Shifting Sands: Ends and Beginnings

Action is Everything served it's purpose. When I set out back around the world in 2008, I wrote this:

"Almost 3 years ago, I left home to chase a dream in India. I thought to document the trip and thought to blog it out, using the same interface I'm using now. Ah, the intention good, the execution not so much. The Road to Delhi and Other Tales faltered out of the starting gate, falling prey to a number of computer glitches, my own naive belief that blogging without a personal computer would be a breeze and internet connections that rivaled turtles and last period trig classes for speed.

Action is Everything seeks new ground. Not as bold in ambition. Not seeking to be the revelation of my first world journey. Instead, exploring. Reflecting. And a love letter to home.
And those I wish to, with me, walk."

Writing throughout the course of that journey brought with it many things. Reflection. Relationship. Transformation. Through the breezes and slogs of it, the manifest commitment to you and to myself shaped the entire experience for the better. The words will remain. And I feel it will carry on, even though it's time has come to an end.

My plan to write was a good one. But as all plans must, it's time to change. A change that matches a new direction in creativity, community and faith.

As I left Cambodia and subsequently Europe this summer, music emerged. For the past few years, I've played and written more music than I ever have in my life, but recorded very little of it. I've thought to partner with a producer and lay down some tracks. That may still happen. But I've been encouraged to use the tools in my hands at the moment to share it.

So as one door closes, a new one opens. I spoke with a dear friend of mine, Jeff, and he was also keen to set up a space where we could share music for our friends, family and those we meet along the way. A gifted webman, Jeff crafted a site within hours and it's already open for visit at http://www.nowactlikeit.com/music/

It's a continuation of the conversation. And I'm thankful for you and how that exchange has carried on so far. I hope that there will be a time when the pen and paper return to story-telling and reflections in prose, but for now, let the music ring.

Action is Everything,

Chris

Rilke Dropping Rhymes

Maybe its that I don't feel that I have much to add to the discussion these days aside from a lot of questions and the rare glimpse of truth. Or maybe I'm getting lazy in my second year of blogging. I'd like to call it a shift in priorities. I've been much more drawn to my guitar and music in terms of creativity/expression in the past weeks and so feel keep the focus there for a while. I think it will mean a shift in style for the blog, moving from lengthier pieces to shorter, more compact bits.

Out of a number of conversations in the last week, I've heard heaps of wisdom. This one resonated particularly well with my current flow.

“Be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves like locked rooms and like books that are written in a very foreign language. Do not now seek the answers, which cannot be given you because you would not be able to live them. And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps you will then gradually, without noticing it, live along some distant day into the answer.”

Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet 1934

Silence

From Thomas Merton's book "Contemplative Prayer". He quotes the Syrian monk, Isaac of Niniveh:

"Many are avidly seeking but they alone find who remain in continual silence....Every man who delights in a multitude of words, even though he says admirable things, is empty within. If you love truth, be a lover of silence. Silence like the sunlight will in you in God and will deliver you from the phantoms of ignorance. Silence will unite you to God himself...

More than all things love silence: it brings you a fruit that tongue cannot describe. In the beginning we have to force ourselves to be silent. But then there is born something that draws us to silence. May God give you an experience of this "something" that is born of silence. If only you practice this, untold light will dawn on you in consequence...after a while a certain sweetness is born in the heart of this exercise and the body is drawn almost by force to remain in silence."

Core and Circumference One: Love on a Mountain

Hong Kong’s spectacular visual nature – her green mountains meshing with her incredible skyscrapers – struck me first, but I’ll always remember my time there for the way my heart grew beyond my personal limits.

After a month in Taiwan, we had the privilege of being the first Action for Life program invited to make a presentation at a university. It was an electric session dedicated to the theme of “personal change”. I had the opportunity to tell a story about rebuilding a relationship that had nearly collapsed. While I spoke the words, I felt fresh and alive and I gave to the students with a sense of freedom and hope.

At that point, I couldn’t identify the feeling, but later in the week I took a day in silent reflection to climb the mountain behind our hostel. As I reached the summit, I sat down on an outcropping of rocks and listened to my heart beat, my lungs breathe and felt the blood pulsing through my body. My spirit of gratitude for a well-working body quickly met an overwhelming and quite unexpected feeling of love.

Looking over the massive cityscape, I realized that I had a deep love for my team. For all of their talents and faults, their difficult parts and the easy parts, I loved each of them. I’d never experienced a sense of love in such a generous way. Most remarkably, I realized that the love came from a different source. This was no longer the labor of my own will to care for my teammates, but I felt as though I was now drawing on a much deeper and enduring spiritual strength.

Like a blend of freedom and joy, the core within me stirred deeply. Liberation, not for its own sake, but with a purpose. And not of my own will, but of something far beyond it. Less than a self-absorbed victory and more like riding on a golden chariot carried by streaking and beautiful steeds. Just less of me. More of everyone and everything else. Filled with the great depth. And released.

Greed

The sleepy port town of Sihanoukville isn’t the best the world has to offer. The beaches aren’t kept too well. The massive new port makes the whole place feel a bit industrial. The town itself doesn’t bring out the best in you. It’s easy to feel suspicious of the old tourist men and most of the town feels a bit unkempt. I wouldn’t head back to S’ville if I had a choice, especially in the heat of April. And if any of you are looking for beaches to visit in SE Asia, I’d encourage you to head elsewhere. Come to Cambodia for the culture, Khmer food and kindness, a bit less for its main coastal city.

Still, amidst all of this, something astonishing happened. And it would almost be worth a return. It’s an annual event that can only be described as the blessing of creation. It’s the reason why people have given thanks at the time of harvest for thousands of years. Because sometimes (perhaps often-times), the things that emerge from the earth are the best things in the world.

Let me be frank. I am talking about mangoes.
When you grow in up Jersey, mangoes are beyond exotic. They weren’t exactly in high supply at the local Acme and as gifted as my Mom is in the culinary arts, mango never really made it into our regular meal rotation. In fact, mango was so off my radar, that aside from the first taste of Mango nectar (which I had in Italy at 18) I didn’t even know how a mango grew. Did you pick it off a tree? Did it grow like a vine on the ground? Was it more like a tomato plant? Like Corn?

But who doesn’t like mango? It’s one of the world’s perfect foods. Even when you don’t get a particularly good one, it’s still fantastic. But I’ve never been in India for mango season (home to over half of the world’s mangoes) and I thought I might miss it all together again. Ah, but how the world smiles at me sometimes. When I arrived in Cambodia, not only was it the height of mango season, but the climate was particularly good for growing the magical fruit. On top of that, S’ville happens to be home to the best orchards, I’m sure, in the country.

On top of that, the hotel I stayed at had steady access to the best mangoes I have ever tasted. And by steady access, I mean that I ate their pretty much three meals a day for a month and at every lunch and dinner, they provided mango. I’m not talking like they plopped a fruit in front of me and asked me to grind out the hard work of peeling and pitting. Nay. I’m talking royal, nay, palatial treatment. Fresh-cut, fresh-out-of-the-fridge absolutely perfect mango dripping with unparalleled natural sweetness. If you have ever had what I just described, then you are with me. This is as close as I’m feeling to a Garden of Eden vibe.

Those who haven’t, you might be thinking: “Mango twice a day for a month? Chris, maybe you’ve been gone a little too long. Are you okay?” Fair enough. But I can tell you without question that this mango was so special, that I would have eaten it three times a day (and actually made a strong [but unsuccessful] push to the management to try and arrange such a situation).

But I wasn’t alone. In fact, what unfolded around the mangoes was actually a pretty good study of how the world works. Every meal, the catering staff would have 3 platters of mango available. This would certainly be enough for every one of us to have a reasonable taste of mango at every meal. It wouldn’t be a lot of mango for each person. And it might not satisfy completely, but it would allow for everyone to have a taste of the glorious goodness.

Interesting though, with limited resources and appetites;This is the combination that essentially creates most of the world’s problems.

And so it was (though without the horrifying consequences of greed on a world scale). When the mango emerged from the frosty chill-box, some would aggressively pursue their fill while others would play off like they weren’t eager but still quietly got their fill. Some would send others to get it for them so as not to look “wantish”. Some took unapologetically while other seemed almost unable to enjoy what they took if other’s were lacking. Some took seconds before others took firsts. Some gave up on mango entirely while others never took a meal without a mango. And how different cultures differences worked on this issue too (about 35 of us from 18 countries)!

Ha! This would have been an incredible social experiment to monitor beyond my playful observances and musings. Real data would have been fantastic. Who took how much and how often? And how did it affect the way others felt and acted and reacted?

So can mango be compared to oil, gold, water, land? It’s a bit of a stretch, but damn if I didn’t see, clear as could be, the way the world works. And damn if I didn’t eat a lot of mango this last month (you can take the boy out of America, but you can’t take America out of the boy!).

My Journey in Film

Even as the scenery changed around me over the past 8 months, many things about me did not. My love for movies remains. In fact, sometimes film becomes a helpful tool of escapism when it’s just reached a point where I need to take a step back from the events swirling around and relax the brain.

There’s nothing like a combination of friend’s DVD collections, international HBO and in-flight entertainment to make a hell of strange viewing list. As I thought about it one day, I actually realized that the list of movies I’ve watched on this trip says quite a bit about where I’ve been, what I’ve been doing, what’s been available and what I’ve needed from my movie experiences. In general chronological order:

So I Married an Axe Murderer
Kung Fu Panda
Hairspray
The Last Mimsy
Goal
Goal 2
Slumdog Millionaire
Eagle Eye
The Office (British)
Leatherheads
About Schmidt
As it is in Heaven (Swedish)
Rope
North by Northwest
Valkyrie
Chariots of Fire
Star Wars Episode One: The Phantom Menace
Die Hard 4
Kate and Leopold
Triple X
A Beautiful Mind
Quantum of Solace
The Reader
Payback
Spiderman 3
The Illusionist
Wall-E

I could make conclusions out of this list that still amaze me. Like when I got sick in China and was so desperate for an English movie that I happily tuned in to a romantic comedy. I watched movies I swore to myself that I would never watch (Spiderman 3). I saw breakthrough movies that lifted me during a malaise in Taiwan and Hong Kong (As It Is In Heaven and Chariots of Fire). I did a double feature of Alfred Hitchcock and stood stubborn in my stance about watching Bollywood movies.

In terms of self-awareness, this ranks up there with my music playlist of the past 8 months. Hmm…but that’s a bit too big for here.

10 Years. 5 Questions. 1 Can-Opener.

Ten years ago I graduated from high school in New Jersey. One of my best friends from that time was recently asked to make the keynote speech to the senior class on “Career Day”. Looking for some brainstorming partners to develop the content, he sent out an email to three of us from our graduating class.

The question was simple: If you had a chance to talk to 100 high school seniors from Princeton Day School about “career”, what would you tell them? I have spent a fair amount of time with high school students and I liked the three people in the loop – I enjoyed the chance to respond. With thoughtful input from an international lawyer, an environmental scientist, a traveling educator and a grad student, the conversation flew around the earth from New York to China, Holland to Colorado. Each added his unique input and a collection of themes emerged. Looking at them now, I think they are questions that are applicable to me now and probably to many of you. They are themes that can keep being revisited in terms of vocation and life’s calling.

1. What is the lingering question that keeps coming back to you? How can you apply that to how you live and what you “do”?

2. When you listen at the soul-level, what do you hear?

3. What is the moral imperative in your life?

4. What will you do with the “opportunity of privilege” you’ve been given by God, your parents and your community?

5. What is the authentic you? How do you live authentically/What will your life look like if you are living authentically?

A I move into a new transition time, I welcome the questions. They prod at the can inside each of us. The can that we often don’t open up. Because we know what’s inside. It’s a million opportunities, gifts, fears, mysteries, uglies and beautifuls. All of its a bit intense. It’s daunting to think about opening it up and letting the contents of that can explode onto the canvas of life. But it’s also where the real genius lies.

Pour one out for my can-openers worldwide…one time…

It Took Me a Long Time to Get Back on the Train

I arrived in Cambodia about three weeks ago and I haven’t written a lick about it. Yeah, I tidied up a couple pieces during this stretch, but I haven’t created anything new. It’s a bit disappointing, but sometimes its best to ride the natural waves. These days I'm surrounded with more people on my daily and with the increased efforts of reaching into my final month of Action for Life, I feel contented with my absence.

It won't be today, but I'll look forward to writing about Cambodia. It's my second visit to this compelling country and at an interesting time. For one, the country is in the middle of the prosecution of a former Khmer Rouge leader who is being tried for crimes against humanity. There is also an ongoing border clash with Thailand, which is still brimming with political upheaval. And down south at the beaches of Sihanoukville, it's sweltering hot, but rain has already broken through the dry season and climate change is a hot topic .

I'll be here for about 5 weeks in total. So far it's been a nice chance to reconnect with some old friends, play my part in the training program here, enjoy the sunshine at the local National Park and attend a wedding. Aside from that I've been spending a lot of time thinking about air conditioning, global warming and carbon off-setting versus carbon neutral. I'll be sure to pass on more of that in the coming days.

Kites for you.

Religion in China: In Bits and Pieces

China’s religious history is deep and wide. Often this is forgotten in the recent context of communism, but Chinese philosophy includes a thread of spiritual powerhouses long ranging past Confucius and Lao Tzu, cultivating a depth of belief that far surpasses the simplicity of isms. It’s full of remarkable insight and can, when applied appropriately, provide a critical balance to much of the Western philosophical and religious tendencies that often dominate our world view. Chinese philosophy isn’t a full picture of the human religious experience, but it broadens and deepens the experience in distinctive and essential ways. It’s my hope that it will emerge in a more relevant way at the global level in the coming years as it advises well on the issues of environment, morality and relationships.

When I arrived in China, my religious studies curiosities (full of potential energy and latent like Kundalini since my college days) piqued sharply. Chinese philosophy plays an important part in the puzzle of human spirituality and given the recent history of nationalized communism since 1949 and relative liberalization since the late 70’s, what an opportunity to be here to see a country in an interesting patch of it’s philosophical history.

Given my focus in Nanjing and Shanghai, I thought my visit might be relatively unspiritual in nature, as religious activity can often be pushed to the countryside, which often fosters more traditional aspects of life. Somehow, when I conjured up images of modern cities in China, I just didn’t see spirituality playing an integral role socially, architecturally or in any other way.

Much of this supposition was justified. Religion doesn’t smack you in the face the way it would walking around Amsterdam, London, Mumbai or Pune. But that’s what’s curious about China. It’s not a country that works in the obvious.* She can when she wants to do so, but in general, it’s a culture of subtlety. It’s about what’s just underneath the surface.

In many ways, this suits my own personal taste in religion. While I enjoy the loudness of a massive basilica or the thump in a bass drum at church, I often prefer religion in quiet or even silent contemplation. But quiet, alas, is often a hard thing to find – especially in a Chinese city. So I set out on an armchair research project to learn more about what shape religion is taking in these cities. My answers came in a number of snapshots throughout my three weeks.

In the Buddhist temple I mentioned a couple weeks back, what caught me by complete surprise was the fact that it was full of common people praying. Usually religious heritage sites are primarily for tourists and devoid of any lively spiritual action. That’s typically left to the odd monk or priest. Sometimes its even the responsibility of the inanimate sculpture and other religious art in the sacred space. Remarkably, this place had few tourists and was full of earnest believers. At times I even felt out of place entirely, as I was not praying and found myself amidst many people who were devoutly following the rituals of their faith.

To my amazement (and to show just how many people live here), there are 70 million Christians in China (To compare, that’s 10 million more people than in all of Italy). The state sponsors a church, whose priests must submit sermons and reports to party members and bureaucrats for review and passage. Those who wish to practice in other settings are forced “underground”. I met one man from Taiwan who attends one such church for internationals only. Since the congregation includes ex-pats from throughout Asia and Europe, they receive little harassment from the government. But he told me that they still need to shift meeting places (congregation of about 300) frequently and when its particularly hot, they move week to week.

For those native Chinese, this “underground” church becomes increasingly fraught with danger. I heard that most don’t see it as a major risk, but they do operate with careful attention. Home churches in the “underground movement” rarely grow beyond 15 before factioning off again to keep numbers low and mobility high. This often presses highly educated Christians to take on the responsibility of teaching/preaching even without any proper training. Natural leaders in the group often emerge as the spiritual guides of the home churches. This can lead to an increasingly diversified understanding of the message.**

For those who believe (and perhaps rightly so) that the internet has developed its own system of religious idiosyncrasies and rituals, I was caught off guard one day when I went searching on youtube for some old comedy sketches to forward to a friend. To my surprise, the web address didn’t connect to anything. I checked a couple of times and never got through. Quickly, I surfed through a few pages and found out that China had suspended youtube indefinitely. The Dalai Lama’s Tibetan Government in Exile had made a video of last year’s riots in Lhasa (the capital of Tibet). China rejected the video as a farce (a compilation of footage from other events). Because it had been posted on youtube, youtube was therefore banned in China.

I was in Nanjing for tomb-sweeping day. It’s the day when children visit the gravesites of their parents and other ancients to pay their respects. Honoring ancestors is an incredibly important practice in China. Aside from visiting the graves during this annual celebration, ancestors are often remembered by presenting offerings. It’s common to see the ancestral religion in ritual on the street. People will buy fake money and effigies of cars, houses – even laptops and cell phones. When burned they are meant to be passed on to the deceased as they journey on to the next life.

I spoke with a young attorney and young insurance man over a huge Shanghai dinner the other night. Of the many issues we covered, one that surprised me was their perspective on faith. They both mentioned that they wished religion, faith or at least some deeper sense of spirituality would make a come back in China. While not over-zealous or even religious themselves, both felt that there was a need to provide for the spiritual element of the population. In their current view, the spiritual identity was leaving China and it was time for a return to a balance in the culture.

Spiritual life in China exists in the subtleties. It’s not glamorous or obvious. At times it’s hardly even recognizable. But when asked in private, most will respond with an opinion about religion and spirituality and its place in the society. My hope is that elements of Chinese spirituality will continue to emerge (even if only quietly for now) and once again play an important role in the way the people treat themselves, treat one another, treat their enemies and treat the earth.

*One of the most endearing factors of Chinese culture. I once had an artist explain to me the difference between Eastern and Western art, citing a visual example of still art. She proposed that Western art focuses on the point of climax: like the flower at the apex of its bloom or a sunset sky at its deepest saturation. While Eastern art often aims to capture the moment just before the climax or just after: like an apple just about to be ripe or a tree with its leaves jut beginning to weep.

**Curiously, this is quite similar to the development of the early church following the death of Jesus. Although those early churches were more communal in nature, they too shared the difficulties of a suspicious government. Often, this meant that teachings were disseminated by lay people in these smaller group which were often widespread and not always communicative with one another. This led to many different understandings and emphasis in the faith as it developed in the wake of oppression. It took several hundred years for the canon to develop and a more systematized theology to take shape from the original “home church” movement.

What Do We Memorialize?

In my last entry, I wrote about Megumi’s story of apology. I’ve recently been in Nanjing, the sight of the massacre I mentioned in that post. There are a number of memorials around this area, the most prominent of which is the Nanjing Massacre Memorial.

I just returned from the Nanjing Massacre Memorial a few minutes ago. It left an imprint and I wanted to get it out while it was on my mind.

When the Japanese invaded China in the mid-30’s (in what would later become WWII) they laid siege to Korea and NE China before sacking Shanghai in 1937. Following that victory, they proceeded to march on Nanjing, the capital of the Republic of China.

What happened in Nanjing is almost unimaginable in its mass destruction. I’m not sure how to describe this kind of nightmare, but its as terrifying a situation as I can imagine. Mass executions and sporadic murders amounting to 300,000 non-combatants killed over a six-week period (one person every twelve seconds over that time). 80,000 documented cases of rape. Widespread pillaging and looting of personal and public property. Complete physical and psychological assault and annihilation.

After reading endless stories, I can only paraphrase the following from one: For 6 weeks the Japanese soldiers turned into incredible beasts. Their eyes were those of the insane and their souls deprived of humanity. It was one of the darkest hours in human history.

I didn’t know about the severity of the Rape of Nanjing until I arrived in this city. As I wrote earlier, I had heard from my friend Megumi about the invasion of the Japanese. But I hadn’t encountered a vivid image. The image I uncovered knocked so deeply inside that it shook the foundation of my understandings of humanity.

At points I felt physically weak as I walked through the extensive exhibit. The scope of the human suffering seemed incalculable. Just overwhelming. From indiscriminate bombing to burying people alive – chilling and shocking.

But I recently read a book that challenges the mindset that condemns the past so easily armed with the information and conditioning of the present. It’s easy to condemn
(and rightly so) the actions of those who perpetrated these crimes. But as I cast my judgment, a question came into my mind that still bothers me: Given a similar upbringing, a similar conditioning and a similar circumstance, would I have behaved in a similar way?

I couldn’t shake this question out of my mind. I still can’t. I can’t give an unequivocal “no”. As much as I can think of myself now and firmly believe I’d never do these things. What if I was there in their boots? A 19 year old pulled off the family farm, forced into the military service, reared under a brutal command, lead to invade a foreign country, homesick and cold in the heart of winter and pressed to assault and strike incredible fear into innocents. I can be sure of nothing.

What I can grip more closely is today. One hopeful feeling I had when I left the museum was that I firmly believe that we actually have reached a stage in human history where we can reasonably envision a world, not without conflict, but without the kind of horrific violence of the 20th century. We aren’t there today, not by a long way. The violence in Darfur or the jungles of the Congo, the tribal belt of Pakistan and even on the streets of Washington, DC is with us. It’s all around us. And sure, even without physical violence, there is the widespread corruption and greed that insures the continuance of disease, famine, environmental degradation and widespread economic oppression.

But there is also hope. Yes, the challenges are huge, but can we think at a much wider level? Someone recently told me that China has existed in relative peace for the past 20 years. A period it cannot claim in the previous 100. Is it progress? Japan has successfully re-integrated into a community of nations and no longer demonstrates an interest in physical domination of the region. Is it progress? Certainly we are part of systems that work in cycles and perhaps change for the worse will again occur in these countries, but I can reasonably choose to see the glimmering edge of sustainability here.

*As you can imagine the visit had a significant impact on my team. I wanted to share a couple of thoughts that emerged from the conversation.

First: What do we memorialize? And why do we memorialize it? We all questioned whether this memorial ought really to be in Tokyo, where the Japanese can see it and make their own commitment to “never again”. I recently read a story in which a town conspired, as a community, to commit a severe atrocity. Following their act, they are cursed – the price of which is that they must tell all visitors to the town about the gross misdeed of the past, for generations on end. The beauty of the story it is a just punishment. It is the perpetrator who should be in the business of leading the commitment to never seeing the nightmare happen again. Not the victim.

Second: The memorial dripped with an unmistakable sense of nationalism and victimhood. Instead of carefully promoting an understanding of the past with a look to the future, much of the memorial felt vindictive. The common visitor would likely leave the museum with a feeling of developing hatred toward the Japanese or with a confirmed belief that the Japanese were and are the worst of the “foreign devils”. The length of the museum did more than make one feel appropriately uncomfortable. Instead, it felt almost like basking in the anguish of history without making room to move ahead. In following conversations with some Chinese, they had a similar feeling and some expressed a want for the museum to take on a different approach; One more postured towards reconciling the past and forging a real vision for the future.

Megumi’s Story

People often ask what it is I do with Action for Life. Typically, I tell them that it’s a leadership training program and that we work to develop leaders who are highly capable at leading themselves as well leading groups. We spend significant time in the area of self-understanding and development, which is fundamental in terms of leading people. The program also seeks to develop a key skill set that will empower participants to be good communicators, effective team-builders, conflict solvers and project managers. Action for Life accomplishes these tasks in two main ways – classroom training with an international faculty in an international learning community and practical application in traveling teams in a variety of cultures with a focus on partnering with NGOs and people from all parts of society who are working to bring positive change in the world.

At the heart of the program, however, is Gandhiji’s idea: Be the change you want to see in the world. So at the most basic level, we really start by helping people to identify what kind of world they want to see. From there, we are about the business of helping people take the steps of change that will help bring that world into actuality. It’s a simple idea. But it’s one with almost unfathomable depth.

For a number of reasons (our many connections, a general curiosity about who our group is and the fact we have a good message and capacity to teach/connect with people) we are often asked to speak to groups of students and various other community groups, NGOs and politicians about what we do and how we do it. We frequently give workhops. We teach some skills. We give exercises on leadership and self-awareness. But most of all it gives us an opportunity to share with the audience what Gandhiji’s message means to us.

Yesterday we were invited to spend about 3 hours with a volunteer group in Shanghai. We were asked to make an hour presentation and then spend another two hours of more informal interaction time with those present. About 25 people attended.

We decided to go bold and get direct: China is the nation on the world’s mind. The actions of China and individuals in China will have and already are having a huge impact on the rest of the world. You are part of China’s impact. What will be your impact on China?

It was a good message for the day. I really enjoy hitting young people with a good question and giving them some space to wrestle with it. But it wasn’t the question that stuck this time. What did stick was the idea of change, which came out through a personal story about change. And a very simple message.

In the 1930’s, the Japanese invaded China, after overwhelming Korea, They stormed the NE before sacking Shanghai and eventually pillaging Nanjing, the capital of the Republic. In an absolutely devastating assault, an estimated 300,000 non-combatant Chinese perished in the course of 6-weeks in Nanjing. The wounds of Japanese occupation run deep in the Chinese psyche. Even in the group we met yesterday afternoon (70 years removed from the events), one young woman told us that she felt uneasy just knowing that she was in the same room with a Japanese woman.

That Japanese woman was Megumi-san, one of those traveling with our team. Megumi comes from a generation of new hope in Japan. Born in Tokyo in the early 50’s she must have represented new opportunity and possibility for a devastated country passing through the emptiness of war and looking ahead to a new horizon. Like a new day at dawn, she and her contemporaries came fresh and innocent on the edge of a long and troubled night.

Except for her experience and conscience, she might have continued her pursuit of teaching. She might have moved to Italy with her doctor boyfriend. Or maybe continued her study of Hebrew in Israel. Or taken on the mantle of motherhood. But her parents sent her to Switzerland one summer (actually where I’ll be this summer) and she got a vision for the world. When she was challenged with the question of “What kind of world do I want to see?” she had her answer. She wanted to see a world with healed and mutually beneficial relationships between countries. Her offer in the pursuit of that would be her willingness to push pride aside and apologize on behalf of what her country

Whenever she spoke in our sessions, I could feel the energy pulse through the people. Not dramatic, but palpable. Megumi’s story opened up. First, came a story of personal reconciliation with her older sister. This transitioned into a deeper understanding about the nature of forgiveness and its transformative quality. With gentle timing and solemn tone, she then apologized for the transgressions of her people. She apologized to the grandmothers and grandfathers and for all of those touched directly or indirectly by the severe actions of her own ancestors.

When someone speaks without pretense, there is no confusing the authenticity. One could feel the purity and humility of her sentiment cut to the hearts of those encircled. The room breathed deep. Tears fell. Like opening a valve, so many found release in her story, her simplicity, her apology. True and sincere.

Many never expected to hear these words. Some didn’t even recognize the emotions they had bound to this situation. Others hardened, unwilling to let it touch them. Many wavered, wondering what it all meant to them and unable to convey their feeling. Quite a few accepted immediately, deeply moved.

Japan has never formalized an apology to the Chinese people for Nanjing. Without a clear indication of remorse from the Japanese government, Chinese have long choked on the stories of their suffering ancestors. The pain streaming down generations. Megumi’s story altered that tale of suffering dramatically.

One person acting to bring the change they want to see in the world and being willing, courageous and humble enough to act in the space they’ve been given.

**In a later conversation with Megumi over a breakfast of pork buns, coffee and seaweed knots, we developed an armchair, unprofessional and simple model that helped us to better understand the cycle of transformation that comes through forgiveness.

• To start, a perpetrator lives in a state of arrogance, ignorance or denial. Arrogance in feeling that any hurt or damage done was and is justified. The willing ignorance that stays happily unaware of pain/suffering caused. Or denial, which is a rejection of either the occurrence of the event or the consequence of the event to the afflicted party.
• Once this defense breaks (for any number of reasons) there is a feeling of shame. This starts a process of shame. It’s valid and necessary shame. If taken negatively, it will be shame that destroys a person, devastated by their past and unable to move forward. If taken constructively, it will be a long-lasting scar that will instruct the perpetrator in the future.
• When accepted, shame breeds humility. Humility is a space of malleability. It’s a place where transformation occurs. It’s a moment of willingness. It’s the space of vulnerability. It’s incredibly powerful in its capacity to let go of ego and usher in a new spirit of growth and possibility.
• From humility develops the capacity to apologize. This is the step of sharing the transformation with others and inviting the aggrieved party be transformed by forgiveness.
  

Would Megumi’s example ever bring this out in the Japanese at a national level. The spirit of humility that transforms a whole nation in its relationships with her neighbors?

A Religion of Images

After the pagoda, it was the depth of the temple grounds that struck me. Temple after temple. Courtyard after courtyard. Prayer after prayer.

Another level. Incense smoke blows through the cool March morning. Murmurs of monks chanting and patrons praying sweep over a background cars and trains bustling in the city beyond the temple walls.

The builders of constructed the temple to worship Buddha. In terms of religious architecture, I found it inspired. Their design emanated balance, from the size of the individual buildings to their layout on the overall grid of the walled area. No building to large or small, residential long houses on the sides with central temples in a string of courtyards. Each step into the grounds felt like one step closer to God. The final temple brought a sense of completion and even reverence. As if some sort of spiritual journey or purification right had just been completed.

What I didn’t expect, however, was the extravagance. When one studies the central tenets of Buddhism and the hagiography of Gautama Buddha, one would easily suspect that it is a simple religion practiced quietly by Buddha’s devotees (hmmm…on thought of this, my recent reading of the Gospel of Mark reminds me that one might believe that the followers of Jesus would also practice their faith with a simplicity and humility that would belie the excesses of some churches and audacious spectacles of some church services.)*. What I experienced in the temples was both astounding and ambitious.

I’ve been in a lot Buddhist temples, but none matched this one. Aside from the fairly common image of a giant Buddha, this one had many. So many. There are traditionally 18 images of Buddha. Some of those were exalted in the temple to heights of 20 feet. Another temple had human sized images of all 18 times two – for different artists interpretations. The first temple had images of the 4 Gods from the North, South, East and West. Further on I saw a room dedicated to a statue of the Buddha with 1,000 hands of service. Another with the hundred faces of Buddha. And on it seemed to go, with each new room and building a new house of imagery in honor of the Buddha.

In a lovely wrinkle, I went to the Shanghai Museum later in the day. The first turn I took in the massive collection of historical Chinese treasures was into the 1st floor sculpture exhibit. In the display I found sculptures dating back over 2,000 years. A little discombobulated, I took the wrong entrance to the exhibit and started marching back through time. The common media of bronze, stone and ceramic all took shape in a front of me. About halfway through (almost 1,000 years back in time), I started to notice that most of the sculpture was religious in nature. The Buddha and boddhisatvas were the primary subjects of most of the art.

The observation that struck me the most was the incredible resemblance to ancient Indian art. Walking backwards through the chronological exhibit, the connection seemed only to get stronger. By the end, I felt that I may as well have been in an Indian collection. The lines of the sculptures, the clothes, the features on the face. Not identical, but an obvious connection. And why not, the Buddha’s message emerged from India and his devotees brought it to many points North and East, including Tibet, Eastern China, South East Asia and even Japan.

By the end of the exhibit, I got my lesson. Yes, Buddhist devotees had come through China with the message of Buddha. They used images to help explain their ideas to the people they met on the way. In response to this method, Buddhism had a nickname in Chinese for many years as “The Religion of Images”.

Icons and imagery have always been important to religion. Still, I wonder what Buddha would say if he walked into that temple. Or Jesus in Il Basillico di San Pietro.
*On further thought, I wanted to say that I believe firstly in each individual’s ability to experience God as a natural part of being human. The expression of that experience (whether pretentious or audacious – whether I agree with it or like it), I can appreciate as that individual’s understanding of how to express themselves as an individual in relationship with God.

Facing Myself About China

I’ve recently had a chance to meet quite a few Chinese people and I’ve been asked on occasion to share my thoughts with them. Most recently, I spoke briefly to a group of lawyers who have started a volunteer agency in Shanghai.

My experience in Shanghai has reminded me of a fundamental idea a friend told me in India: Trust is a decision. It doesn’t matter how many actions a person takes to show you that he is trustworthy. At the end of the day, you still have to decide whether or not you trust that person.

I’ll be straight with you. China is misunderstood in America. We don’t get very much information about what is happening in your country. And it’s obvious that the information we do get does not give us a complete picture of the reality of present-day China. On one side we see broadcasts about the riots in Tibet and on the other we see the dazzling spectacle of the Beijing Olympics. I read articles that conjure up feelings of fear about China’s world ambitions while a day later I see a magazine cover that reads “Why you shouldn’t be afraid of China.” This demonstrates the vast gulf between the two sides and the derth of balanced information.

The problem with misunderstanding is that it leads directly to mistrust. And there is a lot of mistrust of China in the United States. And I’ll admit it to you. I find it very challenging to trust the Chinese – I’m a person who makes decisions largely based on information and my lack of reliable sources on this subject spurs my suspicion.

But that has started to change. I’ve always wanted to get a closer look at China – to see it for myself. And over the past two weeks, I’ve experienced here what I’ve experienced in many other countries – a common theme worldwide – people are all people.

During my time at Shanghai, I’ve noticed some very specific things that I share in common with Chinese people I’ve met. We like bike-riding and there are times when want to and perhaps need to take unnecessary risks on two wheels. We like sitting around a big table with friends and enjoying good food. We tie knots the same way and need a toothpick after eating spare ribs. We tend to talk more loudly and laugh more easily after we’ve been drinking. We prefer wearing slippers indoors. When spring knocks at the door after a long winter, we wish it would come in more quickly. We love flowers. We feel pain when we hear a friend has lost a loved one. We get hurried and careless when too much is happening around us. We smile at the sight of a friend’s newborn child.

When I remember and recognize that people are people, it slows me down. It gives me a feeling of great connection, despite all the obvious and large barriers like language and culture. And with that weave going on, trust happens at a human level.

So it’s from this personal experience that I think I can bring it back to the big picture. What about America and China? What does it look like if our countries are working diligently to build-trust at all levels of society. What could happen at a global level if China and America actually decided to trust one another and work together. We could be more than business partners. We could develop new models of business that become recession-proof and seek greater equality and opportunity for all. We could be the leaders of an environmental revolution of long-term sustainability. We can make major breakthroughs in medicine and science by joining eastern and western styles. It’s a vision worth having and pursuing.

If we are talking about Gandhi’s idea – my life is my message – then I want to make my message one of trust. I truly believe that with trust, all things are possible. In the same moment, without trust, nothing is possible. So today I will make a commitment to you. I will take my experience in Shanghai back with me to my home. I’ll share about China in a personal way, a way that brings out your voices and stories – the human aspect of your country. A way that challenges any sweeping generalizations I might hear. A way that seeks to build understanding and trust.

In this way I’ll build a sidewalk of trust between our two nations. I’m not Barack Obama, so it won’t be an interstate. It may not even be noticeable to more than a handful of people. But my hope is that if we all build sidewalks and put them next to one another, we’ll eventually build a rock-solid bridge of trust that spans the Pacific Ocean and a Great Wall. That covers the vast void of fear, suspicion and misunderstanding. That connects us despite barriers of language and culture. And if we can do that, as people and as nation – that’s a vision worth the commitment.

A Picture of China

By the side of a lake, I watched the old style. The willow tree weeping into the water. The gentle clap of the waves on the shore. The early spring lavender bursting to life along the banks.

A man holds the long-cut bamboo, waiting for the fish. One can tell the age of the method by the unrefined nature of his craft. A simple string and hook attached to the end of the pole. No reel. No spinners. No tricky casting. Just reach the long twig over the water and drop in wherever the fish might be. It looks old. Must be from many generations past. Passed on from grandfather to grandson over hundreds of years. A peaceful and gracious style. A soothing and organic approach.

The sound of music seemed misplaced in the setting, but when it came, it wasn’t grating. The Chinese melody floated along through the misty, cool air. It wasn’t live music and it lacked the punch of a stereo. It just wandered into the foreground. I tuned in.

But in a splashing flurry it shot out of mind. I snapped my head to check out the happenings and caught a view of a fish writhing on the end of the line; flopping in a last ditch effort to shake the tackle. The angler quickly handled the bamboo and masterfully landed the fish in a couple of moments. Not a monster catch, but enough to keep me interested (and the fisherman) interested.

Yet in the instant that he seemed to secure the line (fish swinging back and forth), he cooly reached into his pocket. The move was unmistakable. As surely as he brought in the fish, he pulled out a cell phone and clicked on. The music stopped.

With one hand on the 10-foot bamboo rod and the other holding the cell phone, I clicked a picture in my mind. Antiquity and modernity in frame.

Walking Meditation

I spent the day in Luxun Park in North Shanghai. It was a once or twice a year kind of day. Spring emerging, cheating winter out of a day. And I’m free to enjoy it. Crisp and fresh and fragrant. Warm in the sun. Cool in the shade.

For those of you lucky enough to live near a big city park, you know well the social masterpiece that takes place on this carefully crafted and maintained stage. On a day for quiet, I walked. Breathing deep the joy of life around me.

Old couples dancing in coordinated step to old Chinese classics

A kite stuck in a tree

Practicing calligraphy with water on black pavement. Liquid blends dirt and rock. Getting darker.

An old woman in a wool coat and trousers – using green metal fencing to stretch our her legs

Men huddled around the Xingqi board. Women crowd the card table.

The wedding couple walks by. Photographer in tow. Photographer helper in tow’s tow.

Football stadium pokes out through the spring blossoms. Massive Nike ads of Ronaldo and Torres wave in the wind.

The odd business man practicing Tai Chi. Alone. His suit stands out in the crowd of passer-bys.

Women singing a duet as the wood block keeps semi-steady rhythm and the violin swims in the background. The wheelchairs circle round.

Bamboo scaffolding. New building.

Men’s gossip corner. An audience for anyone. An ever-eavesdropping ear.

Another casual observer.

A fuchsia overcoat. You just don’t see those around.

Two kinds of magnolia.

String, sticks and a spinning top. He’s learning. This one’s caught the rhythm. He has gloves; the master on stage.

Clap front. Clap back. Clap front. Clap back. Clap front. Clap back.

Studies a three-page foldout in the weekly news magazine.

Walk backward. Walk forward.
Walk alone. Walk arm in arm. Walk arm with bag. Arm with baby.
Walk with a gaping goofy smile.

On the move. A huge blue and white construction truck. Heading for bamboo scaffolding.

Yellow forsythia. Brighter than yellow ever imagined. Struck across tender willow greens.

Jeans that say “jeans” accompanied by frazzle-dried, red-dyed hair. A mischievous smile. “Should I push him in? Could I?”

Two-year old playing ball. Can’t let it fall in the water. Grandpa chases successfully. The sidelines watch and enjoy and help when necessary. The game must go on. Lilo and Stitch must stay dry.

A silent study of flowers with camera.

Ground shakes. Train underneath.

Up the stairs. At the top, a victorious yelp. Down again. Repeat. Many times. Many yelps.

Exquisite rock landscaping brings life and layers to the garden. Someone put the right person on the job.

Cigarette #9. 11:23am.

Two men in camouflage walk easily with their pruning shears. There smiles shouting. “It’s a perfect day to work in the garden.”

A saxophone warms up on the hill.

Blossoms. Soft. Pink. Yellow. White. Green.

A disfigured face. Purple and yellow. Swollen. Not self-conscious.

Attracting a crowd. The boys surround and stare. Seconds pass. Will they speak? “Hello. What are you doing?”

Memory welcomes back a day in Rome. Losing my way outside the Aventino. Panini and a Peroni.

Snipping badminton shuttlecocks. They will fly faster now. Two cigarettes of work. No sweat. Back to the court.

Marching with vigorous arm sways. Middle-aged women exercise.

Saxophone still warming up. Another Yelp.

Lunchtime.

Enter the Dragon

The Eastern China Airlines flight touched down early in the afternoon and I passed through the non-descript Pudong airport without a second thought. It felt more like a terminal in Milwaukee than one of the major ports of entry for the most populated country on the planet. An interesting signal. A lot can be learned about a city by the feel of its airport.

Clearing customs and loading up, we quickly arrived downtown. Chae Nam and I settled into our new digs at the “fashion-savvy” Rhea Hotel. Compared with the resourcefulness of our Chinese hosts (buying subway cards, getting haircuts, etc.) we spent the hour and a half doing relatively nothing (Fortunately, someone told me long ago a cardinal rule of travel. Don’t compare. Appreciate.). We made coffee and weighed ourselves on the scale (haven’t seen one in months, other than at the airport) – that was about it. When I travel in hotels, I relish the first hour of a new room. It’s feels clean and I unpack at a relaxed pace.

In a surprise break from the normally cold weather of March, we arrived on a day that leaned towards springtime. Despite the heavy and humid air, we enjoyed a subtly warm evening, cruising downtown to see the skyline at the Bund. We passed through the commercial hub of Shanghai on the way, decked to the hilt with lights. It didn’t match the obsession of Hong Kong and I was glad for that. It seemed a bit looser and dirtier. Delightful.

After some dumplings for dinner, we ended up on the river, looking at the increasingly well-known Shanghai skyline. It’s a good one. Not overwhelming, but still the Pearl Tower stands. There is an absolutely compelling LCD display on the side of one building. It projects motion pictures over 40 or 50 stories. It’s modern China and its stunning sharp.

Walking the promenade, I soaked it in alone. I’ve spent a lot of time with my team these past five weeks. I enjoyed taking the space to relax amidst the people. People covered the walkway. Shanghai, they say: “People mountains People sea”. Still, I feel alone. It’s easier amidst so many people than with two or three.

As I walked down, I made friends with a couple of young guys from Hunan Province. They were on holiday and in Shanghai to see the sights and take in China’s #1 metropolis. We chatted for 15 minutes (their English was good enough and they were kind to enjoy what little I know in Mandarin). A pair of old friends from the neighborhood. One helps his Dad run the family mop factory. The other is a liberal arts student at university. I couldn’t help but be warmed by their spirit. I had to admit my own prejudgment: that the Chinese people might be a bit colder on the mainland than they were in Taiwan or Hong Kong. On this occasion, I was happy to feel so wrong and thus, so welcomed.

The guys made me smile. It’s not necessary to go out of one’s way to make a friend or even to say hello to a stranger. If anyone, I’m naturally happy to keep to myself. I rarely extend a warm hand to a random walking down the street. Still, it made all the difference to me tonight. I told them that they were true ambassadors; Not only for China, but for all people and the human-quality of friendliness.

It didn’t take long for me to get home at night though the trains were still buzzing after 9. The whole way home I couldn’t shake off the smile I received from my new friends, nor my disbelief that damn! I’m in China! Enter the Dragon.

Helmut Lang or Homespun?

I’ve never seen a city like this before. Far from the romantic images of an East-West port city in transition through the 20th century, 21st century Hong Kong smacks of globalization.

Visually, it is something to behold. Hong Kong is unlike anywhere I’ve ever been. Framed by volcano-shaped mountains, the city consumes a few islands and over 6,000 glass-metal-concrete spires shoot skyward in a sea of skyscrapers. Pitched against the March mountains and the blue-green harbor, it’s a combination of human and natural engineering that left me inspired with mouth agape for days on end.

I’ve enjoyed my time here, welcomed by a number of generous hosts and even catching up with an old friend on a gorgeous Sunday afternoon.

But there is a certain heaviness here. In so many ways, there is no question that the city sparkles. But what’s underneath her clothes? A heavy and haunted history. Born from that, one sees/feels/hears the emptiness underneath the glamorous designer wares and latest plastic sheen.

The other day I sat out lounging on the deck outside the International Financial Centre, cooling over an ice tea. After walking past what seemed like the 18th Salvatore Ferragamo store I’ve seen since I arrived in town, I sat and watched the other patrons. A perfect deck, elevated and harbor-viewed and my friend and I even scored some classic fully-pillowed couch. Perfect day. Choice spot.

But as I sat there, I started to feel as if I was on a see-saw – pitched in the middle of two swaying sides. The seemingly opposed sides became crystal in my minds eyes.

On one, I could feel the spirit of materialism that has raised me up since I was a child. Whether its a couple hundred thousand commercials or my senses that developed to understand smells, sights and sounds, I’ve learned all about material things. I’ve learned to appreciate all kinds of things too: a new baseball glove, cheap wine, fine cigars, GI Joes, fresh basil, a well-cut shirt. I’ve learned to appreciate giving and getting. Things that are free and things that you pay for. And here I was sitting on a nice deck, sipping an over-priced drink with an old friend and feeling that life was just about as perfect as it could be at that moment.

I took all that in. The fact is that we are material beings. We rely on the things of the earth to provide us not only with entertainment or a good feeling, but much more practically giving us the nourishment, shelter and safety we need to live. At the same time, I’m more than well aware that material goods do not provide lasting happiness or security. They serve a purpose, but that purpose isn’t fulfillment. We can be satisfied with a meal, but we will be hungry again. We can enjoy a cigarette, but we will nic again. We can be happy with new pair of Italian leather shoes, but unhappy when we step in dog shit walking down the Roman street. (This first became clear to me studying the Buddha though many sages recognize the suffering that arises from desire for things – which naturally arises as a product of a overly-materialistic society).

But thinking of Buddha got me thinking of Gandhi’s autobiography. I was so compelled by his will to let go of much in order to strengthen his focus on truth and nonviolence. These two things, far from things you can “have” were worth more to him than accumulating anything other than a pair of chappals, some clothes he made by himself* and wearing a hairstyle that he cut by himself** (though as a British-trained barrister, he could have lived posh as). Surely his high thinking and practice served a remarkable purpose for India and the world. Would it have been possible if he had been distracted by recurring desires to purchase the latest iProduct?

But can you live alone on the truth? Can you live alone on a good hug?

The truth with seesaws is that they show us two sides in comparison to each other. We ultimately see which one weighs more (or to which one we assign greater or lesser value). Between materialism and non-attachment there must be balance. We are material beings, yet we have a degree of conscience unparalleled on earth.

So how to balance? In Hong Kong, the seesaw tilts one way more than the other. How about your seesaw? How does it balance?***

*Reminded me of a shirt my friend Ngan wears. It says: “The best things aren’t things”. Of course, it’s a on a shirt, probably costing more because it of what it says Perhaps its also of more attachment for her because it’s a clever and perhaps “good” shirt.

** In a somewhat poignant side note. Gandhi’s watch, glasses and chappals recently went up for auction in New York. The proceedings caused such a stir that the items were eventually removed form the auction block. Seems they couldn’t decide who should “have” them. I can almost hear Gandhiji sigh heavily and patiently.

***As it goes sometimes, I read some supremely incisive words during my time on the seesaw. This came from the Gospel of Mark. “Listen carefully to what I am saying – be wary of the shrewd advice that tells you how to get ahead in the world on your own. Giving, not getting, is the way. Generosity begets generosity. Stinginess impoverishes.” (4:24-25)

A Solid Start But a Lasting Aftershock

10 years ago, a major earthquake devastated central Taiwan. As a topographic gem, the island displays a spine of sharp mountains around 10,000 feet that shoot up from the surrounding lowlands. It makes the scenery absolutely stunning, but it’s the surface level beauty of the shifting plates underneath. Earthquakes are imminent here. But none had rattled the people like the 1999 incident. In September of that year, a major seismic event shook the Nantou area. The aftershocks destroyed major infrastructure and claimed about 9,000 lives.

Like New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina, Nantou became a rallying cry for the human spirit. Volunteers and resources flocked to the region from throughout the island. The group I work with had a volunteer team in Taipei that flew into action. After mistakenly arriving in a small village outside of the main town, the team’s leaders connected with the village leaders and a lasting relationship started. Every other weekend for six years, a team of volunteers took the 4-hour bus ride from Taipei City to work on reconstructing the village.

Over time the village put brick on brick and eventually the old farming community began to look more modern. The team had to keep lively, quickly switching their role from house builders to community bridge-builders. In the fall-out of the event, families and old friends bickered over the new direction of the village. The volunteers used the skills and heart of a long tradition of trust-building work to bring the estranged parties together. Together, their efforts have built a new village.

We met some of the original group that helped with the recovery; a strong team of volunteers and villagers. I enjoyed hearing the stories of how people respond to moments of crisis. Fortunately, these weren’t only the heartwarming tales of service and selflessness, but the real stories of power-struggles and politics that arose when the money started showing up.

I heard a couple stories that emerged from the rubble.

First, the story of how one family welcomed my friend Oufang without a second thought. When she showed up in their village by mistake, their was good reason to raise suspicion. But instead of going through a strenuous and suspicious trust-building process, they saw purity in her spirit. They immediately opened up their house to her and she spent many days working out of their spare bedroom to organize community efforts and volunteer work. Frequently, they cooked meals for her and her entire volunteer team. 10 years later, she still gets invited back as family.

Second, the story of how crisis presents a great opportunity for change. While the village underwent a physical change, we met a young man who transformed at a personal and spiritual level. Just 14 when the earthquake occurred, he had already created a reputation for himself as the chief rabble-rouser in the village. His parents had reached wits end with him. But in the aftermath of the catastrophe, a new spirit emerged. He told me that the need became so obvious that he realized he could use his misguided energy to provide new direction for his village. Now Chang Zheng is an important community organizer, an already successful businessman and an emerging photographer. He’s coordinating a 10-year memorial that will be celebrated in the September.

Today, new struggles face the community. In the shade of the sprawling betel nut plantations, times are good for the farmers economically. The natural stimulant in the betel nuts provides them with ample income, even as these plantation make the soil increasingly vulnerable to mudslide should the earth shake again. But now the scourge isn’t the disrepair of the buildings, but alcoholism. Our afternoon meeting with one man felt quite different when we met him in the evening after his daily drink. Oufang told me alcoholism would continue to afflict the village until villagers sensed a renewed sense of purpose. Another struggle is the loss of young people. With fewer jobs in the countryside and increasing migration to city, the youth, with bolder professional dreams than their parents, continue to ship off to Taichung and Taipei (and even abroad) to pursue their hearts’ desire.

These aren’t the kind of problems that attract the aid and attention of a natural disaster, but perhaps they are as destructive and as important to address. But who will work with them – now that the crisis is complete but a steady aftershock continues?

The Faces of Infinity

Living in community always brings new and interesting experiences to my everyday. One particular facet of my life that’s completely opened since my work with Action for Life (starting in 2005) has been on the relational/emotional front.

One of our partners in work in Taiwan is a group called EQ that works primarily on just that – the Emotional Quotient. Developed out of some Western psychology/counseling coupled with an Eastern understanding, the center hit at the heart of an often unspoken issue in Taiwanese culture: family relations. In an effort to build a better society, a small, dedicated group decided to work on the issue . They have been highly successful and well-recognized for their work in Tainan. Their vision is that the city of Tainan will be not only nationally recognized, but internationally recognized as a city where families flourish.

Some of my colleagues have been involved with taking this work to other countries including Malaysia and South Korea. They hooked us up one afternoon and we were invited by the director to attend a session on grief healing.

When I first encountered this type of thing (kind of a group counseling vibe) several years back, I scoffed. I didn’t think I would gain anything new, or at least nothing that I couldn’t have figured out on my own. To be honest, some of that thinking has been validated. In attending a few sessions with my various teams, I’ve found little fresh in terms of intellectual concepts. It’s all fairly straight forward. But what catches me is that a) it forces me way outside my logical paradigm and comfort zone and b) its about real people and their real lives.

If you are like me, you might find it easy to tune into your own world; well aware of you’re own feelings, reactions, thoughts and experiences, but often unaware of others. As a highly self-interested person who is also happily and often aloof, years passed by me without much of a developed sense of empathy. Yes, I could sense another person’s joy and pain, but it wasn’t a gripping kind of connection – the kind of connection that can be a cornerstone understanding in a relationship.

But working with other people to process experiences and relationships has meant a couple of things. For one, it’s meant opening up parts of my life I’m often unwilling to share with others. For two, it’s meant learning about love and how to love in an incredibly new way.

Some people wear it all on their sleeve and they will gladly talk to you about deep feelings and relationships without hesitation. Others dig in and gladly set up their walls to keep certain things private. I’m more the latter, long ago figuring it would give me maximum leverage (read: power) to keep my hand full of my own secrets and others’ secrets ready to play when needed. Rarely has this been malicious. More self-interested.

Since learning that I don’t want to be part of those kinds of power games, I’ve slowly opened up. I’ve found that it can be helpful for someone to provide a specific format for doing so – someone who knows how to work with a group in this specific function. I find this particularly helpful when I’m working in team or community, as I don’t often offer much information without a helpful prompt or question (nor do many others). This type of experience (along with a number of others) began to bring out a great happiness in my heart – to share my experiences and adventures and feelings with people. If there was any obvious demonstration of this new leaf, you are reading it right now.

As I’ve opened up about myself, I’ve also learned to be more open in my reception of others. This has brought me great joy, enriching my understanding of the human experience through more personal relationships. It has also brought difficult challenges, requiring me to struggle with the deeper sufferings of human life and forcing me to adjust my own understandings of how and why existence is the way it is. Despite the difficulties, I wouldn’t trade my now-complicated canvas for the myopia of my old shoebox dioramas.

Last week I worked with my team to look deeply at the grief each of us carries around. The hurts of days past that still mark our souls and influence our actions today. I heard about the impact lonely family members had on their families. The response of children to parents who tried to love them, but didn’t love them the way the kids needed/wanted. The toll of a sibling’s death. Friends who let circumstances drive them apart.

When I hear one person’s experience, I’m shaken at the intense reality of their life. It can overwhelm me to think that each person I pass by on a city street lives with the same kind of deep existence – an ever-changing cloud of feelings and relationships, reactions and events, physiology and psychology, banal and sacred. We all share that.

But what comes of this? I’m moved by it. To learn about another person at a deep level allows me to transmit that understanding to each new person I meet. I can see that depth in all things. I an look into their eyes and see the infinity therein.

Levinas writes exquisitely on this subject. I loved reading his philosophy in college, but now I’m finding new ways to explore its practice: the challenge to radically experience the depth of life in the face-to-face encounter. And then to love.

Playing Politics

My family isn’t a political family, but since I can remember, our dinner table conversation revolved around current events of day. Over the past years, this has brought up some rich dialogue and some heated arguments that make me feel more Italian than I probably am. Which is a welcome side-effect of the debate.

This interest bubbled over one spring afternoon in Washington DC when I was 17. My AP Government teacher, Mr. Sanderson, brought my class to the capital to understand the federal government a little more clearly. I still remember going to the NRA and listening to their young PR man explain to us the important personal and constitutional merits of owning a firearm. Being a young New Jersey liberal who’d only used firearms at summer camp, I found his reasoning for owning an M-16 as pockmarked as a duck on the wrong end of a shotgun blast. In a what I can only imagine was some hormone-induced rage, I took him on in front of the class and felt that I legitimately held my own (which actually wasn’t too hard because he’d gone way too far into the realm of ridiculous). I visited the NRA headquarters again a couple years back and found myself to have a similar experience, except this time I let my high school students take on the work of debate as I sat back and tried to take the whole line of reasoning seriously. That said, my actual opinion on firearms is much more nuanced than “anti-gun” but I do think the NRA could do with some much deeper and more critical thinking on what they are actually trying to say/do/enact with their lobbying work.

Where am I going? Right, so as my interest in politics and policy grew, I later found myself living in the capital and visiting representatives, attending congressional hearings and generally living it up with a gentle case of Potomac Fever. So though I’m far removed from the mid-Atlantic, I felt quite at home when I spend an afternoon in Taipei visiting the party headquarters of the DPP.

The DPP founded in 1986 (can you imagine such a young political party?) largely as part of a response to the long-term rule of the KMT, the party in power since the arrival of Chiang Kai-Shek (this was following the communist revolution in China that finally succeeded in 1949). With the Republic’s Army on his side, Chiang rolled into Taiwan and quickly asserted dominance over the small island while setting a up a ruling party that governed with martial law for many years.

The emergence of the DPP took significant courage on the part of founding members. They took their initiative forward in a time of political persecution (Though its rarely mentioned, I’ve met two former political prisoners in Taiwan, one of whom was beaten into disfigurement for writing a pro-democracy editorial in the 70’s). The main objective of the DPP was to establish a democratically-elected Yuan (Congress) which was finally accomplished in 1991. They worked in a green-coalition for many years to counter the strength of the well-entrenched KMT party. Their rise to power climaxed in 2000 when they took a majority in the Yuan and their party leader, Chen Shui-bian, took the presidency.

It was a fascinating time to visit with the party and the two young leaders who met with my team for the afternoon. At the moment, the party is going through a major reorganization following the filing of massive money-laundering and corruption charges against the former president (who finished his second term in 2008). In the fall-out of the scandal, the party suffered dramatic losses in the 2008 election and its once-strong majority has dwindled below 25%. With major ground to recover, big changes are underway and we got to hear about them first hand.

The meeting was a good one. I found the representatives to be loyal to their cause but open and frank about the challenges facing their party. After all, the best way to face a problem is to acknowledge it outright. I found this promising. But one couldn’t help feeling in the middle of a major political battle. The DPP currently runs as a party against the ruling coalition of the KMT. They continue to paint a picture of the KMT through a filter of its anti-democratic policies of the past. They use fear as a major weapon in their fight, identifying KMT actions (such as recent coziness with China and a crackdown on a recent demonstrations) as a signal of a return to the more authoritarian structure they employed in previous decades. It’s fairly obvious that it’s the strategy of a group with its back against the wall – fairly passive and not very creative in terms of a proactive agenda. It’s a disappointing for a party that’s demonstrated real strength and potential in the past.

At the same time, the DPP takes up a fairly bold stance on matters of independence, China, UN status and membership in the World Health Organization. But with the country swamped in a faltering economy, issues of international standing are secondary to more immediate matters of crisis.

As a marginalized minority, it will be curious to see whether or not the DPP can become a relevant player again. When I asked about the ability to work with the KMT, the feeling did not seem particularly good. The DPP spends a lot of its time painting the KMT in a negative light and while politics does make strange bedfellows, the villainizing culture within the DPP seems to be quite strong. The party seems stuck between moving forwards with real initiatives and still being stuck in a paradigm that essentially disappeared in 1991.

Their opinions on international status are important and have a fair amount of backing in Taiwan. As pressure on the Taiwan Strait is likely to increase in the coming years, the DPP will have its say on the matter of whether or not Taiwan maintains its current “undecided” status with China, works towards a formal reunification with China or makes a claim for complete independence. In that pivotal discussion, I hope that it’s a party free of its long-term resentment and one that thinks more about what’s right for the whole island rather than its own power.

I wonder if we are doomed to the power politics of democracy. What I saw here was the same I’d expect from visiting Democratic or Republican headquarters in the States. Will we ever move into the so-called “post-party” politics that could liberate our thinking beyond simple paradigms and move us towards broader thinking on what is necessary for the people by the people instead of what’s best for the party?

The Wide World of Sports

In 1994, the World Cup came to the United States and my understanding of sport changed forever. Though I wasn’t so lucky, friends of mine attended games at the Meadowlands, the Italian squad held their training camp at a private school in New Jersey and I watched a tape-delayed final at a summer camp in New Hampshire, falling to the floor in agony as Baggio sent his spot-kick over the cross bar sending Romario and his Brazilian teammates into ecstasy. Sport for me became a real world event and my love affair for calcio began.

My passion for sport has only grown since my day as a kid and along with my world travels, its allowed me to enjoy much more global take on the world’s sporting situation. This has led me down many roads, including the unenviable task of trying to both a) understand and b) enjoy watching cricket (which they are desperately trying to make more palatable to the common viewer; they’ve chopped down 5-day test matches all the way down to 3-hour 20/20 matches. Hey, it’s a start.). But its learning cricket that has made my Indian experiences much richer and if you can name the Indian captain (MS Dhoni) to almost any Indian man, he will reward you with a smile of delight and a cup of chai.

But Taiwan’s sporting scene is much different from the pluralistic sports scene of America, or the ironic monotheism of cricket in India. Taiwan breaks down into a few top draw events: basketball, badminton and baseball. In this you can see the influence of the United States on the island, which is actually fairly obvious to a visitor’s eyes.

In the cities, basketball dominates – as it does in the States. It’s more suited for the urban landscape in terms of equipment and size of field. One can take a walk through any city in Taiwan and see the boys knocking down threes in baggy shorts and sleeveless shirts.

But with a large countryside of rice paddy, there is a huge affection for the more pastoral transpirings of a baseball game. In fact, one of Taiwan’s biggest exports is Wang Ching-Mien who starts for the New York Yankees (and to my own personal distaste, makes this place overwhelmingly pro-Empire). While Taiwan’s domestic game has suffered recently because of a gambling scandal, many Taiwanese play overseas (two, in fact are in the Red Sox farm system). It’s all to say that baseball matters here and my visit just happens to correspond with a little known but increasingly significant sporting event: the World Baseball Classic.

When they kicked off the inaugural classic in 2006, I half-loved and half-laughed at the idea. In theory, it’s a great idea. Baseball is an international sport with much of the Major Leagues filled up with imported talent from Latin America and the Far East. It’s no secret that the Sox have signed talent from Japan as much if not more for marketing than talent. In fact, almost every major league team has a substantial investment in the Caribbean where they have development houses for youth that resemble similar set-ups for the big European soccer outfits (NYT Magazine did an excellent article on the NY Mets globalization strategy in 2005). At the same time, the tournament hasn’t been able to gain all the world-class stars it would desire (who are prepping for the games that actually pay $$) and some team are downright pitiful (what is South Africa doing in the tournament? Really…?**)

But regardless of its feeling to me, its good here. With a history of back and forth over lands and political displays, this makes for really good east-Asian rivalries. And with baseball being a pre-dominant sport in Korea and Japan as well, this part of the tournament burns with some intensity.

But what I did not expect was that it would have a pull here in the way that the World Cup might have in other places in the world. At the moment, I’m sitting in a chilled out café in Tainan that looks like it would never even welcome a sports fan, but sure enough, they’ve circled several couches around a projector screen so patrons can look up and get the latest on the Taiwan-China game that’s underway. Last night I tuned in to watch Korea-Taiwan with my friend from Seoul.

Taiwan won’t make it out of the first round. Korea and Japan will dominate and represent Asia in the next round of the tournament. But its good to see this kind of competition emerging and to see what it looks like in another country. Last night I took a break from my bike ride across town to tune and watch the second inning of the Korea game with about 75 other people who were watching a big projection screen outside a Sony store downtown. Sure, its not Circo Massimo after Italy took the 2006 World Cup, but I think we’ll be hearing more about this event in years to come.

**For those interested in upsets, The Netherlands twice beat the Dominican Republic in the past week. It’s an impossible result. And it happened twice. Will be following this more closely than I originally thought.

Cao-Ching’s Commitment

One thing I love about life is that people are simply incredible beings. The stories we write, movies we watch, plays we act and canvases we cover are derived our human experience – the often incredible courage and faith and the remarkable way that events link together, the wild dreams and even the sometimes mundane details of turning them into reality. Life in this constant balance of inspiration and normalcy.

I’ve had the great blessing to be in a line of work that allows me to meet some of the people who are the dream-makers. The men and the women who couple passion, hope and perseverance and away they go.

Twenty years ago, Cao-Ching retired early from his position as a public servant in search of a deeper calling to serve God and his country. Without a clear leading, he reflected on it for about a year, seeking some divine guidance to raise the need he could address in Taiwanese society. The answer he received wasn’t a high profile or glamorous cause: he would dedicate the rest of his life to caring for people in a Permanent Vegetative State (PVS).

His faith took him on a 4-year trek around his country, knocking on doors to raise awareness, enlist support and collect donations for the work. With the cause relatively unknown in Taiwanese society at that time, he got little response. In fact, he only managed to recruit 700 supporters in those four years. That’s only about one person every two days. Still, he persisted.

After four years, he was able to rent some space in an old building by Taipei Main Station in downtown Taipei. The first bed he used to comfort his first patient was an old bureau that he converted to suit its new function. They still have it in the center. It moved me to see this humble piece of furniture, which he saw as the first step to a work that would affect the lives of thousands of people around the island. Visionaries see the unseen.

Cao-Ching opened his first center with an annual budget of about $30,000. 20 years later, the Genesis Social Welfare Foundation has 12 PVS centers, expanded to address the needs of the elderly and homeless and now operates on $60,000 a day. It’s the 6th largest NGO in Taiwan and has three more centres under development at the moment.

From a seed of inspiration, Cao-Ching followed his calling in faith and his actions brought the PVS issue to national recognition and demonstrated the massive potential of a fully-committed individual.

How does one respond to a life like that? For me, it begs the question of my own life: How committed am I to anything in my life? Would I drop everything if I got a sense of specific purpose for my life?

It becomes more and more obvious to me the level of commitment that is necessary to bring real constructive social change to the world. It’s a level of trust and discipline most find far too costly to be worth the sacrifice. But all important things require sacrifice at some point. In the end, its far more about willingness than what is sacrificed. The unique power of the spirit over the material

Small Town Taiwan

Fat on handmade noodles and steak, I rolled down the quiet main street with a French Father, who gently spoke with me of divine will in English, his third language. I never fail to be inspired by young men who commit themselves fully to a spiritual search. Particularly, one that brings them to small-town Taiwan.

Riding through the night, I worked to keep awake. My eyes weary and vision blurring I held conversation for 90 minutes before we arrived at a small Catholic monastery about 45 minutes outside Tainan City. The gates left open, my small team of seven unloaded our mini-van and walked up the stairs to a drop-dead sleep.

There are little things that start to happen when one travels with the intention of building relationships and experiencing culture. The word “no” often begins to slip from usage. If someone asks me or others to do/try/ask/say/build/write something, we often say “yes” and see where the rabbit hole goes. (I actually saw a British Late night show when a man tried this experiment out for some weeks at a time. His only answer to any yes-or-no question was “yes”. He wrote a book about it and the idea caught me. I’ve found myself being more affirmative ever since.)

So when Brother Thomas walked in on our afternoon meeting and asked if we would like to meet his pottery teacher, we agreed. Two minutes later we were at a sublime art studio off the main street. The warehouse split in two sections. To the right a potter’s wheel, two kilns and stack of ceramics in all parts of the process. To the left an open space with five working canvases. On the walls hung large portraits.

Immediately upon arrival, a middle-aged Taiwanese man approached in jeans and cracked leather shoes. We warmed to his good looks immediately and his English made the interaction easier. Within minutes we were into his work, peering around every corner of the studio. He paints and his wife write children’s books. A third artist works the wheel in the back.

It didn’t take long for my incessant questioning to strike gold. The portraits, large (3’x4’), oil heavy and worked with a spatula, displayed faces, almost mutated in their distortion. The depictions were harrowing, but human and I didn’t shy away from them. Instead, I drew closer, locking eyes with each and understanding the depths of the characters, anonymous yet vivid. They were pictures from memory. From intense memory.

The painter told the story of his political dissidence in the 1970’s. Well, dissidence would be perhaps an overstatement. That said, he told me that he had been a political prisoner in Taiwan for 2 years in his early 20’s. At somepoint he had disagreed with the ruling party of Taiwan (led by Chiang Kai Shek, who moved to Taiwan following the successful Communist Revolution on the mainland in 1949). A few small words landed him in prison where he stayed for 24 months along with a number of other inmates, many serving time for uncommitted crimes.

They were the faces, speaking out over the years to him as he taught in a primary school. They were the voices he tried to amplify through his work.

Times in Taiwan have changed. Martial law was lifted. Democratic elections in the Yuan took place in 1991. There’s even been a different ruling party in power at the federal level.

So has the life of this artist-teach. In a remarkable (and at one point unthinkable) turn of events he was personally invited by the Taiwanese president to display his work in the presidential palace two years ago. A new age of freedom and openness.

We arrived back at the monastery in time for the brothers’ evening expedition: Night Market. Every Tuesday the men head to the local town square to join the other hawkers, wielding twin pans of brilliant cake. The sweet is an obvious cover to hang out with the people in the market, but its fantastic nonetheless. We pitched up our lights, rolled out the extension chord and even busted out the guitars, drinking in the magical scene of the Taiwanese Night Market

It’s spring and with the cool air settled in, we traded roles selling (actually not really selling) our cakes, playing music and shooting hoops. Few people attended the market, so it was a hawkers affair. The old folks traded stories and conversations lilted gently behind larges spreads of goods ranging from cheap socks and underwear to meat cleavers and fingernail clippers. One outfit rented motorized cars for children while another let kids try to catch fish to take home.

Of course, these are all distant placeholders to the real stars of any night market. Yes, the food vendors. In all, food vendors took up at least half the market and they sizzled in the night. From prawn noodles to street meat, the mouth-watering aromas emanated from all corners. We were helpless. Within minutes we were pounding the puffed rice available for free at our table to satiate our whetted appetites. Of course, it didn’t take long for my friend Cheng to break. I’m sure she loves food more than anyone I know, which is impossible to understand when you see her petite frame. But her stomach, eye for cuisine and Mandarin skills instantly paid off as I found myself slurping up a bowl of noodle broth. But it was all appetizer to me as I walked directly to the king of it all, the street meat man.

One grilled squid, some chicken liver, another grilled squid, some bacon and a piece of pork later, I basked in the greatness. After 4 months of a fairly disciplined vegetarian diet, I had entered the land of the non-veg grill. I savored every last marinated morsel.

As the market dwindled, we grabbed the last of the cake (okay, we had only sold three pieces in two hours; which led to the obvious conclusion that the cake was a weekly [if not delicious] cover to hang out with the townspeople) and traveled with our product. Behind the power of some good-looking women, a little background guitar, a nice product and bit of peer pressure, we managed to unload about 15 pieces in 15 minutes, emptying the tray and putting a smile on everyone’s face. Elated, we packed up our gear and walked down the street.

Every week, the men head to the same noodle man for some post market chill time. It’s tradition and as such, it instantly took me. It reminded me of days back in Plainsboro, eating McDonald’s after Young Life. Eating fries and milkshakes and playing out a million high school dramas. Minus the theatre and hormones, the weekly noodle run brought a smile to my face.

We sat down with the chef and owner as we ate. He always waits for the brothers before closing up shop on Tuesdays. They chow and talk and laugh and listen. Tonight it was a lovely scene with the French brothers and their Chinese friends taking in a group of foreigners at the long table, sipping black red-tea-coffee and slurping soup. As we finished up, we snapped a photo out front with the owner and his son. A more memorable night in small town Taiwan.