By Paul M. Lewis

Fifty years ago this month, I had just left the monastery where I’d lived as a monk for the previous seven years. I was twenty-one years old, struggling to find myself in a world that was as totally unfamiliar to me as the inside of a silent monastery is to most people who have never lived there. This “outside world,” as we called it and as I even then thought of it, was loud and overbearing, seemingly both uncontrolled and uncontrollable. If I had landed on an alien moon, or a planet somewhere on the far off edges of the galaxy, I am not sure I would have found it all that much less strange or intimidating. To me, this new world was exotic, incomprehensible, and in conflict with everything I had come to think of and rely on as familiar and stabilizing.

It had been my choice to leave. I knew I could no longer remain locked behind monastic gates, not with the kind of desires I had. As a young gay man, my hormones were roiling and boiling, but as a monk, I had kept my vows, reined in those sometimes almost overwhelming impulses into a kind of control (the “white-knuckle” kind, as people in AA say) and had refrained from all carnal contact with other monks. Much later, I learned that many other young monastics had not, but I took the vows I had pronounced as sacred promises and followed them to the letter. My plan, as bizarre as it may seem to anyone now, was to leave, begin dating girls, which would magically cure me of otherwise unwanted desires, and then eventually rejoin the monastery once more after I had become “normal” again. There is hardly any need to say that this did not happen, could not have happened, and for that I am now more grateful than I can probably ever express.

It’s not much of an exaggeration to say that during this first year on the outside, that first summer in particular, I was in a kind of constant state of trauma. I flew home—for the first time on my own—from Washington, DC, where the monastery was located, to upstate New York, where my mother and brother lived. But I stayed there for only a few weeks, as I had applied for and been accepted into an NDEA (National Defense Education Act) scholarship, as a future teacher of French. The eight-week immersion course (all day, everyday, only French was to be spoken) was located at the University of Missouri at Columbia. Twenty-five people from all over the United States had been accepted and formed our group. The fact that probably two-thirds were women, while not exactly a surprise, nonetheless still came as a kind of existential shock to me. Up until that point, I had never in my life spent so much time with young women my own age, and I found it both terrifying and enlightening. It was the beginning of a long learning curve for me, during which I slowly came to realize, and to enormously appreciate, the fact that the female sensibility was different from that of men, and that women have marvelous, even almost magical insights to offer.

Even so, dating women—as I had promised myself I would do—was not easy. I had no notion of what to expect, nor what they might expect from me, or how to respond if, in fact, they wanted something I could not provide. I dated Martha first, and found myself liking her very much, though only as a friend, even going so far as to visit her in her family home on Cape Cod. Later on, I dated Bea, perhaps because she looked kind of boyish, but I found her unsettlingly aggressive, to the point almost of making me want to flee. And when it became clear that I was supposed to be kissing her, but did not, even now all these years later I cringe to remember her saying to me: “What? Do I have spinach in my teeth, or something?” As much as it is a useless and futile exercise to regret anything in life, I have to say that I am nevertheless extremely sorry for what I put them through. I know I did my best, but they were both fine women, good human beings, and they deserved better than I was able to give. No doubt, they have gone on to have happy and fulfilled lives; or so it is my hope anyway.

At the same time, I was struggling at least as much with my faith. More and more, I began to realize that I could no longer believe in a rigid, overly doctrinaire, and uncompassionate Church, one that had once been the mainstay of not just my spiritual life, but of my psychological and emotional life as well. This bedrock of what I had felt to be my identity was rapidly beginning to shatter. Everything I knew or was familiar with had begun to flow away, until soon it became a river in flood stage, a torrent that carried with it whatever had previously seemed solid and stable. I was drifting with nothing to cling to. I did not want to confide in my mother, as she had troubles enough of her own, mourning the passing of her husband, my father. And my brother was a young straight man, who spent his time in the local bars with his factory working buddies. I felt I hardly knew him.

But as difficult as all this was, and as lost as I felt, I also realized at some level that it was the beginning of a new and exciting life, something I had never before envisioned for myself. The particular Catholic religious order I had been a member of was made up of teaching brothers. As such, while a monk, I’d also been a student at the Catholic University of America in Washington, DC. Upon leaving, I had one year left to go before getting my bachelor’s degree in French Literature, and I did so at the State University of New York at Albany.

I could not rely on my mother for money, as she had none, and so while finishing my last year at university, I also worked every night, and all day Saturday. The job I got was in a local reform school for teenage boys, working in the recreation department. Obviously, institutional settings somehow attracted me, as much as this one represented what might be thought of as the darker version of a monastic environment. But regimens, schedules, and organized, bureaucratic settings, even institutional food and set and stable mealtimes clearly represented my comfort level. And somehow, I instinctively knew how to empathize and interact with boys who felt bereft and alone, even if they did put on a tough and sometimes off-putting front.

That first year on the outside is one I will never forget. It taught me that I could face what had once seemed frightening and even unbearable to me with a degree of courage and resilience. That said, it was still a long time before I began to feel even minimally adequate, the beginnings of an ability to take care of myself in a world that often felt alien, hostile, and simply inexplicable. Sometimes the smallest task would throw me, a thing that I knew I should know how to do, but did not. The first time I had to make a doctor’s appointment, for example, I remember thinking: “How exactly do you do that?” Until I made myself take this on, I had no clue that it was as simple as calling and scheduling one at a convenient time. That was the degree of my inexperience in the world. Virtually every day was an occasion to learn something new, to be frightened and utterly perplexed, and then slowly to come to see how I was supposed to conduct myself. I didn’t always like what I saw, or even understand it, but ultimately I decided that this was how to make my way toward a hoped-for adulthood, a sense of maturity, from the Latin maturus—as I knew—meaning “ripe.”

The curious thing is that I feel as though I am still learning, all these years later. When does one reach maturity? When are we fully ready to adequately face the unknown, the continuing, ever-changing challenges of life? Perhaps only when we leave this world. As the ripened fruit falls, so ends our struggle to grapple with life. Everything that I have faced and found, the summonses, the dares, the provocations, as well as the prizes, the great rewards that come to fill our hearts and minds, all have been worth the effort. This is the comfort that comes with seeing things from an older perspective.

So, I have learned something in these fifty years. And if it is not as much as I could or should have, at least I do know this: Nothing in life goes to waste. Everything we experience contributes to who we are, to our understanding of our rightful and fitting place in a sometimes wild and unpredictable, but always—ironically—a perfect, and beautifully ordered world.


By Paul M. Lewis

Watching Stephen Hawking’s “Genius” series on PBS recently has reminded me what fascinating topics theoretical physicists study. They specialize in asking such big questions as “Where did the universe come from?” and “Is there a center to the universe?” And while it’s true that there has always been a degree of contention in regard to how these questions are answered, there is at least general consensus on the Big Bang itself, that is, the very beginning of the universe. That term may be a bit misleading, however, in that physicists do not believe it to have been an actual explosion. In fact, the term Big Bang was coined as a kind of put down of the theory by an early doubter. Instead of an explosion, it was probably more of an almost inconceivably rapid expansion, followed immediately by what is called “an inflation,” indicative of the fact that the infant universe moved rapidly outward, expanding in all directions. And the universe continues to expand even now, 13.7 billion years after the initial expansion. No less a figure than Einstein, himself, long doubted the idea of an expanding universe, but even he finally came to accept it, due to the patient observations of another renowned scientist, the great astronomer Edwin Hubble.

How did the Big Bang come about in the first place? Where was it located? And doesn’t it make sense to think of it as having somehow occurred in what might be thought of as the center of the universe? These are all legitimate questions to ask. The answer to the first, that of how the Big Bang came about, is very simple: no one knows. In that sense, it becomes, at least for now and in the absence of further scientific break throughs, more or less a philosophical or a theological question, although naturally scientists do continue to explore it. Regarding the query having to do with the Big Bang being in the center of the universe, the problem it raises becomes a question of logic. To think in locational terms assumes there was some “place” to be. However, there could have been no place for the universe to begin in until there actually was a universe. In other words, how could there have been a physical place, before there was such thing as space to be in? This also means another way to think of it is that everywhere is the center of the universe.

Before the Big Bang, nothing at all existed. It’s extremely difficult for us to conceive of nothingness. Language itself begins to break down, but it’s clear that nothing cannot be “a thing.” The definition of nothing is “no thing,” a complete non-existence of whatever can be perceived by our senses. How can we imagine what this might be like? Some might suggest we can envision it in terms of outer space being a vacuum, that is, of it “containing nothing,” again, as if nothing could somehow be contained. But even that is not the case, since physicists now understand that space is actually filled with Dark Matter. And as much as Dark Matter is unperceivable, it is known to comprise some 80% of all of the matter in the universe. On the other hand, normal matter that can be seen (i.e. asteroids, comets, stars, planets, galaxies, cosmic gas, as well as you and I and all the creatures of the earth and on any of the other planets) therefore accounts only for about a fifth of the known universe.

Theoretical physics routinely deals with imponderables. It works at the edges, at the border between science and philosophy/theology, between what can be known empirically and what can be inferred, or imagined, or intuited. Take another question that physicists are currently studying, that of the multiverse. The idea is that there may be many universes aside from the one we live in. Some even suggest that evidence points to there possibly being an infinite number of these universes, all existing in parallel form. In part, this originates from studies done by the German physicist Erwin Schrödinger. Schrödinger is one of the founding fathers of Quantum Mechanics, which studies the mysterious workings of the micro world of atoms and subatomic particles. He posited that a quantum state is the sum, or the “superposition,” of all possible states, hypothesizing in his famous “cat experiment” that an imagined feline in a box could be both dead and alive, and that we simply point to one or the other state as a kind of convenience, a sort of book-keeping device, only knowing if it is one or the other when the box is opened and it is observed. Additionally, according to another famous student of the field, Werner Heisenberg, quantum particles can exist in multiple locations simultaneously. This is referred to as his Uncertainty Principle, whereby the location of a subatomic particle can be calculated, but not its speed; or the speed can be calculated, but not its location. Some subatomic particles even appear to spring automatically, if fleetingly, into existence from nothing. All this happens at the tiniest—the quantum—level.

At the macro level, on the other hand, String Theory has to do with the workings of gravity and the vastness of the universe, and may ultimately help explain both Dark Matter and Dark Energy (the latter being the mysterious force that is thought to drive the expansion of the universe). The holy grail of modern physics is to come up with a theory that would adequately explain the universe using both the laws of Quantum Mechanics and those of Einstein’s Special Theory of Relativity, which deals with the macro universe. So far, unfortunately, no genius physicist has yet been able to explain this so-called Grand Unification Theory.

As for the multiverse, speculation on that question has not yet risen to the level of an actual theory. In fact, it is useful to remember exactly what is meant, in scientific terms, by the word theory. What it is not, and what many non-scientists believe it to be since this is how the word is used in everyday speech, is a kind of guess—as in, “your theory (of whatever) is as good as mine.” Instead, scientifically, a theory is a system of ideas meant to explain something, based on principles independent of the thing being explained. Thus, we speak of the Theory of Evolution—which is not a guess at all, but a hypothesis that has been tested and retested over the years, and proven itself to be true beyond any reasonable doubt. This is also the case with Quantum Mechanics, whereas String Theory (admittedly, confusingly) has not yet been fully accepted by the scientific community as a whole.

So, we see from merely a short sketch that there are myriad puzzles, inconsistencies, and mysteries in the universe. Any number of others could be added, such as the inexplicable nature of Black Holes, and other singularities like the Big Bang itself. How the two are alike, or not alike, is as yet unknown. And what happens to Space-Time, when it enters into a Black Hole, if even light itself cannot escape its super gravitational pull? Does intelligent life exist on other planets? How did self-reflective consciousness come about? And what exactly is antimatter, which was created at the time of the Big Bang? In principle, when antimatter comes into contact with matter, the latter is annihilated. So, how do we exist? One possible explanation is because there is one extra particle of matter for every billion particles of anti-matter. And is this a matter of luck, or something more mysterious, more mindful?

Which ultimately brings us to the question of God, or if you prefer, some ultimately unknowable Universal Intelligence. How does he—or she, or it—fit into the picture? Does he exist? My own theory, to use the everyday vernacular form of the word, is that he does, and the way toward understanding him lies within, in private, not out there in the practices of organized religion. As Einstein once famously said: “Teachers of religion must have the stature to give up the doctrine of a personal God, that is, give up the source of fear and hope which in the past placed such vast power in the hands of priests.”

To be sure, science can help point the way, by examining the mysteries of the universe that we somehow have an innate longing to comprehend. Even if we never get there by using the scientific method, or generally through the normal processes of the human mind, at least we know we are trying to elucidate these ultimate questions. And if, as I believe, there is a Mystery Beyond All Mystery, one we will never fully plumb with our ordinary minds, then I should think such a Divine Being would really be pleased with the efforts of his clever, curious and ever-striving creatures.

HOW TO WIN THE 2016 ELECTION – Don’t Repeat the Nevada Democratic Convention Debacle!

by Kevin L Miller

It’s a gorgeous May in South Central PA, where I have been truly enjoying the preparation and planting of my 16 large raised vegetable beds, while reading and listening with increasing alarm to reports of the sudden split of the Democratic Party into two factions, following the disastrous Nevada State Democratic Convention on Saturday, May 14, 2016, in Las Vegas. Yesterday I planted a lot more tomatoes, okra, zucchini, melons and eggplant on our acreage that is closer to our Trump-loving neighbors here in the woods. Then I devoted yet another hour to reviewing many different videos of the Nevada Democratic Convention debacle. Google “Nevada Democratic Convention videos” and look at any of them that are not edited by conservative organizations. The footage has gone viral and leaves no doubt that the establishment Democrats in Nevada royally screwed the Bernie Sanders constituency.

The result is that the emerging division between Bernie’s Social-Democrats and Hillary’s Centrist-Democrats has suddenly deepened and polarized, so that hundreds of thousands of Bernie’s supporters are now shouting “Hillary NEVER! Bernie FOREVER!” They will NOT vote for Hillary now, and this puts the nation and the world in peril of a Trump presidency, which would be, quite simply, the beginning of the apocalypse. How did we get to this sorry state? The Democratic Party establishment lacked the imagination to recognize and embrace the mushrooming revolutionary movement within their ranks. Instead, Debbie Wasserman-Shultz and the establishment, dug in their heels, lectured and scolded the Sanders campaign and supporters, and ultimately misused all their rules in an attempt to silence and subdue the Social-Democrats. This is not the way to heal wounds and achieve reconciliation.

All it took was one filmed and well-documented State Democratic Convention (it happened to be Nevada) to inflame and enrage the Social-Democrats, and the party split in half — or nearly so. At this point, the division may be 3/5 Centrist-Democrats vs 2/5 Social-Democrats. Of course, that split would be enough to cause Democrats to lose the election to Donald Trump, and the schism will likely become closer to 50/50 as the election season rolls on, especially after the impending spectacle of the Philadelphia Democratic Convention which promises to be cataclysmic.

To be clear, no one can condone the behavior of either faction at the recent Nevada Democratic Convention. All reasonable people certainly condemn the implied death threat phone calls made by a few extreme Sanders supporters to Democratic officials, and deplore the fist fights that reportedly may have broken out on the floor of the convention. Violence is never the answer. Never!.. BUT… after watching the videos of the abusive antics of Chairwoman Roberta Lange on the floor of the convention, and reading the accounts of the repeated massacre of Robert’s Rules of Order and the convention’s own rules, any rational person has to understand the rage and profound frustration of the Social-Democrats at that event, and the subsequent bitterness.

In Nevada, the Democratic establishment met secretly, without consulting the Social-Democrats, and changed the rules before the convention. They brought the rules change to the floor for a “Yea or Nay” vote, before a quorum was present. On the videos, when the Nays clearly had it, the very shrill chairwoman, Roberta Lange, nevertheless gave it to the Yeas. When a standing vote count was properly called for, she refused. When a point of order was called, she ignored it. When one of the Social-Democrats politely petitioned the chair for the time to read their minority report, the chair denied them that right, after also ignoring their petitions. Then a slate of 64 contested Sanders delegates was rejected, against the screams of the crowd. And finally, the chair, discarded Robert’s Rules of Order, moved abruptly to adjourn amidst the roar of NAY, and did so, slamming the gavel down on the podium and storming off the stage, which was protected by a line of gray-uniformed big burly armed police who looked for all the world like the Gestapo. The screaming crowd was instructed to leave immediately. These videos have to be seen to be believed. The Democratic establishment’s behavior was completely outrageous, out of line, and undemocratic. While no one can condone any threats or violence perpetrated by the Sanders supporters, anyone who reviews the videos and written factual accounts will completely understand the frustration and rage of the Social-Democrats.

One video records Barbara Boxer’s presentation to the convention. A personal note here: I’ve always adored Barbara Boxer. She looks wonderful, by the way — never better — and her hair and outfit at the Nevada convention were magnificent. She now adds a beautiful, magnetic presence to her obviously superior intelligence and substantive professionalism. I can’t help speculating that she may be positioning herself for a VP nomination. But her approach to the raging convention after Roberta Lange and convention officials had already enraged the Sanders constituency, was NOT cool: “I’m a Hillary supporter. We have the votes! We have victory! Yay!… (loud booing from the crowd) Keep on booing, and boo yourselves out of this election!” It gives me NO pleasure to report this, because I have always been an enthusiastic Boxer supporter. I attended one of her fund raisers at a wealthy private home in southern CA many years ago and met her and bought one of her T-shirts, which I wore proudly for many years. I have very recently mentioned her name several times as one of my personal choices for VP. But she handled this very badly. Basic psychology tells us that such an approach is not the way to win friends and influence people. And it is emblematic of how far the Hillary-supporting Democratic establishment has to go to get to a place where they can reconcile with the Bernie Sanders people. This is NOT good! This approach is exactly the way to hand the election to Trump and kick off the apocalypse. “Yay!…” as Boxer would say.

What is fascinating about our current election is that in the three remaining candidates we have the whole political spectrum. On the extreme right is the fascist authoritarian tyrant Donald Trump. On the far left is the Social-Democrat Bernie Sanders. And smack dab in the middle is the Centrist-Democrat, Hillary Clinton. At this moment no one has any idea who is going to win the general election, because it now appears that all three of these figures are going to remain on the public stage right through the November election, although one of them, probably Bernie Sanders, will not be an official candidate. He is going to get very close to the Democratic nomination, and his supporters will say that he would have won it, if the Democratic primary system had not been rigged and the many super-delegates, pre-selected and pre-committed by the Democratic Party establishment, precisely to prevent an insurgent like Sanders from succeeding. It is likely that Senator Sanders will continue campaigning for a grass-roots political revolution right through the election, in order to keep pulling Hillary Clinton to the left and win in principle if not in fact. The louder her supporters demand that Bernie leave the stage, the larger his crowds will grow.

So, how does anyone WIN this election? Well… If the factional rancor continues as it is developing now, all Trump will have to do to win is sit back and laugh while the Democratic Party splits in half. Democrats have to hope and pray that it is not too late for the Democratic establishment to make nice and offer concessions to the Social-Democrats, or all of us are going to suffer the terminal illness of a Trump presidency. First of all, people like Harry Reid and Barbara Boxer and Debbie Wassermann-Shultz, true liberals in the Democratic establishment, need to STOP lecturing and scolding Bernie’s campaign and his supporters and address them with the respect and deference due a huge constituency within their party, rather than treating them like naughty children who are being disrespectful to their parents’ authority. You can’t reconcile with somebody by berating them.

Then, frankly, the Hillary Clinton campaign needs to co-opt Bernie’s revolution and take away any reason for his supporters to resist them. The Democratic establishment should remove Debbie Wasserman-Shultz from the equation, because she has become a lightning rod in this conflict. They need to reign in the authoritarian voices within their ranks, and they need to change the rules around super-delegates, allowing them to be apportioned according to the popular vote, rather than committed in advance — in many cases long before Bernie ever declared his candidacy. Then Hillary needs to simply adopt Bernie’s playbook, lock, stock and barrel, exactly the way her husband Bill did with all of his opponents to win elections. He proved it works! Finally, after adopting all of Bernie’s positions, Hillary needs to offer him the VP slot on the ticket, whether he takes it or not. If these things were to happen, Bernie and his supporters could declare victory, and Hillary would win the election and send Trump back to his gilded Manhattan cage. There is still hope, if the Democratic establishment can grow the balls and imagination required to to embrace Bernie’s revolution.

But, let’s face it… That’s not likely to happen. It’s not human nature. And although Bill Clinton is probably a highly respected voice within his wife’s campaign, I doubt that she or her operatives have what it takes to see that they need to do exactly what he did to win elections, and steal all the thunder from the opponents by co-opting their messages and swallowing them whole. No… the rule of the day is dogmatic polarization, whereas Bill Clinton’s co-opting tactics require vision that goes far beyond compromise. It is very likely that the Democratic establishment will circle the wagons and become even more authoritarian and abusive with the existing rules, in the mode of the chair of the Nevada Democratic Convention. This will enrage and drive the Social-Democrats even farther away from the established Democratic Party and any hope of supporting Hillary in the general election. The Philadelphia Democratic Convention will now inherit the once-predicted fate of the Cleveland Republican Convention, and become an absolute madhouse of rage and conflict. The Democratic Party will emerge badly damaged and split. And Trump is likely to win the election. The END!

P.S.: By the way… I have not changed my mind. I voted for Bernie in the PA primary, and I am still supporting him and his positions. But if Hillary, or Daffy Duck, or a fence post, wins the Democratic nomination and remains the strongest alternative to Trump in the polls, then I will vote for that alternative that has at least some chance of defeating Trump and averting utter global disaster. But there is now some slight possibility that even if Hillary wins the Democratic nomination, she may not emerge by election day as the strongest candidate against Trump. Anything can happen now. A Trump presidency would be an unmitigated disaster for the U.S. and the world. The Democratic Party establishment must step back and get real about the heroic surgery they will now have to perform if they are to heal the gaping wounds within the progressive electorate body, and win this election.



By Paul M. Lewis

Not long ago, my partner and I were driving to Northern Arizona from our home in Southern California. We go each month to visit with my partner’s mother, who is in hospice care at a nursing home there. It’s usually at least an eight and a half hour drive each way, longer if somebody was texting, or chatting on the cell phone, or otherwise distracted, and so has caused an accident.

For the most part, we try to work it out so as to avoid the worst of rush hour traffic on the freeways, leaving early enough to give ourselves some breathing room. We also tend to take the northern route, heading up Interstate 15 to Barstow, and then taking I-40 east until it meets Arizona state route 89. Taking the I-10 east instead might cut off a few miles, but the 40 is so much more beautiful. It goes through the magnificent Mojave Desert National Preserve in California, and once you’re in Arizona you pass through an enchanting forest of juniper trees.

When there’s a problem on the roads, it’s always in the LA megalopolis. For us, getting to Barstow entails taking the 405 to the 22 to the 55 to the 91 to the 15. Anyone who drives the LA freeways knows what I’m talking about, and for those unfamiliar with these routes, it’s maybe enough to say that they can be torturous. One of the worst places is the intersection of the 91 and the 15, near the Inland Empire town of Corona. That’s because so many people have moved to the southern part of Riverside County, where housing at least once was a lot cheaper, in search of the American dream: a house with 3 or 4 bedrooms, living room, dining room and family room, plus a yard out back with grass where the kids can play and the dog can romp. If you’re lucky, or rich enough, maybe you even have a swimming pool, to boot.

For years, that intersection narrowed down to one lane, and traffic backed up accordingly. On a dark winter’s morning, driving east on the 91 and approaching the 15, you could see a gargantuan necklace of headlights, as cars awaited their turn to get onto the westbound 91. Nowadays, Caltrans (the California Department of Transportation) is in the midst of a monster construction project there, involving a multiple lane overpass.

Which is what got me to thinking. The last time we came through there, we were on our way home, and so it was the middle of the afternoon. The behemoth hulk of the half-built overpass was plainly visible, hanging in midair, as workers and machines scrambled over the area following their appointed tasks, ones not necessarily apparent to us passersby. Still, progress was clearly being made, or I guess that’s what it’s called. At least, you could see that more of the road had been completed than when we started our regular treks to Arizona, something like eight months ago.

And no doubt, the folks who use those freeways everyday, commuting back and forth to jobs nearer the coast from communities like Riverside, or Lake Elsinore, or Murrieta, or even as far south as Temecula, will be overjoyed once the work is done. My guess is that things will be better for them, at least for maybe a year or two, until the traffic catches up with the improvements—as it always does—and we’re back once again looking at what will then be a double, or even a triple-line, necklace of headlights.

The Caltrans budget for the current 2015-16 year is 10.5 billion dollars, an almost 2 billion dollar, or 11.9%, increase over that of the previous year. Even though this represents less than 10% of the state’s overall budget of about $113 billion, it is still a lot of money. Though some might say even that’s not enough. After all, without our freeways, how would people get to work, how would goods and services be moved, how would anyone get anywhere, for any reason? But remember this, too, that the ten billion plus dollars spent by the state on Caltrans this year represents only a tiny fraction of the amount spent over the years on the building of this kind of infrastructure. In other words, that ten billion is the cost for maintenance, and some isolated construction projects, on a system that basically already exists.

What has occurred to me many times, as we drive through that interchange between the 91 and the 15—or any other you may care to name—is why did we never invest the same monumental sums of money into rail connections? In my freeway-smog addled mind’s eye, I imagine my partner and me, for example, sitting comfortably in a bullet train, heading east out of downtown Los Angeles straight to Phoenix. Then, after relaxing for a short wait in a beautifully appointed train station there, we would take another line north from Phoenix to Prescott (our final destination); or, if it had to go to Flagstaff first, then from there on a smaller branch line down to Prescott. This same kind of convenient train travel could of course be reproduced in all fifty states. But that is not what we have. What trains are available are hardly convenient. Years ago, we took a train trip from Los Angeles to Seattle. It was supposed to leave LA at noon, and arrive in Seattle at 8:00 PM the following evening. Instead, it left at 4:00 PM and arrived at 3:00 o’clock in the morning two days later. Does that instill confidence in getting from place to place on time, to say nothing of comfortably? This huge delay happened mostly because there is, for the most part, only one train track between these two major west coast cities, and freight trains often take the right-of-way. It’s not supposed to be like that, but the freight carriers far prefer to pay the relative pittance of a fine for not giving way to a passenger train, and so slowing down their own operations.

If the government—and of course the people who elect their representatives—made train travel a priority, we could have made that same journey in a matter of hours, not days. Just as Europeans do on their trains, or the Japanese, or nowadays even the Chinese. The travel time, for example, between Paris and Marseille—a journey of approximately 775 miles—takes about 3 hours and 40 minutes on the TGV (train à grande vitesse, France’s version of the bullet train). You leave from central Paris and arrive in central Marseille. No need to bother with highways, airports, or parking, or sitting in traffic. You can read, chat with your fellow passengers, or just sit and look out the window. And all this for about 25 euros, just over $28 US dollars, according to the current exchange rate. Is that what it costs to actually operate these state-of-the-art trains? Probably not, but the government is willing to subsidize the cost, and so are the French people. By contrast, the distance between Los Angeles and Phoenix is about 365 miles. The Amtrak ticket costs $100 more than the ticket between Paris and Marseille, and it is estimated that the trip will take over 10 hours. In other words, it would cost 4 times as much, and take more than 3 times as long, for my partner and me to go half the distance. And we would still have to either rent a car in Phoenix to get to Prescott (a two hour drive), or get ourselves to the airport there to pick up the shuttle van.

Why would we ever do that? Indeed, why would anyone take a train in the United States, when travel by car is so much faster, cheaper, and more convenient? The answer obviously is almost no one. But what is behind these questions may be more interesting. One estimate of the cost of building the interstate system is that it takes approximately $1 million for every mile of highway built. Using that estimate, and multiplying it by the almost 48,000 miles of interstate highways we have in this country, we come to the mind-blowing total of approximately $48,000,000,000. To put it in words, because most of us are not used to seeing that many zeros after any number, that is forty-eight trillion dollars. Naturally, the money was spent to build these roads over the course of many decades. Still, by way of comparison, the entire US GDP, the Gross Domestic Product (i.e., the cost of all goods and services produced in the country in a given year) is projected to be just under $18 trillion dollars for 2016.

I learned a long time ago, working for many years at universities, that budgeting is always a matter of deciding on priorities. When my boss told me I could not hire an adviser I thought we needed, but I learned later that another office was able to, it was clear that that other office had a higher priority in the hierarchy of what was considered important at the university. Each of us does the same thing with our own household budgets. New car? Well, maybe not this year. Maybe it’s best to get the roof fixed, or pay down that outrageous credit card bill.

Although admittedly far more complex, the basic principle is the same when it comes to countries. Money is ultimately put where you, the taxpayer (via your representatives), want it to go. And Americans want their cars, and their highways. We want to be able to go out our front door, jump into our automobile, and hit the open road. Or that’s the fantasy, at least. We’re rugged individualists; we want independence, free choice; we want to go where we want, when we want, and to be able to stop whenever it’s convenient. Leave the trains—those giant conveyor belts of groups of people—to the socialists in Europe, or the communists in China. So, don’t look for a diminishing of car travel any time soon in this country. California has been attempting to build a bullet train between LA and San Francisco for several years now, but with all of the court challenges against it, the project has just barely begun. And even if and when it is completed, it will be required to run without state subsidy.

In the end, we get what we pay for. Americans have always wanted what we think of as our freedom of movement: the car in the garage ready to whisk us off whenever we choose either to work, or to school, or to an enchanting land of adventure. But along with this comes packed freeways, bumper-to-bumper traffic, huge costs, and polluted skies. If that is what we want, then that’s what we’ve got. And if anybody prefers a nice train ride, swift, clean, reliable and cheap, well, they’d just better take a trip to Paris to find it.


By Paul M. Lewis

Nicholas Dames’ article entitled “The New Fiction” in the April 2016 edition of The Atlantic magazine explores the modern novel by contrasting it with an older version of fiction, one exemplified first by Cervantes in Don Quixote. That earlier view, amplified all the more by the great nineteenth and twentieth century masters, saw fiction as essentially a way of identifying with the other. Its goal was to provide a space whereby we could step into the lives of someone so different, so removed that the reader would otherwise never have encountered such a person in life. Who could imagine, for example, that they could have come to know anyone as strange as Quasimodo, or even Jean Valjean (to conflate two of Victor Hugo’s most famous works), or Don Quixote, to bring us back once again to Cervantes? Or how could most of us have traveled with the deviant Humbert Humbert other than in Vladimir Nabokov’s Lolita? Yet meet them we do, and in so doing, we come to understand at some deeper level what it is like to be them.

In the postmodern novel, however, this empathic “expansion of the moral imagination,” as Dames puts it, is not the goal. Instead, contemporary novelists, who eschew older forms of writing, concentrate not so much on our ability to pass outside the boundaries of our own skin, as on the need to understand and anchor the concept of the self. In a world where we are incessantly interconnected electronically, they seem to be asking, how are we to know who we really are? There isn’t so much a need to understand and feel with another, as there is to delve into and inhabit our own ego identity, which we are in danger of losing, or have already lost. A term that has come into use for this type of writing is “autofiction.” Dames defines it as “denoting a genre that refuses to distinguish between fiction and truth, imagination and reality, by merging the forms of autobiography and the novel.” The goal—if that is not too atavistic a term to use in this context—seems to be to reveal, even to revel in, one’s isolation, one’s aloneness, in our inability to know, or be known by, another. Each of us exists in our own solitude, and that solitary state is essentially unbridgeable, except—and here is the irony—by the very revelation of the singularity of our individuality. Otherwise, if that were not possible, then why write at all? The writer’s separateness can, in some way, teach the rest of us how “to soothe our isolation,” though we incongruously still need the hermitic distinctiveness of our solitary selves in order to understand, and even to appreciate, the individuality of our own humanity.

All this may come across as overly highbrow, as some sort of precious or recherché affectation, almost a kind of faux exploration of life in the twenty-first century. For the most part, those of us who still read at all tend to do so for the traditional reason, that is, in the hope of getting to know the other. Even Pres. Obama noted this, as was reported in the same Atlantic magazine article. Harkening back to that older view of the meaning of fiction, he said that what he had learned from novels was “the notion that it’s possible to connect with some [one] else even though they’re very different from you.” He went on to say he lamented the demise of fiction reading in our culture and said he believed that this pointed to a concomitant loss of empathy in the country and the world.

Still, can it be said unequivocally that all this business about the meaning of literature might just be highfaluting claptrap, a thing dreamed up by critics so as to show off a fancy vocabulary or, more nefariously, by publishers in order to sell books? I think not. The basic notions of identity, of isolation, and of empathy really are important to each of us, whether we think about them in conscious ways, or not. Of course, no one necessarily has to read a novel, of whatever genre or era, in order to feel for another, or to realize their own essential aloneness. These existential states of being come of their own accord in the process of living, in the misery of a bereft childhood, or the toxic stew of an inherited chemical imbalance; or they invite themselves into our psyches by the blunt-force trauma that everyday life can sometimes bring with it. In other words, living can be its own kind of suffering. As Gerard Manley Hopkins, the great nineteenth century poet, put it, “This in drudgery, day-labouring-out life’s age.”

A question that each of us ultimately faces in life, whether it be head-on or more obliquely, is how do we overcome what is our essential aloneness? How do we reach out beyond our “bone house,” to quote Hopkins again, that is, beyond the awful—and awe-filled—barrier that is the end of our own skin, and in some way connect with another? Love, of course, is the simple answer. But how successful are any of us at that? How many times do we stumble, fall and go crashing to the ground in our hasty, or confining, or clinging attempts to reach out lovingly? And if love demands a certain kind of selflessness, an overcoming of the all too self-centered ego, how often are we able to achieve that?

Literature, in all of its varieties, can teach us something about these fundamental questions and help the reader, or the watcher/listener if we are talking about drama, attempt the frightening leap across that impassible barrier, out into the abyss, in the hope of grabbing hold of some other frightened leaper. In this sense, the conflict between traditional and post-modern writing may only be an apparent one. In the case of the former, the traditional role of literature, the identity of the leaper is assumed (that is, it’s ourselves), and the reader then can empathize with the character “out there.” In terms of the latter, the post-modern vision, the assumption that we don’t know who we are may simply be the next logical step in the evolution of that outreach. Literary self-exposure is another way of looking into the mirror and saying to ourselves: yes, that’s me and not another; this is my hyper-personal expression of the utter uniqueness that is my individuality. It’s what makes each of us human, or at least what contributes to our understanding, our belief, that we are all different in ways that cannot ever fully be explained or communicated. If love is to be the answer as to how to span the unbridgeable gap, it must assume two (at least two) individuals; otherwise, there is no abyss to be bridged at all. Both love and literature demand separateness. Postmodern writing merely emphasizes the “I,” while traditional literature highlights the “he, she, or they” in the equation.

The answer to the question of whether or not we can honor both solitude and community is that one needs the other. The relentless modern attempt to reach out electronically, to text and to tweet, or to have FaceTime, may be emblematic of overwrought and overworked lives. Even so, it is after all a kind of reaching out. It’s true that we don’t have to read postmodern novels to understand we are alone; nor do we have to plow through Cervantes, or Hugo, or Tolstoy, or Faulkner to put ourselves in someone else’s skin. But it can’t hurt. That’s another way of saying that literature benefits us, that it reflects and explains the parts of ourselves that all too often escape us, as we go about the quotidian business of living. It reveals a deeper level of our being that slips and slides among the shadows and hides from the harsh, revelatory light of day. It grabs at the core of who we are, even when we don’t know—at least consciously—who that is, and flings the pieces of that identity, fragmentary as they may be, across the unbreachable chasm that stands between us.

We may be utterly alone in that no one will ever be fully capable of plumbing the profundity of our inner most being. Maybe we can’t do that even for ourselves. But we live with the hope, even the promise, of connecting with another and, in the end, that may be enough. This is what excellent writing can do, and why storytelling, in whatever form, which is what fiction is about after all, will always be with us.


By Paul M. Lewis

Whom do we identify with? That’s a basic question all of us may want to spend some time thinking about. It might seem at first to be of relatively small importance, too abstract to even mean anything in the real world. But it turns out the answer to it influences a lot about how we live our everyday lives.

Let me start off with an example from my own life. When I was young, I thought of myself as a good Catholic boy. At least, that is what I strove to be, possibly more so even than many of my classmates at St. Patrick’s Grammar School (yes, in those days, they were thought of as schools where grammar was taught, meaning not just how best to construct a sentence, but more widely, how to comport oneself in the world, how to construct a life). At St. Patrick’s, there were good boys and bad boys, the latter (mostly Italian—no one said Italian-Americans in those days) being those who flaunted the rules and wore their hair in a certain style the nuns most definitely disapproved of called a DA, or duck’s ass. They were the rebels, the tough guys, the non-conformists, the group I didn’t belong to (as much as I may have secretly wanted to be one of them).

Instead, I hung out with those who were less outwardly rebellious. But even these boys swore, spent a lot of time talking about sex, and generally didn’t take religion all that seriously. I tried to identify with them, but somehow it never came off very naturally for me. Inwardly, I disapproved of (could it be said that I feared?) their language, their topics of conversation, and their general disinterest in religious teachings. I suppose some might have thought I was a bit of a pill. The one saving grace I probably had was that, even at a young age, I instinctively knew enough about how to get along with people for them to accept me as one of their own. But, unbeknownst to them, I would often sneak off and kneel in prayer in the darkened interior of St. Patrick’s Church, or attend Friday night Benediction (a traditional Catholic devotional service). No wonder then, at age fourteen, I decided to enter a monastery.

Even there, however, I found boys who did not quite live up to my standards, which were very high! Yet people still appeared to like me because I was by nature a peacemaker and someone who tried to see the best in others, while openly criticizing no one. A big part of my not criticizing others stemmed from the awful realization that I knew I was far from the idealized self I imagined I should be. How could I blame others for not being somehow better, when the very faults I recognized in them I also saw all too clearly in myself—in fact, far worse ones? There were things the Church said not to do which I did, and many others which, while I might not have done them, I earnestly wanted to. And if I wanted it so much, wasn’t that tantamount to actually doing it? In short, the standards I believed the Church established for me, and those that I freely embraced on my own, were mountains so high I could never hope to fully scale them. In that sense, I consistently set up my own failure.

And so, my principal focus of identification in those years was with an idealized Church, one that I believed would allow me to lead a life I felt I was supposed to lead. It was a kind of umbilical cord that provided an association, a connection with an entity that I felt to be greater than myself, and which at the same time gave me a kind of scaffolding upon which to construct a life that I otherwise felt to be constantly on the verge of collapsing disastrously out of all control.

It worked, too, at least for a while, even if not completely, because I often felt I failed at the high standards I had created for myself. As such, and in keeping with Catholic teaching, I thought of myself as a sinner. Still, the superstructure did provide me with a consistent foundation upon which I endeavored to build something. Until, of course, it didn’t. The first problem with what might be called the “idealized external” is that it is, by definition, outside of oneself; and the second is that it, too, eventually shows itself to be less than perfect. Even I could see that the luster had begun to tarnish, that the Church was showing a darker, seedier, more squalid side. After all, it was made up of people, and people are far from perfect. Aside from being sometimes good and helpful and even loving, they—we, all of us—are also more than capable of selfishness, cruelty, prejudice, cynicism, arrogance, egotism, deceitfulness, anger, even violence. And the list could, of course, go on.

What I am saying is that any organization, any human group, no matter how good its intentions (in particular, its initial intentions, until time and usage begin to break them down), is so flawed we ought to think long and hard about fully identifying with it. And not just religious organizations; other groups as well could certainly be included, such as political parties, philanthropies, environmental groups, sports teams, cultural associations, as well as organizations affiliated with labor, the military etc.

In fact, the core of the problem comes exactly down to the question of the depth of one’s identification with the external. My childhood relationship with the Catholic Church, and with the particular monastic tradition I belonged to, was so all engulfing as to obscure everything else. I took it to be all there was, and when I eventually began to realize that life was writ far larger than that, more complex, messier, dirtier, more intent, more insistent on its own needs than anything I had previously thought possible, then I saw that this first object of my identification could no longer contain everything that I was.

But what could? That is the very question I have struggled with for many years. It is a question all of us must face. What I have always looked for is a wider, a deeper, more all-inclusive connectivity. Ultimately, I came to believe that this was my own relationship with my self; or, I should say, with my Self, the capitalized “s” indicative of some part of my being (and not just mine, of course, but everyone’s), beyond mere ego identity, that both includes all the things of everyday concern and, at the same time, goes beyond that.

I take great comfort in a particular passage from one of my favorite scriptures, the Bhagavad-Gita. If ever there has been a more insightful statement on identification, in the largest sense of that term, essentially on who we are, then I don’t know what it might be. Speaking of union with Brahma (the Creative Principle of the Godhead), Krishna says: “He so vowed, so blended, sees the Life-Soul resident in all things living, and all living things in the Life-Soul contained…Who dwell in all that lives and cleaves to Me in all, if a man sees everywhere—taught by his own similitude—one Life, one Essence, in the evil and the good, hold him a yogi, yea, well perfected!”

Taught be our own similitude—that’s a very interesting phrase. The language may sound a bit obscure, but put more simply, what it means is that we see in others exactly what is already within us, namely both evil and good; actually, more to the point, some messy, chaotic intermingling of the two. That is what human beings look like, at least on the outside. Within, who knows? Perhaps something bigger, more perfect, something that connects with all of life, and at the same time transcends it. Maybe this is what it means to realize who we truly are. And, if so, that’s what I want to identify with.

ELDERCARE – Can’t We Do Better?

by Kevin L Miller

Recently the well-respected “full service” retirement community where my parents are living into very old age, asked me to participate in their “customer satisfaction survey,” which turned out to be a perfunctory and shallow questionnaire about surface appearances rather than the real life experiences of the residents. Our family has found it absolutely essential to provide a family member advocate and caregiver on campus for eight hours per day, at least three or four days per week. Even with our involvement, major medications are missed, essential dietary guidelines are violated, and doctors’ orders are violated or overlooked. But those problems are minor in comparison to the heartbreak our parents are experiencing due to being separated after 68 years of marriage. So, I wrote a letter to the retirement community in order to give them real customer feedback and ask them, “Can’t we do better?”


Why am I writing to you?

Yesterday one of your research associates called to interview me for your Customer Satisfaction Survey. As the son of two prominent residents, and friend to many others in that community, I have been very involved in advocating for my parents’ care and quality of life over the last several years. This experience has challenged me to think deeply about the issues you are facing in serving my parents’ needs, and some challenges you and the entire eldercare system, along with associated medical and living services, will have to grapple with in the future to offer eldercare to the next generation target markets, which may have very different circumstances and needs. I indicated to your interviewer that I would be happy to offer a much longer, in-depth interview by phone or in person about these expanded observations and implications. She invited me to write you a letter. So here it is:

1. Life-long lovers & companions separated after 68 years of marriage… How can this be right?

Seven months ago in August our family gathered in my parents’ large independent living apartment at the retirement community to celebrate their 68th wedding anniversary. Even then, we knew that a week later Dad would have to move into the skilled nursing facility (which the residents call “the hospital”) because he has advanced Parkinson’s Disease. The combination of Mom’s presence, family help, and in-home unskilled aides was no longer sufficient to safely and effectively care for him. So, on Aug 31, 2015, after 68 years of marriage, our parents were separated.

Before that day Mom had never lived alone for even one day in her life. Dad lives for her, and since his move into skilled nursing he has not stopped asking to return home to be by her side. Despite serious health issues of her own and great difficulty walking, Mother spends every morning and afternoon with Dad. I am there full time, three days per week. Other family members and large numbers of friends visit frequently. But our parents are heart-broken. Dad feels that he has fallen into a “trap from which there is no escape,” and our entire family is engaged in a constant racking of our collective brains to try to find a better solution. So far we have failed.

Could your retirement facility lead the way to innovate new models of eldercare that would allow couples to remain together even when they each develop very different kinds of care needs?

Confession and apologies

Here I must confess and apologize for the fact that I have precious few answers or solutions to offer regarding these very difficult challenges. But I think my family and I do have some sense of the kinds of questions that are important to ask at this juncture in the history of American eldercare, and more to the point, at this stage in your institutional mission. These are questions about what people need and where it hurts. They are questions that point to an evolving society and economy with rapidly changing requirements. How will you and other eldercare institutions survive the tsunami of change that is coming? The question above about separating life-long lovers is one piece of the puzzle. Here are some other questions:

2. How can you maintain the highest possible quality of life and sense of autonomy for residents after they become physically invalid, lose their short-term memory, and/or succumb to dementia?

Dad lives in the present moment with no memory of the recent past, but he has a strong mind in many other ways. He frequently asks where he is and does not understand why he cannot be with Mother. If he had the ability to retain a basic understanding of his current situation, it would be so helpful, but he can’t.

Yesterday I finished reading aloud to Dad and Mother his entire 242-page autobiography about the part of his life that he DOES remember — his excitingly active life and brilliant career as a minister, college professor, dean and vice president in four colleges, and eventually president of a Los Angeles university and finally president of Bethany Theological Seminary. It’s a riveting book. Everyone’s life is a riveting book! Dad is lucky. He has family with him for four hours every day and many other visitors come as well. I notice that the others on his ward seem to receive very few visitors. Some sit in their wheelchairs in the hallway, eyes glued to the locked entrance, hoping to see a familiar face, or figure out a way to escape. Many are abandoned and alone. Dad is dissatisfied with his current situation, but many of his neighbors are hopeless and bitter. Again, Dad is one of the lucky ones.

How can eldercare institutions raise the quality of life for all residents, including the less fortunate abandoned ones?

3. How can your excellent staff be empowered to enrich the lives of the residents?

All the residents in Dad’s “hospital” ward live in a beautifully appointed warehouse where they are tended by very kind, well-meaning, efficient and even loving staff members who do not have enough help to give each individual the attention s/he deserves. Some of these staff members are really stellar: The head nurse is a saint — always smiling and generous, no matter how much chaos descends upon her. Several certified nursing assistants are like that too. And one big guy is truly wonderful with our Dad who says of this gentle giant, “We pall around a lot. I like him.” One day when  he came to Dad’s room to walk him to supper, he asked Dad if he was ready to eat. Dad replied, “Yes, but I’d rather sit and talk with you.” Of course, that’s not possible. The gentle giant is constantly in demand with way too much to do. And this is only one of his two full-time jobs, which suggests that he may not be paid well enough for the heroic services he renders.

It is worth noting here that, while the full-time staff is simply excellent, there are not enough of them to fulfill the service demands of such a large institution, which is often forced to hire outside contractors — both skilled nurses and unskilled aides — who do not know the residents or their needs. I have talked to some of these substitute contractors, and they report that they do not receive any orientation or instruction but are thrown directly into assignments without preparation of any kind.

Could your institution expand its wonderful full-time staff? Could some kind of orientation / instruction be offered to outside contractors if they have to be called in to fill gaps? I’m sure the contractors are well-meaning and hard-working, but nobody can do any job without some form of preparation.

4. How can communication & information exchange become seamless in the eldercare system?

When we had to move Dad from their independent living apartment to the skilled nursing facility, my brother and I sat down with your very responsive administrators to discuss Dad’s special needs — key among them, a “soft mechanical diet” of pureed foods and thickened liquids to prevent aspiration which is one of the chief causes of death among advanced Parkinson’s patients. They agreed, but the news somehow did not get to the skilled nursing staff. We had another meeting a week later to underscore the fact that the soft diet and thickened liquids are imperative. Even six weeks later, when an outside contractor nurse was on duty and tried to give Dad regular thin liquids, I discovered that the requirement for thickened liquids was not on his chart. She checked! It wasn’t there. We added it.

During the same period when Dad was moved to skilled nursing, Mother was rushed from the retirement community to the city hospital four times in six weeks, and twice hospitalized. If I or another family member had not been there to brief the emergency and hospital teams on the specifics of her condition, they would have been working blind with little information about her recent medical history, episodes, and general condition. She also has short term memory problems now, and besides, when she was taken to the hospital, she was not in any condition to answer any questions at all.

After her last hospitalization, Mom was released to the short-term skilled nursing facility on your campus, where she stayed for nine days. I found out near the end of that period that somehow, her Coumadin medication specifications had not followed her to the hospital and then to short-term skilled nursing, and they had stopped administering this very important heart condition medication!

Is there a way to be a lot more comprehensive about detailed communications and information exchange among the various wings of the eldercare and healthcare systems?

What other forms of communication and information exchange could be added to the current regime to enhance the quality of life for all residents and their loved ones and caregivers?

5. How will eldercare institutions appeal to rapidly changing future target markets?

I know that there are lots of conversations going on about this question throughout the eldercare world, because the administrations of these institutions see a tsunami of change coming: Boomers have not been able to save for retirement as successfully as their parents did, and often have very different hopes, needs, and expectations about the whole nature of retirement than did the Greatest Generation. Indeed, we Boomers tend not to think of ourselves as “retiring” but as transitioning to a new lifestyle in which we will have the opportunity to fulfill new missions and realize some of the dreams we were not able to pursue during our professional years. We tend not to envision ourselves in a standard retirement community, because that model looks limiting and narrow to us. Many of us want something that seems more like the “real world” and less like what I have called “The Disneyland of Death.”

We wish our American society might wake up and understand how much experience, expertise and, yes, wisdom, we have acquired over a lifetime of hard work, and value what we have to contribute. In short, many of us want to be more fully integrated into society instead of being cordoned off in beautiful warehouse facilities for the elderly. We know that we have a lot to offer and we intend to do so. As I think about my own very diverse group of friends, I believe they would ask questions like these:

  • Where is the diversity in retirement communities? Why are there no Black, Asian, Hispanic, or Gay, residents? Why don’t the campus demographics look more like the rest of America?
  • If I lived there, where would I make my huge sculptures and paintings?
  • How would I be able to build rooms onto my dwelling? I can’t live without building things!
  • Where would I rebuild my race cars and work on my motorcycles?
  • How could I start my new cottage industry and sell my products?
  • Where would my rock band practice for many hours every week?
  • How could I keep all of my animals and plants?
  • How could I have a garden and put up a pantry of canned and preserved foods?
  • The doors to the independent living apartments are locked at 8:00 pm! How am I going to have a night life and bring guests home if I can’t get in after 8:00 pm? I’m NOT a child!
  • What if I want to host a seminar or symposium or a big family reunion or a political rally or a church event and have lots of guests for a whole week?
  • Can my spouse and I stay together even after our medical needs diverge?
  • Will my same-sex spouse and I be accepted in this retirement community?
  • I haven’t saved enough money for retirement. Do you have any options for me?
  • How can I retain control and autonomy over my own life all the way to the end and be allowed to die the way I want to die? I insist on the most fulfilling death possible for me.
  • Can I stay at home with access to increased healthcare and other services?
  • I don’t want to live in an “old folks home,” but I know I’m going to need some kind of help. What are my options? Aren’t there any other models of eldercare that I can consider?

Potential Next Steps and an Offer

As previously advertised, this letter contains lots of questions and not many answers. However, aren’t some of the solutions implied in the questions? I think they are. And if you pose these kinds of questions to a diverse group of stakeholders – your own administrators, staff, independent contractors, suppliers, residents, their families, prospective customers, and outside experts – in a multi-day ideation session, you will begin to hear some innovative concepts for new and exciting approaches to eldercare.

This is clearly beyond the scope of your current survey, but if you are interested in taking a next step toward exploring new forms and approaches to your products and services for the future, my brother and I have been offering those kinds of ideation programs to Fortune 500 companies and other institutions for well over 25 years, and we would be glad to be of service. Some of our team would stay out of content to facilitate the innovation session, and others would sit with the participants and offer ideas to add to the mix. Of course, your decision-makers would make the final selection of a set of ideas to develop for further consideration.

Finally, if your administration would like to discuss any of these questions, ideas and proposals further, please feel free to respond to this letter or give me a call. I wish you all the best in your survey. I am confident that current residents will respond very positively. The themes explored in this letter are primarily focused on how to appeal to future target markets.

Sincerely, — Kevin

Post Script: Two staff members acknowledged receiving my letter, but no further discussion of the letter was pursued. I continue to wonder, “Can’t we do better?”



How best to care for elderly relatives is an issue many people are struggling with these days. It’s a subject close to home for my partner and me, as well, given that his mother is in hospice care and has been for the past six months. In addition, we know at least half a dozen others, good friends, who are struggling in their own ways with taking care of elderly parents, whether they live close by or at a greater distance. We are, ourselves, some 500 miles away from my partner’s mother and make the nine-hour trip there at least once a month. Another friend undertakes a seven-hour drive to see his mother every week, arranging to work a full-time schedule in four days and compacting Mom’s care, plus the 14-hour round-trip, into his Friday-to-Sunday weekends. Yet another has his 93 year old mother living in his home, with him as 24 hour-a-day caregiver. And one other close friend is overseeing the care of both of his parents simultaneously, one of whom is in a skilled nursing facility, while the other still lives, at least technically, on her own, but needs almost constant care. Additionally, there are still others who have it much worse, those who have to combine eldercare with raising small children, for example, or those who are struggling with their own physical ailments, while attempting to deal with the illnesses of aged parents.

In one sense, this is not entirely new. To an extent, families have always dealt with taking care of the elderly. At one point in our history, it was not at all uncommon for grandma or granddad to live in the same home with a grown daughter or son and their family. People simply contrived to take care of the older person, as he or she got sicker and closer to death. What has changed, however, and changed dramatically, in the last few decades is the length of time that people have been living. Not so long ago—certainly within my lifetime and in the lifetimes of many of my contemporaries—common diseases would have caused the death of many an elderly relative. In my own family, both of my grandfathers had died before I was born, and neither of my grandmothers lived much beyond their mid 70’s. During the 1950’s and 60’s, when they died, that was relatively common, and simply seen as part of the rhythm of life that comes to its expected end. I am not suggesting that the loss of a loved one was any easier, or less traumatic, in those years. The point is only that it often happened earlier in that person’s lifespan, and consequently in the lives of their offspring and caregivers.

Today, diseases and other ailments that, only a few decades ago, might well have carried off an individual are now regularly treated by modern medicine in such a way as to prolong the lives of those suffering from them. I am speaking of afflictions such as heart disease, stroke, pneumonia, even some forms of cancer, to say nothing of helping those seriously injured in devastating accidents that at one time might have very well brought about death. Again, I want to make it clear I’m not at all suggesting that this is bad. Of course, we all want those whom we love to go on living. What I am saying is that the longer a person lives, especially into what we now think of as extreme old age, that is, the nineties and beyond, the more difficult it becomes not only for them, but for those whose lot it falls to to care for them, particularly as their quality of life becomes more and more compromised. And the burden of this care can be a heavy one, physically, financially, emotionally, and simply in terms of time and energy.

Ultimately, the larger and more overriding question may be this: What does it mean to die a natural death? Many people have decided that they do not wish to live on life support and have issued what is commonly referred to as a DNR—a Do Not Resuscitate order. Both my partner and I have done so, as has his mother. Even so, the question is not as clear-cut as it may at first seem. There are endless gradations involved, gray areas, in between places when it falls to the person who is acting for another to decide if “this is really it.” If an elderly mother, for example, has a stroke, who is to say if she can come back from it and regain much of her strength and mobility? Or if a father in his 80’s has an abdominal aneurysm, should he be operated on in order to relieve the potentiality of it rupturing? Of course he should, many of us would say. And yet, this was exactly the case for a good friend of mine. It turned out his daughters decided for him, as his mind was already somewhat compromised and he had difficulty fully understanding the ramifications of decisions. Yet, after the operation, he slipped more and more into a world inaccessible to anyone, and lingered for another year in that twilight state. This is not to blame his daughters, who did what they thought right, but was it what my friend really wanted?

At what point do we decide, either for ourselves or for those we are looking after, that no more medical help ought to be given, other than palliative, non-curative care? And what of people who have decided that the time has come, choose hospice care, and yet somehow still cling to life, in essence forgetting that they may have made such a decision? And if they made that decision while in sound mind, but now appear to no longer be capable of making fully informed, rational judgments, what then? What are we to do if, having made one decision, they change their mind again, back and forth sometimes even from day to day, or from week to week? These are questions that cry out for answers that we do not always have at the ready.

Could we even say that the very notion of a natural death has been so changed by the advances of modern medicine that we no longer exactly understand what we mean by it? I can offer myself as an example. Nine years ago, after having had a second heart attack, I underwent angioplasty. The doctors miraculously inserted two stents into the arteries of my heart, and I seem to be fine today. If they had not done so, there is every possibility that I might well have died long ago of a heart attack, as my mother did in 1970, at age 50, much before such things as stents were even dreamed of. It could be said she died a natural death. Or did she? But what of the fact that she smoked for most of her life, that she worried constantly about everyone, her children in particular, and that she worked hard in a factory much of her adult life? Didn’t all this contribute to her early demise, and if so, how “natural” is that?

Still bigger, in a sense more global, questions could be asked. What about poverty and its consequences, such as lack of access to medical care, living in overcrowded conditions and susceptibility to infectious diseases, the inability to buy healthy food and have clean water to drink. Even lack of education can affect a person’s lifespan, as we have seen when women tend to have fewer babies the more education they get. Is it natural to die while having an eighth or ninth child?

And while this may seem to have led us relatively far afield from the topic of eldercare, what I am suggesting is that it all contributes to our understanding of the overarching question of what it means to die a natural death. Indeed, in the world of the 21st century, it is more of a conundrum than ever. Do not resuscitate, yes, of course! Few of us would wish to linger on life support, while living essentially in a coma (although even here there are exceptions, as many of us may remember from the Terri Schiavo case).

All too often, the choices are not cut and dry. It is difficult enough for each of us to make choices when it comes to our own lives. Do we opt for chemotherapy, for example, if diagnosed with cancer, given its terrible side effects and the likelihood, or not, of its working? And it is even less clear when needing to make such decisions for someone else. Should we have told the emergency room doctor to do everything possible for Mom or Dad after that stroke? Is their current quality of life enough to have justified that decision, even though a DNR was on record? And add to this the fact that such decisions must often be made on the spot, amid the terrible haze of emotional trauma, when one’s own judgment may not be as clear and dispassionate as we might otherwise wish.

There are few clear paths through the maze of such questions. It may be that the best any of us can wish for in taking care of others is to follow our hearts, with the hope of an informed intellect and, with luck, perhaps even some clarity and wisdom. We all wish that, when the time comes to shuffle off “this mortal coil,” as they used to say in my Catholic youth, we may not linger, and instead exit with a measure of grace and dignity. Yet, no one is assured of what might be called a clean and clear-cut ending. Do we get the death we deserve, or the one that we need? Should it be conscious; or do we hope for a silent slipping away while asleep?

Maybe the best preparation for a natural death is for us to not be so concerned about it at all. In Hindu thought, there exists the notion of God’s “Lila,” the idea that all of creation, including life and death, is part of the divine play, with Spirit being the only true Reality. There is comfort in this view, and perhaps even great wisdom. As Krishna says in the Bhagavad-Gita: “Mourn not for those that live, nor those that die. Nor I, nor thou, nor any one of these ever was not, nor ever will not be, forever and forever more.” And if that is the case, then, in the end, maybe death itself ought not to matter so much.



By Paul M. Lewis

When the curtain goes up on John Logan’s play “Red,” we see Abstract Expressionist artist, Mark Rothko, sitting in a chair in his studio, smoking a cigarette. He is facing the audience, staring at something in front of him. We come to realize soon enough that this is one of his paintings (another is actually visible to the audience directly behind him). For anyone not familiar with Rothko’s later paintings—and the play mainly deals with these works of the 1950’s—they are iconically large canvasses consisting of juxtaposed floating colored rectangles on a darker background. Those referenced in this play are exclusively red and black.

Rothko’s newly hired young assistant, Ken, enters and stands behind him, ignored by the painter. After a few moments, we realize that Rothko does know Ken is there. Without even a glance in his direction, the painter asks him: “What do you see?” Ken, who is clearly in awe of the great man, much his senior both in years and in experience, replies innocently enough: “Red.” And the play is off and running.

The production my partner and I went to see recently took place at South Coast Repertory in Costa Mesa, CA, although we had already seen another version at the Mark Taper Forum in Los Angeles a few years ago. Both productions were very well done, with the actors in each playing off their individual strengths and idiosyncrasies—greater forcefulness or anger in one portrayal of Rothko, more subtlety and intellectuality in another; youthful energy and verve in the part of Ken in one iteration, while more of an emphasis on innocence, morphing into maturation, in the other.

There is much discussion of the concept of red in this drama. Logan portrays Rothko as challenging his new helper to understand more deeply what is meant by the color, both in terms of its physical manifestations, as well as its psychological implications. Is there even any such a thing as red—simple red? Or is it, as Rothko points out, better thought of as: “plum-mulberry-magenta-burgundy-salmon-carmine-carnelian-coral?” I suppose he could have added crimson, lobster, ruby, cherry, vermilion, cardinal, cuprite, and so on, as well. The point being that, to an artist, the über-category of red is of little use as an honest, visual description of the almost endless possibilities of physical reality.

Rothko and Ken then go back and forth in naming other categories of red that relate more directly to the feelings and emotions that the color can represent: passion, wine, lipstick, apples, rust on the bike on the lawn, an albino’s eyes, atomic flash, the Russian flag, the Chinese flag, the Nazi flag, red light district, red tape, rouge, viscera, flame, Santa Claus, blood, slash your wrists, and on and on. Slowly, Ken—to an extent our stand-in as audience members—begins to get the feeling of what Rothko means when he paints with “red.”

But there is also black. Big blocks of color that are again not merely of one hue, but are composed of browns and umbers, endless underpinnings of multifarious earth tones. We see coal and we see night; we see darkness and the symbolism of race, prejudice, bigotry and bias; the absence of light, the Stygian world, mourning, and of course death itself. But we also see the Cosmos, filled with light and only seemingly black because it reflects off of nothing, or nothing that registers with us at least.

And what happens when red and black are juxtaposed? There is an immediate play of one off the other, such that our eyes see what both is and what is not there. Logan has Rothko expound on the concept: “Look at the tension between the blocks of color: the dark and the light, the red and the black and the brown. They exist in a state of flux—of movement. They abut each other on the actual canvas, so too do they abut each other in your eye. They ebb and flow and shift, gently pulsating. The more you look at them the more they move…They float in space, they breathe..Movement, communication, gesture, flux, interaction; let them work…They’re not dead because they’re not static. They move through space if you let them, this movement takes time, so they’re temporal. They require time.”

Of course time is needed. Because we are talking about physical manifestation, about the world as it appears to us, as we live in it in our bodies, and this cannot be experienced except temporally. It’s there for now, but gone in another moment. We are here for a second, and then disappear again into the endlessness of Cosmic energy, only to come together once more in some other form. Matter cannot be created; neither can it be destroyed. It simply is, and can be perceived only by those whose very form has been cobbled together by its own seemingly random interaction. The subject matter of the play has to do with the nature of art. But if art is both a reflection and an enhancement of nature, a highly idiosyncratic while at the same time universalized vision thereof, then it is in that sense also a play more generally about the full panoply of the human experience.

Rothko, the man, was not without his flaws. He was arrogant, bombastic, argumentative, contentious, prideful, jealous, domineering, and conceited. He was so full of himself and lived so hermetically, so much in his own head, that he eschewed nature as being too messy. But he was also highly sensitive, energetic, insightful, intellectual, emotional, fearful, depressed, and of course ultra-talented. Given all this, the play may not be for everyone. If you don’t like long discourses on art, or contentious dialogue between master and apprentice, or Abstract Expressionism for that matter, this may not be what you might choose to spend your hard earned money on.

But if you are interested in exploring what art is, that elusive, fragile, delicate, phantasmagorical mix of the real world—whether it be paint, or canvas, or light, or clay, or physical movement, or words, or sound, or whatever the medium—and something else, some ultimately indefinable ethos of the human spirit, something pointing beyond humanity to another level altogether even more subtle, exquisite, elegant, refined, eternal, spiritual, if you will, then “Red” was written for you.

Also thrown front and center into the mix are questions of Rothko’s politics. We are reminded in the play of his social-revolutionary youth. His anti-establishment leanings did not sit well with gallery owners, museum curators, or even some of the rich who ultimately bought his paintings. One of the major turning points in the play, in fact, has to do with his struggle over the commission he received to paint murals for the famous—and famously rich and exclusive—Four Seasons Restaurant located in the new Seagram Building in New York City, for which he was paid handsomely (more, we are told, than any other commission in the history of modern art). In that sense, we are back once again with the conflict between light and dark, between artistic integrity and commercialism, idealism and money; we might even say, between red and black.

The family of Marcus Yokovlevitch Rothkowitz (his original name) moved to Portland, Oregon in 1913, when Rothko was only 10 years old, having fled the Cossacks and the pogroms of the old Russian Empire. Logan has him describe the neighborhood as a ghetto, filled with “thinky, talky Jews.” He was, of course, also himself in life both “thinky” and “talky.” He understood what it was to be the outsider, and he knew fear, tension, and the everlasting interplay of the opposites. Logan portrays how Rothko saw that movement was essential to growth, that the son succeeds the father, the apprentice takes over from the master, and that one art movement must kill off its predecessor (as much as he hated it, and railed against it, when Pop Art came to displace Abstract Expressionism).

Rothko will be remembered as a master of this tension, of strain and stress and the push-and-pull that so utterly enthralled and mystified him. I will not reveal how the play ends, except to say that it does so with an answer to a question. Although my own preference might have been to allow that question to hang in the air, unanswered, for us all to contemplate.

Rothko is famous for having said: “If you are moved by color relationships, you are missing the point. I am expressing the big emotions—tragedy, ecstasy, doom.” Who can fully plumb such questions? Can art, or even a great artist like Mark Rothko, ever reveal to us what is, in the end, indefinable, unfathomable, and ultimately unanswerable?








by Kevin L Miller

I just read a quote from Robert Reich (secretary of the treasury under Clinton) about the current choice between Hillary and Bernie, that I find insightful:

“This election is about changing the parameters of what’s feasible and ending the choke hold of big money on our political system. I’ve known Hillary Clinton since she was 19 years old, and have nothing but respect for her. In my view, she’s the most qualified candidate for president of the political system we now have. But Bernie Sanders is the most qualified candidate to create the political system we should have, because he’s leading a political movement for change. The upcoming election isn’t about detailed policy proposals. It’s about power – whether those who have it will keep it, or whether average Americans will get some as well.”

Hillary has been saying that Bernie is an idealist who cannot possibly accomplish his goals, while she is the hard-nosed pragmatist who knows the system and how to get things done. Well… She’s right. She IS the system, so she should certainly know it by now. But the system doesn’t work. Politics doesn’t work anymore. The environment is in the toilet. Climate change is threatening the very survival of all life on earth. The top 20 richest Americans hold as much wealth as the bottom 50%. The entire established social contract is anachronistic and broken and leading us to destruction. As Hillary is suggesting, we may have very little chance of changing the fundamental workings of society in a way that might save us, but don’t we have to TRY at least?

Bernie photo

Hillary is way more presidential than Bernie. No doubt about it. She knows how to evade reporters’ questions and appear unperturbed under fire. Bernie doesn’t look like any president of the USA that I’ve ever seen, and that’s exactly what I like about him. He just tells the plain unvarnished truth as he sees it, and those pronouncements from him have not changed in 30 years. By contrast, Hillary’s positions seem to reverse with every shift in the breeze, according to what is politically expedient, whether you want to talk about the KXL Pipeline, gay marriage, foreign trade, or you name it. We cannot trust that her positions today will still be the same tomorrow, because they certainly don’t sound like what she was saying yesterday. How can anyone trust a leader like that?

I was already a big fan of Bernie for years before he announced his intention to run for the nomination. I remember writing to friends many months before he declared, that I wished he would run, and they indicated that they didn’t really know who he was. Almost nobody knew who he was, and a lot of people who did, considered him a joke. He started with terrific odds against him and has risen to tie Hillary in the Iowa polls and beat her handily in the NH polls. And he has done this without a political PAC or dark money or giant Wall Street contributions of any kind, but with very small donations from millions of Americans. This unlikely candidate… this frumpy, grumpy, gravel-voiced, bald-headed, unpolished Jewish social democrat who will not compromise the truth… has already proven that he can beat the odds with his unconventional tactics. If he can do that, then maybe… just maybe… he can also lead the masses in changing the system enough to give humanity a fighting chance at survival.


For me the choice is clear. I’m voting for Bernie’s idealism in the primaries. Obviously, if Hillary wins the nomination, I won’t have any choice but to vote for her in the general election, because turning over the nation and the world to a President Trump or Cruz would spell the end of all hope. But I’ll feel a whole lot better about our chances if we inaugurate Bernie as our next president, because I am confident that he will do everything in his power not to sell the masses to the highest bidder, and put all of his energy into moving us toward sanity and survival. If we can’t vote for that, then we’re in very big trouble. And besides… the majority of major polls are showing that Bernie would beat Trump and Cruz by a much wider margin than Hillary. Voting for Bernie in the primaries turns out to be the practical thing to do.

Let’s be practical and vote for the idealistic candidate — Bernie! — Peace, – Kevin