Author: Frank DeMarco

Bob, signing for someone

I met Bob Monroe because Bob Friedman and I wanted to get him to agree to let Hampton Roads try to get Hemi-Sync tapes into the Waldenbooks chain, back when that was the largest bookstore chain in the country. We drove for four-hours up from Norfolk, and I had a wonderful time. We had lunch in the staff dining room — Bob Monroe, his stepdaughter Scooter and her husband Joe McMoneagle, his book agent Eleanor Friede, and Bob and me – and Bob Monroe spent the entire lunch (as I remember it, anyway) telling me what he had been doing with his life and what he was trying to accomplish. (I realized later, the others all knew the story.)

I was ecstatic. This was exactly what I had been looking for, ever since my mescaline experience of 19 years before, a way to pursue higher consciousness that did not involved drugs. How I wished I could do a Gateway Voyage, his introductory course. But Bob and I weren’t paying ourselves very much in those days, and the price seemed prohibitive. I bought a couple of tapes, and hoped that practicing with them would lead me somewhere.

Of course, in terms of our specific hopes, the trip was not only inconclusive (Bob wouldn’t say yes, he wouldn’t say no), but was prophetic of all our future commercial relations. Bob wouldn’t say yes, wouldn’t say no. In time, we learned that his staff called his office “the black hole,” because things entered but never came out again. And this continued, off and on, for years.

But – in a larger sense – so what? Look what he accomplished! More to the point, much more to the point, look what he made possible for the rest of us to accomplish!

I always tell people, Bob Monroe gave us three gifts. In increasing order of importance,

• The Hemi-Sync technology and the residential programs he built around it, to provide first-hand experience rather than mere words and longing;
• A value-neutral language for us to use to describe those experiences, so that we could learn to discuss and analyze our experiences in productive ways;
• Most important, he gave us a community. What would we have given, when younger, for a community of like-minded individuals, speaking a common language, discussing similar experiences!

Perhaps as important as anything else, Bob consistently rejected the guru role, saying “I don’t want the responsibility.” He functioned, instead, as a finger pointing to the moon.  And this was exactly what I needed, when I needed it. If TMI had said that before you could do a course you had to believe certain things (no matter what those things might be) I never would have crossed the threshold. Instead they say, “Consider that you might be mor than your physical body” (not a stretch for me in any case) and they let us go exploring. As I say, perfect for me.

It seems to me that each of us has tasks we want to accomplish, some internal and some external. The greatest tasks take the longest to show their full effects, and are therefore the most easily underrated or overlooked. It takes a while for people to see what they had in their midst.

Bob Monroe set himself a great task, which ultimately amounts to the transformation of the world. He did the best he could, and his best was pretty good. The day will come when it will be more obvious, how good his best was, how much he facilitated.

 

We didn’t have him for long. I met him in 1989, and he was gone half a dozen years later. But the Institute remained. The tape exercises and program remained. The community remained. I can imagine Bob saying to himself that he had earned his leave. His body was beat up and he was tired: Why not move on?

On Friday morning, March 17, 1995, half a year after his 79th birthday, he died a quiet death in a Charlottesville hospital, with his children at his side. As it happened, I was in New York City that day to meet Colin Wilson, hoping to persuade him to come see the Monroe Institute and meet Bob. But, too late. Bob was gone.

The next morning, I bought the Saturday New York Times, thinking to read Bob’s obituary — which wasn’t there. I thought, like Emerson speaking of Thoreau, “The country knows not yet, or in the least part, how great a son it has lost.” I thought then, and think now, that 100 years from now, nearly every educated person on Earth will know his name.

A week later, when I returned from the memorial service TMI held, I wrote up some impressions and posted them to the Voyagers Mailing List, an Internet group we had started in late 1994. A few excerpts:

&&&

… The unusual began immediately: people directing parking on the lawn. Folding chairs, set up outside the sliding doors of David Francis Hall, faced westward toward that lovely view of the far mountains. Facing the chairs was a microphone and a little platform, and two enormous sound speakers. At a table off to the side were Mark Certo and two others, to control the special effects. The day was bright, sunny, with a wind that gusted stiff enough to make us warm on the south side, cold on the north side.

We milled around for a little bit, hugging old friends. Bob McCulloch was the first person I met, Bob who had been one of my trainers in both Gateway and Guidelines. And there was Karen Malik, a trainer with Bob McCulloch from Guidelines. She and I had last seen each other just three weeks before, which was also the last time either of us saw Bob. And so many others were there: Dave Wallis and Skip Atwater, Helen Warring and well, you know, the staff, and what I call the extended family, like Eleanor Friede and other nearby residents and associates. Then we all sat down, listening to the Metamusic from the speakers, and waited for the family to file in.

In my experience, religious ceremonies often have at least patches of emotional deadness; places that don’t resonate, words that are only empty words. This ceremony, conducted by the Rev. Shay St. John, had none of this deadness. But then, how could it? The first thing to come over the speakers was Bob’s voice, repeating the affirmation he wrote long ago. You may have heard the words once or twice: “I am more than my physical body….”

Rev. St. John spoke of Bob and then invited each of the family to speak. Bob’s brother Emmet; his stepdaughters Penny and Scooter; Scooter’s husband, Joe McMoneagle; his stepson A.J.; his daughter Laurie. I am sorry I cannot give even a précis of what was said. I used to be a journalist, but this day I was not in reporter mode; the words came washing in, affecting me to the core, then washed out, leaving little or nothing in short-term memory. I am left not with the specifics but with visual memories, and with the memory of the emotional impact.

… Then the family gathered in a circle, holding hands, holding the two white helium-filled balloons [representing Bob and his deceased wife Nancy] hat had been whipping around in the wind the entire time. Rev. St. John told us what would happen and invited us to stand up at the proper moment. Over the speakers came Bob’s voice, reading the climactic point of the “Going Home” tapes, advising the dying person that he or she was going to find that he or she was everything he or she had ever learned, ever been. And at a certain point the family released the balloons, and that terrific wind whipped them off to the south. As we had been invited to do, we all stood and watched the balloons fly off, two white points against that deep blue sky, climbing and also covering the ground at an incredible rate, and then they were out of our visual range, and Bob’s voice was giving his final advice, telling the departing soul, “Remember. Remember.”

&&&

“Remember,” he said. As though we who are his heirs could ever forget.

 

Bobs life is a good example of our lives as an endless chain of influence. He affected uncounted and uncountable others, certainly mine.  If I had never met Bob, my life would have been unimaginably different. But it isn’t easy to describe our various relationships. Over the course of more than 30 years, he and I were friends, then allies and antagonists as business partners at Hampton Roads, then once again friends, and then also publisher and author and collaborators in another important endeavor.

As I look back on my life, I see that I didn’t stay conscious enough. I rarely turned the inner spotlight on me, though in another sense that is all I ever concerned myself with. It was a self-centeredness that was not egotistical, a self-awareness that was not introspective. I was there, doing (or usually reacting), but I wasn’t there, thinking about what I was doing or reacting to, or why. And so I couldn’t learn from experience, because I wasn’t altering my reactions from having thought about past reactions.

I – and everybody else who ever dealt with Bob – saw clearly that he did not communicate, a thoughtless quality that often made life difficult for those around him. Only in the past year or two have I realized I shared this characteristic. I had always assumed that because I am so voluble, if anything, I over-communicate. But recently I have realized that most of my inner life has gone unexpressed, perhaps leaving me as big a mystery to others as was Bob.

I should have known this all along: Why else would this quality in him have aggravated me so severely, if it was not a trait I shared unconsciously?

It wasn’t the only point of contention between us while we were Hampton Roads. Bob was extremely chary about giving credit  I, being extremely sensitive to this, often burned with a sense of injustice, which led me to erupt unpredictably. The result? Two partners, each feeling somewhat unappreciated, each finding the other hard to deal with. I thought, why can’t he give me credit? He no doubt thought, why is he so touchy, so volatile?

The tragedy is that neither of these two highly intuitive, idealistic, intelligent men was able to bring  the underlying dynamic into the open, so that they might get control of it. (As I came to say in other contests, feelings acknowledged can be managed. Feelings unacknowledged can’t. Or, as Jung put it, “Until you make the unconscious conscious, it will rule your life, and you will call it fate.”) I doubt that anybody else really understood the good and the bad that went on between us.

It’s amazing that we did as well as we did, really. Bob and I would be extremely close, and bitterly incompatible, and instinctively aligned, and living in different worlds, depending on the time of day and the phases of the moon, so to speak. When we worked together, we pulled off some amazing things, and when we worked against each other we wound up losing what we had built from nothing. And then, being forced by circumstances to work together again, we rediscovered what we had valued in each other, so that our final dozen years were again productive and mutually satisfactory.

Not least, for me, is the fact that Bob came to see the importance of the information put forth by the guys upstairs. For more than a dozen years, I transcribed and posted new sessions – with the guys, then  with Rita, with Nathaniel – always with this strong sense of Bob as supportive background presence. Often, as I sat transcribing the latest session, I would wonder what Bob would make of it. It was he, and not I, who thought of turning Rita’s daily material into a book, the first of what became four books.

One after another, Bob published my books, even though they made him little money. And always there were emails, or sometimes luncheon conversations, exploring what this or that meant , wondering how it squared with something else he  had read. Sometimes, he would forward questions for me to ask . It became a true partnership centered on the metaphysical curiosity that drove us both, a mutually supportive relationship in the way we had sometimes (but not always) functioned while at Hampton Roads.

The guys once compared me to Bob and Colin , and I found it very enlightening. Edited excerpts (my responses in italic):

&&&

Both Bob and Colin were thinkers in a way that you are not. They reflected. They pondered. They learned from experience considered. This doesn’t mean that what they learned necessarily was right; we are concerned here with the nature of their process. Someone considering something new in the light of past conclusions may end up merely adjusting new perception to not contradict older conclusions, or they may learn something.

So if Bob and Colin are intending to live their lives from a stable platform that will allow them clear observation (and of course this is not all they were doing, but it is one way of looking at their lives), you cannot expect them to want to jettison that stable platform just when things get interesting. Instead, by not moving, they get the effect they wanted: front-row seats. And from those front-row seats, they were able to describe the view to others (although this is only one aspect of what they were doing).

You by contrast are a moveable platform – or, not so much a platform as a set of water wings. What you know is an idea of yourself shaped by your reaction to your surroundings. You are aware of “external” changes, you think of yourself as changing and unchanging, and what you chiefly have to report is your own process, your own journeying. Only, can it be called journeying when it is more like being rafted along?

Of the three of you, Bob was perhaps the most self-aware, in that he did not live in a continual whirl of mental and physical activity like Colin, and did not lose his inner compass by throwing himself into new circumstances (inner or outer) like you.

&&&

I repeat what I said at his memorial service: Bob was a great man.

 

Bob and Colin in Cornwall, 2000

When Bob died in January, 2019, Publishers Weekly, the industry’s trade journal, described him as “founder of Rainbow Ridge Books and longtime publisher of works  of spirituality and metaphysics.” True enough, but hardly a fair assessment. I wrote about him here, on January 8, 2019, in a post I titled “Thinking about Bob”:

We live in a culture that fears death and seems to think that death is tragedy. When you really think about it, that’s a weird idea, which as much as says that life is a failure in that it ends.

Death is an ending, yes, but it is not a tragedy, just a natural culmination. However, still it is an ending, and there’s no talking it away.

&&&

I’m thinking these thoughts because my friend, publisher, and longtime partner in Hampton Roads, Bob Friedman, died on Monday the seventh, just a few weeks shy of his 77th birthday. He died of a relatively short illness which was apparently painless, not a bad way to go.

He leaves behind not only his beloved companion Beth Hines, and his four children, but friends too many to count, and a rich legacy of books.

Bob founded or co-founded no fewer than three publishing companies (The Donning Company in 1974, Hampton Roads Publishing Company in 1989, and Rainbow Ridge Books in 2009) and, in a career spanning more than 40 years, published more than 1,000 books.

Mary Summer Rain, Mary Elizabeth Marlow, Winter Robinson, Neale Donald Walsch, John Nelson, and so many others: Bob gave them their first chance. Without him, would they ever have found a sympathetic publisher? Without their books, would thousands of people have received the encouragement and inspiration they needed? And what of the people that these people may inspire and encourage in turn?

Certainly he changed my life! Changed, enriched, complicated, provoked, encouraged, facilitated…. Anything I accomplished as editor or author, I accomplished because Bob and I teamed up to start a publishing house. Anybody I encouraged came out of that base, which means it is a secondary effect of Bob’s life. You see the point, there’s no end to it.

For that matter, it was Bob’s idea that he and I do Gateway together in December, 1992, and put the cost on the company. The consequences that flowed from that decision make up an entirely different but equally important chain of influences.

There is no way to estimate this one man’s influence, because for one thing we will never see the end of it. Seems to me there’s an encouraging lesson there for all of us.

The next month, I posted this, saying in part:

“For someone of his reach and influence, Bob was surprisingly modest about his potential abilities. I used to say to him, “Bob, you could contact anyone in the New Age movement with two phone calls,” which was no exaggeration but merely a statement of fact, but sometimes he seemed to doubt it. Yet look at his track record: Our very first book at Hampton Roads — the book that returned our capital and gave us enough money to get us going — was Linda Goodman’s 1,100-page novel in blank verse Gooberz. Our second, Tapping into the Force.

“Whose personal interaction got those authors, if not Bob’s? Certainly not mine!

“I can’t help wondering, for the actor whose last role was Bob Friedman, what’s next. Hard act to follow.”

In April, I posted  an impression from the memorial service held at the auditorium of the Association for Research and Enlightenment (A.R.E.) in Virginia Beach. Excerpts from that post:

“If all his friends who live far away could have been there, the place would have been too small. If all his friends living and dead had been able to attend, we would have needed a much larger auditorium. Bob was a man who made many friends, and kept them.

“If, in addition, we had had all the people whose lives he vitally affected, via the authors he published, a large football stadium would have been too small. (Hyperbole? Well, consider the effect on society of just three authors out of the hundreds he put into print: Mary Summer Rain, Neale Donald Walsch, and Lynn Grabhorn.) His was a momentous life.”

I pointed out that Bob and I were “friends and adversaries and friends again over a period of 32 years. For 20 years we built Hampton Roads Publishing Co. Inc. together, and after that … he published eight of my books. It was a long many-faceted relationship, much of it invisible to others, like our periodic lunches over the years…. Our talk might range into history or literature or metaphysics, because Bob was an educated man, not a narrow-focus specialist. And of course there was always the world of publishing to discuss, or deplore.”…

“After an invocation and a buffet meal, we all sat and heard a succession of 20 people talk about various aspects of Bob’s life as they had experienced it. Twenty speakers: It sounds deadly, but in fact it was fascinating, as it always is when people speak from the heart.

“Again and again and again, we heard of Bob’s receptivity, and his kindness, and how his helpfulness to others changed their life. Again and again and again we heard first-hand testimony to – well, there’s no better word for it – his goodness.

“Goodness is undervalued in this world, as you can see by looking around you, but it is certainly properly valued when encountered. And that was Bob. I knew him perhaps as well as anyone beyond his family members, and I can say that in 32 years I never saw him do a malicious thing, never even heard him express a malicious thought. This isn’t just conventional “of the dead say nothing but good” rhetoric. It’s true. Not once. Bob as a business partner could be aggravating beyond all precedent (and I’m sure he would say the same of me) but I never worried about him acting out of malice. He just didn’t.”

I was the final speaker, so I mostly confined myself to a few points that complemented what others had said. Among the things I mentioned:

• Bob’s consistent lack of communication. I told how one day Ginna Colburn, our other partner, said, “Bob, you’ve got to communicate!” and he had grumbled, in response, “People have been telling me that my whole life,” and we had said, “Well?” It got a laugh, because everybody recognized that trait in him.
• Bob’s metaphysics was never dependent upon the state of his bank account. I told of a time in our early days when I went into his office and said I was tired of us just scraping by. He said it was strange, because he always was programing for us to have enough. (The answer, we suddenly realized, was to program for us to have more than enough. and shortly thereafter came Conversations with God.) The point is, Bob didn’t just give lip service to our beliefs, he relied upon their being real. Not everybody does!
• I mentioned his influence on the world at large, via the endless chain of consequences that follow as one person is inspired by a book and in turn goes on to inspire others.
• Finally, I said that even we who knew him well could not really see this full stature yet. It takes time. “But, he was a great man.”

I ended that post saying it was over-long . “Bob was a great man, and transformed many lives, my own not least, and will be fondly remembered.” But I find that in fact there’s more to be said. I’ll try that tomorrow.

 

[I cannot find one single photo of Suni, though I clearly remember at least one that showed her looking quizzically through her half glasses. How I wish I could find it! Otherwise, I have only memories from the few years between the time we met and the time she died. But, like so many things, it appears to have disappeared down the river of time.]

The notoriety I achieved by writing favorably, for a mainstream newspaper, about the Shirley MacLaine workshop, resulted in two acquaintanceships that developed into extremely important friendships. One was Bob Friedman, who will be the topic of my next post. The other, whom I met a few months earlier than Bob, was Suni Dunbar.

In the aftermath of my newspaper article, I was invited to join a group that had formed, that intended to meet regularly. (Weekly? Monthly? Can’t recall.) This would break my isolation, so I accepted gladly. I am pretty sure I was the only man in a group of – 15? 20? – women, most of them a few years older than I was. Of everyone there, the only one whose energy drew me was Suni, and as I found out later, I was the only one who interested her, though I don’t remember if we even said anything to each other. The group met only once or twice more, but by then I had become friends with Suni and her husband Jack, and I began to go over to their office in Virginia Beach occasionally for lunch (and mostly for talk).

Thinking about it today, I see similarities between Suni and Rita Warren, who at this time was still more than a decade in my future. They were more or less the same age, each old enough to be my mother, and in important ways, each performed just that function, in the process giving me something I sorely needed.

I know my mother had loved me, as she loved all her children. But loving someone  doesn’t guarantee that you can give them what they need. My mother, a very traditional Catholic, an equally traditional product of middle-class small town America, had little understanding of what I was looking for, nor of the places I went looking for it, not that I made an effort to explain myself.

(One of my major regrets, in all this looking backward, is that it took so many decades for me to realize that I was so bad at communicating my inner life. But the necessity never occurred to me, stupid as that sounds.)

But unlike mom, Suni – and, later, Rita – did have a sense of what I was looking for. They did sense how this complicated my life; they did empathize, and draw me out, with the result that I began to explain myself to myself. And one day, driving over to Virginia Beach for lunch, I became fully aware of how much I needed to talk to Suni, and my first reaction was a sense of shame that I should have the need, rather than being able to proceed on my own as usual. But then I realized that even knowing that I needed the connection was an advance. When I told her, she understood immediately, which in itself helped move the process along.

Suni and Jack had me over to their house once or twice, I seem to remember, but mostly I met them at their office. For a while we met frequently, then gradually we must have tapered off. Life moved on, as it does, as i moved from the editorial office to the newsroom, then Bob and I had started Hampton Roads Publishing Company, and after a few months I moved over to work there full time. I got busier. Bob and I did Gateway, and The Monroe Institute loomed ever larger in my mind. In August, 1995, we moved the company from Norfolk to Charlottesville, with all the problems that involved.

On Tuesday, January 7, 1996, I saw I had a phone message from Jack Dunbar in Virginia Beach. Jack? In all the time I had known them, I don’t think I have ever had a call from Jack. When I called him back, I said straight off, “Nothing happened to Suni, I hope.”

He said, “Suni died!”

She had died the previous day, of lung and bone cancer. She had been sick for less than a month, but I had known nothing about it. I wondered, immediately, how could it happen that we could drift so far apart, without even the shadow of a rift between us, that I could not even know she was mortally ill?

Jack invited me to her memorial service (she had been cremated), and I was there on the following Sunday morning in Virginia Beach. And there was another friend gone. In those days, it did not occur to me that I might still talk to her. I believed in psychic abilities. I didn’t necessarily believe that I had them. They were still for special people, or so I thought. As far as I knew then, Suni and i were separated forever.

&&&

Strictly speaking, I suppose the following poem doesn’t quite belong here, but one day Jack told me about his experiences at the Battle of Midway, and I went home and turned my impressions into a poem. If it doesn’t quite belong in a post centered on Suni, still, closer here than anywhere else, a tribute to a very nice guy I liked a lot.

Jack, at the Battle of Midway

They will grow old, some of them.
They will survive to fight some more,
survive this desperate long day
to fight from island to island,
sea to sea, until six months’ disaster
is hammered into victory.

They will remember, into another time,
how long the struggle balanced. So near it was
that every man could almost justly say
it hung on him. It was as though God tested,
weighed, compared, and at the final moment
lightly touched the scales.

They will do the impossible today.
Sweating, anxious, pushed beyond fatigue,
over‑riding rules and limitations,
they will launch the planes on which
it all depends. They will bring them in,
and fill them full and send them out.

Hour on hour, they will launch many
and see few return. They will watch
failed landings crumple into flames,
smashing barriers, killing pilots,
threatening the ship itself. Against
unforgiving seconds, they will trot all day.

And victory will come, by grace and by God,
and these heroes, some of them, the lucky ones,
will live on into worlds undreamed, will live on,
somehow, through the most of their lives
that is still ahead, knowing that this day’s work
can never be surpassed, never be outlived.

2‑19‑88

Louis in later years

It was 1972. I was standing on the street waiting to take the bus to my job at the library. The book I was reading said, “When the student is ready, the teacher will appear.”  I remember desperately hoping it was true.

Some few months after I got my graduate degree from the University of Iowa, my wife and I had come down to live in her grandparents’ house in Tampa, Florida, while I tried to turn my Master’s thesis on Thoreau into a book.  (Sigh. As usual. I knew I would become a famous author. Just a matter of time, like running for Congress in a few years.) So I made use of my M.A. to become a dishwasher at the local Howard Johnson’s, then snagged a part-time job at a cable TV station at night, then parlayed that experience into a job as assistant audiovisual librarian at the Tampa Public Library.  A library? Me? Gee, who would have guessed? And of course in some ways, that was a good job for me, especially after I moved from film to books .

But still my external life was one thing, my internal life something else, with little connection between them. There had to be a clue somewhere, but (I thought in those days) finding it might be an impossibility. So many books, so little time! And even if the answer was in a book, and I found that book, how could I know that I had read it right?

I needed a teacher, I knew that much.  But how to find one? And to believe that the teacher would appear when I was ready was such a leap of faith!

(Perhaps the fact that my prayer was answered helped show me by experience that life can be trusted, which helped mold my future attitude. Not everybody trusts life. After so many demonstrations, I came to trust it, and I trust it still.)

And, a few months later, Louis Meinhardt came into my life, a friend of a friend. Though he was only three years older, he had so much more experience of the world, so much more common sense, that for quite a while he couldn’t take me seriously. He saw only the comical, unformed, half-baked side of me, and believe me, there was plenty to see. I was all idealism and good intentions, but ungrounded. Where I longed for psychic abilities, Louis had them and took them for granted, and saw them, accurately enough, as no big deal.  Where I was always ready to believe anything, in certain directions, he was much more likely to see that the emperor had no clothes. Where I tended to take people at their own estimation, he usually saw more clearly.

Much later he told me that the first time he felt a spark of something for me was the day I said to him (in some context I have long forgotten), “I know I make a fool of myself, but sometimes I learn something.” Something within him resonated to that.

I wish I could describe our relationship, it was so unusual. The mutual trust, the shared understandings, the emotional resonances amounted to a bond between brothers. Indeed, it was very like the one I shared with my brother Paul  And the laughter! I’d love to have a dollar for every minute we have laughed together.

For more than 50 years, though with long gaps, we have maintained our friendship. , and whenever we resume communication it is as though there was no interruption.  Since 1974, it has been almost entirely a telephonic link, but still we have been there fore each other in good times and bad. But how write about it? Tell specific anecdotes? Set out broad generalizations? Leave it at, “Trust me, I know”?

I can provide a few generalities.

• External situations have exactly nothing to do with internal worth. Louis when I met him was a school teacher. Nothing in his resume would have given a clue as to the depth of his character, nor of his instinctive knowledge, let alone the knowledge and wisdom he encompassed.
• Similarities in background sometimes help, sometimes mislead. Like me, he was an ex-Catholic school boy, but his relation to the church and to religion in general were nothing like mine. Yet, as fellow members of what I call The Club (ex-Catholics) we intuitively know things shared by neither non-Catholics nor practicing Catholics.
• Similarities in temperament have little to do with the creation of the special bond. In many ways Louis and I couldn’t be more different, but what we shared linked us in ways hard to describe.
• Similar opinions seem to mean little. For many years. Louis scoffed at Colin Wilson, thinking I rated him far too high. When I led Louis to read The Occult: A History, he said, “It’s a comic book.” Such differences in opinion did not lead to a breach between us. We seemed to realize that we would never agree on everything, and that there was no need to do so.
• The teacher-student relationship may reverse, once, twice, continuously, depending on the subject matter and the situation and whatever is going on with either of you. The relationship is not a one-way flow of information or even of wisdom.
• Perhaps most interesting is the fact that you can be someone’s teacher and not even know it on the 3D level. You can be someone’s teacher and not know what it is they are to learn from you. You can be someone’s student and not realize what you are absorbing, let alone how.
• In this kind of relationship, as in any other, the essentials are sincerity and love. I mean this not in any sappy or ethereal way, but as plain fact. No true relationship can exist where either half is not sincere. No true learning is ever passed without love, be it expressed or not, felt or not, understood or not. Love is to human relationships as gravity is to 3D existence on earth: It is, you might say, the underlying organizing principle, without which all is chaos.

It was many a year – many a decade, in fact – before I learned two related things:

• We are each the center of our world: Therefore in a real sense, the world revolves around our thoughts, our emotions, our interests.
• And everyone else is the center of his or her world, a world that revolves around their thoughts, their emotions, their interests.

Among other things, this tells me that anyone may become our teacher, as we may become a teacher for others. Teachers may or may not realize their role in someone else’s life, and this doesn’t matter, provided one does one’s best. We are mysteries to one another other, containing unsuspected depths. Therefore, you can never know what others may have to offer. More to the point, they may not realize it either. It’s probably a good idea to stay alert, and in a state of expectation. Thoreau said somewhere that in his dealings with his fellows, he dealt with traveling gods, only they didn’t know it. True enough, and he might have added, and usually neither do we.

 

It has become a recurring thought in my mind: We never suspect how far our influence may extend, quite without out intention. Henry Thoreau laid down his life peacefully, tranquilly, in the spring of 1862, and yet he continues to change people’s lives today. Presumably he will continue to change people’s lives into the indefinite future. Certainly he changed mine!

I have told the tale of how I came to choose to explore Thoreau’s early social view as my Master’s thesis topic. It isn’t a very interesting story, except perhaps, in that as I began reading Walden, I was brought absolutely to a standstill by a paragraph that spoke to me. Later I learned that many people have been similarly moved by the same words, but at the time, I knew only that this man’s words, and therefore his heart, spoke to me. He said,

“I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived. I did not wish to live what was not life, living is so dear; nor did I wish to practice resignation unless it was quite necessary.”

I wonder, do those two sentences still do for others what they did for the 24-year old I was then? I never had a yen to live alone in the woods (too far from libraries, for one thing!), but from that moment, I looked at life differently. weighed things in a different scale.

Or perhaps that is merely hindsight. All I know for sure is that I was one person when I picked up that book, and another when I finished reading it. Then came his journals (24 years’ worth of volumes, though in graduate school I had time only to read and absorb those from the first ten years), and the essays, and eventually the other volumes.

An attractive man, both in the content of his thoughts and in the dressing of them. His was the first writing that forced me to read between the lines to get his meaning.(Stray thought: Had I not learned on Thoreau, would I have known, much later, how to read Hemingway?)

Speaking of reading between the line, here is a thought-experiment. Can you see how the things I am going to quote affected me? Or, another way to look at it, can you see what pre-existing facets of my community of strands they would have activated?  And more important than what they stirred up in me, what do they stir up in you?

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These are but a few gems, plucked almost at random.

• Why is it that a bucket of water soon becomes putrid, but frozen remains sweet forever? It is commonly said that this is the difference between the affections and the intellect.
• There is always room and occasional enough for a true book on any subject; as there is room for more light the brightest day and more rays will not interfere with the first.
• The highest condition of art is artlessness.
• Truth is always paradoxical.
• By sufferance you may escape suffering.
• When a dog runs at you, whistle for him. [I have always loved this one!]
• It would be a poor story to be prejudiced against the life of Christ because the book has been edited by Christians. [This one too.]
• To be brave is the beginning of victory.
• Ah! Such discourse we had, hermit and philosopher, and the old settler I have spoken of, — we three, — it expanded and racked my little house; I should not dare to say how many pounds’ weight there was above the atmospheric pressure on every circular inch; it opened the seams so that they had to be caulked with much dullness thereafter to stop the consequent leak; — but I had enough of that kind of oakum already picked.
• It is not every truth that recommends itself to the common sense.
• Undoubtedly all men are not equally fit subjects for civilization; and because the majority, like dogs and sheep, are tame by inherited disposition, this is no reason why the others should have their natures broken that they may be reduced to the same level.
• Live free, child of the mist.
• “If a man walks in the woods for love of them half of each day, he is in danger of being regarded as a loafer; but if he spends his whole day as a speculator, shearing off those woods and making the earth bald before her time, he is esteemed an industrious and enterprising citizen.”
• “A bore is someone who takes away my solitude and doesn’t give me companionship in return.”
• “A man is rich in proportion to the number of things which he can afford to let alone.”
• “A man may be very industrious, and yet not spend his time well. There is no more fatal blunderer than he who consumes the greater part of life getting his living.”
• “A truly good book teaches me better than to read it. I must soon lay it down, and commence living on its hint. What I began by reading, I must finish by acting.”
• “Any fool can make a rule, and any fool will mind it.”
• “Any man more right than his neighbors constitutes a majority of one already.”
• “As you simplify your life, the laws of the universe will be simpler; solitude will not be solitude, poverty will not be poverty, nor weakness weakness.”
• “Be resolutely and faithfully what you are; be humbly what you aspire to be.”
•  “Be yourself- not your idea of what you think somebody else’s idea of yourself should be.”
• “Being is the great explainer.”
• “Beware of all enterprises that require new clothes.”
• “Could a greater miracle take place than for us to look through each other’s eyes for an instant?”
• “Cowards suffer, heroes enjoy.”
• “Disobedience is the true foundation of liberty. The obedient must be slaves.”
• “Do not be too moral. You may cheat yourself out of much life so. Aim above morality. Be not simply good, be good for something.”
• “Every generation laughs at the old fashions, but follows religiously the new.”
• “Every morning was a cheerful invitation to make my life of equal simplicity, and I may say innocence, with Nature herself.”
• “Every path but your own is the path of fate. Keep on your own track, then.”
• “Go confidently in the direction of your dreams. Live the life you’ve imagined.”
• “Goodness is the only investment that never fails.”
• “I left the woods for as good a reason as I went there. Perhaps it seemed to me that I had several more lives to live, and could not spare any more time for that one.”
• “I find it wholesome to be alone the greater part of the time. To be in company, even with the best, is soon wearisome and dissipating. I love to be alone. I never found the companion that was so companionable as solitude.”
• “If you would convince a man that he does wrong, do right. But do not care to convince him. Men will believe what they see. Let them see.”
• “In the long run, men hit only what they aim at. Therefore, they had better aim at something high.”
• “The price of anything is the amount of life you exchange for it.”
• “The youth gets together his materials to build a bridge to the moon, or, perchance, a palace or temple on the earth, and, at length, the middle-aged man concludes to build a woodshed with them.”
• “We hear and apprehend only what we already half know.”

Trust me, I could go on and on for a good long time. But perhaps a word to the wise is enough to send you to the library or bookstore. Only, be warned, this man will change your life, if you let him.

“Our thoughts are the epochs of our life: all else is but as a journal of the winds that blew while we were here.”

 

Carl Gustav Jung

If, for whatever reason,  you no longer find meaning in the religion you were raised in, or if you were raised in no religion at all, but are haunted by a gnawing sense of something missing in your life, what do you do? Do you just pick up some belief at random? Do you conclude, perhaps somewhat hastily, that life has no meaning at all?

If you’re lucky, if you’re open to it, life sends you pointers.

In 1970, life sent me first Colin Wilson’s book, them a book by Carl Jung titled Modern Man In Search of a Soul. I picked up Colin’s book not knowing why, but Jung’s title spoke to me. I’m always picking up books, but this was particularly good listening. (I think we were in London at the time.)

The thing to remember about Jung is that he wrote not as a philosopher, nor as a student of history, nor as a cultured European surveying life – though he was all of those – but as a physician, a psychiatrist, reporting on what he had observed in a lifetime’s medical practice. That is, rather than beginning with a theory and searching for evidence for it. he formed his theories on observed facts. He wrote that he had analyzed many thousands of  dreams before he began to formulate his conclusions.

Much later, I would learn (in Psychology and Religion) that Jung’s thought and experience had brought him to five basic conclusions on the religious side of the psyche:

• A spiritual element is an organic part of the human psyche.
• Such elements are regularly expressed in symbols.
• These symbols reveal a path of psychological development which can be traced backwards toward a past cause and forward toward a future goal.
• This goal is expressed by images of completion in a whole Self which is unique for each individual, formed by integration of the ego and unconscious.
• This whole is characterized by all the qualities of numinousness, unconditional authority, and value which also belonged to the image of God.

Of course I didn’t know any of this in 1970. Nonetheless, something guiding me knew that this was the influence I needed. Here was a man who brought intellectual rigor and clear-eyed perception to the question of religion and spirituality and our situation in life.

I needed  that. Everything within me said that (for me at least), Catholicism, Christianity, was not enough. I don’t mean that it isn’t true, exactly, more like, it isn’t true enough. Or probably a better way of putting it is to say that Christianity as I saw it being interpreted wasn’t enough. There was truth there; I could feel it. But the way it was being interpreted was dumbed-down, to the point that intelligent people mostly gave it lip service  at best. I knew the atheists weren’t right, but Christianity as I was seeing it wasn’t either. So what were the facts? What were the religious facts?

It isn’t like Jung could give me the answers. But he could, and he did, give me some of the questions. Like Colin Wilson, he shone light on areas of life that were darkness to me. In a word, he reassured me that my instincts weren’t wrong, even if I couldn’t yet say what was right.

A few relevant quotations from Memories, Dreams, Reflections,, to give you a faint sense of what he offered, and offers still.

“The idea of rebirth is inseparable from that of karma. The crucial question is whether a man’s karma is personal or not. If it is, then the preordained destiny with which a man enters life represents an achievement of previous lives, and the personal continuity therefore exists. If, however, this is not so, and an impersonal karma is seized upon in the act of birth, then that karma is incarnated again without there being any personal continuity….

“I  know no answer to the question of whether the karma which I live is the outcome of my past lives, or whether it is not rather the achievement of my ancestors, whose heritage comes together in me. Am I a combination of the lives of those ancestors and do I embody those lives again is to mark have I lived before in the past as a specific personality, and did I progress so far in that life and I am now able to seek a solution? I do not know. Buddha left the question, and I like to listen that he himself did not know with certainty.

“… When I die, my deeds will follow along with me — that is how I imagine it I will bring with me what I have done. In the meantime it is important to ensure that I do not stand at the end with empty hands.” (pp 317-8).

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“Our age has shifted all emphasis to the here and now, and thus brought about the daemonization of man and his world. The phenomenon of dictators and all the misery they have wrought springs from the fact that man has been robbed of transcendence by the short-sightedness of the super-intellectuals. Like them, he has fallen a victim to unconsciousness. But man’s task is the exact opposite: to become conscious of the contents that press upwards from the unconscious. Neither should he persist in his unconsciousness, nor remain identical with the unconscious elements of his being, thus evading his destiny, which is to create more and more consciousness. As far as we can discern, the sole purpose of human existence is to kindle a light in the darkness of mere being. It may even be that just as the unconscious affects us, so the increase in our consciousness affects the unconscious.” ( pp 326).

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“Today we need psychology for reasons that involve our very existence. We stand perplexed and stupefied before the phenomenon of Nazism and Bolshevism because we know nothing about men, or at any rate have only a lopsided and distorted picture of him. If we had self-knowledge, that would not be the case…. [W]e have no imagination for evil, but evil has us in its grip. Some do not want to know this, and others are identified with evil. That is the psychological situation in the world today: some call themselves Christian and imagine that they can trample so-called evil underfoot by merely willing to; others have succumbed to it and no longer see the good. Evil today has become a visible great power. One half of humanity battens and grows strong on a doctrine fabricated by human Grassi is a nation; the other half seconds from the lack of a myth commensurate with the situation. The Christian nations have come to a sorry pass; their Christianity slumbers and has neglected to develop its myth further in the course of the centuries.” (pp 330-331).

And finally, as quoted in Jung’s Contribution to Our Time, by Eleanor Bertine, p 57:

“One of the toughest roots of all evil is unconsciousness, and I could wish that the saying of Jesus, ‘Man, if thou knowest what thou doest, thou art blessed, but if thou knowest not, thou art accursed, and a transgressor of the law,’ were still in the Gospels, even though it has only one authentic source. It might well be the motto for a new morality.”

Need I add that this is but a teaser? There’s enough in Jung to last you at least the rest of your life. It seems to be a matter of seek and you will find, ask and the way will be opened.