-pQ-uB8JaUmNDNhxXJAqATc91k1ir1toabugIiymKx3JrUS7HwJbmZtEDemgkIS8/s325/hello-from-heaven.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="325" data-original-width="200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQQ5wohr8tIdQL66AjvbJNsCLjV3Yce4p4yVOo4o3ASdez5pc84bGLN8rjabfbc32xVja92yhoAvmI4R0h0vQpIDaxInUr9FElJMqU0tYQwNpZSHvrhM9xhU5ETqO-pQ-uB8JaUmNDNhxXJAqATc91k1ir1toabugIiymKx3JrUS7HwJbmZtEDemgkIS8/s320/hello-from-heaven.jpg" width="197" /></a></div>Evelyn, after having spent some years studying and writing about NDEs, found that she was becoming increasingly intrigued with ADCs. Like me, she was familiar with <a href="http://after-death.com/">Bill and Judy Guggenheim</a>’s book on the subject, with its treacly title, <a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B008WOUJOI/?tag=iandsorg-20" rel="nofollow">Hello From Heaven!</a>, which is a collection of anecdotal reports of ADCs (Evelyn eventually translated this book into French). But Evelyn wanted to undertake a more scientific, systematic and analytic investigation of this phenomenon, which led her to form her own research team. After receiving grant funds to do this work, she and her colleagues were able to produce, as I have indicated, the definitive book on the subject. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">To begin with, let me briefly summarize the principal findings of her research before presenting some illustrative case histories of ADCs.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Because of space limitations, I can only give you a kind of generic summary of the main features of a typical instance of an ADC. There is, first of all, a very definite sense of the presence or some other distinctive sign of a deceased loved one, though in many cases, the deceased person is actually seen. In any case, what the deceased person conveys is this: “I am fine, I feel wonderful, do not worry about me. I am alive, just in another realm.” </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The impact of such an unexpected and even shocking visitation usually has a profound emotional effect on the recipient. Feelings of gratitude are common, and the recipient usually feels comforted and reassured that his or her loved one continues to exist on the other side of the veil, so to speak. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">ADCs occur in a variety of ways, most often when the recipient is either asleep or dreaming, but in the latter case, it is usually stated with emphasis that “this was no ordinary dream, it was real.” Here is a table of the various ways an ADC can manifest and their relative incidence.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Sleep – 62%</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Tactile – 48%</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Visual – 46%</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Auditory – 43%</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Sense of presence – 34%</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Olfactory – 28%</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Coincident with death – 21%</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">But now to give you a vivid sense of what these ADCs feel like to the recipient, let me cite a few representative cases. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>My brother died by suicide on 3 July 2011. He was 32 years old and struggled for 15 years with depression. He was my little brother; we were 5 years apart. I always felt he was fragile and I always felt the need to protect him. But I always knew he would die young, so much so that as a child I would look at his lifeline in his hand to reassure myself. The month after he died, I was home alone and watching TV in the living room. I was watching a programme I was passionate about and I wasn't thinking about my brother at that moment. I went quickly to my room to get something. I was in a hurry because I didn't want to miss the continuation of the TV programme. When I entered my room, I saw my brother lying on my bed. He was lying full length in his favourite position, with his arms crossed behind his head and his legs crossed, looking relaxed and serene as he did when he was a child. It was so real, or rather so unreal, that I was scared and turned my head away. I wondered for an instant if I was hallucinating. When I looked back at the bed, he was gone. 7 years later, I am sure it was not a hallucination. This image brings back a memory of him when he was 5 years old, lying in the same position and whistling happily.</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Some of Evelyn’s most provocative cases are those in which the deceased loved one manifests to the recipient at the time of his or her death. As noted, such cases make up about 21% of ADCs. Here are some examples, beginning with a couple of short excerpts.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>My mother was not anticipated to live more than a few more days. I was in bed around midnight, suddenly sensed her presence at the side of my bed. She spoke my name and patted my shoulder. I felt mom had passed. Within 10 minutes my brother phoned to tell me she had died a few minutes before his call to me.</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>My aunt passed away in the middle of the night, at about 2.30 a.m. At that moment I was woken up by a caress on my cheek, like a breath of air. The window was closed, there was no draft in the room. Ten minutes later, the hospital phoned me to tell me that she had died.</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Next, a couple of longer reports when a loved one appears as if to say goodbye, but not to worry….</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>I was 23 years old. At that time I lived in Lyon. My grandmother lived 80 km north of Lyon. We were very close, we had a great relationship and friendship. I had been seeing her a lot less lately because I had a very busy job. I didn't come home very often at weekends to see her and my parents who lived in the same small town. My grandmother was very ill and we knew that the illness would soon take her away. My mother asked me to come that weekend and we all went to the hospital (many sisters on my mother's side). On Sunday evening in the hospital we were all around her bed to say goodbye. I was the last to leave... trying to comfort her and telling her not to be afraid, that she would be reunited with all the people she loved. I left knowing in my heart that it was the last time and, strangely enough, I was not sad! </i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>On Tuesday night I wake up attracted by a strong presence. I am sitting in my bed overlooking a large open loft. And there, right in front of me, only 2 or 3 meters away, slightly higher, I perceive her presence without seeing her! A sort of luminous white haze and above all an incredible sensation invades me, of happiness, of peace, of Love. I smile at her. I know at that moment that she has passed to the other side and that she has come to say goodbye and reassure me. I go back to sleep soothed and the next day leave for work. The telephone rings at my workplace in the middle of the morning, it's my mum. She tells me with emotion that my little grandmother has died!</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>I awoke suddenly for no reason from a good sleep and saw my grandfather standing at the side of my bed. He seemed slightly younger, healthier and radiating pure love. He smiled at me and said “I’m going away, my wee dove” (his pet name for me). I smiled back at him and looked at my alarm clock, it was 06.00, then he was gone. It didn’t occur to me to ask my grandfather where he was going or why he was in my room at 6 in the morning. I just slipped back into a peaceful sleep. I was later wakened by the telephone ringing and my grandmother sobbing on the phone that papa was dead. His death certificate later stated approximate time of death 06.00.</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Finally, one last account that conveys just how powerful and moving these experiences can be. In this case, there was also an unexpected confirmation of this person’s ADC:</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>I received a visit from my deceased wife, in July 2013, 10 months after her passing in October 2012, while unconscious under anaesthetic on the operating table for a gall bladder removal in 2012, a year after her passing. At the age of her passing she was 71 years of age. In her visit she appeared younger in age, serene, composed, beautiful, youthful, happy, smiling, full of love and compassion. She was bathed in a gold and white light. The vision was magnificent in its clarity. She assured me with a loving smile that she was "alright" and that "things were wonderful on this side" and that "I would be alright too and had no need to worry". The experience was timeless, beautifully intense, deep, blissful, full of love. I have no idea how long it lasted. One second, one minute, 5 minutes - seems irrelevant. When I woke up, or recovered consciousness, I felt incredibly relaxed and had full recollection of the experience. I felt that I had experienced heaven. This intensely relaxed state stayed with me for several days during which time I initially assumed that the wonderful experience might be drug-induced (the anaesthetic). In the months that followed, the magnificence and intensity of the experience remained but I researched as much as possible with medical people, hypnotherapists and the like to try and determine if there was a drug-induced explanation which caused the experience. I could find no such explanation. Around the same time as my experience my dentist (who had treated my wife shortly before her passing) and a very close lady friend of my wife independently advised me, both in a somewhat "shaken" (for want of a better word) state, that they had been "visited by my deceased wife” asking that "they would look after Matt (that's me)" and she told them that she was alright. This happened around the same time that I had my deceased wife's "visit". This information came independently from and was instigated by my dentist and friend and was not a response to any question I had asked.</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>Now, some five years later, I feel blessed that I have had this very real experience. I have only to recall it to go into an immediate relaxed and peaceful state. It has been a life changer and I have no doubt that I have experienced an after-death communication from my beloved wife and had glimpsed at the other side that I can only describe as heaven.”</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div>******************************</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Since there are hundreds of cases presented in Evelyn’s book, you can understand that since I am only writing a blog and not a book, I have only barely begun to scratch the surface of the domain of ADCs. But if I have managed to whet your appetite to learn more about this remarkable phenomenon, you now know where to go – to Evelyn’s compendious book on the subject. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjunhF4i4jOICYKyeRMh0EKPKeotgMrNwSv0Mg79U7oZsVZwDam7Aq29VwaLlaLRGnGUP0dt859uoBMwbTgWpGbNtqVfpQV8Y71Po7HWAYhHA2YYtPQpeS4gvB0wiOxWcRYe20e5jD12iOa023uUmpf89b78Uf9s7ovdqZvHOBYj81fD8iz-sdh1EZJm3E/s218/evelyn-elsaesser.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="165" data-original-width="218" height="165" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjunhF4i4jOICYKyeRMh0EKPKeotgMrNwSv0Mg79U7oZsVZwDam7Aq29VwaLlaLRGnGUP0dt859uoBMwbTgWpGbNtqVfpQV8Y71Po7HWAYhHA2YYtPQpeS4gvB0wiOxWcRYe20e5jD12iOa023uUmpf89b78Uf9s7ovdqZvHOBYj81fD8iz-sdh1EZJm3E/s1600/evelyn-elsaesser.jpg" width="218" /></a></div>To conclude, I would just like to say a few words about where ADCs fit into the general picture of what happens at and after death. Recent research has now revealed a number of fascinating interlocking jeweled facets in the diadem of death-related phenomena (isn’t that a mouthful?). These days, these miraculous events are collectively referred to as <a href="https://spcare.bmj.com/content/early/2023/06/12/spcare-2022-004055">end-of-life experiences</a> (or ELEs). To begin with, we have what traditionally have been called <a href="https://near-death.com/dr-carla-wills-brandons-deathbed-visions-research/">deathbed visions</a> during which a dying person perceives deceased loved ones who appear to form a kind of “welcoming committee” to help escort the dying person into the realm beyond death. We also have instances of <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Terminal_lucidity" rel="nofollow">terminal lucidity</a> in which a previously demented person “wakes up” and becomes lucid, usually shortly before dying. And of course, there are NDEs, which give a person close to death an intimation of the life to come. And now, in addition to the work of <a href="https://psi-encyclopedia.spr.ac.uk/articles/mental-mediumship-research">mediums who appear to channel the dead</a> to the living, we have ADCs, which require no mediation by mediums. Rather, as Evelyn’s work shows, these are direct evidential contacts between the dead and us, the living – except they are not dead, just living elsewhere, separated from us, to use <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_James" rel="nofollow">William James</a>’ famous phrase, “by the filmiest of screens.” </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">What happens at the advent of death and what happens afterward should give us every confidence that when we die, we don’t. We just live elsewhere and when an ADC occurs, we now have additional evidence that life is forever, and that there really is no death, just a change in location.</div><div><br /></div><div><i>A personal postscript</i></div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I have written this blog on Friday, October 13th, 2023. Since I was born on a <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Friday_the_13th" rel="nofollow">Friday, the 13th</a>, in December of 1935, I have always considered Friday, the 13th my lucky day. So in exactly two months, as I said at the outset, I will reach the venerable age of 88. Frankly, given the vicissitudes of my health lately, I am not convinced I will live much longer nor, given the sorry state of the world, do I care to.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">But drawing on the hopeful implications of Evelyn’s work, I have promised to make an effort to send her an ADC after my death. Since, as some of you may remember, I have long been an ardent tennis fan, I intend to return in the following form: <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2V90cRKH7XG7Iu3pLMz83hOUU2E2_kvGAe1Gmhj7j43R9zI64VLc1Dac9FJRb4wH34gBVfGBleBhGgSQun_CtwBkTlk1BzmoIEsonit6iauZv3nSX7fjoEwBHvIHGiRAOB5WuNSPbB3v3KCZRBzofv0avPW81NsfctootK09siv5slkt-ELA1kPLXFxc/s161/tennis-ball.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="159" data-original-width="161" height="159" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2V90cRKH7XG7Iu3pLMz83hOUU2E2_kvGAe1Gmhj7j43R9zI64VLc1Dac9FJRb4wH34gBVfGBleBhGgSQun_CtwBkTlk1BzmoIEsonit6iauZv3nSX7fjoEwBHvIHGiRAOB5WuNSPbB3v3KCZRBzofv0avPW81NsfctootK09siv5slkt-ELA1kPLXFxc/s1600/tennis-ball.jpg" width="161" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: justify;">So, Evelyn, if you should see a tennis ball bouncing crazily into your backyard, well, that’ll be me!</div>Kevin Williamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10028779062267448624noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2923424816839609066.post-48873280391570449332023-08-27T08:42:00.000-07:002023-08-27T08:42:47.282-07:00A Threnody for a World That Was<div>By <a href="http://www.kenring.org/about.html">Kenneth Ring, Ph.D.</a></div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsOwhJp6jPALagJaTcPS7hBzs3bODEhw0djBiOqNf3ypzofwtz_dNTNdiVMOBXm2ZBHUFITvOEy1b_hSLg9gE5neR_YqtVWzI97qbmTMxtQGPHhfS6NotX71JFbYL-Lw6Tucr-rI_k_rNykGx_XjgBQyuLmX90gkVDmGRuLwSl3wXNstPAx-w7utnQ46M/s241/sunset.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="241" data-original-width="197" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsOwhJp6jPALagJaTcPS7hBzs3bODEhw0djBiOqNf3ypzofwtz_dNTNdiVMOBXm2ZBHUFITvOEy1b_hSLg9gE5neR_YqtVWzI97qbmTMxtQGPHhfS6NotX71JFbYL-Lw6Tucr-rI_k_rNykGx_XjgBQyuLmX90gkVDmGRuLwSl3wXNstPAx-w7utnQ46M/s1600/sunset.jpg" width="197" /></a></div>The world I grew up in is passing away, and soon enough, I will be passing away with it. My vision, never good, is starting to deteriorate rather alarmingly, and of course you know that I can barely walk anymore. Indeed, as a sign of the times, I just received a walker today, something that I swore I would never want to resort to since those were for old people. But I have no wish to recount here the litany of all of my bodily woes. Nothing is more tedious, even to me, than the complaints of old men nattering on about their troubles. Suffice it to say my body also has had its day, and the sun is beginning to set on it.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The real subject of this blog, however, is not me, but the world I grew up in whose days are also numbered. I am in anticipatory mourning for a vanishing world which I had loved.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Take <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Classical_music" rel="nofollow">classical music</a>, for example. Probably most of you know that classical music has been one of my passions ever since I was a teen-ager. But now, with my bad hearing, when I listen to it, the sound is distorted. I sometimes can’t even recognize works I know very well until they are identified afterward. But, then, as I’ve said, I don’t really mean to write about my own losses in this regard, but the waning of interest in classical music itself.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Case in point: The <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mostly_Mozart_Festival" rel="nofollow">Mostly Mozart summer festivals</a> in New York. I remember going to one of those concerts with my then girlfriend in the mid-1980s. In those days, the motto was “Mostly <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wolfgang_Amadeus_Mozart" rel="nofollow">Mozart</a>, barely <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Johann_Sebastian_Bach" rel="nofollow">Bach</a>, and neckties never.” </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mostly_Mozart_Festival" imageanchor="1" rel="nofollow" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="181" data-original-width="238" height="181" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVMxKli6vtkHSQqasfWh-Y7fagv86kE8Mkv6LtZ7bXOatgNI2zJ5JSmwLcpzNq2fiIZt7c0ledyLjeRSv9-kS9K722U4utyDQ6EUekASGWV7URDIl28rvGheq6LoanBNsNqCvuJ-93dT0Jwa9ocoiGH6MBaY7jT6hTvRjy-xTvsxuO0kwuDxvlRL_AwhI/s1600/mostly-mozart.jpg" width="238" /></a></div>Well, as of next year, the Mostly Mozart concerts will be no more. And, generally speaking, after a good run of more than two centuries, interest in classical music is not only ebbing, but its audiences have long been primarily made up of old fogies like me, members of the walking walker brigade. Other music forms are now in ascendant. Hell, even <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hip_hop_music" rel="nofollow">Hip-hop</a> is fifty years old now. Roll over <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ludwig_van_Beethoven" rel="nofollow">Beethoven</a> before somebody steps on you.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Of course, classical music will continue, but its glory days, which probably reached their zenith in the first half of the 20th century, are clearly the things of nostalgic memories for people of my taste and vintage.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">But of course there are many far more worrisome things in this troubled world of ours and surely the greatest of these are the mind-paralyzing effects of <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Climate_change" rel="nofollow">climate change</a>. Just consider what has been going on in the last week at the time of my writing, which is the second half of August.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/2023_Hawaii_wildfires" imageanchor="1" rel="nofollow" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="151" data-original-width="237" height="151" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQovrVQkQ6N0Y8cR9Zfn-c3pUgbniB37cXDwj451ral_CDkfpwTBC8z2M8WtozKJJwRQwjrB6mu2qkOLZ_NDKQKZpCc5MTJm6peFlqbGvhAACFLTVoKVs1MCPv_1q2Akl1BKMSyeq4wSUPdecsIR86HPjL35gGHaTHporaoZw9tNv7vGGaWvpGtNNvT0I/s1600/maui-fires.jpg" width="237" /></a></div>Perhaps the worst of these recent events was the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/2023_Hawaii_wildfires" rel="nofollow">terrible devastation that was visited on Maui</a> (and also the Big Island) as a result of the fires that ravaged the island and utterly destroyed <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lahaina,_Hawaii" rel="nofollow">Lahaina</a>. I don’t think it is possible for those of us who could only witness that inferno on television to imagine the horror suffered not only by those who perished, including the birds and other animals, but that of the survivors. We didn’t smell what they did, didn’t see up close what they did; we didn’t lose our homes and everything in them, or our loved ones or our animals. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">And yet this is the world we are now living in, isn’t it? At the moment, Los Angeles and other parts of the west in the United States are still recovering from the floods unleashed by <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hurricane_Hilary_(2023)" rel="nofollow">Hurricane Hilary</a> while up north in Washington, the state has been plagued by widespread fires that have ravaged towns and wildlife and likewise for parts of <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/British_Columbia" rel="nofollow">British Columbia</a>. And of course there are still hundreds of fires burning away throughout the rest of Canada whose smoky air eventually drifts down to pollute and darken our own skies.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Climate_change#/media/File:Change_in_Average_Temperature_With_Fahrenheit.svg" imageanchor="1" rel="nofollow" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="266" data-original-width="260" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqigCw8R9lW8fMm-FsSt6ZZuxzAroW_yCbk-vDeMz8T3IEFnBczP4iFR0yvprz613lpYUo-hCLA75trHaY3IqFWdsAgla6kaKFloW-DpktC0QizgHV_guouFgxMdeEP8Fp-UNC9kwV1-6_sL61G1LmzDLFEYZDI3xuQw6bJJSap5C8727WQcRFVVhiTAc/s1600/climate-change-chart.jpg" width="260" /></a></div>And I need hardly remind you of this summer’s prolonged scorching temperatures throughout the southwest and other parts of the country, the frequent destructive tornadoes that have been spawned, and the fears of a catastrophic series of hurricanes later this summer.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">And of course, the damage hasn’t wreaked only the Western hemisphere. It’s been global with many countries in Europe burning up this summer (so much for the pleasures of the summer tourist season – you can kiss those goodbye, too, baby), and China and India as well (it’s not the time to visit Beijing or Delhi either).</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">And, surely you all know that this July was the hottest on record, and there’s little doubt that the year will end that way, too, with another record smashed. And not just on earth, but in the oceans, too, with the waters in the Gulf or around Florida reaching and even exceeding 100ºF.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">You think it’s gonna get better? Dream on, friends, though what we are experiencing is more like a nightmare from which we only wish we could awaken. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTF8AKxb0A94Ld_eMkG_zFAhLFsWlB_oRNxoVarS_ad-E3_6JOhcRAl3cZKyL7r-JNDQdMYLcZQRkvKV9Jd_PgYLLDN0Ywn-8e6aXekfPOMF8IG9Dl-Jp7SNe55al7wyHuCW0cqnyt3GnScE6QWqEUBs4A-bT4zsYXNTHsQZuwuRAdq5oc1HfxDMsonwU/s237/cell-phone-kids.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="138" data-original-width="237" height="138" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTF8AKxb0A94Ld_eMkG_zFAhLFsWlB_oRNxoVarS_ad-E3_6JOhcRAl3cZKyL7r-JNDQdMYLcZQRkvKV9Jd_PgYLLDN0Ywn-8e6aXekfPOMF8IG9Dl-Jp7SNe55al7wyHuCW0cqnyt3GnScE6QWqEUBs4A-bT4zsYXNTHsQZuwuRAdq5oc1HfxDMsonwU/s1600/cell-phone-kids.jpg" width="237" /></a></div>I have a cartoon in mind, which I wish I had the skill to draw, but maybe you can picture it. On the left side of the panel, we see a bunch of teen-agers glued to their iPhones while on the right side, we see a towering fire of which the teen-agers remain, at least for now, unaware. The caption reads: “Kids fiddling with their phones while the earth burns.” </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Unfortunately, I need to continue with this song of lamentation, which is what a <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Threnody" rel="nofollow">threnody</a> means, of course, by taking at least a few minutes to mention one of the most painful aspects of our present condition, which is the calamitous erosion of the natural world. As I’ve mentioned in some of my previous blogs, in recent years there have been sharp and worrisome <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Decline_in_insect_populations" rel="nofollow">declines in population of the birds and bees</a> of our world, of the insects generally, and on the other end of the size scale, in our <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Megafauna" rel="nofollow">megafauna</a>, all of which are doomed and will probably disappear by the end of the century. You can also mourn the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Polar_bear_conservation" rel="nofollow">loss of the iconic polar bears</a>, as the Arctic glaciers melt. They will eventually be replaced by the grizzlies as long as they can last. </div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Elizabeth_Kolbert" imageanchor="1" rel="nofollow" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="217" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn073--D9w4foraMxWxsfH5pq7KsYD0wxbkftowKTaOjlUia-21sq7gu0YmwvSuFJmJtKGaAC4q6jDRQHQtAOvpxuZAcb-toTpxGswwCBMSC0QHmBLxDUaT9VAFTIVi79rBVQTjFW7dfigxuDuAtXj30uar7aQkwTnkWTj1uTvfaVhr2dUxe4aLaM8UzE/s1600/elizabeth-kolbert.jpg" width="217" /></a></div>According to the environmental journalist, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Elizabeth_Kolbert" rel="nofollow">Elizabeth Kolbert</a>, we are currently witnessing the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Holocene_extinction" rel="nofollow">sixth extinction</a>, another great die-off of many of the species of the planet like that which happened to the dinosaurs sixty-six million years ago. This is life in what has been called the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anthropocene" rel="nofollow">Anthropocene</a>, the geologic era in which we humans now find ourselves. This is the age when destructive human activity has become the dominant determinant of life on the planet. There are many wonderful and good people on earth, but as a species we have been ruinous to our only home. Instead, we have become the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Apex_predator" rel="nofollow">alpha-predator</a> on the planet as we continue to destroy the habitats of other creatures, if we haven’t already killed them outright. We are guilty of <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ecocide" rel="nofollow">ecocide</a>, and we will be paying a heavy price for our sins.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">It didn’t used to be this way when I was growing up. Nobody had heard of “<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Climate_change" rel="nofollow">global warming</a>” then. We were innocent, most of us having no idea of the harm we were doing to the earth even then. It was the age before computers, mobile phones and social media. Kids like me used typewriters, slide rules, and paper and pencils, and when we were old enough to drive, gas was cheap (29 cents a gallon) and the open road called. Nature, too, was abundant and animal life flourished. That was then. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGlu4Em25U0pMyYxIt8fG2H2gWuftnZETqIJ__6KyLHGTxrnFr1_a2khTJREFpLXL3fQNwfK9JcCYy2TfNwVCz2pb5CXf4-gjAyjSGQw0hrmZ2YrOXqfY9cjKpKPaT1NCaxTyYVaAZWrZSMofw4raXokkCh5XIzzZgoImDI_ArK3CWrCm5OmV2uqGDHw4/s239/earth.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="233" data-original-width="239" height="233" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGlu4Em25U0pMyYxIt8fG2H2gWuftnZETqIJ__6KyLHGTxrnFr1_a2khTJREFpLXL3fQNwfK9JcCYy2TfNwVCz2pb5CXf4-gjAyjSGQw0hrmZ2YrOXqfY9cjKpKPaT1NCaxTyYVaAZWrZSMofw4raXokkCh5XIzzZgoImDI_ArK3CWrCm5OmV2uqGDHw4/s1600/earth.jpg" width="239" /></a></div>I recently saw a commercial on TV that advised us consumers that “we have only one body,” and urged us to take care of it (by using the right lotion on our skin). Likewise, we have only one earth, and how have we taken care of it? A rhetorical question, obviously. Nothing more need be said. We can only weep. It is too late to repent.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">But let me turn, finally, just to what is happening in our own country, the good old U. S. of A.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Certainly, one of the most disturbing developments in recent years has been the increasing incidence of <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mass_murder" rel="nofollow">mass murders</a>, which for a while earlier this year seemed to be almost daily occurrences. Commentators were quick to point out that these mass murders were being committed so often that they exceeded the number of days in the year. In other words, on average, more than one a day! What was happening to America?</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I don’t need to tell you that when I was growing up, it wasn’t this way. Life was not perfect – I am not idealizing it – but no parents worried then that their children might be killed in another <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/School_shooting" rel="nofollow">senseless rampage at their school</a>. There was no need for “safely drills” (only for fires, not firearms) or to have armed policemen guarding their schools. So different from these days when so many parents must have these niggling fears in the back of their minds when they send their kids off to school in the morning.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4_F74GPd3LPn3eTCffLH-Xc9A7GdAe3RZtJjMGeCPTjWkS12m_YpOn8zHBQPZAwVIMb0TacZDZusTzNpeRCyzb4qkZySrXWrw5nUm7fkmIfQHqEmugDHRNCpKbXl8d70btVWL8t2jlkW32_2wXL1OXAjPedvN78ax81IIWAKR9jIOig0D2lbCNZQ4ZSk/s265/black-children.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="265" data-original-width="219" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4_F74GPd3LPn3eTCffLH-Xc9A7GdAe3RZtJjMGeCPTjWkS12m_YpOn8zHBQPZAwVIMb0TacZDZusTzNpeRCyzb4qkZySrXWrw5nUm7fkmIfQHqEmugDHRNCpKbXl8d70btVWL8t2jlkW32_2wXL1OXAjPedvN78ax81IIWAKR9jIOig0D2lbCNZQ4ZSk/s1600/black-children.jpg" width="219" /></a></div>I think particularly of the fears that Black mothers must have when they say goodbye to their kids, especially if they have boys. It’s just not safe, and probably never was, really, to be a Black kid in America, and now, never more so. And when that boy becomes a teen-ager, does he have to be especially vigilant when on the streets of his neighborhood? Or when he grows up and happens to be caught speeding, what then? When a white cop pulls him over and says, menacingly, “Please step out of your car, sir.” Such a man would be expected to have a level of fear that few white men would.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I’m lucky. I’m a white guy. When I could drive, I never worried about such things. But I have a Black grandchild. It’s fortunate both for her and me (and her parents) that she’s a girl. But, still, despite the views of a <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ron_DeSantis" rel="nofollow">certain Southern governor</a>, who seems to believe that <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Slavery" rel="nofollow">slavery</a> was a benign form of vocational training, this country, born in violence and still permeated by <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Racism" rel="nofollow">racism</a>, is now even more perilous for Black people. It’s sickening.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Of course, the easy availability of guns, and the fact that our country has far more guns per capita than any other country – and some of the laxest laws permitting their use – makes America a particularly dangerous place for all of us to live, regardless of our race or ethnicity. I don’t need to tell you that it didn’t used to be this way despite our history of racial violence and “<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ethnic_conflict" rel="nofollow">race riots</a>,” as they used to be called. But they were occasional, if shocking, eruptions of racial tensions; they didn’t suffuse our culture the way they do now. Now, we live in a climate of violence and mayhem and sometimes seem to be on the brink of another civil war.</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Trumpism" imageanchor="1" rel="nofollow" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="242" data-original-width="237" height="242" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqQexQ_8hSYprRBrGz8X-LNl2Hp9Az7OU1AtvHk_x3dX87ZGNBanXDJMA4Qk-NzSDE_BJucIaQk_fJRa0fD9P4JtzQddNGf8iFknipxsP8kYaS7ymlSgAE0m49qMb2lyAejqJzE4a5xrYPpJt4vtOQQ1BRSpvqhHp3MXv5eXO_FTQHxuQj2eSJe4eOkZE/s1600/trump.jpg" width="237" /></a></div>I usually try to avoid political subjects, but now that I’m very old and likely not to be around much longer, perhaps you’ll indulge me this one time. (<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Trumpism" rel="nofollow">Trump partisans</a> would be best advised to skip this next section.) This is just my personal opinion, but ever since the advent of the Trumpian age in America, our ex-president (and would-be next president) has stoked violence and inflamed his followers with his poisonous rhetoric. He has made it legitimate to hate and to mock non-white people and immigrants. He even mocks and disparages his opponents by calling them insulting names like a five-year-old bully on a schoolyard. One well-known socialite who knew Trump well during his New York days, said “he was always a horse’s ass.” Touché.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">As odious and hateful as I find Trump to be, and as dangerous as I know he is, I still find him essentially a buffoon, a kind of cartoon figure. Even his name and title: President Trump. It makes me smile. He reminds me of that English cartoon character, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Colonel_Blimp" rel="nofollow">Colonel Blimp</a>. I can’t help laughing when I see his plane with its big sign on top, TRUMP. Just to prevent someone from stealing it, I suppose. You may have noticed that his umbrellas are also emblazoned with his name. I suspect the same is the case with his underwear and hankies.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">What a laughable narcissist, albeit a thuggish one. To me he is an absurd figure, incapable of telling the truth and with a serious character disorder that prevents him from ever acknowledging what everyone else knows – that he <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/2020_United_States_presidential_election" rel="nofollow">lost the last election</a>. Trump can never admit that he’s lost anything, even his keys, because that would make him “a loser,” like all those competitors for president he is so quick to malign.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpIPsBhcZQu8pnFK7bg4g_uDtvwIy3m6zKDpR19VP2INYM0EdHES4Y1hmthdrMBkv1FDCAwuLlzHXmgAQrMRKSptSaLLp_NzxumoKMwTxF8OI-G4ZcePCnErxTY47oLuKyLju9gE5mhV5URl1IoyjrI0PO6L7ldJj54NontpqaH2BAoJt2kWM72cXlAo0/s258/fascism.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="171" data-original-width="258" height="171" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpIPsBhcZQu8pnFK7bg4g_uDtvwIy3m6zKDpR19VP2INYM0EdHES4Y1hmthdrMBkv1FDCAwuLlzHXmgAQrMRKSptSaLLp_NzxumoKMwTxF8OI-G4ZcePCnErxTY47oLuKyLju9gE5mhV5URl1IoyjrI0PO6L7ldJj54NontpqaH2BAoJt2kWM72cXlAo0/s1600/fascism.jpg" width="258" /></a></div>I remember reading years ago that by the time a man lives to be fifty, he will have the face he deserves. You look at Trump’s face, his jutting jaw, his Mussolini-like swagger, and what do you see? Trump is a man who can easily “lash out” and leer, though he can also smile. But have you ever seen this man laugh or tell a joke? How anyone can take him seriously, much less vote for him, is beyond me.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Still, he has fomented an atmosphere of violence in this country unlike any other president. And we saw what all that led to on <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/January_6_United_States_Capitol_attack" rel="nofollow">January 6th of 2021</a>. Of course, we have had venal presidents before, and we have had outright crooks and other unhinged presidents, too (does anyone remember <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Richard_Nixon" rel="nofollow">Nixon</a>?) But we have never had a president who was twice impeached and is currently facing four indictments for alleged criminal behavior in both federal and state courts. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKvh5D5ebTUwVXiZNOFJ8TnSpeduz29u3bfap0hCWwvb5SO6DvqZUspmdhKE4gQcPuqmuY4d2stfwpp2wP0C3vP0FQAv6NVM_DI2EifYcMhhTiOs8S-G-RaRQR94sT2XDDVHmDjnujvXD9YE8kHf_pK0ElH4iONPh4z1AXF6PCq1zmC_56687ibNuHFEE/s241/trumpism.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="236" data-original-width="241" height="236" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKvh5D5ebTUwVXiZNOFJ8TnSpeduz29u3bfap0hCWwvb5SO6DvqZUspmdhKE4gQcPuqmuY4d2stfwpp2wP0C3vP0FQAv6NVM_DI2EifYcMhhTiOs8S-G-RaRQR94sT2XDDVHmDjnujvXD9YE8kHf_pK0ElH4iONPh4z1AXF6PCq1zmC_56687ibNuHFEE/s1600/trumpism.jpg" width="241" /></a></div>And worse, he has now captured and taken over the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Republican_Party_(United_States)" rel="nofollow">Republican party</a>, has cowed his craven Republicans into slavish fealty, and convinced his “base” of committed <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Trumpism" rel="nofollow">Trumpists</a> that he has never done anything wrong, never lost the last election, and that Biden is not our legitimate president. He has become the deranged leader of a <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cult_of_personality" rel="nofollow">personality cult</a> that used to be the Republican party. Trump uber alles.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Am I the only one who thinks we are all now living a nut house where people have just gone berserk? Am I the only one who doesn’t recognize this country anymore? We seem to be living in an era when “alternative facts” parade as truth and civility is a virtue to be sneered at. The wild west has returned, and lawlessness and insanity reign. Shoot ‘em up, cowboy! And if you see someone who is dumb enough to post a <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rainbow_flag_(LGBT)" rel="nofollow">gay pride flag</a> outside her store, kill her. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">No, it didn’t used to be like this when I was growing up. And though I know the world wouldn’t be perfect if everyone had a <a href="https://near-death.com/faq/">near-death experience</a>, I only wish that were possible because then love and kindness would rule and compassion would be an everyday virtue. That at least is the kind of world I would like to live in, not this doomed madhouse, and with any luck, that’s where I’ll be heading soon.</div>Kevin Williamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10028779062267448624noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2923424816839609066.post-55114188493035024182023-08-01T06:20:00.000-07:002023-08-01T06:20:01.688-07:00The Day I Turned a Thousand – Months – Old<div>By <a href="http://www.kenring.org/about.html">Kenneth Ring, Ph.D.</a></div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/1627876987/?tag=iandsorg-20" rel="nofollow" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="246" data-original-width="164" height="271" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2xWsRObmQu21O9VqGm_7080_5E5GiFKGDP5xHCyzK2YBqo3CWlt1jiQSx2AZTNycC7_mvlDz3by9MvON3LKLYH9MHchH8QiwHRjClQ4iLN1d_N6cIH6dg9lrIE8rhHTFN3kd_b37Vl65LpeHgTyk2nXi9JUhnPvd2-UqlriED7oEgsBsW0TMQKOGtRHQ/w180-h271/waiting-to-die.jpg" width="180" /></a></div>Some of you who read my book, <a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/1627876987/?tag=iandsorg-20" rel="nofollow">Waiting to Die</a>, or my blogs from a few years ago may remember that I spent a lot of time writing about how I was hoping to reach the age of a thousand – months. Indeed, that was the very conceit of my book and gave it what little suspense I could instill in it. The question, which I left open until the very end, was whether I would reach my goal, and if I did, what would happen then.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Well, obviously, I made it and survived, but none of you knows what happened to me that day. You are about to find out, and I think you will be shocked to learn what actually took place on that fateful day.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I don’t know just when this somewhat whimsical notion occurred to me. Of course, I regarded it as a joke, just a larkish bit of folderol meant to amuse. But all the same, the idea did appeal to me and my proclivities both for numerical games and death dates. For example, I’ve always had a fascination with prime numbers as well as the death dates of various famous people, particularly <a href="https://www.kenringblog.com/p/composers-i-have-known-and-loved.html">composers</a>. You name a well-known composer, for example, and I can probably tell you the year of his death. And since if I were to die at the age of 1000 months, I would have been 83 years old. I remember writing about this in one of my blogs and mentioned a long list of illustrious men who ha d died at that age. I would never belong in such company of course, but I could still aspire to join them in my longevity at least. I also remember thinking that 83 would actually a good age to die – I’d be old then, but not ancient, and what, really, would be the point of living longer, anyway? As it was, and as I remarked more than once, by the time I had reached my early 8Os, I already thought I was living in my afterlife. The story of my life had by then played out; I was merely coasting through my epilogue, waiting to die. So my story – and me – would finally come to an end if I managed to kick the bucket when I reached my goal of a thousand months of age. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">But of course my life didn’t end on the day I turned 1000 months old, on exactly April 13, 2019. Nevertheless, something extremely significant and uncanny did take place on that day, and I am, at last, about to tell you what that was. But first I will have to set the scene.</div><div><br /></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>PG</b></span></div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV6mC3a79lLCt7_ORb51Xpfh1cGj3FA3Fo-Rfl81UUPY9xNHp9cs0-CnEk3CsFPQD0GAe_-J6BwryvgqjiJ50k1ipaBVUfVaTLJ0QQOedtEgIy5PdPHb8SocToGPD0iDakEPOYp07AiibvW7CsYHibPF7tD75wHNk6Ix6C1GHLQVz0m1fGr5QRJUu0Y3g/s258/esalen.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="192" data-original-width="258" height="192" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV6mC3a79lLCt7_ORb51Xpfh1cGj3FA3Fo-Rfl81UUPY9xNHp9cs0-CnEk3CsFPQD0GAe_-J6BwryvgqjiJ50k1ipaBVUfVaTLJ0QQOedtEgIy5PdPHb8SocToGPD0iDakEPOYp07AiibvW7CsYHibPF7tD75wHNk6Ix6C1GHLQVz0m1fGr5QRJUu0Y3g/s1600/esalen.jpg" width="258" /></a></div>In late spring of 1985, I spent several weeks at <a href="https://www.esalen.org/">Esalen Institute</a> during which time I was initiated into the heady and erotically-tinged culture of Esalen, which for me also included the beginning of my usage of <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/MDMA" rel="nofollow">MDMA</a>, later popularly known as “Ecstasy.” It was during that same period that I was also introduced to a town that would soon become my very favorite place in all the world. It was called <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pacific_Grove,_California" rel="nofollow">Pacific Grove</a>, but to locals of whom I was shortly to aspire to become one, it was just “PG.”</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Since most of readers of this blog don’t live in California, I need to say something about this town and the distinctive atmosphere that one finds there. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">To begin with, PG is located near <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Monterey,_California" rel="nofollow">Monterey</a>, but is really off the proverbial “beaten track.” To get there, you actually have to get off the freeway and descend a long grade of about four or five miles until you hit the beginning of the town. But on a clear day, what you see ahead of you is not just the stores and gas stations in that part of town, which is charmless, but the sparkling waters of the blue Pacific. In later years, I would always experience a frisson of excitement at that wondrous view. And the “real” part of PG that I was to know so well and love so deeply was that which was located on the shores of the Pacific.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJemx5CJo3c11xM1bD-zU5Vfl4mZpJm7aHTO14eWQ6nTmiZpCkxhuTWoZGcoYVy7Z6MozWJKrXgA7QaWs8AW4DBri5g7mUEurM5qao0tG37MlKNBEcsmdoZcj1Mql7IcnndybIj80O9okFIVAULzOaQhN7wWiMuqXpc3ilyLmilLMVc26dLbGmWHHBKvU/s258/pacific-grove.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="193" data-original-width="258" height="193" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJemx5CJo3c11xM1bD-zU5Vfl4mZpJm7aHTO14eWQ6nTmiZpCkxhuTWoZGcoYVy7Z6MozWJKrXgA7QaWs8AW4DBri5g7mUEurM5qao0tG37MlKNBEcsmdoZcj1Mql7IcnndybIj80O9okFIVAULzOaQhN7wWiMuqXpc3ilyLmilLMVc26dLbGmWHHBKvU/s1600/pacific-grove.jpg" width="258" /></a></div>What struck me immediately when I first arrived in PG was that it was such an old-timey sort of town, not only quiet and appealing, but as if it were stuck in time, say, around 1950. The main part of town along Lighthouse Avenue consists of only about eight blocks or so. They are festooned with cafes and other eateries, a marvelous bakery, small shops, galleries, a little bookstore, etc., but life is slow there. PG is not crowded with tourists; most the people you see on the streets are locals. No one is in a hurry. People don’t stride purposively through town; they amble. </div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">And nothing really goes on there. There are no night clubs, very few bars, and only a somewhat dilapidated movie house. The town seems to close down early at night. After nine o’clock or so, there’s hardly anyone on the streets. Everyone has seemingly gone home to one or another of the charming brightly colored wooden houses, some old Victorians, that PG is famous for.</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMfFI4JPIwov6l6CPmPlrZjU5SNzvnqKSxP5eyZOuHhw7DG0-K2j3EGCIvtrchdHfg1v3aJ8KyM4Ana09RDc6Oowes6DIxEMhhB0w_LPfqT7doU_eotUkRHyMQ444Wbkr1AWRUQ0IWJ96JFxLE2DmuOmk4iX-t6l89hxoZnzDMPYg9cE6hJQYvlT7haFg/s257/pacific-grove-homes.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="191" data-original-width="257" height="191" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMfFI4JPIwov6l6CPmPlrZjU5SNzvnqKSxP5eyZOuHhw7DG0-K2j3EGCIvtrchdHfg1v3aJ8KyM4Ana09RDc6Oowes6DIxEMhhB0w_LPfqT7doU_eotUkRHyMQ444Wbkr1AWRUQ0IWJ96JFxLE2DmuOmk4iX-t6l89hxoZnzDMPYg9cE6hJQYvlT7haFg/s1600/pacific-grove-homes.jpg" width="257" /></a></div>For me, and I know this has been true for some other first-time visitors, it was love at first sight. I immediately knew this was the town for me.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Over the many years since my serendipitous discovery of PG, I’ve been there many times with various girlfriends and even with one wife I acquired along the way whom I took there on our honeymoon. I loved being there so much that on one visit, I thought I might well want to retire there. I figured I could join the library board or something and otherwise enjoy the pleasant easygoing life there, wandering in the morning along the bike path that borders the ocean which affords spectacular views of the Pacific and the abundant sea creatures who cavort there. And occasionally feasting at my favorite restaurant, Peppers, with its sumptuous Mexican fare and always lively and joyous atmosphere. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizZ4livmeOnX7Tf8jtIjQmvbhf9EM-gkUFqrBw5LC_PL_q7YByK0lYgiO7RHpNZi7s3U7qgHnC8mxVZ3xi7R4JHkcAfjBnxUkJAy6DAcspNg1fS3PdLbz3vBcqm58v5S6JpmqHDrnYD1lryJsQXffkEhLx-9yanVJpLbfD0oijTFG6zO_n-l0OeWJSdcA/s257/peppers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="172" data-original-width="257" height="172" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizZ4livmeOnX7Tf8jtIjQmvbhf9EM-gkUFqrBw5LC_PL_q7YByK0lYgiO7RHpNZi7s3U7qgHnC8mxVZ3xi7R4JHkcAfjBnxUkJAy6DAcspNg1fS3PdLbz3vBcqm58v5S6JpmqHDrnYD1lryJsQXffkEhLx-9yanVJpLbfD0oijTFG6zO_n-l0OeWJSdcA/s1600/peppers.jpg" width="257" /></a></div>The possibility of that kind of life stuck with me so strongly that on one visit, I shocked my then current girlfriend, a woman named Harrie, by telling her that I had unilaterally decided to spend a month there with her. She was certainly nonplussed at the time, but since Harrie loved PG as much as I did, including the perfect house we had been able to rent there on 16th Street, she quickly expressed enthusiasm for the prospect.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">So the following summer when I had time off from teaching, we drove there for the month. Harrie was an artist and loved visiting the galleries and shops and eating with me at Peppers and PG’s other fine restaurants. I spent most of my time walking along the ocean, reading at Lover’s Point or inside our house, or going for ice cream (Harrie did not eat sweets), but she was a delightful and frolicsome companion. And of course, we also enjoyed our time together at night in our king-size bed.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Here are a few photos of us mostly from our month-long stay that summer. First, there’s one of a fat Ken standing outside the house we loved, which was just a block away from the ocean and Lover’s Point and few blocks from town.</div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBM--pVhBy2fBzdrjVdsQiQokaDeQy5RagQG0Brso7MdlI5FT2QE-Qdn5k4thZDl8TGqL2xpX4TDWVPnc5pn_ZdunJAt2x70ueoICOfJgkz_NZ4FHkApSM_lrDLtIaks0UCdVCVp11NsN_4GxWH-DY4Rq4egdT5U6SMboXDAno_z5t1id3YpeuEfbogzs/s900/ken-and-house.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="729" data-original-width="900" height="434" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBM--pVhBy2fBzdrjVdsQiQokaDeQy5RagQG0Brso7MdlI5FT2QE-Qdn5k4thZDl8TGqL2xpX4TDWVPnc5pn_ZdunJAt2x70ueoICOfJgkz_NZ4FHkApSM_lrDLtIaks0UCdVCVp11NsN_4GxWH-DY4Rq4egdT5U6SMboXDAno_z5t1id3YpeuEfbogzs/w538-h434/ken-and-house.jpg" width="538" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">Then one of me engrossed in a book inside the house:</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP9P4l89ooAcfmxqbbSPbXG_D9Ir5Fn1kP7AJ7YBTdIViuh4SNYhqidHrdQa5XzC7uv3pKQYxqKuPP-GFdzrctvxcLOjSx4otIAJM9qqZW8cQqspCURXbj6KhyMK-XvkIGcu5j1p5bSEu6YVRoXxiW7JLSHSKMbFUmJOdldwhwNz6erhQRBgcAufxiP3o/s897/ken-reading-book.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="504" data-original-width="897" height="309" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP9P4l89ooAcfmxqbbSPbXG_D9Ir5Fn1kP7AJ7YBTdIViuh4SNYhqidHrdQa5XzC7uv3pKQYxqKuPP-GFdzrctvxcLOjSx4otIAJM9qqZW8cQqspCURXbj6KhyMK-XvkIGcu5j1p5bSEu6YVRoXxiW7JLSHSKMbFUmJOdldwhwNz6erhQRBgcAufxiP3o/w550-h309/ken-reading-book.jpg" width="550" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">And finally one of Harrie and me on an earlier visit to PG:</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk2ScM2RsiapEve11bNDct9lGhUwxOHqRen0M1LO1M-rYWrFclvDkcBbfbmO5_g3Ymswj-Ado8RgvoGSzescAB0V_1nDMqUR3AuMGFKGFraA_lsepOeg-NeL1A7z06oiBndyWb9Mj35DBIurk_8LRNm3Bouqd-rbS4Byw-g7ksi8zyDsDYJTDzo1ocrSA/s640/ken-and-harrie.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="360" data-original-width="640" height="310" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk2ScM2RsiapEve11bNDct9lGhUwxOHqRen0M1LO1M-rYWrFclvDkcBbfbmO5_g3Ymswj-Ado8RgvoGSzescAB0V_1nDMqUR3AuMGFKGFraA_lsepOeg-NeL1A7z06oiBndyWb9Mj35DBIurk_8LRNm3Bouqd-rbS4Byw-g7ksi8zyDsDYJTDzo1ocrSA/w551-h310/ken-and-harrie.jpg" width="551" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">Now, let me fast forward a dozen or so years to the time when my thousandth day birthday (or deathday) was fast approaching. By the sheerest <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Synchronicity" rel="nofollow">synchronicity</a>, there was going to be a <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Transpersonal_psychology" rel="nofollow">transpersonal psychology</a> conference in PG at that very time. Not only that, but I was to be one of the honorees at the conference for my work on NDEs, and I was now slated to be there on the very day that I would turn a thousand. How perfect, I thought! Clearly, an act of providence. So, naturally, I told my present and surely my last girlfriend, Lauren, that we were going to PG for the occasion.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">But things didn’t quite work out the way I had imagined. I had felt fine the night before, but when I woke up, after a troubled night’s sleep, on the morning of the 19th, I found that I was so wretchedly sick, I couldn’t even get out of bed!</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Now, here’s one thing you should know about me. Since I’m old, I suffer the usual fate of the elderly: Nothing works and everything hurts. But I hardly ever actually get sick and I virtually never have to stay abed on those rare occasions when I don’t feel well. But this time, I was feeling so terrible, I could scarcely take myself to the toilet. As a result, I had to stay in bed all day and never was able to make it to the conference. Needless to say, I was bitterly disappointed, and at a loss to explain what had happened to me.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLVvRHJMX_nTywHaLr5D22-0s2e4YOHOKXEKgZ-MQHck1mY04XFlZriUa11AEj_vRI6xUKLQCAxuIgAZGc4ozG-iHDvxhEAR-7NKHk9PAQagaczAnO1TcbFJrGV0BD9Md3vik4Any47fy0q961Jmq1fLBWoxFNRYKh6XzJHPDfFNSZUFfM2qYPXXQZiuE/s257/lovers-point.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="220" data-original-width="257" height="220" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLVvRHJMX_nTywHaLr5D22-0s2e4YOHOKXEKgZ-MQHck1mY04XFlZriUa11AEj_vRI6xUKLQCAxuIgAZGc4ozG-iHDvxhEAR-7NKHk9PAQagaczAnO1TcbFJrGV0BD9Md3vik4Any47fy0q961Jmq1fLBWoxFNRYKh6XzJHPDfFNSZUFfM2qYPXXQZiuE/s1600/lovers-point.jpg" width="257" /></a></div>But the worst was yet to come. By the next day, I had somewhat recovered, though I still felt weak. But to compensate for my disaster, Lauren and I decided we should at least console ourselves by walking up to Peppers in the late afternoon for an early dinner.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I still remember what happened when I stepped off the porch.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I couldn’t walk. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Well, I could, but only with difficulty. At first, I thought and hoped it was only because I had been so violently ill the previous day. But I still figured I could make it up to Peppers. PG is a hilly town and we only had to walk two blocks to the restaurant, and just the second hill was fairly steep. Nevertheless, I had to stop several times on the way there before making it up to the restaurant.</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I was really puzzled at my sudden infirmity. It was like waking up and finding that one had contracted polio.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">In fact, the sad news is, it never got better. It’s from that very day when I turned 1000 that, although I didn’t die, my legs did. And not only did they never recover, but in the more than four years since, things have only got worse. Now my legs are weaker than ever, so I am a virtual cripple these days.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Strange, eh? I mean, that I should suffer this calamity on the very day I turned a thousand months old. Makes one wonder about the power of thought and the mischievous ways of the Lord.</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Well, I’m still a happy guy most of the time all the same, but my only consolation now that I’m working on my second thousand-year cycle is that I won’t live to complete it!</div>Kevin Williamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10028779062267448624noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2923424816839609066.post-46704635129650781222023-07-26T06:17:00.000-07:002023-07-26T06:17:50.265-07:00Ecstasy at Esalen<div>By <a href="http://kenring.org/about.html">Kenneth Ring, Ph.D.</a></div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidkmW67bOHC5ecsjmZ2Xm04PFmj0hA_XSM55g1BqH5C8PsmXYrQAWbzty_4iGvSM3Y_yzEpCb2fELNgw2TQUbZVeq5UODk2buujwuclNt537OtjMbA_ukIi9o1zVSdEADSUvmlg9Xr5aVtNtTSiP7AjrLFRnMVGyDZ_7_M24kO-5eMKdCkqEFC5Z4RTGs/s244/mdma.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="244" data-original-width="200" height="244" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidkmW67bOHC5ecsjmZ2Xm04PFmj0hA_XSM55g1BqH5C8PsmXYrQAWbzty_4iGvSM3Y_yzEpCb2fELNgw2TQUbZVeq5UODk2buujwuclNt537OtjMbA_ukIi9o1zVSdEADSUvmlg9Xr5aVtNtTSiP7AjrLFRnMVGyDZ_7_M24kO-5eMKdCkqEFC5Z4RTGs/s1600/mdma.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Recently, I read <a href="https://www.newyorker.com/books/under-review/the-rebranding-of-mdma">an article in The New Yorker</a> with the title, “The rebranding of <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/MDMA" rel="nofollow">MDMA</a>,” which most people these days know as Ecstasy. The article mentions a number of people I knew when I was traveling in those circles, beginning almost four decades ago. So, naturally, it brought back my own memories of when I first experienced MDMA.</div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">In one of my x-rated books, I wrote about my adventures when I first discovered and began to use MDMA, years before it became well known as a drug for <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rave" rel="nofollow">raves</a> and recreational uses. Indeed, it was perfectly legal then, though not for long. I was one of the lucky ones because I received my first and subsequent doses from a close friend of the chemist, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alexander_Shulgin" rel="nofollow">Sasha Shulgin</a>, who had synthesized it in 1965, so I could be assured that what I was taking was the real deal, pure and unadulterated. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I thought you might be interested to read what happened to me, and where, when MDMA came into my life, so here’s the story….</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div>******************** </div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/0688062687/?tag=iandsorg-20" rel="nofollow" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="246" data-original-width="164" height="246" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZU2fleCC_Tjs-ENq09BsOLOfGSQIWeRykUaVLB5GJ-QdQOUDtwZMiXiIO5hPRJY2qrY3tdYT14ucfQL4PASeQbouRTVfjI1zGT7Y616XRiJrRSlikZvyg3m7qlgSxaC0FRifsb_mj4LCS78iGOrVvwXhI_XkudRzT_OMCILTUScxzAKEwk4NQecztpWY/s1600/heading-toward-omega.jpg" width="164" /></a></div>In August of 1984, I was out in California on a lecture tour and to see some professional colleagues in connection with my work and my recently published book on near-death experiences, <a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/0688062687/?tag=iandsorg-20" rel="nofollow">Heading Toward Omega</a>. The last of my talks on that visit was to a medical society in the Bay Area that had been arranged by my cousin Cliff, a cardiologist. That evening, while I was still at Cliff’s house in Orinda before leaving the next day for Los Angeles, I received a phone call from another Orinda resident who was, but would hardly remain, a stranger to me. Her name was Emily.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span> </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;">It turned out that Emily had read my first NDE book, <a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/0688012531/?tag=iandsorg-20" rel="nofollow">Life at Death</a>, and wanted to talk to me about a professional matter concerned with that book. Since she had serendipitously discovered that I was staying very near her own house in Orinda, she wondered whether I could come over to meet her while I was still in town. I explained that that would not be possible since I had to pack and leave the next morning. Emily countered by asking whether it might be possible for me to take some time on the phone now so she could explain just a bit about what she had in mind.</div><div><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;">She had a very pleasant and gracious manner of speaking – there was certainly something very appealing, almost seductive, about her voice – so I readily consented. She then had a bombshell to drop concerning another invitation altogether.</div><div><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLJJZ9ked9MqHHdz9LadpoRtoY9VunZxij1TS6FfRfIX7EjyrkExpKrzJX_pcHQWTYlx0yK_jUnxfrS0OIe64ti7NybO_R3fYlLI84H2KaFwvfDBVKXOOHyzazLyn745NM-tNpMxq-9_NRK_eFbE7TYRAcBIa9hGGCNvAiYmIKfc7IOBURRYnyeeaBOHI/s282/ketamine.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="282" data-original-width="200" height="282" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLJJZ9ked9MqHHdz9LadpoRtoY9VunZxij1TS6FfRfIX7EjyrkExpKrzJX_pcHQWTYlx0yK_jUnxfrS0OIe64ti7NybO_R3fYlLI84H2KaFwvfDBVKXOOHyzazLyn745NM-tNpMxq-9_NRK_eFbE7TYRAcBIa9hGGCNvAiYmIKfc7IOBURRYnyeeaBOHI/s1600/ketamine.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>Emily told me that she had been working with an oncologist and that they were both concerned with trying to find ways for terminal patients to die with less fear and with a sense of some kind of transcendental revelation similar to that which near-death experiencers often report. In fact, what they wanted to try to do was to induce something like an NDE, and the means that they proposed to use for this purpose was the anesthetic, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ketamine" rel="nofollow">ketamine</a>. Because Emily had read my book on NDEs, she said she regarded me as an expert on the subject, so she had suggested to her oncologist colleague that she should ask me whether I would be willing to be a “professional subject” who would take ketamine under supervision in order to see the extent to which this drug would mimic an actual NDE.</div><div><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span></div><div>Whoa!</div><div><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;">In my mind I remember thinking, “Oh, God, wait just a minute.”</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I already was familiar with work that had been done with terminal cancer patients along these lines using <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/LSD" rel="nofollow">LSD</a> that <a href="https://stangrof.com/">Stan Grof</a> and <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Joan_Halifax" rel="nofollow">Joan Halifax</a> had described in their book, <a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0006CP728/?tag=iandsorg-20" rel="nofollow">The Human Encounter with Death</a>. They had indeed shown that LSD employed in this way was sometimes capable of inducing an experience that had many of the same components and aftereffects of an actual NDE, including in most cases a reduction in the fear of death and an increased expectation of some form of life after death.</div><div><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0006CP728/?tag=iandsorg-20" rel="nofollow" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="269" data-original-width="188" height="269" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1lAOmaUZQafu-TfkTErRM8cRN5CuNrhnllnBqDr2JdbjAFQXx_u3BMhHSVXvAMrGctLarjDXddefUDWno8fGRcmLD3DfjDzGKrUt9XXfZxwYb62IZx2NEvIe5RKNhcCAGRM0u93fcg5_JW6p9sRnW33Mg0rsE4muy8uK9vC0aZUxB2YQzyALDne8aGs0/s1600/the-human-encounter-with-death.jpg" width="188" /></a>But ketamine was another story. I knew something about this drug from having read about <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_C._Lilly" rel="nofollow">John Lilly</a>’s experiments with it and from some other sources, and what I had heard had certainly made me wary of it. I definitely had never had any interest to try it – if anything I was averse to doing so, particularly because I knew that it was administered by injection. Thoughts of <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Heroin" rel="nofollow">heroin</a> addiction flickered through my mind.</div><div><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Besides, my days of using psychoactive drugs were by then long passed. I had experimented with LSD, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Peyote" rel="nofollow">peyote</a> and <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Psilocybin" rel="nofollow">psilocybin</a> for a while during the 1970s, but I had taken them only about once a year, and had stopped for good in 1977. I had no desire to try anything new along those lines, and certainly not with anything like ketamine, which for me was a drug associated with real risk and danger.</div><div><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;">“Ah, I don’t think this would be for me, Emily."</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">She had an alternative proposal ready.</div><div><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;">“Well, you don’t have to make up your mind now, Ken. Just think about it, and let me send you a little literature on the subject, OK?”</div><div><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir2R9Xx73BZQXNVgB755e4i_wOnitA5NTsDHMvV24f0v9GkGfTYQn9hcI_h2uL0Qtjnl8m-vJGq86KxFmTc65dwUEDWEoEccpbqxPQPjaf4Jpj1mVVd6Qmlf7f53921CEmbA38AL7MGm0GY8MwjqNtP1CQvhLdtUZGfNTiRf7nilhDvrjSXPjAlrkTIx0/s209/esalen.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="209" data-original-width="197" height="209" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir2R9Xx73BZQXNVgB755e4i_wOnitA5NTsDHMvV24f0v9GkGfTYQn9hcI_h2uL0Qtjnl8m-vJGq86KxFmTc65dwUEDWEoEccpbqxPQPjaf4Jpj1mVVd6Qmlf7f53921CEmbA38AL7MGm0GY8MwjqNtP1CQvhLdtUZGfNTiRf7nilhDvrjSXPjAlrkTIx0/s1600/esalen.jpg" width="197" /></a></div>She then happened to mention that the following spring she would be coordinating a major invited conference on psychedelics at <a href="https://www.esalen.org/">Esalen Institute</a> in <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Big_Sur" rel="nofollow">Big Sur</a> and wondered whether I would have an interest to be there, particularly because John Lilly himself would be attending it. She mentioned that it would be held during the very first half of June, 1985.</div><div><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span></div><div>Now here’s the kicker.</div><div><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Emily did not know when she tendered this invitation to me that I would actually be at Esalen at exactly that time. I had first been to Esalen in 1983 when its co-founder, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Michael_Murphy_(author)" rel="nofollow">Michael Murphy</a>, had asked me to come out to do a program on NDEs. It was successful and Michael and I hit it off. He had recently been in touch with me again to invite me this time for a much more extensive engagement at the institute. He wanted me to come for three weeks in the late Spring of 1985 as a scholar-in-residence so that I could conduct a workshop on NDEs and so I could attend and present my work in other workshops and seminars that would follow mine, including a month-long workshop that would be conducted by none other than Esalen’s then permanent scholar-in-residence, Stan Grof. I had loved being an Esalen on my first visit, so naturally I jumped at the chance.</div><div><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;">So I already knew what Emily didn’t – that I would be there at the same time her conference would be held.</div><div><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifbpoXUgUBG3Y4rCiGE5hh303MClS9u5v5_wNxj4c-yhsXe67T_-MiECA6nBjUHQfE2DYz7GD0QAqcCs68f46NOhOV1ccsSo_AWuuakVuNT987jkKWDP_35TOvE4kNMIKpJ-782b191QmMHJ1g0E5Ud0Uw5PSpRcwnfg0bvBJGwpSj5l_Y-muolDH4LYg/s249/esalen-big-sur.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="249" data-original-width="218" height="249" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifbpoXUgUBG3Y4rCiGE5hh303MClS9u5v5_wNxj4c-yhsXe67T_-MiECA6nBjUHQfE2DYz7GD0QAqcCs68f46NOhOV1ccsSo_AWuuakVuNT987jkKWDP_35TOvE4kNMIKpJ-782b191QmMHJ1g0E5Ud0Uw5PSpRcwnfg0bvBJGwpSj5l_Y-muolDH4LYg/s1600/esalen-big-sur.jpg" width="218" /></a></div>It is a cliché among the people in my world to say “there are no coincidences.” Being contrary, I usually reply “except for accidents and chance events.” But in this case, however, I couldn’t help feeling a little unnerved when she invited me to attend. It already seemed like destiny had decided to take a hand in my affairs.</div><div><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Naturally, I told her.</div><div><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Naturally, she was delighted.</div><div><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;">“I am so looking forward to meeting you,“ she gushed. But her enthusiasm seemed perfectly sincere. And besides, from talking to her, I really was starting to like this woman.</div><div><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;">We agreed to table the whole business about ketamine for now. In due course, however, she would send me some materials pertaining to the conference. And that, for the moment, was that.</div><div><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;">About a month later, after I had returned to Connecticut and was again teaching at <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/University_of_Connecticut" rel="nofollow">UCONN</a>, I got a call from Emily. She had just finished reading my latest book, <a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/0688062687/?tag=iandsorg-20" rel="nofollow">Heading Toward Omega</a>, and could not say enough good things about it. Again, her enthusiasm seemed sincere; I didn’t have the impression it represented only blandishment or an attempt at ingratiation.</div><div><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Like a number of other women who read that book and subsequently became close friends with me or came to play a significant role in my life, Emily felt that she had really come to have a sense of the kind of person I was from reading that book. And that had made her even more interested to get to know me. “I hope we can really become friends, Ken.” Naturally, I concurred with her sentiment.</div><div><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;">A few weeks later she called me again, but this time to tell me that, although she had not been seriously hurt, she had been involved in an automobile accident. She was pretty sure she would be fully recovered by the time of the conference, but she wanted me to know. In the course of our conversation, she also told me of some of her other health concerns – she had been ill as well - and since the same thing I had recently been true for me, we commiserated with each other.</div><div><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;">By that time – it was now perhaps February or so in 1985 (I don’t remember exactly when this telephone conversation took place) – I had already broken up with my most recent girlfriend and though I was getting involved with the woman who would eventually become my fourth wife, I was still uncommitted. I felt open to Emily and I was already beginning to feel concerned about her physical problems, something that would persist for all the years I would come to know her. I had the distinct feeling we were getting closer to each other and that in a way, she had come to care for me, too.</div><div><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;">In April, by which time Emily had recovered substantially, she sent me a large packet of materials, much of it mimeographed or otherwise unpublished, concerning the particular drugs that would be the focus of her June conference. It was clear that the main drug of interest at this gathering would be something that was abbreviated MDMA, but which the world later would come to call “Ecstasy.”</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div><b><i><span style="font-size: medium;">Esalen</span></i></b></div><div><b><i><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></i></b></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMaY6c5Fx4MliNMdpknziwKNGMlLNVkQ9sntD8PdKLgJ_B_11f6gK7sX54ck1sGFPwmZU5WqHXHgLl9vE2falWjMoQKJM8xlj-kREjMXWr35M-7AtRKR4PBM4Mje0CNlJJF6uzPI52tjxZA7IoUpQOYJC9q8P2rOH5dZ4bATV1wluljT2xjJOv2JtADIM/s237/esalen-coast.jpg" style="clear: left; display: inline; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="226" data-original-width="237" height="226" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMaY6c5Fx4MliNMdpknziwKNGMlLNVkQ9sntD8PdKLgJ_B_11f6gK7sX54ck1sGFPwmZU5WqHXHgLl9vE2falWjMoQKJM8xlj-kREjMXWr35M-7AtRKR4PBM4Mje0CNlJJF6uzPI52tjxZA7IoUpQOYJC9q8P2rOH5dZ4bATV1wluljT2xjJOv2JtADIM/s1600/esalen-coast.jpg" width="237" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">After the spring semester was over, I flew out to California, first to give a lecture in Los Angeles, and then to head up the coast for my engagement at Esalen and – to resort to the most banal of clichés – “my rendezvous with destiny.” However, as you will soon see, those weeks at Esalen were to change my life in a dramatic way and send me reeling onto a different course altogether. </div><div><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Once I had got settled there – they had found an apartment for me, not on the Esalen grounds, but about two miles north along Route 1, the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/California_State_Route_1" rel="nofollow">Pacific Coast Highway</a> – toward the end of May, I was ready for my first workshop. This was the one I was to conduct on my work on NDEs and was to be held that weekend. Since I didn’t have a car, I would have to walk down to the Institute itself, but that was no problem. The weather was glorious, the views spectacular, and I was feeling great.</div><div><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;">There were only six people signed up for my workshop, however, only one of whom I had previously known. But the small size conduced to a certain intimacy, of course, and it came off pretty well, I think.</div><div><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Aside from the one woman I knew – an NDEr herself who had gone on to found a healing center in northern California – there were two women who came to interest me. One, named Dorothy, came from the Boston area and was quite a delightful and charming person with an antic and playful sense of humor. She was a little on the dumpy side and in her forties, but we connected – and after the workshop, we more than connected. She stayed an extra couple of days, and during that time, we encoupled ourselves in my apartment and otherwise enjoyed the pleasures of Big Sur under the stars as well as under my sheets. Before she left, she gave me a t-shirt with the phrase, “Smiling Broadly,” and we stayed in touch for some years after we both returned to the East Coast.</div><div><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The other woman, a beautiful and extremely articulate blonde, was named Melanie, and she was indeed the most interesting person at the workshop to me, but not just because of her looks and intelligence. She also had a lively interest in the subject matter of my workshop, had been a psychoanalytically-trained therapist when she lived in New York, and was now living near Esalen and hoping to create a new kind of professional life for herself in California. She, too, was very friendly toward me and offered to give me a ride if I ever need it since it turned out that we were living only about a third of a mile apart up on Route 1.</div><div><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Meanwhile, I had begun to attend Stan Grof’s month-long workshop where I was able to present some of my work on NDEs. At Esalen, there is a cafeteria with a large outdoor deck so it was natural for me to congregate there and have my lunches with some of the people who were enrolled in Stan’s workshop who came from all over Europe as well as the United States.</div><div><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;">At one of these lunches, one of these attendees said something to the effect that, although Grof’s workshop was first-rate, by far the most important thing that had happened to him during his stay was his experience with MDMA, the very drug I had already read quite a bit about on the plane to California in preparation for Emily’s conference. It was and presumably still is illegal to take drugs on the Esalen campus, but this person was not on the grounds at the time he had ingested MDMA.</div><div><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Here is where this story takes on some “Twilight Zone” qualities, so be prepared.</div><div><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The next day, sitting with another group of people from the workshop, someone else said essentially the same thing. It seemed as if more than one person was finding MDMA to be some kind of mind-blowing experience the way they raved about it.</div><div><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The <i>very </i>next day I found myself having lunch with a German woman, also from Grof’s group. We were chatting as usual, and then – I swear I am not making this up – like a broken record, she started enthusing about what she had experienced recently on MDMA!</div><div><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I remember thinking something to this effect: I feel like I am being set up. This must be some kind of a plot. It seems almost pre-destined that I will have to try this drug myself.</div><div><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I had certainly become intrigued, first by what I had read in the materials that Emily had sent to me, and now, even more, by these three unsolicited testimonials.</div><div><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;">After lunch that day, I headed back to the “Big House,” as it was called, where the afternoon session of Grof’s workshop was to take place. Outside the house, on the porch, there was a bench where people could sit for a moment in order to take off their shoes. As I was removing mine, Melanie happened to saunter by. (I had bumped into her one or twice previously at Esalen; she seemed to be a habituée of the place.)</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">“Oh, Ken, I’m so glad to run into you.” (Pause.)</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div>“Say, Ken, I was wondering – would you like to MDMA with me?”</div><div><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span></div><div>Boing!</div><div><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;">In an instant, I seemed to have several rapid-fire thoughts, but since I have more than an instant now to recall them, they seemed to go like this:</div><div><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Can this possibly be happening?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I feel completely flummoxed!</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-fCJYL36bLadzw2wNRhFytWY84MHiXjR1oWir1n2YnaqWEZQe1iy84c7Cc2Od2cLaHtyaFladjKdu_oGp3IeaCB4_bIG6pF_EnXwbfct0qTrLcplSRZlcfepdSHPwHZpiymGBvF8o2bxAv6WGjK1PWn09yTzg4KvE1ZAvq4uHXjMUMcMgFd_j5TVUdyE/s251/esalen-bath.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="251" data-original-width="239" height="251" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-fCJYL36bLadzw2wNRhFytWY84MHiXjR1oWir1n2YnaqWEZQe1iy84c7Cc2Od2cLaHtyaFladjKdu_oGp3IeaCB4_bIG6pF_EnXwbfct0qTrLcplSRZlcfepdSHPwHZpiymGBvF8o2bxAv6WGjK1PWn09yTzg4KvE1ZAvq4uHXjMUMcMgFd_j5TVUdyE/s1600/esalen-bath.jpg" width="239" /></a></div>Clearly, I am poised on the edge of a cliff. I can either remain the somewhat reserved professor and NDE researcher from the East Coast or I can throw off my professor’s robes and take a leap into the unknown. (I had already learned to do without my clothes at Esalen whenever I went to its famous baths and people in those days often paraded naked around the grounds.) </div><div style="text-align: justify;">This was clearly the moment of choice – it’s now or never….</div><div><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;">“Er, ah, well….”</div><div><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Melanie looked at me. She was smiling. She <i>was </i>very pretty.</div><div><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Oh, what the hell!</div><div><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;">“Well, it’s really strange you should ask me to do this with you, Melanie.” And I explained to her why.</div><div><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;">We made a date for a couple of days hence. I could just walk up to her place – she told me she lived in a little cottage in a closed compound just up the road from me. All I would have to do is to let myself in by unlatching the wooden gate. I should call her before coming over.</div><div><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;">It turned out it wasn’t so simple.</div><div><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Fate had this time intervened to complicate things. In the meantime, perhaps because of speaking so much at Esalen, or perhaps because of psychogenic factors, or both, I had developed a really bad case of laryngitis. I could barely talk. How could I even <i>call </i>Melanie?</div><div><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;">On the morning of the day I was to go to her cottage, I did try to call her. I could barely make myself understood. I told her that under the circumstances, I felt we would have to postpone our date. The problem was that I had some other people to call in order to cancel other engagements in the area (I was to meet some other people for dinner, etc., in the next few days), but Melanie said I should come over, anyway, and she’d be happy to make those calls for me. Even if we couldn’t do MDMA together that day, as long as my <i>ears</i> were working, she would like to tell me about a research project she had in mind to conduct with hospitalized patients.</div><div><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;">She <i>was </i>very pretty.</div><div><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqZHr_GFwpoomCCrZKdYDbYRSyg5LnO5OEN0J6lt7rYedOInBW3bP2qIQZSnxyMounK5nUSATlxExe7qK8wjdwrIlCEyXWggTB8qe-nhAFGY3AprQKJlEZhQnn22tbyOg5jJ559JljxYbPIWh9nvvaDo_301v9TPDXMsFDNbDlhCNWt51px03SA-F_Rxo/s236/esalen-pacific-ocean.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="221" data-original-width="236" height="221" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqZHr_GFwpoomCCrZKdYDbYRSyg5LnO5OEN0J6lt7rYedOInBW3bP2qIQZSnxyMounK5nUSATlxExe7qK8wjdwrIlCEyXWggTB8qe-nhAFGY3AprQKJlEZhQnn22tbyOg5jJ559JljxYbPIWh9nvvaDo_301v9TPDXMsFDNbDlhCNWt51px03SA-F_Rxo/s1600/esalen-pacific-ocean.jpg" width="236" /></a></div>I remember very clearly what I found once I had let myself into her compound. Melanie’s cottage was at the end of a little dirt trail. She was waiting for me, sitting outside on a little grassy promontory, wearing a sleeveless V-necked white dress. Behind her was the glorious Pacific Ocean, shimmering under the brilliant sun on another postcard picture-perfect cloudless day in California.</div><div><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I hadn’t just entered Melanie’s compound; I was in Paradise.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">After welcoming me, Melanie was kind enough to make a few phone calls on my behalf, explaining my vocal indisposition. Then we sat outside opposite each other while she told me about her proposed project, which had to do with using <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hypnosis" rel="nofollow">hypnosis</a> to help accelerate the healing of surgical patients. By then, I could manage to eke out some occasional brief verbal responses, but mostly I just listened.</div><div><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;">After a time, the question came up again about whether I should consider taking MDMA with her that day. I wanted to – but I was afraid it might result in causing more problems with my larynx about which I was already preoccupied. Could I really focus on the experience with MDMA under these conditions? Although the day certainly seemed favorable, even propitious, I was very unsure about the wisdom of preceding.</div><div><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Melanie essentially left it up to me, but was reassuring and tried to give me a sense of what would be involved and where we would “do it.” It turned out that it would not be where we were now or inside her cottage since we might not have privacy there. Instead, she indicated that there was a cabaña at the base of the cliff on which we were now sitting (so I could be going over a cliff – literally – after all; it wasn’t just a metaphor!). Melanie advised that we could take a steep trail down there and then sit on some chairs on the deck of the cabaña, facing the ocean, where we would have complete privacy and an unimpeded view of the ocean.</div><div><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Melanie was not only very pretty, she was beguiling, too.</div><div><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;">For the second time within a few days, I said farewell to caution.</div><div><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I followed her down the trail, watching my footing carefully. All I needed now was to sprain my ankle or have some other mishap. How would I ever be rescued then? I had a worried mind, but at the same time I was still eager to have this experience with Melanie as my guide.</div><div><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmAdFicdQNfQnXc-yjd1FumbQlVf9lTeDV2-ck9veHAx8dZc4cA3WsdVCfa32tc0d29kWfopUqTnDF6fxJUujwtL6XiEyK6fgSGnPjCvGW9kT9KJrM6drvd0XU2GLExVb-mXlKyx_0NcBAZLcUjeKCh2p8ZwbZ9juUhmwEzPEwamF-mT5GmIb-fIie94c/s239/mdma-tablets.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="232" data-original-width="239" height="232" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmAdFicdQNfQnXc-yjd1FumbQlVf9lTeDV2-ck9veHAx8dZc4cA3WsdVCfa32tc0d29kWfopUqTnDF6fxJUujwtL6XiEyK6fgSGnPjCvGW9kT9KJrM6drvd0XU2GLExVb-mXlKyx_0NcBAZLcUjeKCh2p8ZwbZ9juUhmwEzPEwamF-mT5GmIb-fIie94c/s1600/mdma-tablets.jpg" width="239" /></a></div>After we had arrived safely, Melanie explained the procedure. It was apparently her custom, and maybe that of others, that before taking MDMA (it was in the form a capsule to be swallowed with a glass of water) one go through a kind of ritual – a ceremonial statement of intent in which one expressed what one hoped to learn through the experience and essentially asking for the blessings of whatever the gods might be invoked to watch over us. Melanie spoke hers aloud – she was unusually eloquent, I thought. I hadn’t had a chance to give my statement any forethought, but I remember asking for clarity for my relationships since at that time in my life that problem had been very fraught.</div><div><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;">With those preliminaries now dispatched, we each swallowed our capsule of MDMA and then sat mostly quietly, although with some occasional brief desultory conversation, until the drug began to take effect. Even after all I had read and recently heard about MDMA, I really had no idea about what I might experience.</div><div><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;">After a little more than a half hour had passed, I began to feel it – a kind a tingle, an inner buzzing in my head, combined with a certain sensation of coldness. Melanie herself became restless and started pacing around the cabaña. I got up from my chair and went to lie down on the warm platform of the cabaña, gazing raptly at the ocean in front of me.</div><div><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0BSF9XW49/?tag=iandsorg-20" rel="nofollow" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="197" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy9XcpoVsY0lJPHSuv7DCKyiGuO0i1sXe4QcM0soTH9_wxgtyP4PXPj2bKwg_Oa0WWAiEL1Nq5zFZTf90GloTjAOinQ2iRurp2FmcZjJfig0OcngbqVK6Z2Pdme9-C8FhEwcqXD3dIabMK7TqaItrAtyC6NuU5b9TsQ3Q66Gygf8Ol89kJkyRhVbGez-4/s1600/i-feel-love-book.jpg" width="197" /></a></div>It had been eight years since I had used any drugs, and maybe for that reason, this one, once it really took effect, hit me hard and soon had catapulted me into a mystical experience of such beauty, purity and power that I was completely overwhelmed by it. I remembered and re-experienced what LSD and the other psychoactive drugs I had taken had taught me – the complete unity of all things, and I was not separate from any of it. The ocean, the blue sky, the trees I could see in the distance, the fly that had alighted on my arm, the planks of the platform I was resting on, the great earth itself – all was one. And all was beauty beyond words. Everything was perfect, and I was an indissoluble part of that perfection. Wave after wave of bliss poured through me. This truly <i>was </i>paradise, or maybe this was just the real world as it <i>really </i>is but which we never can perceive until we <i>are </i>it.</div><div><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I had, however, lost almost all awareness of Melanie, who must have been behind me, sitting again, after her brief perambulation.</div><div><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I don’t know how long I remained in this state, but probably it lasted at its most intense for a couple of hours as I continued to stare at the ocean. (I have a permanent but now insignificant bit of skin damage near the bridge of my nose as a result of facing the sun for so long.) </div><div><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;">After I came back to myself, Melanie and I must have talked some – I’m sure we did – but I have no memory of that conversation. I was just blitzed – and full of love. And gratitude for Melanie. I don’t think I thought about my voice, or lack of it, at all. It was probably neither better nor worse for the experience; it just didn’t matter anymore.</div><div><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;">We stayed there about six hours, as I recall. I know it was late afternoon by the time we had finally hiked back up the cliff. But we didn’t go back to Melanie’s cottage.</div><div><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;">On my way into the compound that morning, I had noticed a large and handsome house, surrounded by a stunning stone wall, down below the hill before reaching the trail that led to Melanie’s cottage. It was a Saturday that day, and Melanie happened to mention as we approached that house on the way up that the woman who lived there and her sister who was visiting were also doing MDMA. (I remember thinking to the effect: Is this the usual weekend recreational activity for people in Big Sur? Of course, my actual thought was not that coherent at the time, but that was the nub of it.)</div><div><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Melanie suggested we look in on them. </div><div><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;">“But what about my voice?” I mentioned to croak, suddenly remembering it.</div><div><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;">“Don’t worry about it,” said Melanie, as I followed her into the spacious and elegantly appointed house in which I was soon to spend another very memorable time.</div><div><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The two sisters were also just coming down from their trip. They both appeared to be in their forties. The sister who was living there was the wife of a doctor from whom she was separated. The sister who had come to visit was a gardener who lived in the San Francisco Bay Area. Both were very mellow and friendly.</div><div><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Melanie explained about my voice. </div><div><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;">These are some of the memories I have of our time when the four of us were together.</div><div><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Melanie and the women talked. I massaged the hair of one of the sisters.</div><div><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Melanie went out to dance on the patio overlooking the ocean. She was exceptionally graceful. She looked like an angel.</div><div><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;">At one point, we were all sitting at a wooden table on benches – it was rather like a picnic table. The sisters were drinking some wine. (I don’t remember whether I was or not.) A few edibles had been put out.</div><div><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Melanie came in after having danced.</div><div><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;">At one point, she placed her forefinger into the top of the wine bottle.</div><div><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I knew immediately that she either was or had been suicidal.</div><div><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I whispered, “I’d give anything if you’d take your finger out of that bottle.” </div><div><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;">She looked at me strangely, but I had meant it. I even offered to pay her ten dollars to remove it (and days later, I actually did).</div><div><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Of course she removed it; I was relieved.</div><div><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;">When you are under the influence of MDMA – and all of us still were (we constituted a field of sorts) – you can tune into people and know things intuitively about them. To some degree, you <i>are </i>them. I was finally tuning into Melanie, and I know I had begun to care for her as of then, if not before.</div><div><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;">We stayed there a very long time and didn’t leave until close to 3 in the morning. I was still in a daze. </div><div><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;">As we were headed back to Melanie’s cottage, I didn’t think I could manage to walk home at that hour in the morning along a dark highway, and I certainly couldn’t ask Melanie to drive me.</div><div><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Her housemate happened to be away that day, and I knew there was a loft where her roommate normally slept. I asked if I could possibly sleep there until the morning.</div><div><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;">“Of course, honey,” Melanie said. She was from the South, you know. “Of course, honey, of course.”</div><div><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;">By 3 a.m. or so, I lay down but I couldn’t sleep for long. By 6, with Melanie still sleeping, I tiptoed out of her cottage and made my way home in the early morning light, the sun still hidden by the towering <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Santa_Lucia_Range" rel="nofollow">Santa Lucia Mountains</a> to the east, which rose up from the highway in steep cliffs.</div><div><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I thought: “So this is life in Big Sur. This truly<i> is</i> Paradise.”</div><div><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;">For most of the rest of my time there, I rarely slept more than three hours a night.</div><div><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I had taken and experienced Ecstasy at Esalen, and my life would never again be the same.</div>Kevin Williamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10028779062267448624noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2923424816839609066.post-16333844136327404912023-07-13T08:16:00.000-07:002023-07-13T08:16:26.600-07:00The Discovery of Phosphorus – and How to Outwit the King of Morocco<div>By <a href="http://kenring.org/about.html">Kenneth Ring, Ph.D.</a></div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">[Advisory: Although this blog treats a serious subject, I’m afraid it also contains some feeble attempts at bathroom humor. Don’t say you haven’t been warned.]</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPKUBzuKrh--KsnBPa3lOuclAOZgVNlZnf0d0JkkWnbTO3HjgU6SmwTdu5GUVzycdqRFnlzSfPbQX5wMrmLQEFPovyWJR9x_m9acmEmbyY-pKdTdpL9lWzhLBEGPtqRzXDgXMuyzG_FFHS9iOhezqAkcOodn08d5HZEgy1xVibMrbd8Bz4H8nVhT5_Jr8/s240/hennig-brand.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="240" data-original-width="198" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPKUBzuKrh--KsnBPa3lOuclAOZgVNlZnf0d0JkkWnbTO3HjgU6SmwTdu5GUVzycdqRFnlzSfPbQX5wMrmLQEFPovyWJR9x_m9acmEmbyY-pKdTdpL9lWzhLBEGPtqRzXDgXMuyzG_FFHS9iOhezqAkcOodn08d5HZEgy1xVibMrbd8Bz4H8nVhT5_Jr8/s1600/hennig-brand.jpg" width="198" /></a></div>In 1669 in Hamburg, Germany, a thirty-nine-year-old alchemist named <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hennig_Brand" rel="nofollow">Hennig Brandt</a> was messing around in his laboratory chasing the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alchemy" rel="nofollow">alchemist</a> dream of turning base metals into gold. But his approach was very different from that of his fellow alchemists. That night he had cooked up a concoction of ingredients including his own excrement, and after heating it up, he found that he had produced some waxy white nuggets that gave off a whiff of garlic while emanating a mysterious radiant glow.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">According to a report of this historic incident, which was later immortalized by a painter, Brandt dropped to his knees, looked toward the heavens, and then warned his two assistants to stand back “as a terrifying shaft of blue vapor shot up from a glass globe.”</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Brandt named his discovery after the Greek word for the planet Venus – <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Phosphorus" rel="nofollow">phosphorus</a>, which means something like “bringer of light.” But, significantly, the Latin word for Venus translates as “<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lucifer" rel="nofollow">Lucifer</a>.” As <a href="https://www.amazon.com/stores/Dan-Egan/author/B01HC2XSXO/?tag=iandsorg-20" rel="nofollow">Dan Egan</a> whose account of this discovery is described in his book, <a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0BKH9PD8W/?tag=iandsorg-20" rel="nofollow">The Devil’s Element</a>, comments with a literary flourish:</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>That actually would have been a better name for the alchemist’s discovery because he soon learned that his curious nuggets had a propensity to spontaneously combust and burn as ferociously as anything that dropped from the nib of <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dante_Alighieri" rel="nofollow">Dante</a>’s quill. </i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>It wasn’t long, in fact, before people started referring to phosphorus as the Devil’s Element, and not only because it happens to be the thirteenth element discovered. The name stuck because of its dastardly toxicity and explosiveness.</i> </div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0BKH9PD8W/?tag=iandsorg-20" rel="nofollow" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="299" data-original-width="199" height="299" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1kGyOEk7l2hOzbCtg9TUYb996d64VDCAAxLv2Mm3eDk8_ibF7llygzS56nOws9K2SyhZUWBevPLHT5BghAaS0mAD9g-1zjxFYAMO4alk1_Ni33hg46Z-WNai6NYMBGDgqbTKv1tB-PuJOl3EA8mujWPx27mmTFfSFj62MG1VT3Wj78sUzdYhtC22WoWI/s1600/the-devils-element.jpg" width="199" /></a></div>Egan goes on to remark that even to this day its explosive properties are reportedly being made use of in bombs <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Russo-Ukrainian_War" rel="nofollow">Russians are using in Ukraine</a>. And, historically, we know for certain of even more devastating uses of phosphorus in wartime. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">By one of the greatest of wartime ironies, several centuries after the discovery of phosphorus in <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hamburg" rel="nofollow">Hamburg</a>, that city suffered one of the worst <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bombing_of_Hamburg_in_World_War_II" rel="nofollow">fire bombings of World War II</a> when the allied forces unleashed wave after wave day after day of these incendiary phosphorus-filled bombs on the citizens Hamburg. Egan spends several pages recounting these unspeakable horrors.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I will spare you the horrifying details of his account except to cite two brief passages. In the first, one of most vile of war criminals, known to history as England’s “<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Arthur_Harris" rel="nofollow">Bomber Harris</a>,” reportedly said, quoting the Bible in referring to the Germans: “They sowed the wind and now they are going to reap the whirlwind.” (You can read more about Bomber Harris in <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nicholson_Baker" rel="nofollow">Nicholson Baker</a>’s book about World War II called <a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0013TPVVU/?tag=iandsorg-20">Human Smoke</a>.)</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0013TPVVU/?tag=iandsorg-20" rel="nofollow" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="302" data-original-width="200" height="302" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIOt4_l4SOYhzd4DuHWNZ9KqyDCUSWa70Kp1M7-VG_FxI7pI-KkWZcqlnFPbMvr2xCemr2BTTuVKaGoywV8FKXm19TXg3BS9BBSEOrKG2tsRk3eSJfACuJCVWhrT4kdGRgy4JkxHQpWS1AM48obEHzLw0qX_CC_6daJhKVqkQwGSjYOBIiVTt2doUm710/s1600/human-smoke.jpg" width="200" /></a>And what did the whirlwind feel like to those who were caught in its fiery maelstrom?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>The thousands of fires lit on that unusually hot dry night merged in a matter of minutes into something war planners had never seen – a two-mile-wide whirlwind firestorm that burned as hot as a furnace. The winds that were sucked into the cyclone to feed the oxygen-starved flames were powerful enough to topple trees three feet in diameter, ferocious enough to tear children from their mothers’ arms.</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Enough.</div><div><span style="text-align: justify;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="text-align: justify;">But quite apart from the uses of phosphorus in wartime explosives, these phosphorus nuggets, if you should be unfortunate enough to come across one in your beachcombing forays, are also extremely dangerous. Egan relates one such story of an elderly man who found a quarter-sized orange stone as he was walking along a beach near the Baltic Sea. He innocently dropped it into his pocket but ten minutes later, he heard a “pop.” The nugget had burst into flames and then began to sear into the man’s thigh like a molten knife. Fortunately, he was rescued and his life was saved, but he had to spend two months in a hospital and still suffers chronic debilitating pain and requires pills to sleep.</span></div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">You definitely don’t want to fool with this stuff. All it takes is a little heat, such as was provided by this man’s pocket against his warm skin, to cause it to erupt into flame. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">So now you know a little about how phosphorous was discovered and some of its incendiary properties. But our interest in it in these blogs is of course mainly about how it has been used to fertilize crops and then, when it leaks into our waters, the damage it can wreak by causing noxious <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cyanobacteria" rel="nofollow">blue-green algae blooms</a> to form. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">But where <a href="https://www.kenringblog.com/2023/07/why-worry-about-king-of-morocco.html">my first blog</a> left off was with another alarming problem with phosphorus altogether. Since we now know how crucial phosphorus is for life on this planet, the prospect of its supplies running out, possibly within our lifetime, is obviously a threat even more dire than that of climate change. So now we have to confront that menace and find out if there is any way to avoid having to depend on the good will and generosity of the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/King_of_Morocco" rel="nofollow">King of Morocco</a> who is the sovereign over most of the world’s now known phosphorus reserves. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The rest of this blog will consider recent efforts to find other means to provide abundant sources of phosphorus, but before we begin to consider this topic, I have a question for you.</div><div><br /></div><div>What happens when you pee?</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Well, I know what happens when I do once I get up at night to urinate. Because of my <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Benign_prostatic_hyperplasia" rel="nofollow">prostatic hypertrophy</a>, I have a very weak stream, so half of it often dribbles down my thigh instead of landing in my toilet bowl. But I am not talking about that. I’m asking you what your pee actually consists of, chemically speaking. Any guesses?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I’ll save you the suspense. What you are depositing into your toilet bowl, if you are luckier than I am, is <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nitrogen" rel="nofollow">nitrogen</a>, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Potassium" rel="nofollow">potassium</a> and phosphorus. Does this give you any ideas?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhP5DaUUeQ9l8c3uLthVt4nhMP4NCZJlJkAU0b-f-pfWQ6cgonm5Wn7SnkyVMuxEW0Q4R4nNs2BmrBFrpT0M9-tigSEjSKetB_oaaeVeYGw2AEKa4WPkjFi7BzSPwONAm71iGIXipEMfDgQe2J2sjnRl4Go6qzlcVph1Xzg6dC0JiHKotaTEMWw788zr6g/s256/manure_spreading.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="253" data-original-width="256" height="253" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhP5DaUUeQ9l8c3uLthVt4nhMP4NCZJlJkAU0b-f-pfWQ6cgonm5Wn7SnkyVMuxEW0Q4R4nNs2BmrBFrpT0M9-tigSEjSKetB_oaaeVeYGw2AEKa4WPkjFi7BzSPwONAm71iGIXipEMfDgQe2J2sjnRl4Go6qzlcVph1Xzg6dC0JiHKotaTEMWw788zr6g/s1600/manure_spreading.jpg" width="256" /></a></div>If you know your chemistry better than I do (which should be a snap since I’ve forgotten most of my high school chem taught to me by an elderly woman named “Miss Newton” -- I am not making this up), you will remember the abbreviations of these elements: N (for nitrogen), P (for phosphorus), and K (for potassium). And what are the ingredients in the bag of <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fertilizer" rel="nofollow">fertilizer</a> that you can pick up at your local Ace Hardware store: <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Labeling_of_fertilizer" rel="nofollow">N-P-K</a>.</div><div><br /></div><div>Bingo! (You can also imagine a light bulb.)</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Not long ago, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Elizabeth_Kolbert" rel="nofollow">Elizabeth Kolbert</a> loaded up a jug of her and her husband’s pee and drove it up to Brattleboro Vermont in order to check out an enterprise called the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rich_Earth_Institute" rel="nofollow">Rich Earth Institute</a>. The institute’s stated goal is “a world with clean water and fertile soil achieved by reclaiming the nutrients from our bodies.” Its principal aim is to promote a practice known as urine diversion, or, to use the lingo of the trade, <a href="https://www.businessinsider.com/what-is-peecycling-human-urine-nutrients-crops-need-to-thrive-2022-6">peecycling</a>.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The institute’s director of its Urine Nutrient Reclamation Program, Arthur Davis, showed Kolbert the four kinds of <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Urine-diverting_dry_toilet" rel="nofollow">urine-diverting toilets</a> it has for that purpose, which allows it to collect and then treat urine so that it can be used to fertilize the crops of local farmers. Otherwise, this valuable resource would otherwise just be flushed down the drain, or, that is, a regular toilet.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">As Kolbert explains:</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0R9E7ZBBwd7Lvp6MinmcumWWJDHXNTV1X_SJRbH9Nwm89LYeWcuqrJTe-6kza5rHM64cw6QdV-1WFRfh40bj-bTTyZDP_XmKyegxban7bF9xN2_4EPBDRxpNUm-Kd-0O5LZ4jcjWomBxsBXjRbRrdqDziZNj2Uq4X-MuqZ5W6aeA5OxwFK4ukTREOzwM/s258/urine-diverting_dry_toilet.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="220" data-original-width="258" height="220" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0R9E7ZBBwd7Lvp6MinmcumWWJDHXNTV1X_SJRbH9Nwm89LYeWcuqrJTe-6kza5rHM64cw6QdV-1WFRfh40bj-bTTyZDP_XmKyegxban7bF9xN2_4EPBDRxpNUm-Kd-0O5LZ4jcjWomBxsBXjRbRrdqDziZNj2Uq4X-MuqZ5W6aeA5OxwFK4ukTREOzwM/s1600/urine-diverting_dry_toilet.jpg" width="258" /></a></div>The Rich Earth Institute has enlisted a network of volunteers around Brattleboro, who drop off their donations at specially designated depots or, in some cases, pay to have their pee picked up. After it has been pasteurized, the urine is distributed to local farmers. Peecycling can cut down on the amount of conventional fertilizer that the farmers purchase. At the same time, it keeps nutrients out of the sewage system and, by extension, it is hoped, out of Vermont’s waterways.</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Of course, the amount of urine collected and treated in this way is – sorry, for the tired trope – “just a drop in the bucket,” as Kolbert acknowledges: “In an average year, New York City residents piss out about a billion gallons; Shanghai residents, three billion,” whereas the institute’s annual haul is a paltry twelve thousand. Davis is frank to acknowledge this, but just as a journey begins with a single step, according to the ancient Chinese proverb, so these urine-reclamation centers are just the beginning of what Davis and others hope will be a revolutionary movement to harvest the fertilizing potential of urine instead of just pissing it away, as one might say.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">In any case, the key is to reduce our dependence on rock-based phosphorus. Toward that end, Egan has some much more promising suggestions to offer. These not only conserve phosphorus, but follow and adapt traditional <a href="https://www.sciencedirect.com/science/article/pii/S2095311913604074">Asian methods of fertilization</a> that also draw on animal and human production of what we still regard as “waste,” whereas we are actually wasting another valuable resource. After all, how do you think Asians have managed for thousands of years to feed their enormous populations, so much larger than ours?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I’m talking about shit.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6xpPDRf511sKTbj-kaqYKAUEMXm5h4ubr87wZqXp3zvcVIXgPIco8op1BWLGE0vlaHZaPjS1W5gSrAgmh69U4WDyp6VFt0hfJu01gV1aNXhMrN9xA1AK7acY1nDtYE16WnxXaby7B7Dj_6wnMhhfKuVe58g1jpPxtmM-bjGSk6VhUUD-DhXRldzZqe14/s268/dan-egan.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="268" data-original-width="199" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6xpPDRf511sKTbj-kaqYKAUEMXm5h4ubr87wZqXp3zvcVIXgPIco8op1BWLGE0vlaHZaPjS1W5gSrAgmh69U4WDyp6VFt0hfJu01gV1aNXhMrN9xA1AK7acY1nDtYE16WnxXaby7B7Dj_6wnMhhfKuVe58g1jpPxtmM-bjGSk6VhUUD-DhXRldzZqe14/s1600/dan-egan.jpg" width="199" /></a></div>Egan is on to this, and the last chapter of his book is full of information about various projects around the world that are now underway to use and process this invaluable resource. We need to start thinking in a new way, he urges, about human and animal excreta. It is not waste -- anything but. It’s not too late to follow the Asian way, buttressed by today’s waste removal technologies. We need, in short, to begin to practice the art of what I have lately come to call fecal <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fecundity" rel="nofollow">fecundity</a>. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">As Egan notes, “What Europe had come to view as noxious waste had, since antiquity, been recognized in many cities across the East as precious commodity.”</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I say it is a novel way to think about the value of harvesting shit, but, in fact, it is not that new. Furthermore, there were some farsighted Europeans who centuries ago were already aware of the treasures contained in manure. Egan quotes an interesting passage from the great 19th century writer, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Victor_Hugo" rel="nofollow">Victor Hugo</a>, who advocated this course in his book, <a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/045141943X/?tag=iandsorg-20" rel="nofollow">Les Misérables</a>:</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>All the human and animal manure that the world wastes, if put back into the land instead of being thrown into the sea, would suffice to feed the world. Those heaps of excrement at boundary-posts, those cartloads of muck jolted through the streets at night, those frightful vats at the municipal dumps, those fetid seepings of subterrain sludge that pavements hide from you—do you know what they are? They are the meadow in flower, green grass … thyme and sage, they are game, they are cattle … they are fragrant hay, golden wheat, they are the bread on your table, they are the warm blood in your veins, they are health, they are you, they are life.</i></div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/James_Elser" rel="nofollow"></a><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/James_Elser" rel="nofollow"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5U4amp-cr_Fh4uPAGc46v4q7IMvtmFSFM8GSOkGt6NSw2GT6SYInQWLLJwYxNj0rcGopeLtupkI7S1cTVyjiZHNITtCNYjeyXxrKR8I9ZiCU57EwFG_R5u0_kQKYhwM92s4cazBceZFb4DQjRFNKCXesGRId12M0A-EXah4aeljPnkqMOGXv3-EEJPEU/s271/james-elser.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="271" data-original-width="198" height="271" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5U4amp-cr_Fh4uPAGc46v4q7IMvtmFSFM8GSOkGt6NSw2GT6SYInQWLLJwYxNj0rcGopeLtupkI7S1cTVyjiZHNITtCNYjeyXxrKR8I9ZiCU57EwFG_R5u0_kQKYhwM92s4cazBceZFb4DQjRFNKCXesGRId12M0A-EXah4aeljPnkqMOGXv3-EEJPEU/s1600/james-elser.jpg" width="198" /></a></div>James Elser is a University of Montana ecologist and the director of Arizona State University’s <a href="https://phosphorusalliance.org/">Sustainable Phosphorus Alliance</a>. He, too, sees the fertilizing gold in what we have been accustomed to deposit into our toilets and flush away into our sewage systems: “If all manures were recycled and returned for [agricultural] production, I think you could displace halt of the mined fertilizer.”</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Egan concurs and adds his own comment: “In other words, if we aggressively refined manure for fertilizer, we might essentially double the life of existing phosphorus reserves.”</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">As I’ve indicated, such efforts are already well underway at various universities and companies around the world, and Egan reviews some of them in his last chapter but here, for illustrative purposes, I will mention just one such revolutionary undertaking. By one of those charming accidents of history, it is taking place in phosphorus’s hometown – Hamburg. And today’s alchemical wizard, so to speak, is a man named <a href="https://www.globalwaterintel.com/global-water-intelligence-magazine/18/12/cto-outlook/triggering-the-waste-to-value-revolution">Martin Lebek</a>, a civil engineer with a Ph.D. Lebek’s charge for the company he works for, which has thirty thousand employees, is, effectively, to transmute the base sludge of crap into the gold of factory-grade fertilizer. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I won’t pretend to understand the intricacies of the process involved – indeed, Lebek said he was not at liberty to disclose that information to Egan because other companies are also pursuing their own similar efforts to recycle waste products – but apparently it involves working with sewage sludge ash to release phosphoric acid used to make chemical fertilizer. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQwB7nPqL6iHVstF-ztkGphKlaOI_hEYoz3TZas3Xw2BwvVM9YofIlWte1G-pciLF_GAf1SYEQ-EseS_3-QLEzDkzLtmXZEN_nbMrxo-sfxnE-P9OGvcqumHtnp07Ht4E0o7JOobhWdFwRi1hK_ya1vcac-UbnJN8I8YAF4empQhIKB5hyi-8W6rN9oOY/s276/martin-lebek.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="276" data-original-width="200" height="276" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQwB7nPqL6iHVstF-ztkGphKlaOI_hEYoz3TZas3Xw2BwvVM9YofIlWte1G-pciLF_GAf1SYEQ-EseS_3-QLEzDkzLtmXZEN_nbMrxo-sfxnE-P9OGvcqumHtnp07Ht4E0o7JOobhWdFwRi1hK_ya1vcac-UbnJN8I8YAF4empQhIKB5hyi-8W6rN9oOY/s1600/martin-lebek.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>According to Egan, Lebek believes that his plant will be fully operational by the end of the year and is confident that “this recycling technology, applied nationally, could dramatically reduce Germany’s reliance on phosphorus imports.” In short, the objective is to become phosphorus independent so that one can just tell the King of Morocco to blow smoke up his sorry shit-filled ass. (Sorry, I couldn’t resist.)</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I will let Egan have the final more sedate word, which ends his book as well as this blog:</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>Lebek knows the story started when phosphorus’ elemental powers were unleashed just across the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Elbe" rel="nofollow">Elbe River</a> more than three centuries ago. Now, less than a century after the city was burned to the ground by Allied bombers dropping phosphorus from the heavens, Hamburg is coaxing from its own ashes a more sustainable food system, and future.</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>“It is,” Lebek said of the phosphorus recovery plant rising along the west bank of the Elbe River, “phosphorus coming home.” </i></div>Kevin Williamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10028779062267448624noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2923424816839609066.post-3845904307656225562023-07-09T08:10:00.000-07:002023-07-09T08:10:10.175-07:00Why Worry about the King of Morocco?<div>By <a href="http://kenring.org/about.html">Kenneth Ring, Ph.D.</a></div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">[Author’s note and apology. I know I told you that I was done writing blogs. At least that was my intent. But I found that my fingers didn’t know what to do with themselves after I had used them to comb my hair in the morning. (Yes, I still have my hair. I am not so sure about what lies beneath it.) And after all, I can only watch so much tennis. So, forgive me, friends, if I inflict another blog on you. I probably won’t write too many more, but I hope you’ll find the one that follows to be of interest.]</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">If you were asked to name the most celebrated scientist of the 20th century, no doubt you would immediately think of an old man with wild hair by the name of <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Albert_Einstein" rel="nofollow">Albert Einstein</a>. But suppose I were to ask you the same question, only for the 19th century. Who would come to mind then? You might have to think for a moment before the obvious answer occurred to you: <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Charles_Darwin" rel="nofollow">Charles Darwin</a>.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">But if you named the co-founder of the theory of evolution (the other one, as you probably know, was <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alfred_Russel_Wallace" rel="nofollow">Alfred Russel Wallace</a>), you would be wrong. Care to try again?</div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq7rPO4nU_zsCD-reRSzWBEZzYSmoHWeBOMkFtI3FtdAi-lmVleaYOcgWX8ifcpbsPTjsa19Xvn6Wgvnj1FregFlb8ZTsAseZLQCQb_c-FiiQnsIhe_8lZXsE1SXCJqfj7hYkR7H7iBdUa2_Nk7CDZxQioFB48JYXjRYxIZ_c27vVUSXAJN878ykXpdg0/s246/alexander-von-humboldt.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="246" data-original-width="197" height="246" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq7rPO4nU_zsCD-reRSzWBEZzYSmoHWeBOMkFtI3FtdAi-lmVleaYOcgWX8ifcpbsPTjsa19Xvn6Wgvnj1FregFlb8ZTsAseZLQCQb_c-FiiQnsIhe_8lZXsE1SXCJqfj7hYkR7H7iBdUa2_Nk7CDZxQioFB48JYXjRYxIZ_c27vVUSXAJN878ykXpdg0/s1600/alexander-von-humboldt.jpg" width="197" /></a></div>I won’t keep you in suspense, but if you named <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alexander_von_Humboldt" rel="nofollow">Friedrich Wilhelm Heinrich Alexander von Humboldt</a>, you get a gold star. </div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">These days, Humboldt is not exactly a household name. I confess that until I read <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Andrea_Wulf" rel="nofollow">Andrea Wulf'</a>s marvelous and enlightening book, <a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B00RKO0L3A/?tag=iandsorg-20" rel="nofollow">The Invention of Nature</a>, about him several years ago, I myself had only a vague sense of his reputation. But during his lifetime, he was not only the most outstanding scientist of his day, but apart from <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Napoleon" rel="nofollow">Napoleon</a> (who was born the same year as Humboldt, 1769), the most famous man in the world. And he remained so even after his death in 1859.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Indeed, to commemorate his centenary, hundreds of thousands around the world held celebrations to honor his achievements. Let me take just a moment to quote a passage from Wulf’s book about the festivities that took place just in New York City where….</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>The cobbled streets were lined with flags. City Hall was veiled in banners, and entire houses had vanished behind huge posters bearing Humboldt’s face. Even the ships sailing by, out on the Hudson River, were garlanded in colorful bunting. In the morning thousands of people followed ten music bands, marching from the Bowery and along Broadway to Central Park to honor a man “whose fame no nation could claim” as the New York Times reported. By early afternoon, 25,000 onlookers had assembled in Central Park to listen to speeches as a large bronze bust of Humboldt was unveiled. In the evening as darkness settled, a torchlight procession of 15,000 people set out along the streets, walking beneath colorful Chinese lanterns.</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Meanwhile, in Pittsburgh, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ulysses_S._Grant" rel="nofollow">President Grant</a> joined 10,000 celebrants who brought the city to a standstill. And in Europe, even vaster throngs assembled to sing Humboldt’s praises. One of the largest of these involving some 80,000 revelers was held in Berlin where Humboldt was born. And they had turned out in such numbers despite torrential rain.</div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B00RKO0L3A/?tag=iandsorg-20" rel="nofollow" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="288" data-original-width="216" height="288" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfVdpBx00p8xKW6Fo1vRJL_zXwFJ7rRWGq4ssOc7oYAoid316ej5Z4-MF1QveJtOsRA10SjaIONIpr4XQFDcP-8Rl1XfNIjaZSskuhWH8H_aqdQzs_A69e52GCB0phkzw8jKnxWGlZ_-vFw9z9fmV_s6uDAWqe9Nd8NROoQluxqe1bl2hp97fj6LHz190/s1600/the-invention-of-nature.jpg" width="216" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Such was the measure of the man in the year when Darwin, himself a fervent admirer of Humboldt, had published his book, <a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/0140439129/?tag=iandsorg-20" rel="nofollow">On the Origin of Species</a>. If you were to read Wulf’s book, you would learn that more places and cities have been named after Humboldt than anyone else. From the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alexander_von_Humboldt" rel="nofollow">Wikipedia article about him</a>, I counted at least ten such cities in the United States alone.</div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Why was Humboldt so important during the 19th century? You would really have to read Wulf’s book about him to appreciate the tremendous scope of his achievements as well as his prodigious physical feats of exploration, but the short answer is, to quote Wulf again, “Humboldt gave us our concept of nature.” Remembered today, thanks in no small measure to Wulf’s book, as the father both of ecology and, more broadly of environmentalism, he influenced scores, if not hundreds, of important writers and other explorers interested in the natural world.</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">But all this is only so much background to what this blog is all about. And what the heck does Humboldt have to do with the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/King_of_Morocco" rel="nofollow">King of Morocco</a>? Well, read on, dear reader, because it is with Humboldt that this story begins when we find him in the very early years of the 19th century passing a few idle hours down by the docks of Callao, Peru’s major port, just west of its capital, Lima.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">What had caught Humboldt’s eye – or rather what had assaulted his nostrils – was a powerful nauseating stench emanating from boats loaded with what looked like yellowish clay. Inquiring the locals, Humboldt learned that the material was bird poop from nearby islands, and that it was highly prized by farmers in the area. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Intrigued and always curious, he decided to investigate, so a few days later, he was on his way to one of these shit-ridden islands. One can only imagine Humboldt’s revulsion when he found some five million nesting seabirds which had deposited millions of bird craps on the island. Some of this disgusting dung was in a mound more than a hundred feet high. Despite the vigorous objections of his crew at the powerful, sickening stink, Humboldt was now keen to take a batch of this stuff home with him to have it analyzed. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBKkYgS39QdgczCowiRekwi1qST_EmgxQOO8blKSjEPUTQGS-8FVlXLriR3exuUofhRv7uMjK0NcN35wuwpAVnVGwgPAYU26Ge3e8tUujuq76pg5cRvWcrIMOkxXFyhH-GsimDhi_AyCYhMLHzr-6W_Em9V-qZ0GL66pf9ZGL83-g2_rHyAUa_XJ-5zUI/s269/guano.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="269" data-original-width="269" height="269" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBKkYgS39QdgczCowiRekwi1qST_EmgxQOO8blKSjEPUTQGS-8FVlXLriR3exuUofhRv7uMjK0NcN35wuwpAVnVGwgPAYU26Ge3e8tUujuq76pg5cRvWcrIMOkxXFyhH-GsimDhi_AyCYhMLHzr-6W_Em9V-qZ0GL66pf9ZGL83-g2_rHyAUa_XJ-5zUI/s1600/guano.jpg" width="269" /></a></div>By doing so, he changed history. He had found the native equivalent of <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Miracle-Gro" rel="nofollow">Miracle-Gro</a>. It was called <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Guano" rel="nofollow">guano</a>. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">It took a while before a Prussian chemist was able to identify the composition of guano that made it a kind of El Dorado for farmers, but even before that, there was already the beginning of a kind of guano craze as people realized what a godsend it was for the flourishing of crops. Soon, the English got involved and made a deal with the Peruvians for them to ship millions of tons of guano to England. The harvesting of guano is ghastly and noxious work and it was done mainly by Chinese workers who toiled almost as virtual slaves. The Americans eventually got into the act, too, and after the Peruvian islands were exhausted, they laid claim to as many other shit-filled Pacific islands as possible to provide their own bounty of this wonder-food for American’s farmland.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">By the 1880s, the supplies of guano were pretty much exhausted, but by then, it was well understood what had made guano such a powerful catalyst for plant growth. It turned out to be rich in <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Phosphate" rel="nofollow">phosphorus</a> as well as nitrogen and potassium, which are now recognized as being the three essential ingredients for fertilizers. But of these elements, the most intriguing – and worrisome – is phosphorus, and this is what this blog is really all about.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div>Do you know what happens if you plan crops without phosphorous? </div><div><br /></div><div>Nothing.</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXgo_JyJcrJKtT_0GPE6ru2JZ6HdbgeChmsWwyq3qIbfMjkme8KOm9nKC6R67g0Xaf4u7pVTehSqjL3Mqo7eKChu8N6aSpFhu2kXryuEXMyWnDYWXugp7zS7cHcQJB-zR2eSpKPjY8P239Vj4SZxgLLbuYDpwHk9bXtqRG5KonoWdesuG0f2xCx2G_U98/s297/the-devils-element.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="297" data-original-width="197" height="297" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXgo_JyJcrJKtT_0GPE6ru2JZ6HdbgeChmsWwyq3qIbfMjkme8KOm9nKC6R67g0Xaf4u7pVTehSqjL3Mqo7eKChu8N6aSpFhu2kXryuEXMyWnDYWXugp7zS7cHcQJB-zR2eSpKPjY8P239Vj4SZxgLLbuYDpwHk9bXtqRG5KonoWdesuG0f2xCx2G_U98/s1600/the-devils-element.jpg" width="197" /></a></div>Most of what I have learned about this element is from a book entitled <a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0BKH9PD8W/?tag=iandsorg-20" rel="nofollow">The Devil’s Element</a>, which was published this year by an environmental journalist named Dan Egan. Listen to what he has to tell us about the vital importance of phosphorus:</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>Phosphorus is essential to plant growth, and that makes it essential for us, but the element is important beyond helping to grow our food. Phosphorus helps turn the meals we eat into the chemical energy that moves our muscles. Phosphorus is also crucial to our physical structure, in the biggest ways and in the smallest. Our bones and teeth are made with phosphorus. Phosphorus is also in our DNA. In fact, it <b>is</b> our DNA … From the corn we grow, to the animals that eat it, to the people who eat those animals, phosphorus is critical every step of the way.</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>No phosphorus, no life on Earth.</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">But phosphorus also has a dark side, which is why it is sometimes referred to as “the devil’s element.” Like fire, which when controlled can keep us warm, but when escaping our control, can rage and ravage our lands, so it is with phosphorus. While it may be a panacea for plants, when it begins to leach into our waters, it can quickly turn not only toxic but deadly. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Egan begins his book by recounting a dramatic incident in which a 22-year-old Florida resident named Abraham Duerte was fleeing from cops who were chasing him down for excessive speeding. At one point, Duerte had to ditch his car, and had no choice but to jump into a nearby canal and swim away to elude his pursuers.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">But, actually, Duerte didn’t know how to swim, and besides, the surface of the canal “was smothered in a brilliant green algae goop thick as oatmeal – and poisonous.”</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Duerte began screaming for help, shouting “I’m going to die.” He was covered in slime. One cop shouted back, “You need to get out of that stuff, that is going to mess you up. Seriously, man, that is going to kill you.”</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Duerte was finally rescued, covered with stinking green slime that “smelled like feces,” and then taken to a hospital, where he was to suffer further from gastrointestinal and respiratory distress (and eventually arrested). He did indeed have a close call with “the devil’s element.”</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">And here we come, finally, to thrust of Egan’s book and why he is so worried about what happens when phosphorus escapes the land and trickles into our waterways – and oceans. I will try to sum up the gist of the problem as succinctly as I can.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">You may be aware that just about a half century ago, the U.S. Congress passed <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Clean_Water_Act" rel="nofollow">The Clean Water Act</a>. It did a lot to reduce pollution for some years, but it always had one troubling loophole: it exempted farmers. So, in time, the fertilizers that farmers use, which or course contain phosphorus, would eventually find their way into surrounding waters. And that would cause a real problem because just as phosphorus promotes plant growth on land, it continues to be potent in water as well in causing the growth of something very noxious: blue-green algae blooms.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCh3YELSffFLmX5gdiBT5JWFQeY2Rzr-zLjt73949iPaVWVBCFR7RyH5reA-XM604FiLY2djApHKMwgHt2yG6hEo3tTqyQxDMNHP3iY4gnbSrRjDkOER01kKEfiIzm_gH58XZlPVsYJdArc9ogmxk4IIZ5q5eHSQiXkFdLKGce3EGs5I7xvalXvqMfaZw/s294/cyanobacterial-scum.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="294" data-original-width="265" height="294" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCh3YELSffFLmX5gdiBT5JWFQeY2Rzr-zLjt73949iPaVWVBCFR7RyH5reA-XM604FiLY2djApHKMwgHt2yG6hEo3tTqyQxDMNHP3iY4gnbSrRjDkOER01kKEfiIzm_gH58XZlPVsYJdArc9ogmxk4IIZ5q5eHSQiXkFdLKGce3EGs5I7xvalXvqMfaZw/s1600/cyanobacterial-scum.jpg" width="265" /></a></div>In fact, the green muck that is now befouling our waterways isn’t actually algae, but as Egan explains, “primitive forms of photosynthesizing bacteria that collectively produce a suite of toxins, some powerful enough to rival anything cooked up in a military lab … If you haven’t heard about the emerging menace of blue-green algae that produce poisons known as <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cyanotoxin" rel="nofollow">cyanotoxins</a>, you will.” This is what causes of our waters to form “dead zones,” and they are becoming more common and widespread. </div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Egan’s book reports on his investigations of a number of these troubled waters, including Lake Erie and the Gulf Coast. But just in 2021 in the U.S alone, there were some four hundred bodies of water infested with these slimy wastes, which was a 25% increase over the proceeding year. And people who live close to these polluted waters, even if they don’t enter them, can become sick enough to be sent to the emergency room. Between 2017 and 2019, more than 300 people required such treatment. These infected waters stink – just like the guano that Humboldt insisted on transporting back to Europe. If you were to read Egan’s book – and I encourage you to do so – you will soon come to realize why the author is so alarmed at the spread of these contaminated waters.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">But there is still another, quite different, problem with phosphorus that Egan is very much concerned with. We are running out of it.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">While we have an abundance of potassium reserves and nitrogen is also plentiful, it’s a different story for phosphorus, which comes from sedimentary rocks scattered around the globe. But the problem is, according to Egan:</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJjsCOIK9KnFWWMzWCuOKn23vMH0A09VlimLitQd9JkLJnITg9jvbYs2b9XaztQjnrlTZFKGRJAN1oj75I55UVrwTWZN3Naz5fFP5UEq6lRZ4ohJJuL-1kt9e99IYsgF4pUJvjwS0mOU-aMUeiJq2xsby4RHcX0DEN5vwo9zR9845cWQBgV_dPQCZU2Sk/s300/peak-phosphate.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="259" data-original-width="300" height="259" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJjsCOIK9KnFWWMzWCuOKn23vMH0A09VlimLitQd9JkLJnITg9jvbYs2b9XaztQjnrlTZFKGRJAN1oj75I55UVrwTWZN3Naz5fFP5UEq6lRZ4ohJJuL-1kt9e99IYsgF4pUJvjwS0mOU-aMUeiJq2xsby4RHcX0DEN5vwo9zR9845cWQBgV_dPQCZU2Sk/s1600/peak-phosphate.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>That we are blowing through Earth’s accessible deposits at such a pace that, just like oil production, some scientists now fear we could hit “<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Peak_phosphorus" rel="nofollow">peak phosphorus</a>” in just a matter of decades at which point we risk … chronic food shortages.</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Almost all our domestic reserves of phosphorus are located in Florida, but Egan warns that that lode will probably be exhausted in as little as thirty years, making us more dependent on foreign sources about which more in a moment.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Can we find a substitute for phosphorus? Unfortunately, no, says Egan flatly: </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">“Phosphorus is the elemental link that completes the circle of life. Literally nothing else can do the job.” Famed science writer <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Isaac_Asimov" rel="nofollow">Isaac Asimov</a> concurs:</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div>“We may be able to substitute nuclear power for coal, and plastics for wood, and yeast for meat … but for phosphorus there is neither substitute nor replacement.”</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Where could we get the phosphorus we need to sustain us should our own reserves run out? Approximately 70 to 80 percent of the world’s remaining reserves are located in <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Morocco" rel="nofollow">Morocco</a> or in the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Western_Sahara" rel="nofollow">Western Sahara</a>, territory that Morocco seized control over, not without difficulty, since the 1970s. And who controls Morocco? The king of course. Egan is apoplectic over this situation: </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">“For one country, essentially one guy – the king of Morocco – to control so much of something every soul on the planet so desperately needs is a recipe for global instability, or worse.” </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Egan goes on to paint a damning portrait of this king on whose beneficence we may find ourselves dependent. Drawing on a government publication, Egan comes across this encomium: “His Majesty Mohammed VI May God Glorify Him.” And then goes on to comment witheringly: “Under M6’s rule, you can be imprisoned for speaking ill of Islam, for speaking ill of the king, or for engaging in homosexuality.”</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Finally, Egan goes on to quote the famous British billionaire investigator, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jeremy_Grantham" rel="nofollow">Jeremy Grantham</a>, who warns: </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">“This share of reserves makes OPEC and Saudi Arabia look like absolute pikers, and phosphate is much more important than oil … We simply cannot manage for long under currently configured agriculture without Morocco’s reserves, perhaps 35 or 40 years.”</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div><i>Humboldt’s Gift</i></div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B019CT4OJ2/?tag=iandsorg-20" rel="nofollow" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="302" data-original-width="198" height="302" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiEnIP2YOAajNN1UY-oE-te-WroRCFQ4upCnj7zYQ2Eha2UsKF3C6qpotcce9hcUocRO71Ad8FmOWqpiRoaz_kuFkgN6onHAa4GwUq-7pM9xADWv-i0BSWeP9XCgWqxJX_pp-WlPrUU_5CUxYs9YNlCuCjWEMKcNpNomDLeOl-2sTMRH6ssu5B1PnbLxQ/s1600/humbolts-gift.jpg" width="198" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Many years ago, the Chicago writer <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Saul_Bellow" rel="nofollow">Saul Bellow</a> won the Pulitzer Prize for his book, <a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B019CT4OJ2/?tag=iandsorg-20" rel="nofollow">Humboldt’s Gift</a>. But it wasn’t about Alexander von Humboldt’s toting guano to Europe. Instead, it was a novel based in part on the life of the doomed but brilliant poet, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Delmore_Schwartz" rel="nofollow">Delmore Schwartz</a>. [Full disclosure: I never read the book, but I happen to know a lot about Delmore Schwartz. Never mind.]</div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">But in fact Humboldt did bring a gift of incomparable world-changing importance to Europe in the form of guano. I don’t think he could have been prescient enough to suspect that it would turn out to be a gift that would ultimately be a threat of the ecology of our waters. But maybe he wouldn’t have been surprised because even in the early part of the 19th century, he was already warning of environmental disasters to come because of humanity’s seemingly unstoppable penchant for mistreating the earth and violating the sanctify of nature. In any event, we are left to ponder the irony of a man so devoted to nature who nevertheless was serendipitously led to discover the carrier of “the devil’s element” that would come to ravage our planet. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div>***********************</div><div><br /></div><div>Now for the good news and some important qualifications.</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">First, not everyone agrees that we will run out of phosphorus so soon. Some experts aver that we might have enough to last centuries. There appears to be no consensus on this issue.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Second, although there may be no substitute for phosphorus, there are certainly other ways to amass it without depending on physical reserves. I will discuss some of these promising methods in my next blog.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Finally, I have only grazed the surface of this issue. Egan’s book has much more in it than I had space to describe, and I have probably oversimplified some of the complexities. If you don’t have the interest to read Egan’s book for yourself, I recommend <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Elizabeth_Kolbert" rel="nofollow">Elizabeth Kolbert</a>’s excellent article in the February 27th issue of The New Yorker, entitled “<a href="https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2023/03/06/phosphorus-saved-our-way-of-life-and-now-threatens-to-end-it">Phosphorus Saved Our Way of Life – and Now Threatens to End It</a>.” It was in this article that I learned about Dan Egan’s book. </div>Kevin Williamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10028779062267448624noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2923424816839609066.post-90169210269253002372023-06-14T09:00:00.000-07:002023-06-14T09:00:11.038-07:00At 87, Kenneth Ring, the Authority on Near-Death Experiences, is Ready to Die<div style="text-align: justify;"><b>ABOUT THE AUTHOR:</b> <a href="https://www.marinij.com/author/vicki-larson/">Vicki Larson</a> is an author and has been an award-winning lifestyles editor, writer and columnist at the Marin Independent Journal since 2004. She has worked as an editor in Santa Rosa, Petaluma, Walnut Creek, San Francisco, Napa and Miami.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><b>ABOUT THE JOURNAL:</b> Established in 1861, the <a href="https://www.marinij.com/">Marin Independent Journal</a> is a daily newspaper covering Marin County in the Bay Area of Northern California.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The following is <a href="https://www.marinij.com/2023/06/12/at-87-kenneth-ring-the-authority-on-near-death-experiences-is-ready-to-die/">an article</a> by Vicki Larson who is the Lifestyle Editor from the Marin Independent Journal.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><h3 style="text-align: left;">1. At 87, Kenneth Ring, the Authority on Near-Death Experiences, is Ready to Die</h3><div><br /></div><div><b>By Vicki Larson</b></div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIVxNrlor001C5dvQ5RwSGq_UAy2flsBUE86kSciGVvRviW5g2R9i7z3e6UzxdkqKdNR7cnLVyCeb88kUrDlcD8YOyi_EAk1Qiwd8KpwfgqWSJsnUMcLRC8jzqAeBJfUXxV9OunGZMQqTPRuUjOM9GWoQ0BoiJDN44sqGHrs5-msKyow8gEkrQBLAs/s383/ken-ring-quote.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="383" data-original-width="377" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIVxNrlor001C5dvQ5RwSGq_UAy2flsBUE86kSciGVvRviW5g2R9i7z3e6UzxdkqKdNR7cnLVyCeb88kUrDlcD8YOyi_EAk1Qiwd8KpwfgqWSJsnUMcLRC8jzqAeBJfUXxV9OunGZMQqTPRuUjOM9GWoQ0BoiJDN44sqGHrs5-msKyow8gEkrQBLAs/s320/ken-ring-quote.jpg" width="315" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">Kenneth Ring was in his mid-40s when he started to get interested in near-death experiences and the possibility of an afterlife. Death wasn’t something to fear, even his own.</div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Now 87, the preeminent authority on near-death experiences (NDE) still doesn’t fear death. In fact, the Kentfield resident welcomes it and with the publication of his latest book, “<a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0BTGKK92G/?tag=iandsorg-20" rel="nofollow">A Near-Death Researcher’s Notebook, What I Have Learned About Dying, Death, and the Afterlife</a>,” hopes others will, too.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">After decades of researching NDEs, you might think there was nothing new to discover. You’d be wrong. Ring talks of what’s called “<a href="https://psi-encyclopedia.spr.ac.uk/articles/terminal-lucidity">terminal lucidity</a>,” when someone suffering from dementia or Alzheimer’s experiences an unexpected return of mental clarity and memory.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">“The interesting thing is almost always in cases like this, that person is to die soon, often within a few hours,” he says. “It’s as if they awaken at the point when they’re about to make their transition and they’ve come to say goodbye. So people who are in this situation, if this was your grandmother who had this encounter, feel like they’ve been given a final gift. It leaves people kind of stunned and thrilled, and completely puzzled about how this can happen.”</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">It’s not a new phenomena and it’s relatively rare, but it’s finally being researched, he says.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">And when Ring first started researching NDEs nearly a half century ago, many people who experienced it thought they were the only ones and often believed they were crazy, so they were reluctant to talk about it. That has changed as well.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><h3 style="text-align: left;">2. New View of Death</h3><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">“At the time that I was starting my research, this was very fringe-y and not well accepted by the medical profession, but now there’ been so much published about near-death experiences, hundreds if not thousands of articles written in the professional literature, so people are much more forthcoming about their near-death experiences these days than when I was starting out,” he says. “It’s given us a whole new view of death.”</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0BTGKK92G/?tag=iandsorg-20" imageanchor="1" rel="nofollow" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="525" data-original-width="348" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiftWK0yjKsDeLxOjH9aK_wd6unSl981YNVxcjYxQaXlSZnmuBJJT7p3cvRU1vPVX-6K0WSjWuyTUiiFM7SZnHeVBGOd_9XV9RoTpl40W1GDc38C1vy8gCoRYOIwlZgzmDtxsjezUTYz3B8QrvU0bkKSNFmUqWRZZGYToXIZA5ltKG8PxBKotz4g49K/s320/ken-ring-book.jpg" width="212" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Initially, research indicated that about one in three people who came close to death had a transcendental experience. After more decades of study, it’s more like one in six, he says. Still, it’s not an insignificant amount.</div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Ring first learned about NDE after reading Raymond Moody’s 1975 book ”<a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B00JTYBWMI/?tag=iandsorg-20">Life After Life</a>,” one of the first best-sellers on the subject, when it was newly published. It was life-changing. As a professor of psychology at the University of Connecticut, Ring thought the subject needed someone grounded in research to do a deeper dive into it instead of the approach by Moody, a philosopher and physician. So he took it on.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">He interviewed 102 near-death survivors, which informed his ground-breaking 1980 book, “<a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/0688012531/?tag=iandsorg-20" rel="nofollow">Life At Death: A Scientific Investigation of the Near-Death Experience</a>,” which was followed by six other books on NDEs. In 1980, he co-founded the <a href="https://iands.org/">International Association of Near-Death Studies</a> and served as its president for several years. He also is the founding editor of the <a href="https://iands.org/research/publications/journal-of-near-death-studies.html">Journal of Near-Death Studies</a>.</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">What he learned was that those who had near-death experiences had some commonalities, no matter if they were in an accident, on the operating table, suffering from a heart attack or even a suicide attempt, and whether they were religious or not. They all experienced similar feelings, images and sensations, including a profound peace and well-being, feeling separate from their physical body and moving through darkness toward a radiant light. Some had to decide if they’d like to continue or return to their body. And they are fundamentally changed.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><h3 style="text-align: left;">3. Something More</h3><div><br /></div><div>They also believe that there’s some sort of life after death.</div><div><br /></div><div>So does Ring.</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">“If you study near-death experiences and talk to hundreds of people as I have, you can’t help but feel that there’s something more to look forward to after we die. It almost beggars imagination. I don’t think there are any words that can fully describe what that experience is. I don’t believe near-death experiences prove anything like (an afterlife), but if you look at the evidence and you look at the testimony of near-death experiencers, it’s pretty hard not to think that life is not a dead end, that life continues. So I’m definitely open to the idea of an afterlife. I think the evidence is very strong,” he says.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">“I was never interested in trying to prove life after death. I wasn’t interested in life after death as an issue, particularly. I was interested in what people could learn from having near-death experiences and what it can teach other people,” he says.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">He did that in his 2000 book “<a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/1930491115/?tag=iandsorg-20" rel="nofollow">Lessons from the Light: What We Can Learn from the NDE</a>,” which has proven to be his most popular book and that <a href="https://www.ciis.edu/faculty-and-staff-directory/jenny-wade">Jenny Wade</a>, a developmental psychologist, calls “a practical guide that motivates through its sheer heart-gripping beauty.”</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">And it’s helped shape his view on death, especially since he’s been living with spinal stenosis for the past six years that has recently gotten worse.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">“You learn from talking to people who’ve had NDEs who almost universally attest that they are not afraid of death. You absorb something of their attitude and values toward life. So the result of all my studies and my personal experiences, yeah, I’m not afraid of death. I’m not looking forward to the dying part — I don’t want to suggest that that isn’t painful and difficult for many people. I don’t mean to dismiss that. Once you cross that threshold, it is such a positive experience.”</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><h3 style="text-align: left;">4. Teaching Moment</h3><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Ring’s latest book doesn’t just address NDEs. He also also tackles issues such as the ethics of the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Right_to_die" rel="nofollow">right-to-die movement</a>, the epidemic of loneliness many Americans are experiencing, how COVID interfered with people’s abilities to be with love ones in their final hours — “I though that was one of the cruelest blows of COVID” — and the potential of using psychedelics to ally fears about death, as Michael Pollan has extensively written about.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Ultimately, his goal in all his books is to help people learn from people’s near-death experiences, especially since not everyone experiences it. It’s less about death and more about how to live, and how a “<a href="https://near-death.com/life-review/">life review</a>” allows us to see how our words, actions and behaviors impact others and the karmic justice that results.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">“If everything that you do you basically get back, every good action that you do, every kindness that you express, you begin to experience that in the life review. And the things that you do that are nasty, you experience that as well. It’s not judgment, you’re not being condemned, you simply see them for what they are. You learn from them,” he says</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">In <a href="https://www.nytimes.com/1988/08/28/nyregion/connecticut-q-a-kenneth-ring-you-never-recover-your-original-self.html">an interview with the New York Times in 1988</a>, Ring, then in his 50s, shared he was not only not afraid to die, but that he was actually looking forward to it — but not too soon, he was quick to add.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Now that he’s in his late 80s, he’s still looking forward to it.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">“I can barely wait.”</div>Kevin Williamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10028779062267448624noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2923424816839609066.post-41744064571037566092023-06-11T07:44:00.000-07:002023-06-11T07:44:01.062-07:00What Mark Twain Didn’t Say, But I Do<div>By <a href="http://kenring.org/about.html">Kenneth Ring, Ph.D.</a></div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.seattleiands.org/kimberly-clark-sharp.html" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="258" data-original-width="197" height="258" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjB8GjEVvd_BRZP5_2wB0TmgNcR_eGYAII9E-REFtYqhc_-mlfQc3oTXRzJMKbboKtoM2p3AV_GiJ3o4niZyvLWIyhJ43kYgNOVneCtOaem9VELVvbrZ8t0pgY-k5UgE-aSPbG2T22Yh-_ZbccZKWqr2K6Wx3pW_9O33tbHSyASvqldu4rjxnAIteD/s1600/kimberly-clark-sharp.jpg" width="197" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Ken, I’m hearing that you’re dead, died a week ago, in fact.</div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Would you let me know? You can easily contact me dead or alive.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">You will get my “Away” message on email because I’m out of town, but I’m using my phone to access email.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">If you are dead, you know that I love you. </div><div style="text-align: justify;">If you are alive, you know that I love you.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Guess I must love you, huh? — Kim</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I received this quite shocking message the other day from an old friend and one of my favorite NDErs, <a href="https://www.seattleiands.org/kimberly-clark-sharp.html">Kim Clark Sharp</a>.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I can’t find my reply, but I know I alluded to an apocryphal quote attributed to <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mark_Twain" rel="nofollow">Mark Twain</a> who was alleged to have said, but never did, “Reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated.” In my case, they were at least premature.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">But it seems that these rumors, like myself, refuse to die because only a few days later, my friend and fellow NDE researcher, <a href="https://lifelessonsfromheaven.com/about/our-story/">Jeff Janssen</a>, sent me an item about me that he found on <a href="https://chat.openai.com/">ChatGPT</a>, which indicated that I had actually died in 2021, which was news to me. (However, I knew that the first iteration of ChatGPT had actually ended in September of that year.)</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lifelessonsfromheaven.com/about/our-story/" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="270" data-original-width="206" height="270" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggFKrlAJ1tmlnu5vwa9YTPy4txReojPDY7yoJtZ3jE06fJIkCzkCF8vV-lDNnWpSI8vtmn4H4xRcnE0VmentNh7Dq77-vBFZb7mTaHY4DZdIMkkZarHA1m9oprl8MLIIT8xis_vOg3iRBIAvfy1SVw7yyT2uGtXc6lQaUFrtnzkHUnk0X3IDGhVIEb/s1600/jeff-janssen.jpg" width="206" /></a></div>Still, this was a bit unsettling because in fact I was already having some intimations from my chronically ailing body that my time might be running out. After all, I am now about to turn the corner toward 88, but I have no confidence or even wish that I will reach the end of the block to my double eights. </div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Consider: I grew up with three male cousins. Two of them already died around the age of 80, and my remaining cousin is now 83 (and will probably live into his 90s since his dad – not a biological uncle to me, however – lived to 99). I’ve already outlived all the male members of the maternal side of my family (I know virtually nothing about my father’s relatives, but my dad died at 41). My mother lived until she reached the age 88. So, realistically, and perhaps actuarially, how much longer can I expect to live?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I am not going to burden you with a recitation of my bodily troubles. I have no interest in striving to become Ken, the <a href="https://www.dukechronicle.com/article/2021/11/staff-note-kvetching-holiday">Kvetching</a> King. I have alluded to them in some of my blogs already. Suffice it to say, they are just getting worse, and life has become more difficult for me in recent months. Even now, my eyes smart when I use my computer. (I will be trying some special fit-over glasses to reduce blue light, but I am not hopeful that this will solve my visual problems.) Well, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/M._Scott_Peck" rel="nofollow">Scott Peck</a> told us long ago in the first sentence of his best-selling book, <a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0078XGEK2/?tag=iandsorg-20" rel="nofollow">The Road Less Traveled</a>, that “life is difficult.” Indeed, especially for old duffers like me. If Hitler hadn’t already used the title for his book, my motto might well be, <i>mein kampt</i>. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0078XGEK2/?tag=iandsorg-20" rel="nofollow" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="303" data-original-width="197" height="303" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXdF1nFCzH1U6h5TgHk4q_SE60n2dtKe3dOLposQNrFGMBO-I3zqot8n0seOr7dlv_r3cgSymyRaB_OCvxlnsFKCgn_qJ6HkIy4OrJo-OaGMOpwVT8usS-Yn6fg9xxVJaq3UxVRHZa3lcZ_ngYRg3RCZ8wRW5oLrw8cYbBcQZb9HWkelZmOVbhz0su/s1600/the-road-less-traveled.jpg" width="197" /></a></div>I actually don’t read German, but I know there is a cumbersome German word for what I’m experiencing these days: <a href="https://en.bab.la/dictionary/german-english/lebensmuedigkeit">lebensmüdigkeit</a>, which I believe translates into something like “weariness of life.” It is one step down from the more familiar “<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Weltschmerz" rel="nofollow">weltschmerz</a>.” </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">One of the signs of my coming end-times is more difficulty in reading my books. It’s not just that reading text is often more difficult for me, but that after I eat lunch, I can drowse for hours while trying to read. Well, babes sleep a lot after they are born and old men do, too, before we are born again into another kind of life.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Recently, I had wanted to write a new blog about the wonder – and the peril – of trees. I had read an article called “<a href="https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2023/05/29/what-we-owe-our-trees">What We Owe Our Trees</a>” by the Harvard historian, <a href="https://www.newyorker.com/contributors/jill-lepore">Jill Lepore</a>, who also is a staff writer for <a href="https://www.newyorker.com/">The New Yorker</a>, that had rekindled my interest in this topic. Since she referred to a number of books that I had already read and was currently trying to read, I was eager to try my hand (actually, both of my remaining hands) to craft my own blog on the subject. But I quickly and regretfully realized that I would only wind up mostly paraphrasing Jill’s article while adding only a few literary flourishes of my own. What was the point when she writes so much better and far more knowledgeably than me?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Instead, I will just encourage those of you who think you might want to read up on this subject to consult Jill’s article, which you can find on this link:</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><a href="https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2023/05/29/what-we-owe-our-trees">https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2023/05/29/what-we-owe-our-trees</a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01C9116AK/?tag=iandsorg-20" rel="nofollow" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="282" data-original-width="198" height="282" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTf0c5Fv6ZbBe5liu9HR9VgZIeEM9H73cnSKkwaCjRORvmnW76LYNOgVhnlINlcL21XR7rKofICFxOkZkj4GuYumIdGIWrz6z318tNjFDNmT2rLhDuTrUDbIPAxdZOSSndoxHLpNS46kEwfMiV76KbPT7hYBNQzTl2MMe84odyUQI9dqxuSeruJmyM/s1600/the-hidden-life-of-trees.jpg" width="198" /></a></div>You might also want to read <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Peter_Wohlleben" rel="nofollow">Peter Wohlleben</a>’s wonderful little book, <a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01C9116AK/?tag=iandsorg-20" rel="nofollow">The Hidden Life of Trees</a>, and if you’re really ambitious, you could get ahold of a copy of <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Richard_Powers" rel="nofollow">Richard Powers</a> intricately plotted novel about trees called <a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B073VX7HT4/?tag=iandsorg-20" rel="nofollow">The Overstory</a>. Powers is one of the most extraordinarily gifted writers of our time, who apparently knows everything about everything. His books are jaw-dropping, mind-bending wonders.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">But reflecting on all this and having already written my last book on NDEs, <a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0BTGKK92G/?tag=iandsorg-20" rel="nofollow">A Near-Death Researcher’s Notebook</a>, this year, which actually sold a lot better than I had supposed, it occurred to me that maybe it was time to bring my blogging life to an end as well. So this is also to let you know that Ken Ring is about the ring down the curtain on the Ringdom. As I know I have said before (it is one of the afflictions of old age that one repeats things one has already said) that I am running not only out of time but out of ideas to write about. A caveat, however: I am not saying that I <i>absolutely </i>will never write a blog again. Only that I at this point, I have no plans to do so. That’s why if you should wander by the Ringdom any time soon, you will just see a sign saying “Gone fishing.” </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMg1EJqVlfp0CZm7Sw3P7owozyfiRozNn8E-MaiC5PegJj__WqmMDoYkeAsAjqAnk-8fzAks58wLaM2UH1kndGo1T_u9msUyaofz7d66ls32fUaH1FiKyhoWEzR7YnoS8s_S463XWnDMrdnT3knzDZ5TjPeYDjQS1CpY2140C9htfbABUNhLkYUfQA/s205/gone-fishing.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="205" data-original-width="197" height="205" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMg1EJqVlfp0CZm7Sw3P7owozyfiRozNn8E-MaiC5PegJj__WqmMDoYkeAsAjqAnk-8fzAks58wLaM2UH1kndGo1T_u9msUyaofz7d66ls32fUaH1FiKyhoWEzR7YnoS8s_S463XWnDMrdnT3knzDZ5TjPeYDjQS1CpY2140C9htfbABUNhLkYUfQA/s1600/gone-fishing.jpg" width="197" /></a>I remember when I first started writing these blogs when I was in my early eighties. My first blog began with these imperishable words: “What’s it like, waiting to die? Of course, it’s different for everyone. I can only say what it’s like for me. On the whole, it’s rather boring.”</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Well, that was then. At that time, as you might recall, I indulged a conceit, joking that it was my hope to reach the age of 1000 -- months, and then check out. Well, I have long shot past that marker, and am about to reach 1050 months of age. Now, I am just impatient “to go home.” After all, writing has been my life and, in recent years, my salvation. What will I do with myself if I can no longer write? Sure, even if it becomes harder to read, I can watch tennis, but that is scarcely a <a href="https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/raison d'%C3%AAtre" rel="nofollow"><i>raison d’être</i></a> for living. Solitaire, anyone? </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">But, rest assured, I will find something to do even if it is only to watch the clouds roll by when sitting out on my patio. And lest you misconstrue things, I want also to reassure you that, except for the occasional bad day or scare about my latest somatic inkling of ultimate doom, I am not depressed. I’m actually happy most of the time and still grateful, despite everything, to be here. After all, I’ve had a good run, and have had and continue to have, many blessings in my life including of course the love and devotion of my children, the loving care of Lauren, my longtime girlfriend, and the love of the friends who still remain in my life.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">And, to be sure, I’m grateful to those of you who have been reading my blogs all these years and especially to many of you who have taken trouble to write to me. I hope you’ve been at least occasionally amused by my musings and otherwise entertained, perhaps even edified, once or twice, by what you’ve encountered in my blogs. Feel free to stay in touch, if you like. At least I can still do e-mail. As the Chinese say, <a href="https://www.wordhippo.com/what-is/the-meaning-of/italian-word-d6662e2f5f0bdf2c36a3824c2144f60bdc65825d.html"><i>non ti scordar di me</i></a>. </div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I know I’ve also said in this somewhere, in one of my books perhaps: A <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Douglas_MacArthur" rel="nofollow">famous general</a> of my time, in giving his farewell address, said “Old soldiers never die; they just fade away.” So do old NDE researchers.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/1627879994/?tag=iandsorg-20" rel="nofollow" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="243" data-original-width="162" height="243" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLW5Agc2kbnstfXrppCl1vbhQRJQURqhZgS89teXuH9GR7smZoJZ7FguT4bqCvrnu1jSf6ZTZZ5wqzYrg9Fkcvss_kSyc0gYDE40YNHIvaFsgW7aAvfa_wWoJ9BzD_njwvpHNW97l9o1FstZ5DuWw_JaoKjhvk_RwWD2Ug4mc-BpUkizFj6ELgL57H/s1600/blogging-toward-infinity.jpg" width="162" /></a></div>But not quite yet, however. I promised my old and dear friend, <a href="http://pmhatwater.com/">PMH Atwater</a>, a veteran NDE author many of whose books I have in my library and whom I’ve known for the last 45 years, that I would read her just recently published autobiography, <a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0C6TRFL54/?tag=iandsorg-20" rel="nofollow">Edge Walker</a>, before I become a posthumous author myself. I’ve just opened the package containing her new book to find it inscribed with a very loving dedication to me. Of course, the font is small, which will be a trial for my poor eyes, but I will persevere, dear Phyllis, don’t worry. A promise is a promise, and unlike my wedding vows, this is one I mean to keep.</div>Kevin Williamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10028779062267448624noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2923424816839609066.post-251100276050965982023-06-04T06:32:00.000-07:002023-06-04T06:32:47.940-07:00The Sporting Life<div>By <a href="http://kenring.org/about.html">Kenneth Ring, Ph.D.</a></div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkSGhB4bhRZgaILsrUJY5M0ZTsQxVwndBYrfGuidUpt33spZqFvVl8COReweVJqbZvUDMNj0N6Ev0sET21GRgGQ2zAklxirQUkZmWWEUz6D3J1Rzr8nK1-nvazNV7l7B0vl3WHQEjY7JpIVAXYZBoNbVOrTxlANexsiTzrCqYbDnBIj513jbeAoBdD/s295/roger-federer.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="295" data-original-width="199" height="295" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkSGhB4bhRZgaILsrUJY5M0ZTsQxVwndBYrfGuidUpt33spZqFvVl8COReweVJqbZvUDMNj0N6Ev0sET21GRgGQ2zAklxirQUkZmWWEUz6D3J1Rzr8nK1-nvazNV7l7B0vl3WHQEjY7JpIVAXYZBoNbVOrTxlANexsiTzrCqYbDnBIj513jbeAoBdD/s1600/roger-federer.jpg" width="199" /></a></div>As I have been moving ever closer to my dotage and growing used to my decreasing mobility which causes some of my neighbors to mistake me for a tree whenever they see me loitering outside, seemingly attempting to implant myself in the soil around my house, I have come to entertain myself by watching various sporting events on TV. After all, if life has become a spectator sport for me, why shouldn’t I indulge myself in the sports I loved and played in my youth – baseball, golf and especially tennis. Some of you might remember that for so many years until his retirement, I was an ardent Fedhead – that is, an avid follower of the great <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Roger_Federer" rel="nofollow">Roger Federer</a> and would live and die watching him win thrilling tournaments and lose some heartbreaking ones. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">But watching sports has been mostly a lonely passion for me. Most of my remaining friends aren’t interested in sports, and although a couple of my kids sometimes follow golf or baseball, their involvement is nothing like mine. After all, they are busy and still have a life whereas I can only remember when I had one.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Nevertheless, although my girlfriend Lauren will sometimes watch tennis with me, she is easily distracted and will often wander off just at a crucial turning point in a game or tennis match. But when she’s not here, and I have watched something memorable or thrilling or terrible, I cannot restrain myself: I have to write her about what I’ve just witnessed. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">When I was a kid, I dreamt about being a sports journalist. And now, I seem to have become one, even though so far I have a very small readership, namely one, my long-suffering girlfriend.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">But no more! I have decided to branch out. I want to include you among my followers, if you’re willing. Even if you’re not interested in sports, you might find some of my ravings entertaining. Anyway, I invite you to read on and let me know what you think.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I’ll begin with a note I sent to Lauren after the conclusion of a major golf tournament I spent one weekend recently watching….</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Since I have to sit here for a while, I’ll just take the time to tell you a heartwarming story from yesterday’s golf tournament.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfXLih-LTLdOaLlkyIqDOQC8pjB6Hv6I18-nrdybZzL3y5Kb4ksMwFPi6vDdLErhxpkawKBAodnTabLKHhSQZHdGoOaA4JOwZaB940lC2WIKNhsrfazcm3S2dVYtMruY3D9obt0yrf9BcBG4vYezEmjfcG0NyLwrwSiPy0Zn3CbdcK_5aj6yO48j8B/s237/michael-block.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="202" data-original-width="237" height="202" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfXLih-LTLdOaLlkyIqDOQC8pjB6Hv6I18-nrdybZzL3y5Kb4ksMwFPi6vDdLErhxpkawKBAodnTabLKHhSQZHdGoOaA4JOwZaB940lC2WIKNhsrfazcm3S2dVYtMruY3D9obt0yrf9BcBG4vYezEmjfcG0NyLwrwSiPy0Zn3CbdcK_5aj6yO48j8B/s1600/michael-block.jpg" width="237" /></a></div>An old professional golf instructor from Southern California was eligible to play in this tournament. His name was <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Michael_Block" rel="nofollow">Michael Block</a>, and he’s 46 years old. In seven previous tournaments, he never made the cut. But the first day, to everyone’s surprise he finished with even par, 70. Quite an achievement as he was only a few strokes behind the leaders. And the next day, he did it again — finished with another 70. He was beginning to attract attention. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The next day featured relentless rain almost all day, and most of the golfers struggled to make a good score in it. Most everyone failed. But not Michael — he shot a third straight 70, even in these miserable conditions. He was becoming the darling of the tournament. Everybody was talking about him now and not just the guys in the lead. Could he continue to astound?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The day dawned sunny and bright for the final round, but Michael bogied the first hole, just barely missing his putt. But he soon made a birdie and was even par again. He eventually was two over par when he came to the 13th hole (I think it was) when he made a hole in one! It was the only hole in one in the tournament. The fans went huts! He came to the last hole one over par. But if he could par the final hole, he would earn a special exemption that would allow him to play in next year’s PGA and other important tournaments.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">In golf, it is traditional that all the fans gather around the 18th fairway as the final players approach the last hole. I watched him as he strolled toward the green, listening to the adulation of thousands of fans, cheering him and calling his name. Consider this: He had worked all these years in total obscurity; no one had heard of him. What a moment! Can you imagine how he felt taking that walk?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Still, he had work to do; he couldn’t allow himself to be distracted by the tumult around him or undone by his own emotions.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Nevertheless, he messed up, and his approach shot was way off the green. It looked hopeless. But he made an amazing shot to reach the green and had a 6-foot putt to make in order to par the hole.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Could he do it? The enormous crowd grew quiet as he hovered over the ball. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The ball rolled gently toward the hole and had just enough energy left to topple into the cup. He had done it!</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The crowd erupted! Michael bent over to retrieve the ball, overcome with emotion. He then ran into the crowd, found his wife (surrounded by his kids) and they joyfully embraced. He was crying. So were all of us.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">He later said that this had been the greatest day of his life. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">This is why we watch golf.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div>****************</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZeeHUM3vCuLoCDaVXtd3NEwuZanmtpNMjIUyxs1rU3wo4t7blDaVupoz_FHpHLhGDJfNJZz2UhPVqwqPyN6SJAxcqfoM4rew4hbPXqFfyllGoqcsnH6ncJefl43YHR7F98lwg4BdEaIObKDjqgVMNsOMIzIjWavWhkHH4HWixtPS3aqADOUH0DTBs/s265/rafael-nadal.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="265" data-original-width="217" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZeeHUM3vCuLoCDaVXtd3NEwuZanmtpNMjIUyxs1rU3wo4t7blDaVupoz_FHpHLhGDJfNJZz2UhPVqwqPyN6SJAxcqfoM4rew4hbPXqFfyllGoqcsnH6ncJefl43YHR7F98lwg4BdEaIObKDjqgVMNsOMIzIjWavWhkHH4HWixtPS3aqADOUH0DTBs/s1600/rafael-nadal.jpg" width="217" /></a></div>Then just today – I’m writing this on May 31st – I was watching some tennis matches at the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/French_Open" rel="nofollow">French Open</a>, which is played on a clay surface. The great <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rafael_Nadal" rel="nofollow">Rafael Nadal</a> has “owned” this tournament for years – he is called the King of Clay -- having won it an astounding fourteen times, but this year he was injured and couldn’t compete, leaving the field wide open for somebody else for a change. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The two matches I saw today were unforgettable. Read on and you’ll see why. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Here’s the write-up of the first one I sent to Lauren shortly after it concluded. I entitled it “A Shocker at <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Roland_Garros_(aviator)" rel="nofollow">Rolland Garros</a>” (the tournament is named after a French pilot).</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Ever hear of a 23-year-old Brazilian player with the improbable but memorable name of <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thiago_Seyboth_Wild" rel="nofollow">Thiago Seyboth Wild</a>? </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Of course not; nobody has. And in tennis he is a nobody, ranked #172 in the world. Eight times he’s tried to quality for a major tournament; failed every time. Finally, he gets into the first round at Roland Garros. And who is his opponent? <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Daniil_Medvedev" rel="nofollow">Medvedev</a>, the 2nd ranked player in the world and one of the co-favorites to win the tournament.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I was still sleeping when the match started, but when I checked the scores, I found that the Brazilian had actually won the first set in a tie-break, but lost the second in another tie-break, and then the third set, 6-2, so it looked as if that would be the end of the line for him. But not so fast, Sherlock.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I saw he was actually up 3-0 in the fourth set. What? I was still in my bathrobe, not even having had the time to take a shower, but I put everything on hold to check out the match.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzAFovQtRA72guCMw4-X9OR_tbsA8d9Zkv2u2V2_pc-tdI9rIPWp0n2xDh6DGJvv5W0kd5JvZq3buHIExLHpgfyEAXu5JnWkif4MA71TNcqHLxbexewS_JxeRmkcvU_7O6nqed_GmqGYdaOyfY_f0LDQCx5aL4WVspPRXVznFO2UNK1hcriz2zfaSO/s323/thiago-seyboth-wild.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="323" data-original-width="218" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzAFovQtRA72guCMw4-X9OR_tbsA8d9Zkv2u2V2_pc-tdI9rIPWp0n2xDh6DGJvv5W0kd5JvZq3buHIExLHpgfyEAXu5JnWkif4MA71TNcqHLxbexewS_JxeRmkcvU_7O6nqed_GmqGYdaOyfY_f0LDQCx5aL4WVspPRXVznFO2UNK1hcriz2zfaSO/s320/thiago-seyboth-wild.jpg" width="216" /></a></div>Thiago, as I will now call him, was soon broken, so they were back on serve, so, again, I thought that would be it for him, but no! He broke back and went on to win the set, 6-3 — to the cheers of the crowd. So it would come down to the fifth and final set.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">And it started great for Thiago; he broke Medvedev again in the first game. But soon Medvedev had broken back to knot the set at 2-all. But each player kept losing his serve (there would be five breaks of serve in this set). Finally, Thiago broke again and now was serving for the match!</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">He won the first three points and was on the cusp of triumph, but then lost the next two. The next rally was exciting and he made some tremendous shots, and finally — finally (after well more than 4 hours) — he prevailed! Wow!</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Of course, the crowd went nuts.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Afterward in the interview with him, I learned this. He had actually begun to cramp in the second set when he had a lead in the tie-break (and had set point) but then lost. And lost badly in the third set before storming back to win. He had never beaten a top ten player or played a five set match in his life, much less at the center court at Roland Garros before a huge crowd. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">He’s very personable, too, speaks perfect English, is handsome and not that tall — a charmer. If he keeps this up, he will become the Michael Block of Roland Garros.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div>****************</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUuCnUTaBcS26BH9zC8q-l8mxd9JQxVnfyV5DrgWFldK95T-PbdN9c0UJ61S4QRjoa9t-uqWWrKBUZu9W06lTYy2mAn_AhOybmHRETbQ4G_PZmxOFMiNpnxGCpq5xPRtLE55zkZw18PdWXTWj0Rg2HhbXxPmfyndGNtvjAvrrHZgFi8J3vRMmpnS7s/s313/gael-monfils.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="313" data-original-width="214" height="313" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUuCnUTaBcS26BH9zC8q-l8mxd9JQxVnfyV5DrgWFldK95T-PbdN9c0UJ61S4QRjoa9t-uqWWrKBUZu9W06lTYy2mAn_AhOybmHRETbQ4G_PZmxOFMiNpnxGCpq5xPRtLE55zkZw18PdWXTWj0Rg2HhbXxPmfyndGNtvjAvrrHZgFi8J3vRMmpnS7s/s1600/gael-monfils.jpg" width="214" /></a></div>But thrilling as that match was, the best was still to come – the featured night match. After it was over and I had recovered from the enormous emotion that it had engendered, I couldn’t wait to write Lauren about it: </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">OMG, I just finished watching one of the most incredible and improbable comebacks of all times. Listen up. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">First, the back story. <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gael_Monfils" rel="nofollow">Gael Monfils</a>, a Black French tennis player, has long been one of the most entertaining, colorful and beloved of all French players. He has always been a great fan favorite, and for many years. But now he’s old, 36, and in recent years, he always runs out of breath and pants as a match goes on. His legs, like mine, just ain’t what they used to be. And during the last year, it’s been even worse for him. He had to take off almost the entire year because of a foot injury and when he returned, he didn’t win a single match, even when not playing in the top circuit. I think he lost 8 in a row, and his ranking slipped all the way down to 394 whereas he had been close to a top ten player for many years and even at Roland Garros had been a semi-finalist. I think it was because of that and because he is so beloved, that he was allowed to play in this tournament. And even was the showcase attraction for the night session, an honor, which just concluded. His opponent was a young rising star from Argentina named <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sebastian_Baez" rel="nofollow">Baez</a>. The match was supposed to be kind of a farewell appearance for Monfils.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">But he really wanted to play tonight for a special reason. He and his wife, another tennis player who had won her match earlier, just had a baby daughter, their first child, who was in the stands. Monfils, as a newly minted father, really wanted to play for her, as he said afterward.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">As expected, he lost the first set, 6-3, but somehow managed to win the second by the same score. I wasn’t watching, but decided watch the third set. It went back and forth and Monfils was already laboring, but by a miracle, he pulled ahead at the end and managed to hold both his nerve and his serve, and won the set, 7-5, to a cheering and ecstatic crowd. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">But by now he was clearly spent, and obviously out of gas. Everyone figured the match was over, especially when his opponent won the fourth set easily, 6-1. I wasn’t watching anymore, but saw that his opponent was sweeping to victory in the final set and was up, I believe, 4-0, when I checked on the Internet. Clearly, Monfils was done. I went back to doing e-mail.</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">But when I checked again, he had managed to claw back, and was now behind 4-5, with his opponent serving for the match.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZENa48eKF_gB6ou17xKXW1lnHjR3SeZNrW3MtclUjzrCDIEDYHZStJuNnjUpYzbS14-3HAqHkK7-v5zkRDbgne1H88wWX_KypDOZwROPUtN0QtEAqpZQN1ox-fwWKR28F6_daYXiNlnBPIEleXfKsZPdg6bzNcv8ubwVSH1GT7nalT5PgcFab6ZJN/s893/ken-watching-sports.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="873" data-original-width="893" height="433" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZENa48eKF_gB6ou17xKXW1lnHjR3SeZNrW3MtclUjzrCDIEDYHZStJuNnjUpYzbS14-3HAqHkK7-v5zkRDbgne1H88wWX_KypDOZwROPUtN0QtEAqpZQN1ox-fwWKR28F6_daYXiNlnBPIEleXfKsZPdg6bzNcv8ubwVSH1GT7nalT5PgcFab6ZJN/w443-h433/ken-watching-sports.jpg" width="443" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">I decided I had better watch. And by the time I was, Monfils had somehow managed to break Baez’s serve, and now it was 5-5. Incredible. But Monfils was in trouble. He could hardly stand. He was limping and in obvious pain. Despite his injury, he — by some miracle — was able to hold his serve. It was now 6-5, with the other guy serving. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">By now, Monfils was just hobbling around. He took extra time and was penalized for it. The game went back and forth, and finally it looked as if it was headed for a 10-point tie-break that Monfiis would not be able to withstand. But he drew on his reserves to get to match point. The crowd was screaming. Nevertheless, he lost the next point, and it was deuce again. But he won the next point to get to a second match point. He was about to lose the next rally, but by an act of God, he made a passing shot down the line to win — game, set, match. It was over.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">A great broad smile broke across his glistening face, as he raised his hands in victory to thunderous applause. After his shook this opponent’s hand, he collapsed on the court and sobbed uncontrollably, as I’m sure many of the crowd did.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">It was probably the greatest and most improbable comeback in this tournament’s history. And so deeply moving. A match for the ages.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Today started with the Medvedev upset by that young Brazilian and ended with the old Frenchman coming back from the dead for one last hurrah. In a couple of days, Monfils will play that Danish brat [his name is <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Holger_Rune" rel="nofollow">Holger Rune</a>], now one of the favorites to win the tournament, and Monfils will surely lose. But what he did today will never be forgotten by French fans and all those who have followed and loved Gael Monfils all these years.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div>****************</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">This is why Ken watches sports. A boy always needs heroes to look up to. So does an old man who can still thrill when he is a witness to other old (and sometimes very young) men who defy the odds to perform miracles while large crowds cheer and weep with joy.</div>Kevin Williamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10028779062267448624noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2923424816839609066.post-55505168215541075362023-05-14T07:13:00.001-07:002023-05-14T16:43:54.299-07:00My Brief but Deluded Life as a Beatnik<div>By <a href="http://kenring.org/about.html">Kenneth Ring, Ph.D.</a></div><div><br /></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">For Maria</span></div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">For the past thirty months I have been blessed with the services of a wonderful caregiver named Maria. Along with my girlfriend Lauren and my daughter Kathryn, Maria has been a godsend to me. Without the loving care of these three women, I would surely no longer be here to badger you with my blogs.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/University_of_California,_Berkeley" rel="nofollow" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="228" data-original-width="230" height="228" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghpcxc-vgQr5FbRmQXAVWakHwGaazH4FsGWAXXkXKHXjzPWRU1Vjsmqr6I6u84G-9p2wMrNj3OcE-KsE6wZ533CAkYrlrebPxG_aKVWxJeZOAiS-ngS5XyZ5tzEk8wD1y3wloEjsFsjHNpvqsuDiBPetxmZkyT2vGMQk-9XL_HQU2RzIIn0NCqB09E/s1600/Seal_of_University_of_California,_Berkeley.jpg" width="230" /></a></div>Maria is in her late 30s, and does everything for me that I can no longer or easily do for myself. This includes shopping for groceries, driving, doing washes for me, running errands, lifting things that are too heavy for me, and so forth. But although I am almost fifty years older than Maria, she has come to take an interest in both my professional and romantic life, so sometimes she induces me to talk about my storied past. And just the other day, we wound up having another such long conversation (or I should say, “monologue”) about my early college days when I was a student at <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/University_of_California,_Berkeley">Cal-Berkeley</a>.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">What prompted this excursion into my youthful follies was something Maria happened to mention that astonished me. Maria is not really a reader (she just doesn’t have much time as she has a full-time job quite apart from keeping me afloat); instead she listens to books. And the book she has been listening to lately (indeed, she told me that she had already listened to it three times) was <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jack_Kerouac" rel="nofollow">Jack Kerouac</a>’s <a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0B4KQV2DF/?tag=iandsorg-20" rel="nofollow">The Dharma Bums</a>. I had no idea Maria was interested in writers of the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Beat_Generation" rel="nofollow">Beat Generation</a> that began to flourish in the 1950s (before <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hippie" rel="nofollow">hippies</a> and well before the emergence of “the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Counterculture" rel="nofollow">counter-culture</a>”). Although I had never read Kerouac, not even his groundbreaking book, <a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B002IPZFYQ/?tag=iandsorg-20" rel="nofollow">On the Road</a>, which was published while I was still matriculating at Cal, the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Beatnik" rel="nofollow">Beats</a> were important to me and prefigured an important turn in my life away from conventional society and interests toward alienated youth and wild poets. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0B4KQV2DF/?tag=iandsorg-20" rel="nofollow" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="296" data-original-width="199" height="296" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihKDiBVoEYZOUhbzXGkq3lHRizm0Mrk12cXu1606ofcUjaf11cCsN5LRYoUYz8VJ1VXRoKI9kSWAvjJ5rqEel1oOk_he-HhF6ze8uwffemEpakoTcIHeB-I7L2xEI_L_-9BVY0CZRHgXQmxS07eOMyrjQJRXMOaTjT4afaEPXxTYIJfhsEdWCJF0NK/s1600/dharma-bums.jpg" width="199" /></a></div>So, naturally, I held forth for the next half hour or so as I regaled her with my tales of my wayward past while Maria listened raptly. Before leaving, she made it clear how much she enjoyed our conversation. Thinking about it afterward, I figured maybe you would also be interested to learn about this significant turn in my life.</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">If so, read on. But this story actually begins – and will end – with another important woman in my life, my first girlfriend, Carolyn. You will need to learn a bit about her and my relationship with her before I can get to my life as a beatnik. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Carolyn </span></div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">When I was a junior in high school, I acquired my first girlfriend after a very romantic and somewhat antic pursuit. Naturally, we spent a great deal of time together and I had my first sexual experiences with her, though whether we ever actually had intercourse is still not clear to me. (She later devised <i><a href="https://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/mot_juste" rel="nofollow">le mot juste</a></i> for it – “outercourse.”) I was very strongly drawn to her, however, and we did make out a lot. A friend took this photograph of us in a characteristic romantic embrace:</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWLJTcFFTzi4b2I1EAUwaOXFCDWT3Ib7MuHGcHkOV-lw4quma1hpu-n2ULGN4KKdMtO02zvELLpJL1Usdy1TUz5CLDQyNbq84NpktV-dlcwhJlL3aGO_S1le7VmjyhMdGMK_uJt9WD8jDBH8KHnl8wX1NjhqOsuwxjnNot4rI-PSc246wq7kc7MtyT/s543/photo-01.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="529" data-original-width="543" height="352" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWLJTcFFTzi4b2I1EAUwaOXFCDWT3Ib7MuHGcHkOV-lw4quma1hpu-n2ULGN4KKdMtO02zvELLpJL1Usdy1TUz5CLDQyNbq84NpktV-dlcwhJlL3aGO_S1le7VmjyhMdGMK_uJt9WD8jDBH8KHnl8wX1NjhqOsuwxjnNot4rI-PSc246wq7kc7MtyT/w361-h352/photo-01.jpg" width="361" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="text-align: justify;">Nevertheless, we had another kind of passion between us: violent arguments about religion. At the time, I was a committed and dogmatic atheist whereas she was deeply religious and intent on becoming the first woman <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Presbyterianism" rel="nofollow">Presbyterian</a> minister. Still, during our high school days, I was a pretty conventional teenager. My passions were chiefly classical music, baseball and girls, although at the time Carolyn was girl enough for me. Apart from liking to attend symphony concerts and operas (to which I dragged Carolyn), my tastes and habits were entirely ordinary for a kid of my age and time. I enjoyed movies, going to the beach, playing golf and softball, and diverting myself with various card and board games such as Scrabble, among other pedestrian pastimes.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="text-align: justify;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I was never a “wild” kid, was an increasingly successful student, never played hooky, didn’t drink or smoke and never had been in trouble with the law. I graduated from high school a half-semester ahead of Carolyn and, more or less by a fluke and at the last minute, decided to enroll in college at the University of California in Berkeley. At first, I continued to live with my parents, but as soon as I could afford it, I moved out and lived near the Berkeley campus. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jules_Feiffer" rel="nofollow" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="258" data-original-width="196" height="258" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHb4nbvZkZFu0q1tIH0fah2WC-IDRdUOt0bynKOppbDREu4ZIPejhSb5SoWPqzQZpRz-VTMJz4aIbX87F-yUYxSjJdjUFwsjJvJvfcF4tTUmrBM_7pxXERpN8RLcoShK4tvEtZ8N-5YJEybPcUVoqkpeOyVx6OHxOEVd3IATlY4K6Uf_Xlbl86K9C-/s1600/jules_feiffer-drawing.jpg" width="196" /></a></div>When I was a freshman, Carolyn and I were still going together, but within a relatively short time, I found myself very strongly drawn to the then just emerging “<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Silent_Generation" rel="nofollow">Beat culture</a>” and began to identify with the lifestyle of what later came to be called “alienated youth.” I had gone from being a relatively conventional, clean-cut young man who used to attend Cal football games in a white shirt salivating after “pom-pom” girls (i.e., our cheerleaders) to becoming in effect a bearded slob, a kind of a caricature of a <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jules_Feiffer" rel="nofollow">Jules Pfeiffer</a> cartoon figure, who took pleasure in flouting the pretensions of bourgeois society and who came to view himself a young existentialist. The Berkeley campus didn’t really afford a <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cafe_society" rel="nofollow">café society</a>, much less a <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Left_Bank" rel="nofollow">Left Bank</a>, but if it had, I would have easily found a niche for myself as a denizen of that world.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">All this appalled and disgusted Carolyn, and before too long, she had decided she didn’t know me anymore and wondered how we could continue as a couple.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I myself have only very dim memories of those days and what I must have been like then, but several years after I had rediscovered Carolyn much later in life and began corresponding with her, she reminded me of them and told me how she remembered me during that period:</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;">As you acknowledge, you were drawn to Beat culture. I remember a particular bar that you frequented. You took me there once and tried to pressure me into drinking a glass of beer that I did not want. Part of this Beat culture seemed to be aversion to bodily cleanliness. Instead of remaining lovers we were pulled into a destructive nagging mother/rebellious son relationship that was no fun for either of us. I was always after you to get a haircut, shave, wash your clothes, take a bath, and you responded with all the sarcasm that you are capable of. Furthermore, you just dug in your heels. I seem to remember a period where day after day you wore the same soiled clothes. I am sure that the pants were grey, and I think that the shirt was as well. The smell of sweat combined at times with the smell of beer made me gag. I wanted to cut the tie that bound us into this destructive relationship but was reluctant to hurt you. I hated not only what you had become but what I had become.</div></blockquote><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Allen_Ginsberg" rel="nofollow" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="254" data-original-width="196" height="254" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWV3rge74N7UbV4YmByOgt1pvTrLdNZACRqHj-uz9uoXy146waahxwx4MvImz5uYCdIkhXwPe99fzUTZtpR5K3jNH2DWiO3qcbBPaRgoNOiUc7ZXaWjjBXBt4NjyEAwNoNhicO3j0ozG7ThpE98G5vNizfJFrgJSoxcQg7pb4Ll5PKeY7exRU2uGi9/s1600/allen_ginsberg_1979.jpg" width="196" /></a></div>Carolyn finally broke it off—and broke my heart—but by then it was too late. I actually rued her loss in my life and mourned it for the next several years, but I was set on my course and would not look back. For my part, I had no intention of trying to rectify my behavior for her sake or anyone else’s. To me, I was just behaving in a way that had quickly come to seem natural to me. I had already learned to identify with the radical fringe and alienated youths like me. And the wild poets of the Beat generation strongly attracted me, too.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Case in point: I remember when I first came across <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Allen_Ginsberg" rel="nofollow">Allen Ginsberg</a>’s famous <a href="https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/cri%20de%20coeur" rel="nofollow">cri de Coeur</a>, “<a href="https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/49303/howl">Howl</a>” with its arresting initial lines like a punch to one’s gut:</div><div><br /></div><div>I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, hysterical naked,</div><div>Dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn, looking for an angry fix, </div><div>Angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night….</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Wow! I remember just where I had discovered and bought the book, what it looked like, the effect it had on me. It opened up a new and thrilling world of sensation. I was now a long way from <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Walt_Whitman" rel="nofollow">Whitman</a> and <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Blake" rel="nofollow">Blake</a>; this was a voice from my own time, speaking as it were, to my soul. I was finding my people.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">So I began drinking, mostly beer and gin, as I recall, and hanging out with kids like me, if I could find them, and in time, I could. As Carolyn noted, I started dressing differently, too, as if my changing my clothes, sporting a beard, and affecting an <a href="https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/insouciance" rel="nofollow">insouciant</a> matter, I could change my character. In effect, I had found new role models now.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">An example: By the time I was a senior, I found myself living with a Belgian immigrant. His name was Dwight David Gaston, and since he arrived on the shores on the United States when <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dwight_D._Eisenhower" rel="nofollow">Dwight David Eisenhower</a> was the President, the customs agent who processed him, who couldn’t understand this newcomer’s accent, gave him a new name. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Phi_Beta_Kappa" rel="nofollow" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="180" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvO11---rVCWfq4g2HNb5Z7QlFGWwvbAN5jrryElaeR-uw6S9nyBxOA271scvus59OQX5K_6RTn12tSTy1CmsEWNVeYn-Kg89EAM12DW5sjOS6izUVt-SDwe9boQ4CZNbGKevS8qjjxRVSXzb8RXmJuT99qMo2ILnfmnfRsPtoZGyMkgc22tBcKdx6/s320/Phi_Beta_Kappa_Key.jpg" width="144" /></a></div>Dwight was quite a character and our living arrangements were unusual, too. We had rented a small house without a bed on the south side of campus. We had to share a pull-out couch. But I didn’t always share it just with Dwight. Since this was the beginning of the era of “<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Free_sex" rel="nofollow">free sex</a>,” sometimes Dwight would ask me if I wouldn’t mind studying at the library of an evening. I would usually comply, only to find when I returned home, Dwight had brought along a comely companion from San Francisco to share our bed. Oh well, I just turned to the side and pretended to be asleep. Still, I spent so much time in the library, I got straight As that semester and graduated <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Phi_Beta_Kappa" rel="nofollow">Phi Beta Kappa</a>. </div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Dwight was always more adventuresome when it came to sex than I was, and was really a somewhat raffish character, though not dissolute. In fact, I was very fond of Dwight, but it was he, not I, who was really living the beatnik life I was just playing at. My forays into the Beat world were mostly superficial and, in truth, something of a pose. I never truly had the cajones to explore and fully embrace that life, much as I was drawn to it.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">And it’s only been recently, thanks to Maria, that I learned that in those very years, in the same neighborhood that I was living in, the most infamous of the Beats – Kerouac, Ginsberg, and the poet, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gary_Snyder" rel="nofollow">Gary Snyder</a> – were hanging out. They were effectively just next door. Why did I not know that? I had blown my chance to pal out with those guys. Now I can but wonder how my life might have developed, if only I had taken the trouble to track them down and not just breathe in the heady atmosphere of Berkeley that they had created. I missed my chance to become a real dharma bum. </div><div><br /></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">The Dharma Bums of Berkeley </span></div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gary_Snyder" rel="nofollow" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="269" data-original-width="199" height="269" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7_WPlf3DAFT7q4nHT7UgEkCtmQDODe4dx52aFP8cdq7WHlAkFvAGC_j9o9CjXrSdsXZdeeL6Ujmu96IEIxarzHrM1TttvyfNFvooPSLmLKTYstLVjuF54673raoImXEf7nMFTcxl902lza1r9fKQY18otJZOBJqbUDG7SE1qREJ046dD5Sz5ViEX3/s1600/gary_snyder,_2007.jpg" width="199" /></a></div>After my chat with Maria, I decided I should do some remedial reading, so I ordered and am currently reading Kerouac’s The Dharma Bums. It was from that book that I learned that the Beats depicted in that book (but given easily identifiable pseudonyms) were spending time, drinking and whoring and writing poetry, just down the street from me, so to speak. Just to give you some idea of what kind of thing I had missed out on, I will simply copy out for you one long passage from the book. In it, Kerouac has given himself the bland name, Ray Smith; Ginsberg has become Alvah Goldbook; Gary Snyder is now memorably dubbed Japhy Ryder. Here is a typical scene from the lives of these Beats: </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>I forgot to mention [that] a rock artist had called on Japhy in the late afternoon, a girl had come right after, a blonde in rubber boots and a Tibetan coat with wooden buttons, and in the general talk she’d inquired about our plan to climb Mount Matterhorn and said, “Can I come with ya?” as she was a bit of a mountainclimber herself.</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>“Shore,” said Japhy…”shore, come on with us and we’ll screw ya at ten thousand feet” and the way he said it was so funny and casual, and in fact serious, that the girl wasn’t shocked at all but somewhat pleased. In this same spirit he’d now brought this girl Princess to our cottage, it was about eight o’clock at night, dark. Alvah and I were quietly sipping tea and reading or typing poems and two bicycles came into the yard: Japhy on his, Princess on hers. Princess had gray eyes and yellow hair and was very beautiful and only twenty. I must say one thing about her, she was sex mad and men mad….</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>I went into the kitchen to get a bottle [of wine] and couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw Japhy and Alvah taking their clothes off and throwing them every whichway and I looked and Princess was stark naked, her skin white as snow when the red hits it as dusk, in the red dim light. “What the hell,” I said.</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>"Here's what Yabyrum is, Smith,” said Japhy, and he sat cross-legged on the pillow on the floor and motioned to Princess who came over and sat down on him facing him with her arms around his neck and they sat like that saying nothing for a while. Japhy wasn’t at all nervous or embarrassed and just sat there in perfect form as he was supposed to do….</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>“But what’s she thinking?” I yelled in despair, I’d had idealistic longings for that girl for the past year and had conscience-stricken hours wondering if I should seduce her because she was so young and all.</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>“Oh this is lovely,”said Princess.“Come on and try it….”</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>“Take your clothes off and join in, Smith!”</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/La_boheme" rel="nofollow" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="297" data-original-width="198" height="297" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSdqnpXTjq1PCLI2V_21NYcufuYNCA9HDDHVMAHfuNyX5RXnQIO455fEX2YdqIDI7aCeT__A2Y75fPrrrHf5ehDBHqKhMN8qg5vyNdVjVeGTHdQ6dEtely0GyKFD9NbLkcVtpSRkZ17zzuNA0hwdaLkeV1VqVRFxUhnL6Yrwfs-cfw-CSmB9LSrbHz/s1600/la_boheme_poster_by_hohenstein.jpg" width="198" /></a></div>Believe me, this is the expurgated version. This comic madcap orgy goes on for pages. Who was I kidding? This was not exactly <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Giacomo_Puccini" rel="nofollow">Puccini</a>’s <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/La_boheme" rel="nofollow">La Bohème</a>, which was frolicsome enough for me. Had I come into this bacchanal, I would have fled in terror. If this was the beatnik life, I clearly wasn’t cut out for it. I now thank my lucky stars that I just contented myself with Dwight’s casual bedroom pleasures and never actually ever encountered the Beats next door. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">When my college life was over, so was that romantic affectation. I would become a professor and though I would indeed go on to have my share of sex, drugs and rock and roll (at least the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Rolling_Stones" rel="nofollow">Stones</a> and the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Beatles" rel="nofollow">Beatles</a>) in the years to come, my fantasy life as a would-be beatnik dissipated like a dream upon awakening. It was never real at all.</div><div><br /></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Carolyn Redux</span></div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">What did last – or at least resumed – was my relationship with Carolyn. She had married a philosophy professor and moved to Canada. We continued to correspond occasionally over the years. She still had difficulty understanding me, however, and professed to be puzzled by all the amorous relationships I had had during the course of my life. Most women I have known had found me a winsome fellow, but not Carolyn who was completely impervious to my charm. She never really loved me either – certainly not the way I had loved her.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">But when we were still encoupled at Cal, we happily participated in a rather daring escapade. Some friends of ours had wanted to get married, but the girl was underage. So she and her husband-to-be hatched a plan. Together with a third couple, we would drive up to Reno so they could get married. We wouldn’t tell our parents or anyone else, but we pulled it off. It was great adventure.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Fifty years later, this same couple wanted to re-enact this ceremony and get married again. All six of the original party were still alive, so we all <span face="Verdana, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: small; text-align: left;">met again fifty years later to the day, and reunited. It was a beautiful occasion and that’s when I saw Carolyn again for the first time in nearly half a century.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">After the ceremony, we repaired to some kind of large general function room with a restaurant, and as we were having dinner, a young woman from another party came over to our table, tapped me on the shoulder, and said, “Would you like to dance with me?” </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I winked at Carolyn and as if to say “See?” Carolyn looked non-plussed as I waltzed off with this woman to do my version of the light fantastic, despite having been born with the equivalent of two club feet. Carolyn could only shake her head in disbelief afterward.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Since that time, we have, according to what Carolyn has told me, exchanged more than a thousand e-mail messages. We still argue about most everything except now we have switched sides.</div>Kevin Williamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10028779062267448624noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2923424816839609066.post-36283358608931421802023-04-24T09:01:00.000-07:002023-04-24T09:01:18.788-07:00An Interview with Yours Truly if Unruly<div>By <a href="http://kenring.org/about.html">Kenneth Ring, Ph.D.</a></div><div><br /></div><div>Dear Friends,</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">As I’ve been beset with a sprained right wrist and tendonitis for the past six weeks or so, on the advice of my doctor I’ve had to forego writing any more blogs for the nonce. He suggested that instead of using my fingers to wander over the noisy keys of my computer keyboard, I would be better off using my left hand to beverage myself occasionally with a glass of <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sarsaparilla_(soft_drink)" rel="nofollow">sarsaparilla</a>. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0BTGKK92G/?tag=iandsorg-20" rel="nofollow" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="292" data-original-width="199" height="292" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK8Rj4oC1jgmGAFJnZeLfDBaSKz67GA3FwUQJN89WOVyH0Z6KsjUdvH6nz3aR7TYU96MuaS47WN_ZRX8gaQt2IK3A56zdjXE4Wl6FWhq3OZhhBC9FPElfPQ1k-Mmr6gY55BGOdXcuvCw9Kh61FFEVnlyU3RR3abLOKqJTirJs0Hbs8Wbd-F7kRvGqS/s1600/a-near-death-researchers-notebook-small.jpg" width="199" /></a></div>Still, while I wait to recover, which should be in about another month, I was at least recently able to participate in an e-mail interview about my latest book, <a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0BTGKK92G/?tag=iandsorg-20" rel="nofollow">A Near-Death Researcher’s Notebook</a>. If you remember a previous blog about this book, you will know it consists of various blogs I’ve written during the past few years that I have rebranded as essays. So most of you who have read these blogs for free are not likely to want to buy this book.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">On the other hand, wasn’t it <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Oscar_Wilde" rel="nofollow">Oscar Wilde</a> who said that a good essay was worth reading twice?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Actually, no. That was me. What Oscar said was “Bigamy is having one wife too many. Monogamy is the same.” I only wish I had run across this quip before the first of my several disastrous marriages.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">But I digress. All I really wanted tell you is that until I can blog again, I thought you might enjoy reading this interview, which appeared in a somewhat expurgated form recently in the <a href="https://iands.org/">IANDS</a>’ newsletter, <a href="https://iands.org/research/publications/vital-signs.html">Vital Signs</a>. And who knows, there may be some people who haven’t read my blogs who might after all be interested in this book and keep it from languishing into obscurity before I myself wind up there.</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">*******************************</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Pioneering <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Near-death_experience" rel="nofollow">near-death experience</a> (NDE) researcher and founding IANDS president, <a href="http://kenring.org/about.html">Ken Ring, Ph.D.</a>, just published his most recent book, <a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0BTGKK92G/?tag=iandsorg-20" rel="nofollow">A Near-Death Researcher's Notebook</a>. Another long-time NDE researcher and current IANDS president, <a href="https://www.janholden.com/">Jan Holden, Ed.D.</a>, read it. Ken agreed to an email interview by Jan; here is their exchange.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><a href="https://www.janholden.com/" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="355" data-original-width="324" height="167" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8po3XKEB48lBGpv_vPpiy02XGZkR1kdiuGEQPwD77L5ph0AWBSgx-_LcVhX5fm3VnvmdEJtEu3qxVTiaLe5dK9rJ77OZuxqt8IvM9Ip91E1QYPPyCNA-Mrf7FFa0WIRuBHjqhffZztM9dNIjBAGdBnQ5mCoC_6GQ_E_eLgn0wBXj0WNQi_oLGApxu/w152-h167/jan-holden-photo.jpg" width="152" /></a>Jan: Ken, I just finished reading your newest book, <i>A Near-Death Researcher's Notebook</i>. Although you gave me permission to prepare for this e-interview by perusing rather than completely reading the book, I was frankly entranced and ended up reading every word. As an NDE researcher myself, as well as an aging person facing physical deterioration and demise, I related to much of what you wrote. But I think your book would be engaging for anyone interested in how learning deeply about NDEs, as you have, can affect someone's outlook on everything from the most personal—such as peeing challenges--to the most general—such as prophetic visions about the global future of humanity. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #2b00fe;"><b>Thank you so much for this comment, Jan. Of course, I’m delighted to know that you responded so positively to my book. Let’s hope your enthusiasm will be contagious!</b></span></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4PxQEkOUEJWAJ1citFC3Y6p60Xq5JY6uIkIIjzEsu0cj0i16s4DuSnm2W6p492kdexxwMA7y_42ru1qZHf7LNfjHNqIsLemGXxhEwnTTk-oEcO19s1hIWzRn8P_k0D_Z5XLShCQaVc0cu2T9QJ9tiwcXvkFOvqu1lS6mCXAscht9-cmHQLB5BDCWC/s1100/ken-ring-photo.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1100" data-original-width="928" height="347" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4PxQEkOUEJWAJ1citFC3Y6p60Xq5JY6uIkIIjzEsu0cj0i16s4DuSnm2W6p492kdexxwMA7y_42ru1qZHf7LNfjHNqIsLemGXxhEwnTTk-oEcO19s1hIWzRn8P_k0D_Z5XLShCQaVc0cu2T9QJ9tiwcXvkFOvqu1lS6mCXAscht9-cmHQLB5BDCWC/w293-h347/ken-ring-photo.jpg" width="293" /></a></div><br /><div><span style="text-align: justify;">That said, here are a few of my questions and reactions, to which I invite your response—and any additional comments you might wish to make.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">On p. 13, you described how, even fairly early into your NDE research, you felt as if what you were learning was provoking in you an "extended religious awakening." I was struck by the word "religious," which I associate with organized <a href="https://near-death.com/religion/">religion</a>. The reason is that NDErs often (but not always) gravitate away from organized religion because they find it is not big enough to accommodate what they experienced in their NDEs. And you yourself, later in the book, say you have no use for the religion of your upbringing—Judaism—and that Buddhism comes closest to your views—though you also don't consider yourself a Buddhist, per se. If I'm on target with all those points, perhaps you actually meant "an extended <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Enlightenment_(spiritual)" rel="nofollow">spiritual awakening</a>?"</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #2b00fe;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B077YPRXXS/?tag=iandsorg-20" rel="nofollow" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="298" data-original-width="198" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSHalM--9T4QE0vXpAbNUXLlGs7s6t20lMhT0_w0VoNFeb11UiZq6FiZp84hfJ0AWvnxYdJXOe3H07aS68EPl-1cCb56nrU5NwFbPEqOS2cNaz9bfu_08RwO_0itX44p53dcVE2TPGoxpB2bH_YZ5KlHO_j4UnMIGZgvWyT3ua8jC_Xp1RinaEVv_M/s1600/the-idea-of-the-holy.jpg" width="198" /></a></div><b>Yes, you're right, but I think I can explain the contradiction. I wrote that article when I had just started interviewing my first NDErs in the late 1970s. At that time, I often felt a sacred atmosphere enveloping me when conducing those interviews and a numinous feeling would come over me. In those days, I thought of it as a profound religious experience. But in time, I realized, as you did, that it was really a spiritual, and not a <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Religious_experience" rel="nofollow">religious experience</a>, as such. I do not consider myself religious, but I do have a sense of the Holy, which I guess is more mystical rather than religious. I never have read</b></span><b> <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rudolf_Otto" rel="nofollow">Rudolf Otto</a><span style="color: #2b00fe;">’s book,</span> <a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B077YPRXXS/?tag=iandsorg-20" rel="nofollow">The Idea of the Holy</a>, </b><span style="color: #2b00fe;"><b>but what I have read about it seems to reflect what I experienced during those first interviews.</b> </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I loved how your book chapters were so substantial while being so short. Your book structure enabled me to read, even briefly, and take a break whenever I felt a need to ponder what I'd read. In reading your chapters on the process of aging and dying—including your reconciliation with your dying father as well as your attention to the "warehousing" of the elderly in senior living homes, loneliness, and accompaniment of the dying in their final days, I often felt, in turn, touched, saddened, and uplifted. I've always considered you an exceptionally talented thinker and writer, and despite any other changes you've experienced, those qualities have not changed. I don't have a question here but, maybe, an opportunity for you to express gratitude that you still have so much to give humanity?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #2b00fe;"><b>Thank you so much for these words of appreciation, Jan, both for me personally and for what I wrote in my book.</b></span></div><div><span style="color: #2b00fe;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #2b00fe;"><b>I’m coming to the end of my working life — and perhaps my life itself before too much longer. I’m 87 now, and I have many physical difficulties to cope with, including at present a really bad case of tendonitis, which makes it very difficult to write now. But of course, I’m very grateful to have lived a long life and been able, somehow, to continue to write not only my own books and blogs, but to tout the work of others, as I do in this book. </b></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #2b00fe;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #2b00fe;"><b>It has been the privilege of my life to have devoted so much to it to my work on NDEs and to have met so many wonderful and loving people over so many years from whom I have learned so much. As the old song goes, “Who could ask for anything more?” I have been blessed beyond measure.</b></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #2b00fe;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08BYDT3KL/?tag=iandsorg-20" rel="nofollow" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="305" data-original-width="198" height="305" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii8GVua3GFb8b-wrqq5dYUGSTQpSkaDjQ8oZUK8UdYHpkFxKzTsSOL3mUoHGvJsyuAqJQsURjAfCRA9FJQjBaDWye3gUa9mUVNPktcliV1_erRb_Nhk5A3LzjnCiVXv4aQqbqGf8-7JYl4iHS_OcDT9C_FmQ9-u7D9lDtx8149ZW5iy-V2mXOoCSO9/s1600/after-bruce-greyson.jpg" width="198" /></a></div>I was so glad you gave a rave review for <a href="https://www.brucegreyson.com/about/">Bruce Greyson</a>'s recent book, <a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08BYDT3KL/?tag=iandsorg-20" rel="nofollow">After</a>. I was also surprised and pleased to learn about some of your most-recommended books on NDEs of which I wasn't aware, such as <a href="https://www.amazon.com/stores/David-Sunfellow/author/B07PPQPX5C/?tag=iandsorg-20" rel="nofollow">David Sunfellow</a>'s 2019 <a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B077YPRXXS/?tag=iandsorg-20" rel="nofollow">The Purpose of Life: As Revealed by Near-Death Experiences from Around the World</a> and his 2020 <a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08JNV9LG5/?tag=iandsorg-20" rel="nofollow">500 Quotes from Heaven: Life-Changing Quotes That Reveal the Wisdom and Power of Near-Death Experiences</a>. I was also pleased to be alerted to very recent and impending publications, such as <a href="https://www.amazon.com/s?i=stripbooks&rh=p_27%3AJeff+Janssen&s=relevancerank&text=Jeff+Janssen&tag=iandsorg-20" rel="nofollow">Jeff Janssen</a>'s <a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/1733085076/?tag=iandsorg-20" rel="nofollow">Your Life's Ripple Effects</a>, which you seem to consider an ultimate treatment of the <a href="https://near-death.com/life-review/">NDE life review</a>, and <a href="https://www.amazon.com/s?i=digital-text&rh=p_27%3AAlexander+Batthy%C3%A1ny&s=relevancerank&text=Alexander+Batthy%C3%A1ny&tag=iandsorg-20" rel="nofollow">Alex Batthyány</a>'s <a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0BQGGL3Y8/?tag=iandsorg-20" rel="nofollow">Threshold: Terminal Lucidity and the Border of Life and Death</a>, which is due out in September 2023. These books contribute clearly to the field of <a href="https://iands.org/">near-death studies</a>. If you could wish one more NDE-related book into existence that you think either would further enhance the field or would potentially greatly influence humanity, what would it be? </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #2b00fe;"><b>I’m going to do an end run around this question, and respond to it in a different way. We have been studying NDEs and similar <a href="https://aciste.org/about-stes/what-is-a-spiritually-transformative-experience-ste/">transformative experiences</a> for nearly a half a century now, and there have already been so many wonderful books published on this subject, including several recent ones you alluded to. So, while acknowledging my limited prophetic powers, I don’t see any new NDE bombshell books on the horizon.</b></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/1250782287/?tag=iandsorg-20" rel="nofollow" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="293" data-original-width="194" height="293" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoM3bu6nKS3RWrcrisphZN239fXGEnVMqANDKKJ0UVdJmnffbQ8wXaVU4D6ZNh5f7MMMBCeLMAzzIL9GGxO-7T0QW1MlZsu6UwirIqKRiYLmRPyflPPF18jDnWtDuclHw9HCp2xBQGVPibcC_6Zl71kZgplBf_aWhvZLTgg3eClw56rwAMfXiIdFeA/s1600/threshold.jpg" width="194" /></a></div><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;">But I can tell you what <i>does</i> excite me, and what I think may be “the coming thing” in near-death studies. It’s one of the books you mentioned —</span> <a href="https://www.viktorfranklinstitute.org/personnel/alexander-batthyany/">Alex Batthyány</a><span style="color: #2b00fe;">’s on</span> <a href="https://psi-encyclopedia.spr.ac.uk/articles/terminal-lucidity">terminal lucidity</a><span style="color: #2b00fe;"> (TL). When I first read about TL several years ago, having come across the pioneering work of</span> <a href="https://psi-encyclopedia.spr.ac.uk/users/michael-nahm">Michael Nahm</a> <span style="color: #2b00fe;">on the subject, I was thrilled. And later, I got in touch with Alex, and we had and still have a very warm and cordial connection. I told him then that if I could still be active in doing research, I would certainly be studying TL myself. I subsequently read the draft of his book, and when it comes out this September, I think what it will do for terminal lucidity what</span> <a href="https://www.lifeafterlife.com/">Raymond Moody</a><span style="color: #2b00fe;">’s</span> <a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B00JTYBWMI/?tag=iandsorg-20" rel="nofollow">Life After Life</a> <span style="color: #2b00fe;">did for NDEs — open up a new and exciting frontier for <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Near-death_studies" rel="nofollow">near-death studies</a>.</span></b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I also loved that you touched on your own experiences with psychedelics and their potential to facilitate NDE-like experiences and/or aftereffects. I myself very recently participated in <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ketamine" rel="nofollow">ketamine</a>-assisted therapy as a consciousness exploration exercise. It was awesome, and I plan to write an article about it for an upcoming issue of <a href="https://iands.org/research/publications/vital-signs.html">Vital Signs</a>. I'm embarking on a study of how reliable ketamine can be in facilitating NDE-like experiences and <a href="https://iands.org/ndes/about-ndes/common-aftereffects.html">aftereffects</a> in healthy adults seeking such experiences but not wanting to nearly die or engage in 10 years of meditation to experience them. Anything you'd like to comment on regarding such research?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #2b00fe;"><b>I was very interested to read about your ketamine experience, Jan, and how you want to look into how it may be used to induce NDE-like experiences in healthy volunteers. Of course, ketamine has become quite in vogue lately, but, actually, you’re running about thirty years behind me.</b></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0B1JPX94R/?tag=iandsorg-20" rel="nofollow" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="270" data-original-width="199" height="270" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRy4T2ZPtWXGmAk8UQqfLxBMYBw9Nkq0emvqPOLQ5TwUa3mYCzWd5EkVm7mgBD-DiRWi4YJpLUN1maMF6-SrkGGGmRCa9e5kTagihAXFnf0ahu1hPzolQN7HtXQSSDAtCqwHGYNjtriQlKbUtb5MScI_NStV4f83MhtunEpbpl8XRxl_RBTJshPNQ4/s1600/ketamine-papers.jpg" width="199" /></a></div><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;">In brief, in 1985, I was approached by a ketamine therapist who wanted to use me as an “expert” (she said) on NDEs to see whether ketamine could engender an NDE-type experience. (She and an oncologist were then working with terminally ill cancer patients.) I wound up using ketamine a total of nine times during the late 1980s, and eventually published an article about my experiences called</span> <span style="color: #2b00fe;">“</span><a href="https://www.kenringblog.com/p/ketamine-days.html">Ketamine Days</a><span style="color: #2b00fe;">,” in a book entitled</span> <a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0B1JPX94R/?tag=iandsorg-20" rel="nofollow">The Ketamine Papers: Science, Therapy, and Transformation</a><span style="color: #2b00fe;">, edited by</span> <a href="https://www.amazon.com/stores/Phil-Wolfson/author/B08FC2SN79/?tag=iandsorg-20" rel="nofollow">Phil Wolfson</a> <span style="color: #2b00fe;">and</span> <a href="https://www.amazon.com/s?i=digital-text&rh=p_27%3AGlenn+Hartelius&s=relevancerank&text=Glenn+Hartelius&tag=iandsorg-20" rel="nofollow">Glenn Hartelius</a>. </b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #2b00fe;"><b>You might well want to consult this book, Jan, and if you do, you can find out what I experienced when I was using it. I’ll leave it at that, but, if you read my article, I think you will agree that my own experiences were “out of this world.”</b></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">One thing that struck me was your use of the term "life preview" to describe how some NDErs get what you have called "<a href="https://digital.library.unt.edu/ark:/67531/metadc799051/">personal flashforwards</a> (PFs)" -- glimpses into specific scenes of their likely futures that often bear out in their actual future lives. In the interest of verbal economy, I wondered about changing the lexicon to: life review, life preview (instead of "personal flashforward"), and global preview (instead of "<a href="https://near-death.com/future/">prophetic visions</a>"). What do you think?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/0688062687/?tag=iandsorg-20" rel="nofollow" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="246" data-original-width="164" height="291" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_KRXrMZsYiPayFW7vmdKAYuJ-kD6bmqVqb9ryUZM8XYI_5gy0iTuwbkr764Ai2EeHCsYCD8oxPNuDDKZOBIGDVo25Ax6MK2tBWjfs9M1zVADFP4gWitDhAlNChz1XCiiCD3HE4_UEqKIDqlFYPpNenmVX3DjKxF8IO2KHP2vjO5B4OU04sK6ZKRd0/w194-h291/heading-toward-omega.jpg" width="194" /></a></div><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Well, I have a fondness for the terms I used (originally in my book,</span> <a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/0688062687/?tag=iandsorg-20" rel="nofollow">Heading Toward Omega</a><span style="color: #2b00fe;">), but I agree that your proposal certainly has the virtue of verbal economy. You don’t need my blessing, of course, but I have no objection. I just wonder how you could get people to adopt your terminology, but I’ll leave that to you.</span></b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Something I resonated to was your occasional reference to, "If only ___ had read / would read about NDEs: I wonder how their [atheistic, nihilistic, warring] attitudes might change." I have so often thought this same thing! In your chapter on Russia's war on the Ukraine and speculation about the life review that's in store for Putin, I had this fantasy: Remember the scene in the movie, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/A_Clockwork_Orange_(film)" rel="nofollow">A Clockwork Orange</a>, in which the lead character was forced to watch horror scenes so that he would have an aversive reaction whenever he even considered taking aggressive action? What if we could kidnap Putin for a week and force him to watch one NDEr after another lovingly describe their life review? Maybe along with testimonials of <a href="https://digital.library.unt.edu/ark:/67531/metadc799169/m2/1/high_res_d/vol11-no4-223.pdf">veridical perception</a> in NDEs so he could not dismiss NDEs as mere products of imagination? Considering the impossibility of this scenario, what about making your next book <i>A Letter to Putin—and Other Actual or Would-Be Leaders on the World Stage?</i> In it, you could address both the life review and what I'm calling global previews—for them to take into consideration when they make policy or military decisions.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #2b00fe;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5I9z9rIVR6NfD1mQgmV2SJ8yogeQ_tM0KyzCVhWbELUUtpNRsXDBznjjx-EWYfIJMhLKnQkE7hA0xEeT_I38SD9DKXKcGsNwkPZvxyxeICnMcmOG-LRRYFzAWssL0NlZcRSYjX0ndvAK8xtaqjAP9YeZx6AwHrgtxLVIGU3PDubHnF53pkN32IH04/s198/clockwork-orange.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="144" data-original-width="198" height="144" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5I9z9rIVR6NfD1mQgmV2SJ8yogeQ_tM0KyzCVhWbELUUtpNRsXDBznjjx-EWYfIJMhLKnQkE7hA0xEeT_I38SD9DKXKcGsNwkPZvxyxeICnMcmOG-LRRYFzAWssL0NlZcRSYjX0ndvAK8xtaqjAP9YeZx6AwHrgtxLVIGU3PDubHnF53pkN32IH04/s1600/clockwork-orange.jpg" width="198" /></a></div><b>Well, Jan, that is a beguiling but impossible fantasy in two ways. First, I can no longer write any more books. (Hell, with this damn tendonitis, I can hardly write this e-mail today.) But, second, world leaders, especially vile autocratic curs like Putin, even if one could capture him for a week of NDE “<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Brainwashing" rel="nofollow">brainwashing</a>,” would surely find a way to dismiss such testimony as fantasies of another kind. And even if I could write a book like <i>A Letter to Putin</i>, he would never read it, much less be influenced by it. </b></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #2b00fe;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #2b00fe;"><b>Or to take this closer to home, do you think ex-and-possibly-again <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Donald_Trump" rel="nofollow">President Trump</a> would be moved by such a book to change his ways? Hell, I wonder if that man can actually read at all. I think the late <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Philip_Roth" rel="nofollow">Philip Roth</a> joked that Trump had a vocabulary about 75 words (doubtless including such tired tropes as “witch hunt” and “hoax”). </b></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #2b00fe;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #2b00fe;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLdKjpPyeuvw1lT5OaC98kQTA4dATtBxJbyM0D3g8AMONFnx9-P0u7hsyjA6wRV_qCHZZLMmU7HIeil1dE-X5YxpHt3RRm8SSE1Hc5gMXw_HsawHbw_pSFQ3d-jTzCpKLEkD2W38_cAqJUst2BL5wEZasGWKh97KpHHFKNhkGbzZgAH-zy8YmKE7Cg/s214/donald-trump.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="214" data-original-width="198" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLdKjpPyeuvw1lT5OaC98kQTA4dATtBxJbyM0D3g8AMONFnx9-P0u7hsyjA6wRV_qCHZZLMmU7HIeil1dE-X5YxpHt3RRm8SSE1Hc5gMXw_HsawHbw_pSFQ3d-jTzCpKLEkD2W38_cAqJUst2BL5wEZasGWKh97KpHHFKNhkGbzZgAH-zy8YmKE7Cg/s1600/donald-trump.jpg" width="198" /></a></div><b>No, the lessons of the life review would be lost on such people, but they can and do change the lives of us mere mortals, and to me, as I make clear in my book, I think the most important takeaway from the study of NDEs is the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Life_review" rel="nofollow">life review</a>. It may not change the world, but it can transform people’s lives if they take the time to read and reflect on it. </b></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Well, my friend, anything else you'd like to say before we sign off? For my part, I'm very glad to have had this opportunity to reconnect with you, and especially on these particular topics! Thank you for your <a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0BTGKK92G/?tag=iandsorg-20" rel="nofollow">Notebook</a>, and I encourage anyone interested in the implications of NDEs for meaning in death and purpose in life to read it. It was well worth my already-stretched-too-thin time!!</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #2b00fe;"><b>No, Jan, I think I had best rest my tortured fingers today and let you have the last word — particularly your concluding advice to the readers of this e-mail exchange. I don’t expect to enter into the days (I say days, not years, deliberately) of my retirement living off the royalties of this book on Majorca, but perhaps, thanks to this interview, I won’t have to end my career as a literary failure.</b></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #2b00fe;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Thanks so much for making the time to do this interview with me. It was a pleasure in every way but digitally.</span> </b> </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">It was my pleasure, Ken! Your book was a rich read, from your reminiscence about the early days of <a href="https://iands.org/">IANDS</a> to your musings about the future of our planet and humanity. And, of course, your sense of humor and your Renaissance-man knowledge of literary and other figures only contributed to the experience. I believe that others will find it as enriching a read as I did. And best wishes grappling with those irritatingly persistent health challenges! </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZaUwWvAp7fAt0HG7ySMXyHqv2uDH_NKnSgTp8qlCmsJzJFtqSwo7lqNHtW5LI6qBDepu2HG2M17Zp7oOzY64f0AG0hhM1JK94a3HFWgeTz-7GF--KK4yhxhoLqdnFWWL3R6H7qUrMtrNf6xp2vae4VYoN1n8deFA4LbndoZ-cQLUi1IJN4Me8NlIR/s1280/Ken%20in%20patio%20copy.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="960" height="596" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZaUwWvAp7fAt0HG7ySMXyHqv2uDH_NKnSgTp8qlCmsJzJFtqSwo7lqNHtW5LI6qBDepu2HG2M17Zp7oOzY64f0AG0hhM1JK94a3HFWgeTz-7GF--KK4yhxhoLqdnFWWL3R6H7qUrMtrNf6xp2vae4VYoN1n8deFA4LbndoZ-cQLUi1IJN4Me8NlIR/w447-h596/Ken%20in%20patio%20copy.jpg" width="447" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div>Kevin Williamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10028779062267448624noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2923424816839609066.post-21716476203207233132023-04-06T07:15:00.001-07:002023-04-07T07:52:40.741-07:00Contra Reincarnation: Part II<div>By <a href="http://kenring.org/about.html">Kenneth Ring, Ph.D.</a></div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Summer, 1976, our nation’s bicentennial. I am sitting outside my house, enjoying the warmth of the sun on my face, reading through a new journal on <a href="https://psi-encyclopedia.spr.ac.uk/contents-a-z">psychical research</a>. I come across a review of a new book. Reading that review will cause an upheaval in my life. It will never be the same.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5TpVdkfnJhqqNPglGl6nVbkRmTVJvQvHRLvDb9O9UTKdv3nZjgOYfwMekkDIldODkWK7DKgyMcQlYN57C-0M1IblGax8FYcY9ZgmLr-lx4cWXTwtaICmr_1mn1RRnHTF58vJRhvXCsooB9sXBN1MfFJhhDGezdXQNvbbOslV7Xeuxe6L-f9u3Rq7Q/s275/michael-grosso.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="275" data-original-width="185" height="275" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5TpVdkfnJhqqNPglGl6nVbkRmTVJvQvHRLvDb9O9UTKdv3nZjgOYfwMekkDIldODkWK7DKgyMcQlYN57C-0M1IblGax8FYcY9ZgmLr-lx4cWXTwtaICmr_1mn1RRnHTF58vJRhvXCsooB9sXBN1MfFJhhDGezdXQNvbbOslV7Xeuxe6L-f9u3Rq7Q/s1600/michael-grosso.jpg" width="185" /></a></div>It's a review of a recently published book put out by a little Georgia publishing house of which I have never heard. The book reviewed is by a young psychiatrist named <a href="https://www.lifeafterlife.com/">Raymond Moody, Jr.</a> It is called <a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B00JTYBWMI/?tag=iandsorg-20" rel="nofollow">Life After Life</a>. The review is by someone I also don’t know. His name is <a href="http://consciousnessunbound.blogspot.com/p/about-author.html">Michael Grosso</a>. He will also change my life.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">After I began my work on NDEs and helped to found IANDS, the <a href="https://iands.org/">International Association for Near-Death Studies</a>, I made contact with Michael. I actually don’t remember how or when we met, and he had only a peripheral relationship to IANDS, but not to me, as it turned out. He would soon become one of my best and most valued friends.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">At that time, he was a professor teaching at a college in New Jersey, but often came to New York where I would meet him. I had to be in New York in those days to meet with my publisher and my other New York friends, and Michael had his own reasons to visit the city frequently.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Michael had received his Ph.D. at Columbia in philosophy, but he had wide-ranging humanistic interests. He was a deep student of psychical research, he was a painter, he played the flute, and he was an exceptionally gifted writer and wonderful conversationalist. I have since read quite a few of <a href="https://www.amazon.com/stores/Michael-Grosso/author/B001HD14R2/?tag=iandsorg-20" rel="nofollow">his books</a>, and always admired his stylish writing and envied his impressive erudition. I have joked that if I were ever to reincarnate, I would like to come back as Michael Grosso. I just loved the guy.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B000FC1BJW/?tag=iandsorg-20" rel="nofollow" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="306" data-original-width="200" height="306" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwtMKnubUdYt6nbQUnnIlLmAiOW4HH2wm5QgSH-UBp1x8wH8VE5EdYFuf01pNzy9J8YiWOod-UFSbu_fnrWOrNM0V6FUJUNdcI8Mqlo56sxjwke6X-qHlJr2vhVhMaDjcajPWTvWajB-_7HYbUdPEyzMx4LVFDNIEDn5PRVfl7cJBEbfAxLxJKm58v/s1600/experiencing-the-next-world-now.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>But apart from our shared interests in psychical research and <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Near-death_studies" rel="nofollow">near-death studies</a>, we had a warm personal connection, too, talking about our <a href="https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/amatory">amatory</a> life (I learned the word, “amatory” from him, too) with our various girlfriends in those years. Michael was a very handsome man then and it was easy to see why he would be so attractive to women, but not just because of his looks. He was witty, charming and soigné.</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Although he was a few years younger than me, he seemed like an older and wiser brother, even a kind of mentor. For example, even though my father was an artist, he disappeared from my life when I was about six years old, and I obviously had inherited none of my father’s genes. I really knew nothing about art. So Michael would take me to museums, such as the Metropolitan, though we might also have gone together to the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Frick_Collection" rel="nofollow">Frick</a>, which was my favorite museum (as it is for many), which I visited many times when I lived back east. So Michael would try to tutor me; he was effectively my personal docent. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I learned a lot from him in the years we were able to pal out together. And we stayed in touch for a long time. However, after I left for California in 1996, we gradually lost touch with each other. Eventually, I learned that he had moved to <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Charlottesville,_Virginia" rel="nofollow">Charlottesville, Virginia</a>, so that he could become affiliated with the <a href="https://med.virginia.edu/">University of Virginia</a>’s <a href="https://med.virginia.edu/perceptual-studies/">Division of Perceptual Studies</a> (DOPS), which is a code name for <a href="https://med.virginia.edu/perceptual-studies/our-research/neuroimaging-studies-of-psi/">psychical research</a>, <a href="https://med.virginia.edu/perceptual-studies/our-research/near-death-experiences-ndes/">near-death studies</a> and <a href="https://med.virginia.edu/perceptual-studies/our-research/children-who-report-memories-of-previous-lives/">work on reincarnation</a>. It was headed for a long time by <a href="https://med.virginia.edu/perceptual-studies/who-we-are/history-of-dops/dr-ian-stevenson/">Ian Stevenson</a> and after Stevenson retired, by <a href="https://www.brucegreyson.com/">Bruce Greyson</a>. And in time, Michael and I re-established contact with each other, though by now we could only do so through e-mail.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0B9P2P4KH/?tag=iandsorg-20" rel="nofollow" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="298" data-original-width="198" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLqS6jzEc_cTsSBW2og0zQeO2J7hIJHYWQFt7Zbm4ChwYfEcqXt5TZi12VY0wJV4EdAo7Q6brpOk_Yzb-R98U2_hGOuYxjYAjUJyI9en5SBIYsWwpZYhN5loHowVgRo8q1EVw1LreYOa2VSgYMpYsdIrv-Z65SjBTO49HYzXa-XETIeCdmfbgQCIc4/s1600/yoga-of-sound.jpg" width="198" /></a></div>But we had a lot to catch up on, reading each other’s books and learning about what had happened in each of our personal and professional lives during the years that had intervened since we had last seen each other. I was really happy to be in touch with him again and regretted that it had taken so long. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">One of his books that Michael recently sent to me floored me. It was called <a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0B9P2P4KH/?tag=iandsorg-20" rel="nofollow">Yoga of Sound: The Life and Teaching of the Celestial Songman, Swami Nada Brahmananda</a>. It is just an amazing, mesmerizing tale, and is capped by a long discursive chapter on transcendental music that shows off Michael’s flair for vivid, captivating writing. I was just “wowed” by his book, and tried to express my enthusiasm for it in a blurb I was happy to write for it, which I will reproduce here:</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>Many years ago, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/George_Gurdjieff" rel="nofollow">G. I. Gurdjieff</a> published a book called <a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0031O40A8/?tag=iandsorg-20" rel="nofollow">Meetings with Remarkable Men</a>. In Yoga of Sound, Michael Grosso introduces us to one of the most remarkable men of our own time, <a href="https://www.sivayogadivine.net/nadabrahmananda.html">Swami Nada Brahmananda</a>, who lived in perfect health to the age of 97, rarely needing to sleep for more than an hour or two, who didn’t dream (confirmed by scientists) and who, apparently, didn’t have much use for thinking (it makes one dull, he said). This swami, shunning honors or fame, lived to teach others, including the author, the transcendental power of music and made his own body itself a musical instrument and a channel through which the divine could sing. Yoga of Sound is itself a remarkable book and deserves to be included among such classics as <a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B00JW44IAI/?tag=iandsorg-20" rel="nofollow">Autobiography of a Yogi</a>, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ram_Dass" rel="nofollow">Ram Dass</a>’s <a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B005R9HK8O/?tag=iandsorg-20" rel="nofollow">Be Here Now</a>, and the <a href="https://www.amazon.com/stores/Carlos-Castaneda/author/B000APXVFG/?tag=iandsorg-20" rel="nofollow">books of Carlos Castañeda</a>. In short, stunning, mind-blowing and a marvel of the miraculous.</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08BPHJNXM/?tag=iandsorg-20" rel="nofollow" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="308" data-original-width="199" height="308" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKqUIbtqQSMrytr-hJtZq2fHcIUziuexPTH3vJOxc-adeSQROIDa9KFk72QwqQ7RhQpZv9hVadllgQuK0IPfBgUCB45bmuir8Q_xpz_wn94E868TTtyhNJGyhEEMAe06ZWdOMPcWp8hKRDFJ51aVTyL_LAjn0_O7W9a0HPcr2qdbqf2dWzZ_x6rPlD/s1600/smile-of-the-universe.jpg" width="199" /></a></div>But this blog is not really about <a href="https://www.amazon.com/stores/Michael-Grosso/author/B001HD14R2/?tag=iandsorg-20" rel="nofollow">Michael’s books</a>. All this prefatory material was really just to give you a sense of Michael and my personal connection to him. However, what it really means to be about is Michael’s views on <a href="https://psi-encyclopedia.spr.ac.uk/articles/reincarnation-overview">reincarnation</a>, so let me now turn to that subject.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">During the time I was incubating my own blog about why I was opposed to <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Reincarnation" rel="nofollow">reincarnation</a>, I happened to mention to Michael that I was planning to write a blog about it. I was not prepared for his response.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">What he sent me was a blog he had <i>just </i>written, not only on the subject of reincarnation, but with exactly the same point of view that I was prepared to argue in my blog. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Neither Michael nor I have ever discussed reincarnation since we had been back in touch with each other. What is the antecedent probability that the two of us would be writing on the same subject, with the same point of view, at virtually the same time? </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Anyway, when I recovered from my stupefaction at this <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Synchronicity" rel="nofollow">astonishing coincidence</a>, I asked Michael if he would be kind enough to allow me to use his blog in one of mine, and he consented. I have reproduced it below. You will find that it comes with a bit of a sting, an edge. I try to leaven my blogs with a pinch of humor, but Michael lets you have it between the eyes. Read on, reader.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Why I Prefer Not To Be Reincarnated</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJW45jXVxwuzjHSV8VF5FDkuysyfHEStXuxRjcrqjYP5kAInaSYfZVuNbzVyTWpoZkZMsTr0XWOaMA4QxZTvutawX_Y2OzbkKiJzzSTuT_aziZwY4CyEhWkOo0YrfhjF_ZPBO9LZTBmbbxkLWgmtQo7drOgdpfRqNL0f1zGTBf98KOaSRfNXo7EaW_/s282/ian-stevenson.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="282" data-original-width="197" height="282" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJW45jXVxwuzjHSV8VF5FDkuysyfHEStXuxRjcrqjYP5kAInaSYfZVuNbzVyTWpoZkZMsTr0XWOaMA4QxZTvutawX_Y2OzbkKiJzzSTuT_aziZwY4CyEhWkOo0YrfhjF_ZPBO9LZTBmbbxkLWgmtQo7drOgdpfRqNL0f1zGTBf98KOaSRfNXo7EaW_/s1600/ian-stevenson.jpg" width="197" /></a></div>I have sometimes met people who embrace the idea of reincarnation with enthusiasm. Moreover, it’s fair to note that the research of psychiatrists like <a href="https://med.virginia.edu/perceptual-studies/who-we-are/history-of-dops/dr-ian-stevenson/">Ian Stevenson</a> and <a href="https://med.virginia.edu/perceptual-studies/dops-staff/jim-tuckers-bio/">Jim Tucker</a>, and others, do make a case for the reality of reincarnation. It may not be altogether compelling evidence, but, as Stevenson said, it is <i>suggestive</i>, often strongly so.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;">Equally suggestive, and often strongly so, is the evidence from the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Near-death_experience" rel="nofollow">near-death experience</a> and <a href="https://psi-encyclopedia.spr.ac.uk/articles/deathbed-visions-research">deathbed visions</a>; from <a href="https://psi-encyclopedia.spr.ac.uk/articles/mental-mediumship-research">mediumship</a>, <a href="https://med.virginia.edu/perceptual-studies/wp-content/uploads/sites/360/2017/09/The-Contributions-of-Apparitions-to-the-Evidence-for-Survival_-Ian-Stevenson-1982.pdf">apparitions of the deceased</a>, <a href="https://near-death.com/ghosts-of-flight-401/">ghosts and hauntings</a>, and in some types of <a href="https://psi-encyclopedia.spr.ac.uk/articles/poltergeists-overview">poltergeist</a> case. In these forms of evidence, the surviving consciousness carries on in some kind of afterworld and is continuous with one’s earthly personality. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;">The continuity of consciousness, which certifies who and what we are, is shattered by being reincarnated. My inner self is inserted into a new body and my memories will be buried under the new memory deposits of a new little person in a new body. Suppose I am the reincarnation of somebody who died and whose soul became the basis of my soul. Unfortunately, I’m totally clueless about this. As far as I can make out, the soul and consciousness of my predecessor is extinct. So I’m not sure what’s to be enthusiastic about. What is the difference between there being no life after death and being reincarnated? In other words, smothered out of existence by another person. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd3CP2MK4HuJNopZMOTmrjToOL0H9p8x2RKW6t5BXwi18j2GDLkFWhWh3lPbIpl__0rkxTnqWBiD7K2ZfyrkDYzwmyN0_WDutmQw-SYxXkX4l8830YAt1vhUGNJcSOaW7Bs6CQD3uyhgxQs3uzjPFgHUZwAQu9QtmyZlfQA7o0TVbLMgoPWqhuNShE/s235/hell.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="235" data-original-width="199" height="235" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd3CP2MK4HuJNopZMOTmrjToOL0H9p8x2RKW6t5BXwi18j2GDLkFWhWh3lPbIpl__0rkxTnqWBiD7K2ZfyrkDYzwmyN0_WDutmQw-SYxXkX4l8830YAt1vhUGNJcSOaW7Bs6CQD3uyhgxQs3uzjPFgHUZwAQu9QtmyZlfQA7o0TVbLMgoPWqhuNShE/s1600/hell.jpg" width="199" /></a></div>I can, however, see why reincarnation might appeal to some people. Christians are taught to believe that after death bad people go to <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hell" rel="nofollow">hell</a> and suffer ineffable torture forever. Such cruel doctrines might turn a few people off. It’s easier to embrace the idea that a very bad person (I can think of a few) could reincarnate in a rat or a wild dog. Even the worst of us would at least have a chance to try to work our way back up the ladder of <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Evolution" rel="nofollow">evolution</a>. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;">I see the attraction of believing we have plenty of time to carry on the adventure of our evolution. We need time to become enlightened beings. It might take eons for some us to finally achieve enlightenment. But better late than never. The tone of this scenario is a whole lot gentler than having one life shot at <a href="https://near-death.com/heaven/">heaven</a> or <a href="https://near-death.com/hell/">hell</a>. But there’s a problem.</div><div> </div><div style="text-align: justify;">There is no evidence whatsoever that our species, or even some segments of the human population, are in any way uniformly evolving toward <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Enlightenment_(spiritual)" rel="nofollow">enlightenment</a>. There have been high moments and great principles declared and sometimes lived in human history. But who really lives by the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Golden_Rule" rel="nofollow">Golden Rule</a>? Or by any of the high ideals proclaimed by our spiritual geniuses? Look around the world today. There is every reason to believe the same proportions of good, great, average, and outstandingly vile human beings are exactly the same today as they were in any epoch of human history. You would think that if the dead keep coming back, presumably learning something along the way, by now we might see some signs of collective advance. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWskZfsYkho7E46Yf4kE_E9CbAZma71iSIGwhMS3bLQhNsdfjYcVEHnBe0Sx_lFDBjIfZogAW1FFy67oisPKZc_Swq3h8xXOtVG1MF2wK0VTgNE-u7KRVmK0XYbIlHJveRGBgieWGSb6wcbhXgKIcLWS5z5FXGIcDhj78QdgLu6-d7nduAvXPz0eAA/s379/climate-crisis.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="337" data-original-width="379" height="319" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWskZfsYkho7E46Yf4kE_E9CbAZma71iSIGwhMS3bLQhNsdfjYcVEHnBe0Sx_lFDBjIfZogAW1FFy67oisPKZc_Swq3h8xXOtVG1MF2wK0VTgNE-u7KRVmK0XYbIlHJveRGBgieWGSb6wcbhXgKIcLWS5z5FXGIcDhj78QdgLu6-d7nduAvXPz0eAA/w358-h319/climate-crisis.jpg" width="358" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">On the contrary, what we see is a <a href="https://near-death.com/humanity/">humanity</a> that created a <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Climate_crisis" rel="nofollow">climate crisis</a> that promises to bring world civilization down, while destroying a million species of living creatures. While all of this is beginning to happen, the great powers are beefing up their world-destroying nuclear armaments, real wars are raging everywhere, while poverty, homelessness, and starvation are spreading all over the planet. I prefer not to be reincarnated on a planet being destroyed by the morally insane “leaders” of the world. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;">Think of it this way. A man or a woman struggles to learn some skills in the art of living, some wisdom humbly garnered through a life of pains and challenges, some knowledge of the heart ripe for giving in a heartless world—and then dies. Suppose such a person is reincarnated. All that wealth of soul is forgotten, swallowed up in oblivion in some loveable baby who causes great joy when it is finally coaxed into saying <i>da</i> or, if he’s a genius, <i>daddy</i>, or <i>mama</i>, or possibly <i>pooh pooh</i>. </div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">*******************</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">So now there are three of us who are strongly against reincarnating – my webmaster, <a href="https://near-death.com/about/">Kevin Williams</a>, Michael Grosso, and me. Perhaps it’s too early to claim that we have started a kind of anti-reincarnation movement, but perhaps we have the beginnings of an anti-reincarnation club. If you would care to join us, just let me know.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: center;">*******************</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><div>To read Michael Grosso’s blogs and about his books, go to: <a href="https://consciousnessunbound.blogspot.com">consciousnessunbound.blogspot.com</a></div><div><br /></div><div>To see his art, go to: <a href="https://paintingtheparanormal.com/">paintingtheparanormal.com</a></div>Kevin Williamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10028779062267448624noreply@blogger.com5