THE FLAVORS OF FATE

In my continuing efforts to demystify the spirituality of awareness, I often find myself at what might be described as the back door of Buddhism. That is, I embrace ideas associated with Buddhism, but without paying the price of constant study and discipline.

One such theft is of the idea that happiness hinges on detaching oneself from expectations—those uniquely human constructs built on the past and future, but having nothing to do with the present moment.

That said, detachment does imply faith. Yes, you most certainly have plans and goals; yes, you apply yourself to the task at hand. But beyond that you believe the universe will steer you to exactly the outcome it—and you for that matter—needs.

MM-M-M-M, MENINGITIS!
An old friend of mine applied this tenet in his encounter, many years ago now, with cocci meningitis, a fungal infection of the lining of the brain. It was thought at the time to be a terminal diagnosis.

Walter—an aspiring Buddhist by the way—tried just about every alternative, new-age treatment you can think of. He meditated. He hung out with crystals. He traveled afar and dug deep within for answers. (The first thing one spiritual/medical guru, in Texas, asked him was, “So, Walter, why did you decide to get sick?”)

I’ll never forget when Walter announced to our men’s group that he’d come to a place of peace with the disease, come what may. As he put it, “It’s like ice cream; if having cocci meningitis is vanilla, then not having it is chocolate. Either way, life is delicious.”

Walter, twenty-plus years later, is still with us.

The trick is to handle these events the best we can, not let them handle us.

A GREATER REALITY
We all face events and decisions every day in which we vest the outcome with a value—from how the barista makes our latte in the morning, to whether the house we just bought is really as good a deal as we think it is, to coping with illness, even death.

And we always have the choice between seeing unexpected consequences as failings or misfortune, and seeing them as simply parts of a greater reality which can be labeled as neither good nor bad. It just is.

The trick is to handle these events the best we can, but not let them handle us. And, once we know we’re doing our best, as Walter did, we let go of the outcome.

It’s incredible how liberating this attitude can be. For it does not suffer fools gladly; useless emotions like disappointment, regret and fear are dismissed before they can utter a word.

This is how I want to live my life. But it’s not easy. Ever since I was three or four, nearly every lesson I’ve been taught, every message absorbed from the culture, every example held up to me, has been about investing all you’ve got in an outcome and never letting go of that expectation.

   It may be an outcome we could never have 
   imagined, one understood only by the boundless 
   wisdom of the universe.

JUJU BEINGS
Perhaps it’s the luxury of being an older, more independent man, but my instincts have been quarreling with all those do-or-die lessons. They're arguing—when they can get a word in edgewise—that the outward pursuit of success, happiness, faith…whatever…is a fool's quest.

Human beings are hard-wired for happiness. So, instead of looking outside ourselves for a certain result or to acquire some special juju, the real answer is to look within. It is a process not of acquisition, but of divesture, shedding all the garbage that has piled up on top of the perfect juju we already have.

So Walter's point—made, admirably, under the direst of circumstances—is well taken. Except that I'd add one thing. If the outcome we would have liked (before our conversion to quasi-Buddhism, of course) is chocolate, and the one we wouldn't is vanilla, there's a third option: a result that is neither—an outcome we could never have imagined, one understood only by the boundless wisdom of the universe.

As I ponder the deliciousness of all three of these possibilities, an odd thought sidles into my consciousness—a craving for ice cream. Not vanilla; not chocolate. Neapolitan.

                                 

ABERDARE NATIONAL PARK – Life and Death at the Watering Hole

As if the surreal 23-hour, eight-time-zone flight to Kenya weren’t enough, our out-of-body state of mind seemed confirmed by the hubbub of black faces and the third-world vibe awaiting us at the Nairobi airport. Sally and I were both thinking the same thing: I hope this is going to prove worth the effort.

Our hotel gave us our first clue. The cosmopolitan Ole Serene Hotel, which served as the interim U.S. embassy after the 1998 terrorist bombing, is situated right next to the 45-square-mile Nairobi National Park. Its restaurant, bar and about half its rooms look out directly over the park’s broad plain of scattered scrub bush, reportedly home to nearly every species of wild game we’d come to see.

When, at some distance, we spotted our first giraffe, we were already thinking Wow, does it get any better than this?  It does.

After another day in the Nairobi area visiting the African Fund for Endangered Wildlife’s wonderful Giraffe Center, the Karen Blixen (Author of Out of Africa under the pen name Isak Dinesen) estate and a few other nearby attractions, we headed 150 km north in our nifty little Nissan safari minivans to the first of four national parks or wildlife reserves encompassed by our safari.

Aberdare National Park, established in 1950, comprises 475 square miles of varied landscapes, ranging from 7,000 to 14,000 feet in elevation. Its rolling, wooded hills and dales, trout streams and cool weather shattered yet more of assumptions we’d had about Kenya’s climate.

                   

NO, BULL!
We stayed at the amazing Ark, a game lodge situated on the edge of a busy animal watering hole and salt lick. Suggestive of the place’s priorities, each room features a light-and-buzzer code system at the head of the beds to alert guests when any of five key animal species shows up—even if it’s in the middle of the night.

Our first glimpse of the watering hole—from the Ark’s broad second-floor deck—saw about a dozen water buffalo, several water buck and wart hogs, a few impala and a marabou stork, all leisurely partaking of the water, the minerals in the soil, or just the relative security of being in an open space where predators have no cover in which to lie in wait for them.

Suddenly, the largest of the bulls began posturing his foul mood with aggressive lunges at the others.

Then, as we watched all these “extras” doing their quiet thing, a few of their heads lifted and turned toward the heavy thicket surrounding the clearing. Slowly, magnificently, the stars of the show parted the foliage curtain and strode deliberately onto the stage.

The elephants—a family comprising seven adults and a baby—made their way down to the mud hole, where they toed the earth with massive feet, then deftly probed the loosened soil with their trunks.

Suddenly, the largest of the bulls, presumably the calf’s sire, took issue with something and began posturing his foul mood with aggressive lunges at the others—directed eventually toward the baby. Then, just like in all those Nature programs I’ve ever watched about the lives of elephants, the rest of the family circled around to protect the baby.
        

The brute realized he wasn’t going to win this one, and strode off to recharge his ego. A poignant reminder that the importance of family extends to all creatures.

EYES IN THE DARK
Even more dramatic was the episode we experienced that night. Along with a few other diehards, Sally and I had stayed up late to observe the nightlife at the floodlit watering hole. The elephants had gone, leaving just a dozen water buffalo and a few warthogs calmly milling around.

We noticed movement at the dim edge of the pool of light. A single hyena scuttled furtively around the perimeter, eyeing the other animals for a weakness, his snout raised to sniff, perhaps, for the easier meal of carrion. A scout, I guessed out loud, wondering what he’d have to say when reporting back to his pack.

A few awestruck human beings could muster no words—just silent glances and subtle, knowing wags of the head.

No more than a minute after the scout turned back into the bush, a chorus of hyenas’ excited, bone-chilling laughter erupted from the pack. From just the rising fervor of their shrieks and the faint glow of their eyes as they darted between clumps of undergrowth, it was obvious they were converging on something.

Then all the glowing eyes were together, and, as the insane cackling rose to a crescendo, so did another sound, the terrible bleating of some poor little gazelle
or dik-dik.

Mercifully, the frenzy soon quieted down, and the chill night air was still again. And a few awestruck human beings could muster no words—just silent glances and subtle, knowing wags of the head—at this stark reminder of reality in this unsentimental domain of predator and prey.

(Just as we were about to turn and go back indoors for the night, another movement down in the light caught our eye. Again, a single hyena was sneaking out of the bush, right where we’d seen and heard all the drama. He slunk across the mud flat, passing just below us, in his mouth the still warm leg of the animal he and his pack had just killed.)

                                               –//–       –//–       –//–

On a lighter note, here are some of the other beautiful—albeit less dramatic—things we saw in and around the watering hole at Aberdare.

NOT QUITE BLACK & WHITE – The Subtle Art of Winter

LIFE AND DEATH ETCHED IN WHITE
One recent morning I took our miniature schnauzer, Abby, outside for her morning toilette in the back yard. The sparkling blanket of fresh snow was pristine, but for the occasional trail of tiny paw prints. I could tell the squirrel path by its much bigger prints and the broad indentations the animal had made as it alternately hopped and sank into the snow.

The delicate impressions led across an unspoiled patch of snow and then simply stopped.

One very delicate set of prints caught my eye—likely those of a field mouse or vole. The impressions led across an unspoiled patch of snow and then simply stopped. No obstacle, no escape tunnel…just stopped.

Looking more closely, I noticed that the last few tracks were flanked symmetrically by two subtle, fan-shaped depressions in the snow. Then—this is when the chill went up my spine—I discovered that each of the marks had quite a distinct leading edge; the trailing edge, more delicately drawn, as if by a series of very soft brushes…or feathers!

It was then I knew for sure that the last thing the poor little devil had seen in this life was the swooping shadow of an owl!

SNO-COMB
It’s for this ability to record such comings and goings that snow is such an asset to hunters, detectives, anyone who needs to track another creature. Besides the obvious information like the number, size and direction of your quarry, snow tracks can reveal to the trained eye things like the animal’s weight, age, or even if it walked with a limp.

These accounts might seem a snapshot of just a carefree moment in a tiny being’s day, or...

To the curious empath, these accounts might seem a snapshot of just a carefree moment in a tiny being’s day, or they might document why there is no such thing for one so low on the food chain.

My wife, Sally, and I were cross-country skiing in northern Minnesota’s Boundary Waters Wilderness when we came across a set of fresh wolf tracks crossing the ski trail at right angles. When I stopped to look around, I noticed there was another set of tracks about ten yards ahead of me. I edged along and came across five more equally spaced, parallel sets of wolf tracks.

ILLUSTRATION: Wolf Pack in Moonlight – Robert Bateman

I’d heard that these skilled hunters often spread out like this when tracking their prey—an effective way to comb a large area for sights and scents. I didn’t know whether to feel happy or sad when I discovered, between the last two “teeth” of the “comb,” the tracks of a medium-sized deer. I was tempted to follow them to see if I could find signs of either prey’s or predators’ success. Sally nipped that idea in the bud.

RELUCTANT COLOR
Esthetically, it might seem that winters here in Minnesota are to those in warmer places as oatmeal is to a rich, spicy paella. For someone like me who draws nourishment from color, that can prove a pretty bland diet. It seems that, when all our buildings were designed, there must have been a shortage of materials—even paint—in any colors but shades of white, brown and gray.

Compound this dreary palette with our low winter sun’s feeble output and daylight that’s snuffed by 4:30, and you have a recipe for what we call “cabin fever.” As Garrison Keeler captures so hilariously in his reports from Lake Wobegon, we stoically accept what is and make the best of it.

Isn’t it the pigment we bring to the mix that ultimately determines the color we see?

But is winter really so drab, or is the gray just a reflection of our constrained spirits? To be fair, when you put your mind to it, there is, indeed, color to be found in a Minnesota winter. You catch it in drops of vivid nylon running down a ski slope. It rises in the roaring flamboyance of a hot air balloon.

Indoors, it might wrap you in a bright, cozy throw or beguile you with the sizzling yellow and orange dance of a fire. It’s in a ruddy cheek, a warm smile and the resilient spirits of the folks you get to know so well when you’re housebound together for a while.

And, for those of us unsatisfied with man-made color, even Nature teases us with her reluctant hues. Unlike those of summer that nearly accost you, these shades tend to lay low, obscure to all but the most determined, most appreciative eye.

They’re the raw umber and burnt sienna cloaks the oak trees refused to give up last autumn; the golden, burgundy, crimson, even chartreuse stems of dogwood and other shrubs; the gilded glow of sun setting over virgin snow; the arresting, pure red check mark of a cardinal alighting for just an instant.

The color of winter is, at its best, a collaboration. Nature does her part, albeit begrudgingly. The rest is up to us. After all, isn’t it the pigment we bring to the mix—in our openness, our creativity, our zest for life, our rejection of cynicism —that ultimately determines the color we see?

Yes, you may have to look a little harder, perhaps open your heart and soul a bit further, but, as with anything in short supply, you learn to appreciate winter’s little wonders all the more for their subtlety. The alternative? Well, believe me, it can be an awfully long time between October and March.