Alexander giggled like a schoolboy as 40 of us met in a service Sunday and quietly tried to meditate for some 30 minutes.
Wait a minute. He is a school boy. Alexander was all of 14 years old yesterday while attending the Tibetan Buddhist Center of Philadelphia along with his mother. I was sitting next to the youth and about halfway through the gathering, a sound erupted from the other side of the room. It sound like someone adjusting a metal chair on the wooden floor, but to a young mind like that of Alexander, it also sounded like someone farting. Continue reading
I learned to meditate while riding on a train.
I had tried sitting mediation alone and with others, but was successful only once, and I really don’t know what I was doing. I was following a guru – a 15-year-old teacher from India — before I had turned 30 and I mingled with aspirants in an ashram in Philadelphia. I never touched Nirvana or reached the level that others seemed to rise to. Continue reading
I could die really cool when I was a kid.
I’d pretend that I was a soldier on a mission with a rifle in my hands as I made my way through enemy territory. I’d carry a tree limb most of the time and walk through pathways in a jungle we called Fairmount Park.
I’d shoot and kill a lot of the bad guys but then get shot myself.
Whereupon, I’d grab that part of my body that was hit and I’d fall to the ground. Closing my eyes, I’d pass on. . .
What an imagination. It was as much fun dying as it was creating my living in a dream world brought to me by television and the movies. I’d become John Wayne rushing up the hills at Iwo Jima or Audie Murphy, the real life war hero that got the Congressional Medal of Honor before he appeared on the silver screen.
I made a resolution way back then to become a Marine and fight for my country when I got older. I wouldn’t practice dying but I would imagine what it was like to fight the good fight.
It was something I believe that many guys felt when they were young. How could you not want to be like Fess Parker swinging his rifle – nicknamed “Old Bessy” – at the enemy soldiers trying to take him down on the steps of the old Spanish mission called the Alamo. Or to fight from a bed like Walt Disney portrayed Jim Bowie did as the “invaders” rushed into his room and he not only shot ‘em, but threw his Bowie knife at one of them.
I lost that dream somewhere along the way to my teenage years. Girls took over and so did slow dancing and singing Doo Wop harmony songs on the street corners of Philadelphia.
I never joined the Marines, but I figured I fulfilled my destiny when being drafted in the army and going to lead a bunch of men – many of them still in their late teens – in a place called Vietnam.
I never got shot and didn’t have to practice dying there. Now all that’s left is recalling those times that most kids would never dream about if they had experienced war in the first place.
Each day I get down on my knees and tell the Universe how grateful I am for at least three things in my life. Continue reading
I don’t think my son knows enough about me to write a good obituary. And so for 2017, I hope to sit down and look back on my life and offer highlights to appear in the Philadelphia Inquirer if it should still be publishing years from now. Continue reading
Writing opens me to a world within that I usually don’t visit unless I’m asleep or go into a meditative state. I let go of most thoughts except the one that crops up as I focus on a subject or rather it reveals itself to me. Continue reading
A “dead-dog-loser” is the name trial lawyers gave to cases no one expected you to win in court. I had a few of them and always tried my best to get a defendant to plead guilty before making a fool of myself and him by calling his case “ready” for trial. Continue reading