June 20: Whalemeat, Dukkha, Chicken Pot Pie

The planet of Magrathea is not what the crew of the Heart of Gold expected . . .

Trillian hugged herself, shivered and frowned.  She could have sworn she saw a slight and unexpected movement out of the corner of her eye, but when she glanced in that direction all she could see was the ship, still and silent, a hundred yards or so behind them.

She was relieved when a second or so later they caught sight of Zaphod standing on top of the ridge of ground and waving for them to come and join him.

He seemed to be excited, but they couldn't clearly hear what he was saying because of the thinnish atmosphere and the wind.

As they approached the ridge of higher ground they became aware that it seemed to be circular--a crater about a hundred and fifty yards wide.  Round the outside of the crater the sloping ground was spattered with black and red lumps.  They stopped and looked at a piece.  It was wet.  It was rubbery.

With horror they suddenly realized that it was fresh whalemeat.

At the top of the crater's lip they met Zaphod.

"Look," he said, pointing into the crater.

In the center lay the exposed carcass of a lonely sperm whale that hadn't lived long enough to be disappointed with its lot.  The silence was only disturbed by the slight involuntary spasms of Trillian's throat.  

"I suppose there's no point in trying to bury it?" murmured Arthur, and then wished he hadn't.

The results of an innocent sperm whale suddenly appearing miles above the planet and then plummeting to its inevitable death.  The Heart of Gold crew are confronting the results of engaging the Improbability Drive and causing a death.  It's a painful moment for some of them.

Of course, in life, pain is inevitable.  If you are a human being, you will experience heartbreak, loss, and grief.  Think about it.  With the first breath you take, you begin the process of dying.  It may be 80 or 90 years away.  It may be hours away.  The march of time in unavoidable.

Not surprisingly, Archbishop Tutu and the Dalai Lama have some words to share about dealing with pain in life.  The first Noble Truth of Buddhism is that life is filled with dukkha (the stress and anxiety that arise from the attempt to control what is fundamentally impermanent and unable to be controlled).  Thus, dukkha can consist of dealing with your mother who has Alzheimer's or watching your sister die of lymphoma of the brain.  You want to control these circumstances, make your loved one whole and well again.  But you can't.  So, you experience dukkha. 

The Dalai Lama says, "People would like to be able to take a pill that makes their fear and anxiety go away and makes them immediately feel peaceful.  This is impossible."

The Dalai Lama is not (and I'm not) discrediting the use of psychiatric drugs to deal with conditions like depression or bipolar or schizophrenia.  Those are medical conditions that require (for most people) the use of medications to alleviate the pain caused by them.  My wife benefits daily from such prescriptions.  What the Dalai Lama is talking about is something deeper--a discontent or void that seems bottomless, filled with fear and anxiety. 

This void could exist in your job or in your home.  The natural reaction to these feelings of emptiness is to try to find something to fill that hole.  Some people turn to drugs.  Some to food.  Some to pornography.  Some to indiscriminate sex with strangers.  There's a reaching for an immediate fix, and these pleasures that I've just listed provide (for a very brief moment) pleasure.  However, after that very brief moment, those anxieties and fears return, and the void seems even deeper and darker.

Of course, the answer to dukkha doesn't exist anywhere outside of yourself.  It is a matter of acceptance and letting go.  I can't control anything but my own reaction to bad things.  My attitude makes the difference.

So, the lesson of joy for today is that pain is inevitable.  I will stub my toe.  I will lose people whom I love.  I will worry about my children.  However, if I recognize my powerlessness in these situations and give them up to my Higher Power, I will be able to reestablish the joy in my day-to-day existence.

Saint Marty is letting go tonight, and celebrating the grace of a chicken pot pie for dinner.

And a poem that touches upon letting go/emptying yourself from the newly named Poet Laureate of the United States, Joy Harjo . . .

Ah, Ah

by:  Joy Harjo

Ah, ah cries the crow arching toward the heavy sky over the marina.
Lands on the crown of the palm tree.

Ah, ah slaps the urgent cove of ocean swimming through the slips.
We carry canoes to the edge of the salt.

Ah, ah groans the crew with the weight, the winds cutting skin.
We claim our seats.  Pelicans perch in the draft for fish.

Ah, ah beats our lungs and we are racing into the waves.
Though there are worlds below us and above us, we are straight ahead.

Ah, ah tattoos the engines of your plane against the sky--away from these waters.
Each paddle stroke follows the curve from reach to loss.

Ah, ah calls the sun from a fishing boat with a pale, yellow sail.  We fly by
on our return, over the net of eternity thrown out for stars.

Ah, ah scrapes the hull of my soul.  Ah, ah.

March 29: Worse Places, Chicken Pot Pie, Better Off

Billy Pilgrim was packed into a boxcar with many other privates.  He and Roland Weary were separated.  Weary was packed into another car in the same train.

There were narrow ventilators at the corners of the car, under the eaves.  Billy stood by one of these, and, as the crowd pressed against him, he climbed part way up a diagonal corner brace to make more room.  This placed his eyes on a level with the ventilator, so he could see another train about ten yards away.

Germans were writing on the cars with blue chalk--the number of persons in each car, their rank, their nationality, the date on which they had been put aboard.  Other Germans were securing the hasps on the car doors with wire and spikes and other trackside trash.  Billy could hear somebody writing on his car, too, but he couldn't see who was doing it.


Most of the privates on Billy's car were very young--at the end of childhood.  But crammed into the corner with Billy was a former hobo who was forty years old.

"I been hungrier than this," the hobo told Billy.  "I been in worse places than this.  This ain't so bad."

I really love the hobo in this passage.  Jammed into a boxcar with a dozens of other people, probably starved for days, exhausted from marching and marching, the hobo still isn't feeling too bad.  Think about it.  It's better to be a prisoner of war than a homeless person in the United States.  That says quite a bit.  In the wealthiest country of the world, there are hobos dying of hunger and exposure.

I am not going to get all political here.  I'm not going to focus on the poor and working poor.  People who work two, sometimes three jobs and still can't pay their bills or feed their kids.  Minimum wage that doesn't even provide a minimum living.  Kids that only get hot meals at school.  Senior citizens who can't afford their medications.

Nope, I'm not going to talk about any of that.

I'm going to talk about chicken pot pie, which I had for dinner tonight.  It was delicious, with crispy crust and chunks of meat, potatoes, and peas.  I had two pieces, and it made me feel warm and satisfied.  I'm thankful that I had a warm meal tonight.  I'm better off than a good portion of the world's population.

Sometimes, it's easy to forget how lucky I am.  A loving wife.  Two great kids.  A house.  A car that works.  A couple decent jobs where I am relatively respected.  Books to read.  A laptop computer to write blog posts on.  A warm bed to sleep in.

As the hobo tells Billy Pilgrim, this ain't so bad.

Saint Marty is thankful for chicken pot pie and his kids and wife and books and laptop tonight.