You’re not the least bit terrified of what happens before you’re born. Why, then, are you so terrified of what happens after you die?

~www.twitter.com/maitri

The world ends. And the world begins. And ends. And begins.

Working with families that have suffered a death makes me more familiar with death than I suspect most people are. But it is often the case that the deaths I am dealing with are of people who were themselves ready to meet their makers: older, retired, tired.

So when I am faced head on with an unexpected death, a death of someone NOT expecting it, not retired, not tired nor ready, it catches me unawares. And that happened today. I feel disappointed in the universe for allowing this seemingly senseless death to occur.

It is the human condition that we CANNOT live as if each day were our last. After all, if we knew next Friday were our last day on Earth, we’d not go to work, or pay our mortgage or buy groceries. We’d instead spend every last penny on living life to the fullest. But how realistic is THAT? We’d be homeless and hungry by next Saturday. No; that will not do. Rather, we MUST live as though tomorrow will come, as though our lights should stay on, as though we will have children and they will go to college for which we must save.

It was thus surmised succinctly: Death is a bitch. Period. Dying is the worst part of living and is to be avoided at all costs. And when it cannot be avoided, then it’s consummation should be as painless on the dying and on the survivors as possible.

Live. Love. Laugh. And let those who matter most to you know it everyday. Lest Death catch you unawares.

I’m done complaining about the oil spill.  It’s safe to read again and not roll your eyes.  Really, I mean it.

I’ve switched off of reading NOLA books and am now reading James Salter’s “A Sport and a Pastime.”  I’ve read Salter’s “Light Years,” and it is still one of my favorite books.  His writing is exactly what I love: no spare words; great images and feelings conveyed with wonderful words strung together.

Here’s a description he gives of having a cup of coffee in a Paris cafe:

It’s as quiet as a doctor’s office.  The tables have chairs still upturned on them.  Beyond the thin curtains, a splitting cold.  Perhaps it will snow.  I glance at the sky.  Heavy as wet rags.  France is herself only in the winter, her naked self, without manners.  In the fine weather, all the world can love her. . . .

Heavy as wet rags! Quiet as a doctor’s office! France as herself in winter without manners! Oh, my! How does he do it? It’s lyrical.

Then there’s this passage on how our memory works:

Certain things I remember exactly as they were.  They are merely discolored a bit by time, like coins in the pocket of a forgotten suit.  Most of the details, though, have long since been transformed or rearranged to bring others of them forward.  Some, in fact, are obviously counterfeit; they are no less important.  One alters the past to form the future.  But there is a real significance to the pattern which finally appears, which resists all further change.  In fact, there is the danger that if I continue to try, the whole concert of events will begin to fall apart in my hands like old newspaper, I can’t bear to think of that.  The myriad past, it enters us and disappears.  Except that within it, somewhere, like diamonds, exist the fragments that refuse to be consumed.  Sifting through, if one dares, and collecting them, one discovers the true design.

This kind of writing knocks my socks off.  It’s so lovely.  I want to savor it.  And so I find I can read only a few pages a day.  If I rush, I don’t catch all the flavors.  It’s like guzzling a fine wine: you can, but you lose more than you gain.

So I’m only on page 57.  And since there’s only 191, I will continue to read Salter in the way I best enjoy it: as a sport and a pastime.

I finished Dan Baum’s “Nine Lives: Death and Life in New Orleans” this afternoon. Then watched the season finale of HBO’s “Treme.”

*Sigh*

Maybe it is still too soon for me to return to Katrina memories—those feelings of utter hopelessness and gut-wrenching devastation.  The knowledge of the fallibility of every level of our American government.  The early days, before the people of New Orleans returned home and began to put the pieces back together.

Nine Lives came highly recommended to me by several sources.  And I devour New Orleans’ books, so even though the topic was Katrina-related, I decided to jump in.  Two of the nine lives touched me immensely and were enough to make reading the book worthwhile.  Those two were Ronald Lewis and Wilbert Rawlins, Jr.  These two men each deserve entire books written about them.  My comments below about Nine Lives do NOT reflect my feelings of these two mostly unsung heroes.

Nine Lives and, to a smaller extent, Treme, have had me, for the first time in my life, questioning my love and devotion to New Orleans.  I’ve always loved and defended my City.  But the portrayals by Nine Lives and Treme suggest New Orleanians are lazy, racist, and expectant of our government to bail us out of our troubles.

Treme does a better job of explaining that New Orleanians are not lazy; rather, we don’t chase the Almighty Dollar the way others in this country do.  We aren’t as focused about minivans, climbing the corporate ladder, or keeping up appearances as much as we are focused about our strong ties to family, meals (as a celebration, not sustenance), and tradition (and often, these three are bound together).  Treme also attempts to portray the soul that is New Orleans and that is in each of her residents.

With Nine Lives, not one of the nine was relatable to my life or so many middle class whites, which, in turn, suggests there is NO middle class in NOLA—just uber rich whites and poor blacks.  And that just is not true, at least that is not MY New Orleans.  I grew up in New Orleans East.  There were whites, blacks, Asians, Spanish, you name it.  They were my classmates, my co-workers, my friends.  We played and spent nights at each others’ homes, we celebrated birthdays together, and never once thought about race.  It bothers me that such complete integration was ignored by Baum.  But he’s not from NOLA, so I suppose it’s acceptable that he missed that entire cross-section.

My life is not really represented in Treme either.  But at least the folks in Treme clearly represent people I know, things I myself have done.  They portray real NOLA characters.

But does either really reflect the *real* New Orleans?  And is that a reflection that is even possible?  Is there only ONE New Orleans?

All the political scandals and back-room deals; all the promotions because of the proper uptown name and/or membership in the exclusive carnival clubs; all the crimes the police and/or the news have overlooked because of overly-friendly biased relationships—it’s all a part of the City’s history.  But no part of my personal history.  It makes me angry that in having defended my City, I have defended these transgressors.  Yet the transgressions continue.  And I am still defending my City.  And now I am wondering if I am being too naive.  That maybe New Orleans, though most unique, isn’t worth the trouble.

As I wrote that last sentence, what always gets me about New Orleans got me again: its people.  The Ronald Lewises and Wil Rawlinses that we have.  And a list of other people that live here that just wouldn’t fit as comfortably in another city, like myself.  The way a jazz funeral would be a strange occurrence anywhere else.

So, no, I WON’T bow down, come to think of it.  I see fine cracks that I maybe never saw before.  Ugly cracks, actually, that I’d rather just ignore.  But I won’t turn my back on New Orleans now.  Nor will I remain passive in the transgressions I learn of being committed.  Because we deserve better than that for which we have settled for way too long.  And, at least for me, it’s just not okay for our broken systems to openly remain so.

I joined my sister last night in a Corks N’ Canvas session.  The class was painting an orange house.  As I started to sketch my house on the canvas, the orange house wasn’t New Orleansy enough.  I wanted to paint the little house that’s been in my family for over a century, this traditional shotgun single:

In the end, I had to blend colors, change columns, lengthen windows, add shutters to the door, change the top entirely, and add boards to walls–all things the class was not doing for their orange house.  So I was kinda going off another painting in the room.  About midway, I came close to tossing in the towel as it was looking awful.  But I stuck to it.  And got this:

I have to admit I am kinda in love with it.  It is not true to the house, however, in that it’s missing a transom and does NOT have its address written on the glass of the door.  But look at my way cool “New Orleans-green” shutters!!

Week Eight. Day 56. No end in sight.

Yesterday, James Carville wrote an opinion in the Times Picayune.  And there has been much discussion of so many of the English pensioners whose retirements are now tanking because of BP and how callous we here in the Gulf are to those Brits.  And there’s all sorts of discussions about the six month moratorium to deep well drilling. I am also in the middle of reading Nine Lives: Mystery, Magic, Death and Life in New Orleans.

And today, five years post-Katrina, after a lifetime of having the worst schools, streets, government, [insert anything of governmental value here], I feel something I have never felt before.  I am disappointed in my fellow Louisianians.  Yes, things are that bad.

So let’s go item by item.

1. Carville goes through a lot of effort to explain how Louisianians are NOT whiners; we are hard workers.  But that is hard to reconcile when every soundbite we get out of every citizen and local politician is bitching and moaning.  Pointing fingers.  I GET the frustration that is felt because BP is lying and the federal government is tied up in red tape.  But how is this NEW?  Did we in Louisiana learn NOTHING from Katrina but how sticky that federal red tape is? Do we really, REALLY, expect snap decisions, flowing money and quick action from our federal government?  Are we still that naive and hopeful?

What I want to see from my local politicians, instead of pissing about how inept the feds are, IS ACTION.  You want berms? Go dredge them.  The feds own the land and won’t allow it? Let them stop you.  You want the finances assured from BP? Send them a bill.  Because if BP won’t commit to paying it and in the end does not pay it, who in Louisiana would not pay a $1 tax to pay for the berms?  STOP ASKING PERMISSION AND TAKE ACTION.  And our citizens?  Join forces to support our local government to take that action.  Not seeing enough cleanup by BP? GO CLEANUP YOURSELF.  Get teams of our citizens out there doing it BECAUSE IT IS THE RIGHT THING TO DO.  But, NOOOO. Our folks say, “BP wants to clean it up and do it wrong? Eff em. Let them do it.” WHAT? We’d rather sit back and say I-told-you-so than take action to keep that oil off our wetlands and marshes.  We’d rather be run around by the feds, playing by their rules, than bring it to a halt with action.

Victims? Maybe not.  But majorly laid back. To a fault. Coincidentally, this was a theme of last night’s Treme (one character even mentions our “defective work ethic.”).

2. British Pensioners.  Everyone I talk to says EFF THOSE BRITS. Live by BP, die with BP.  Nice empathy, folks.  These seniors are in plans; they selected a fund.  That fund selects particular stocks, and in many cases selected BP.  The individuals did not themselves select BP as an investment vehicle.  For all I know, MY 401(k) has BP stock and I too may be having a reduced portfolio value as a result of the spill.  I am not saying these folks deserve to be ranked higher on the victim list than, say, the pelicans or our fishermen.  But have we gotten so detached from things, gotten so selfish, that we cannot see these pensioners, these elderly folks, as yet another innocent victim of BP?  Can we not see that they will suffer, ARE SUFFERING, by the loss of value in their retirement accounts?  When seniors take hits in their retirement accounts, they are SCREWED far worse than the likes of me now.  If I have BP in my 401(k), I have at least another decade to let that stock rebound.  Or for other stocks to make up the loss.  But with seniors, many are already receiving distributions out of those plans now.  They cannot sit on it for ten years til things rebound. They are dealing with a real loss.  And it is shameful that Americans are being harsh to them.

3. The moratorium. I’ve already written about my thoughts on this topic, but arguments to lift it are gaining momentum.  What Louisianians are saying, what I have heard local politicians explain to the media, is that Louisiana’s economy has for so very long been tied to seafood and oil (some fishermen are even offshore oil workers) that without those 33 wells being released to drill NOW, our economy will tank.  And although we realize the moratorium is to address safety, we are so desperate that in order to feed our families, we need to drill those potentially unsafe wells.  Because, the argument continues, if we stop, Big Oil will move its rigs out of Louisiana and <GASP> we will then certainly be doomed.

First of all, why is BP NOT responsible for this moratorium? Can’t the oilmen file a claim with BP for lost wages?  BP takes the position that the moratorium is NOT their doing, that such claims are “indirect” and they will not honor them.  Yeah, well, that isn’t good enough, BP.  You broke it, you bought it.  We’ll see you in court.  What, you can’t wait years to see justice done so as to feed your family today? Then, for five months, maybe you need to consider filing for unemployment benefits.  This argument for drilling is insane.  America is addicted to oil. We ADMIT that.  We MUST shift to other power sources.  We KNOW that.  Louisiana oilmen, you are NOT entitled to a job, even if it’s the only one you know.  We simply CANNOT stay on Big Oil’s teat so that you can stay unchanged in your career.  Maybe you could take this as a wake-up call to brush up your resume.  Just as we had to adjust to the death of other industries in the course of economic evolution.  This is akin to us having the ability to shut down crack cocaine but keeping it in circulation because the drug dealers (Big Oil) and rehab centers would suffer economic loss if we did so.  It’s time we face the music.  Step One: Admit you have a problem.

Second, we are, AGAIN, talking about THIRTY-THREE WELLS.  Yes, I get that this will impact support service companies too.  It’s a lot of jobs.  I. GET. IT.  But it’s SIX MONTHS, of which ONE has already passed.  And finally, someone please explain to me how Big Oil taking its rigs to other countries for those remaining five months will be the death knoll of oil drilling in Louisiana.  Won’t that untapped Louisiana oil these companies left be, yanno, SITTING THERE WAITING to be tapped anew in five months?

My problem is the perception we are giving the rest of the country.  Here we are, a community of hard workers (per Carville) sitting idle for six months with no idea how to get food on our tables.  We are sitting around waiting for BP to clean-up and waiting for the feds to knock BP’s skulls to get the spill capped and the waters cleaned.  We want BP to pay us to make us whole.  While at the same time we judge those British pensioners as cocky for having the audacity to complain about their financial loss being tied to BP.

And the cherry on this shit sundae is the tone of Nine Lives.  I haven’t finished this novel yet.  And I have been told by so many people that I simply HAD to read it.  I am not sure WHY yet.  About one-third into it and I wonder why the hell I live here.  It depicts the blacks as all living in the Ninth Ward and the whites as uber-rich and untouchable.   It seems to suggest we revel in being lazy, of having no ambition, of valuing our Carnival-related genealogy and private clubs more than our own self-preservation.  This is NOT my New Orleans; it never was.

And now I feel we’ve allowed ourselves to become victims of our own creation.  Prepare little for the future.  After all, didn’t Katrina teach us we could lose everything in the course of a storm?  We have such LOW expectations now.  Even of ourselves.  We may not be whiners, but we sure are coming off as NEEDING NEEDING NEEDING.

It’s time we brushed ourselves off, stopped listening to every NO we’ve been getting from BP and the feds.  It’s time we wrestled control of our lives out of the hands of folks that don’t care about us and put it back into our own hands.

WE can do it.  Louisiana WILL survive.  We ARE hard workers.  And maybe a bit too trusting.  But it never fails that when ALL ELSE FAILS for Louisianians, we pull through for ourselves.  And it’s time we start thinking as survivors.  And stop coming off as victims.

Day 55.

When I was given the medical diagnosis that getting pregnant and maintaining a pregnancy was not likely, I was in immediate denial. This was the Twenty-First Century, for goodness sake: laser beams and wireless EVERYTHING. Surely medicine had advanced enough to pinpoint my problem, to fix it already.

The BP oilspill has my mind thinking the same way. SURELY there’s technology, computers, robots, laser beams, good ole smarts to FIX THIS LEAK ALREADY. And as the days have moved to weeks with the prognosis now AT BEST being fixed in August, that slow agony of acceptance seeps into our conscience.

The latest from BP is an admittance that there is damage to the oil well BELOW the sea floor. Lord knows how long they have known of this. Because we are confident they are not telling us anywhere near the truth of the situation. But I digress.

Damage below the sea floor. Even I have trouble thinking of some sci fi solution to going UNDERGROUND a mile UNDERWATER to fix a broken oil well.

And the ramifications of that! As if we simple non-science minds could truly contemplate the ramifications! But the general ramifications is that such damage may result in NO SEALING of the leak. That the gushing will continue. Continue until that reservoir of oil is depleted. Which could, by accounts, take decades.

Decades of spewing oil in the Gulf of Mexico. Rendering all life in the Gulf doomed. All wetlands obliterated. All beaches sullied and soiled. All Louisiana seafood just a memory–along with its industries, festivals and boils. Gah.

In the end, my diagnosis was wrong. I was given that advice by an arrogant doctor who didn’t know how to read the results of the tests he’d ordered for me. When I finally got to a REAL fertility doctor, I was pregnant within five months. My current hope is that BP is my old doc: arrogant and stupid, by also wrong. It’s time to get a new team overseeing this spill to give it to us straight.

Because sterilization of the Gulf? It will NEVER be an option.

Things here in New Orleans have been askew lately.  The BP oil spill has so much of our economy, our culture, or lives, up in the air (or rather down below the sea).  It’s been murky waters and testy nerves.  Yet, as usual for this city, we are finding solace, even strength, among ourselves.

I’d go hungry, I’d go black and blue
I’d go crawling down the avenue
There’s nothing that I wouldn’t do
To make you feel my love

~Bob Dylan, “Make You Feel My Love”

Tonight, a group of us from the local Twitter scene met up.  It was lovely.  Fellow tweeters are non-judgmental when you peek at your phone at the table.  They are ok when you ask, “So, tell me again, how is it we are going to be all right?”

They tell me everything is gonna be all right
But I don’t know what “all right” even means

~Bob Dylan, “Trying to Get to Heaven”

After the tweetup, I hopped in my car, turned on Bob Dylan’s “Time Out of Mind” album and got lost in the lyrics.  The slow music, the gritty vocals, it echoed my mood of these past many weeks.  Things are moving swiftly around me, and all I can do is slowly turn my head to attempt to capture it all: the BP oil spill; Sun’s third birthday; my return to working full-time.  It’s all swooshes.

I’m walking through the summer nights
Jukebox playing low
Yesterday everything was going too fast
Today, it’s moving too slow

~Bob Dylan, “Standing in the Doorway”

When I drink, I can relax my eyes in a way I otherwise cannot.  My eyes, and the muscles surrounding them, simply and completely can let go.  My eyelids droop, my pupils enlarge, my vision blurs.  Lights get soft and hazy; sharp edges soften.  My being becomes one with the music.  I feel my heartbeat slowing down, giving more with each beat to be of significance, giving itself up to beat to the rhythm of the melody.

I know it looks like I’m moving, but I’m standing still
Every nerve in my body is so vacant and numb
I can’t even remember what it was I came here to get away from
Don’t even hear a murmur of a prayer
It’s not dark yet, but it’s getting there

~Bob Dylan, “Not Dark Yet”

The BP oil spill is forcing us to reconcile life with a Gulf Coast that will be dead for some years. It is a pill that will not go down easily, or dryly. But carry on we shall. Persevere we must. And all the while, we shall fight to protect what is ours—what is sacred to the Gulf—to preserve what customs we can, to salvage that which is salvageable.

Even if it means that sometimes our eyes need to lose focus so that our lives do not.

Remember those energy policy meetings Cheney was conducting early in Bush’s first term, when he was supposed to be chairing a terrorism committee but instead was hosting Ken Lay (ala Enron) and BP execs at the White House to draft an energy bill? Well, there’s a good case the upshot of all that coziness (a version of the bill passed in 2005) is what you see happening in the Gulf of Mexico today. The Center for American Progress lays out a great analyis. The conclusion first:

The Energy Policy Act of 2005, signed by President George W. Bush on August 8, 2005, achieved many of the goals set out by Cheney’s secret task force in 2001 and ushered in a new era of deregulation, self-regulation, and utter disregard for environmental and safety laws. It also coincided with a culture of deep and widespread corruption at the Interior Department, including the Minerals Management Service.

This cartoon says it all: 

The article continues:

One of the worst elements of what has come to be known as the “Dick Cheney energy bill” had a direct role in eliminating the kind of regulatory oversight that may have prevented the blowout of BP’s Mississippi Canyon 252 well on April 20 of this year. Section 390 of the legislation dramatically expanded the circumstance under which drilling operations could forego environmental reviews and be approved almost immediately under so-called “categorical exclusions” from the National Environmental Policy Act.

The use of such exclusions went on to widespread abuse under the Bush administration. BP’s blown-out well did not undergo an environmental review thanks to a categorical exclusion. (BP was lobbying as recently as April to expand the use of such exclusions.)

The expansion of categorical exclusions in the bill is far from the only giveaway to Big Oil at the expense of the environment and taxpayers. Other troubling provisions include:

■Tens of billions in subsidies for dirty energy, paid for by deficit spending.
■Exempted hydraulic fracturing, a process invented by Cheney’s former employer Halliburton, from the Safe Drinking Water Act (Sec. 322).
■Relieved oil companies of paying royalties to the taxpayers for millions of barrels of oil produced from deepwater wells (Sec. 345).
■Permanently exempted all oil and gas construction activities, including roads, drill pads, pipeline corridors, refineries, and compressor stations from having to obtain a permit controlling polluted stormwater runoff caused by construction activities, as previously required under the Clean Water Act (Sec. 323).
■Required a study to “identify and explain how legislative, regulatory, and administrative programs or processes restrict or impede the development of identified resources and the extent that they affect domestic supply, such as moratoria, lease terms and conditions, operational stipulations and requirements, approval delays by the federal government and coastal states, and local zoning restrictions for onshore processing facilities and pipeline landings.” Such “impediments” could typically include policies and regulations designed to protect human health, fish and wildlife, wild lands, and valuable cultural and historic sites on public lands (Sec. 357).
■Weakened states’ ability under the Coastal Zone Management Act to have a say in projects and federal activities that affect their coasts including limiting appeals related to pipeline construction or offshore oil development (Sec. 381-82).
■Allowed oil companies to have their leases reinstated if they had been terminated because of nonpayment of rental fees during Bush’s first term (Sec. 371).
■Created a loophole to allow oil companies to drill under a national seashore by transferring the mineral rights to private ownership or ownership by the state of Texas (Sec. 373).

Speechless.

Well, not quite.  Let me point out what I overlooked the first TWO times I read that bit about oil companies waiving the payment of royalties if they drill deepwater wells.  That means the government, you and me, taxpayers, were not paid one penny to have BP drill the Deepwater Horizon well.  That was Cheney’s way of “incentizing” Big Oil to drill there.  Like they needed more motivation. 

So, well, there’s that.

I had a dream over the weekend, the kind that when you wake up you are pissed at your spouse over.  You know the type, right?

I dreamed it was the day of our wedding and we were at his house getting ready.  All sorts of family and friends were roaming around.  The house was not what our house really looks like, but that damn pool we need to have dug up was in the backyard, so I *knew* it was in fact his house.  The friends were commenting about a neighbor that too had a pool that needed to be dug up.

Anywho, I was in a spare bedroom getting dressed and went into the master bedroom.  It was familiar but not overly so.  On the far wall was a door to the master bathroom.  And near that was a door I had, yanno, never noticed before.  It was opened, and CS was in the next room.  I walked into the new room and was pleasantly surprised.  We need this space!  “What’s this room?” I asked CS.  “It will be my darkroom,” he answered.  I was pissed.  A DARKROOM?  We need space and he’s going to keep this whole room for himself? Errrg.

Then I see ANOTHER door leading to another new room from the darkroom.  I step into that room.  It is smaller, with a low ceiling near the window.  “And this room?” I asked.  CS responded, “My office.”  More of me being pissed. At CS.

*     *     *

Okay.   I was out of sorts Sunday when I woke up and tried to make sense of this dream.  But then I let it go.  Then it kept nibbling at my memory.   So last night I took out my Gayle Delaney dream materials to interpret my dream.  I had recalled she had mentioned that new rooms was a common theme in dreams.

So it went something like this.

Q. Do the rooms have a specific purpose?

A. Yes, Darkroom and office.

Q. Is there anything new going on in your life that has that purpose?

A. Dark.  Officey? Hmm.  Dark officey? Dark office. DARK OFFICE.

Me to self: ARE YOU FRIGGIN’ KIDDING ME?  Then I laughed at my psyche for being so OBVIOUS yet I couldn’t see it without SAYING IT OUT LOUD.

I started five days in the office yesterday.  And I may not be all that excited about it.  Guess you could say I may have even been a little mopey or dark about it. And maybe I wish my husband’s job was enough such that I didn’t need to work at all.  And that maybe I am feeling sort of that I may have reached the apex of my career.

YA THINK?

So what do I do with this information? What any sensible girl would do.  I took today off. Day Two.

Sigh.

(There’s actually other elements in this dream that could have more meaning, but this seemed right so I stopped.)

When non-violence in speech, thought and action is established, one’s aggressive nature is relinquished and others abandon hostility in one’s presence.

~Yoga Sūtra II.35 of Patañjali.

On the evening of September 11, 2001, I had a yoga class scheduled.  Knowing yoga always cleared my mind, I decided not to skip it.  It was a small class that night; most stayed home to watch coverage, I suppose.  We quietly got our mats laid out and ourselves seated to begin class.  We were all shocked and sad.

The yoga instructor, Becky, was as equally dumbfounded as we were.  We sat together, her facing us.  She read to us the “yama” (ethical discipline) of “ahiṃsā” (non-violence); she read to us the above-cited yoga sūtra. She explained that on such a day as that Tuesday was, it was hard to adhere to an idea of non-violence. But that revenge in the way of a counter-attack or, well, VIOLENCE was to be abhorred.

That night, I disagreed with Becky. Not verbally, but in my thoughts. To me, America HAD to show force; to exact revenge; to show strength. And Bush then gave us a tough talking to that made me glad he was President instead of Gore.

But then the Bush Administration got things muddled with lies of WMD. And we went to war in Iraq based on those lies. And we, America, are still paying a very high price. And for what? Revenge.  As bizarre as it all is, Bush used our desire to capture Bin Laden to instead go after Hussein. But we, America, were so lustful for blood, we greedily signed on to war in the Middle East in hopes it would sate our appetite.

I admit now that I was wrong on the night of 9/11. That theory of non-violence was right. Sure, we must respond to attacks. But we need not resort to violence. It is NOT all there is in the way of dealing with evil in this world.

* * *
Over the last few weeks, I have been hungry again for blood the way I was post-9/11. I wanted the blood of a BP executive and nothing short of a miserable existence/death would have sufficed. But over the last few days, Becky’s words, the yama of ahiṃsā, the ethical discipline of non-violence has been creeping into my thoughts.

The shame of violence, of harming others, is simply that it is an offence against underlying unity and therefore a crime against truth.

~B.K.S. Iyengar, “Light on Life.”

My anger over BP isn’t gone.  My desire to hold them accountable still exists.  But my desire to have one BP exec stuffed in the well for every pelican, fish, or plankton whose death was caused by the spill has subsided.

Nothing comes from violence and nothing ever could.”

~Sting, “Fragile.”

My vigilance regarding BP won’t be diminished.  But the taste for blood is gone.  I realize harm coming to a BP exec won’t give me the Gulf back; it won’t satisfy my desire for things to get set straight.  I see now that continuing to focus my energy on negativity and being “violent in thought”—knowing that it is true that nothing positive ever does come from violence—will only beget more violence.  I just can’t take anymore violence.

Namaste, y’all.