“…I’ll huff and I’ll puff and I’ll blow your house down.” (The big Bad Wolf)
The other morning, in a groggy lapse of judgment, I began Instagram surfing through photos of jungle animals behaving like themselves, which is to say, gruesomely; then reading about Derek Chauvin’s trial for the murder of George Floyd, also gruesome; and finally, an essay about the withdrawal of troops from Afghanistan. Gruesome, gruesome, gruesome. In his human interest essay, ex-soldier Timothy Kudo, who served in both Iraq and Afghanistan, questions the worth of his multi-years of military service. What hooked me were Kudo’s comments about returning to civilian life after his honorable discharge from the army:
“Suddenly I’m on a cold American street littered with leaves. A couple passes by holding hands, a bottle of wine in a tote bag, dressed for a party, unaware of the veneer that preserves their carelessness.”
The author describes having shared his experiences in Afghanistan with others who, like the carefree couple, remained in the States, and who recoiled in horror at the gruesome facts of war, (which are painfully true to our animalistic roots):
“I knew their repulsion was only self-preservation. After all, the war cost nothing to the civilians who stayed home. They just wanted to live the free and peaceful lives they’d grown accustomed to — and wasn’t their peace of mind what we fought for in the first place?”
But doubt as to the validity of his “cause” in general, and the “usefulness” of his years in Afghanistan in specific, merely widened the gap between the author and his fellow citizens:
“After my discharge, I moved to an apartment near the Brooklyn Heights Promenade, overlooking downtown Manhattan. I’d sit and stare across the river to the gap in the skyline where I tried to imagine those two towers I’d never seen in person as people passed by laughing and posing for pictures. Part of me envied their innocence; another part was ashamed of them, and of me for wanting to be like them, and of the distance between us.”
That last comment impacted me greatly. As I see it, the distance between the author and the people he both envied and was ashamed of, is the distance between innocence and a knowing that will not be – cannot possibly be – forgotten. A knowing of the enormous cost of complacency. A soldier’s knowing that he could not un-do what he had done or un-see what he had seen in that decades-long atrocity, ironically fought in the name of peace and freedom.
But what of you and me? Where do I stand under the rubric of complacency? Do I fall into the category of those party-goers — blissfully unaware of the veneer that preserves our carelessness? And of what does that veneer consist? For me, “veneer” is synonymous with “illusion”, the thin veil between ignorance — particularly intentional ignorance — and awareness.
The veneer, or illusion I equally envy, and am ashamed of, is what our middle son calls my “room of ignorance”. An escape into innocence and unknowing. The attempt to live the “free and peaceful life” about which Kudo writes without all the harsh realities that permeate modern society. And yet, upon reflection, I don’t wish to un-know what I know. The fewer illusions I hold, the less chance of missing the obvious: I am mortal. I am responsible for my life and the impact it has on the planet. As the poem Invictus says: “I am the master of my fate. I am the captain of my soul.”
No “ignorance is bliss” for me.
So if I am not to be complacent, then what is to be done about the shock and awe with which the news is constantly bombarding me? First and foremost, I need to assess what, out of all the “good causes” I might espouse, I might reasonably hope to achieve. What could I reasonably hope to contribute to the greater good of my fellow humans? If I am to evolve into a more enlightened, compassionate and understanding human, I need to start in my own “back yard”. I need to clear out the illusions I carry inside me, my biases about right and wrong, my preferences about who and what to believe. I need to effectively dispel my own ignorance and build a foundation that can withstand the “slings and arrows of outrageous fortune” (as Hamlet would say).
Reflecting on this foundation, I see an image from “The Three Little Pigs”; one with his house of sticks, another with his house of straw, and the third with his labour-intensive house of bricks. The former two could well symbolize Kudo’s party-goers, oblivious to the veneer that preserves their carelessness. Alternatively, building that house of bricks is easier said than done. Digging into my own back yard can unearth the kind of incriminating muck, the contradictions, hypocrisies and fantasies that Kudo was so ashamed of. Which is why I have developed a set of inner tools to push me through the inertia of ignorance.
One such tool, as I’ve already mentioned, is my journal. Another, also mentioned previously, is focusing on centering, or “4-4 breathing”. And today, I would like to add a dimension to the latter that is helpful in counteracting inner, growth-stunting obstacles. It’s about invoking the light of wisdom and understanding, and is easily done wherever I happen to be. Finding a quiet place in which to gather in my senses the way a turtle tucks in its limbs, I begin the 4-4 breathing that settles into a calm, balanced rhythm. I then create a visualization of light entering my body with each breath that I inhale, and, like pouring milk into coffee, with every exhale, I visualize the light washing the dark matter away. A kind of “self-cleaning-breathing”. This “prescription” is how I try to treat dis-eases of my mind. The intention is to fill in the habitual mental default ruts (or rabbit holes) with something more positive. A fresh, new perspective. A different interpretation for each challenge that comes my way. The key is to not let myself become complacent.
Rx: Inhale light. Exhale shadow. Inhale wisdom. Exhale ignorance. Inhale whatever you need to be a better human being. Exhale what’s no longer serving you. Repeat as often as needed.