Marathon

I ran the Denver Rock N Roll Marathon last week. Upon finishing, I cried like a baby--partly in relief, triumph, and exhaustion, but mostly in pain. I staggered through the chute. I collapsed to the grass. I could barely move for fifteen minutes, or the next morning, or the next. But I finished the darn thing. Due to a bum hamstring, I was not in the peak physical condition I had envisioned. My time (4:04 hrs) was impossibly far from my goal of 3:30 hrs, which had seemed tantalizingly within reach only weeks previously.

But I finished it. It is done.

The marathon was the overarching physical goal for this 40th year spiritual quest, the goal around which all other goals have revolved, in preparation, excitement, and focus. Mind, body, spirit are all one thing, right? And so like other spiritual practices, I anticipated that extreme physical stress would create the conditions for spiritual enlightenment.

Except enlightenment didn't come in any definable way. No pillar of light, burst of inspiration, or burning bush. As I limped to the finish, the only thought was survival, the only sensation pain. The emotions were mixed: pride, disappointment, relief, loneliness, and empathy for my fellow runners. My wife, who had heroically completed the half marathon with a bad IT band just a little bit earlier, met me at the finish line. I leaned feebly into her, gasping, and collapsed. No angels that day, but I did have her.

For marathon runners, I understand it's not always this way, but often it is. This was my first one, and I've gathered that many have had similar experiences. The most dominant feeling at the finish line is pain. But unlike other physical and emotional pains I've had to endure, this time I was choosing with every step to prolong my agony. I could have stopped. But I make silly objectives like "never stop," and so I refused, against better judgment, to let my nervy clenched grinding numb legs stop moving. At one point, when I felt like I couldn't go a step further--and simultaneously realized with a gulp of terror that I still had eight miles to go--when my time goal had become unreachable and was dropping precipitously further away by the minute, I thought that, Well, if I'm going to be in agony, I might as well get it over with quicker, and the only way to do that would be to speed up, right? But I couldn't do it. My legs were in some sort of involuntary rhythm, their pace fixed. I couldn't speed them up or stop them either. It was close to an out of body experience.

What was carrying me forward? Some silly goal? Pride? Fear? Why was I doing this?

To frame my motivations, I have to go back to the slopes of Kilimanjaro. In February of 2012, Elizabeth and I joined a trek up Kilimanjaro, to raise money for the Sega Girls School in Tanzania. The invitation to join came while I was recovering from kidney cancer, and Kili was on my bucket list. A perfect combination of factors inspired us to say yes: a brush with mortality that begged for celebration, a bucket list item, a worthy cause we believed in, a physical challenge to motivate our exercise routines, and overall a joint outrageous goal that we sensed would bring us together and help organize and focus all of our physical, financial, and social activities for a solid year. This occurred not long after we left the LDS Church, and we needed something to aim for.

It worked. We had a fantastic year preparing. We hiked throughout the winter in Colorado, saved money, bought gear and plane tickets, and raised $10,000 through a 5K race and an online drive (we paid our own way, and all of the fundraising went directly to the school).

When we got to Africa and met our team, we were by far the youngest people on the trek and we had the added advantage of being from Colorado, when most of the rest were from sea level. We were in great shape. At the base of that monolithic mountain, the sky seemed the limit. The hike went perfectly, until on day four, at our 14,100 ft acclimatization camp at spectacular Mawenzi Tarn, I developed a headache, then a cough, and then within 24 hours I became severely ill.  My oxygen level dropped to 73%; my heart rate was 130 at rest. I borrowed a stethoscope and heard wet crackles throughout both lungs, the kind I've only heard before on patients with end stage congestive heart failure. I couldn't speak a full sentence without being winded.

I knew the score, but in a somewhat clouded frame of mind, I protested. Elizabeth spoke wisdom: "Our kids won't care if you touch the top of this mountain, but they will care if you die trying." I threw in the towel. I was carried off the mountain on a stretcher, on oxygen. Due to a pinky swear that Elizabeth and I had made prior to the trek, she continued onward, and eventually triumphed.

But while she went up, I went down. The cure for high altitude pulmonary edema is simple: get off the mountain. At a hospital at the base, my chest X-ray showed a left sided white out, but my oxygen climbed back to 93%. I recuperated in the hotel for three days while the rest of the group completed the climb, me staring mournfully at the summit that eluded me. So close but yet so far. The trip was still spectacular, but I left with the knowledge that my body had failed me at the doorstep of my dream.

And so, when I pulled my hamstring three weeks before this race during a fifteen mile training run, I felt intense disappointment. I also felt embarrassed, and afraid. On one level, I knew that it wasn't my fault, and I knew it didn't really matter in any ultimate way. This was not a referendum on my character. Injuries happen, and they happen more often to forty year old bodies. Plus, nobody really cared about this marathon but me. Nobody would think less of me if I didn't meet my goal or complete the race, and besides, if they did, then what would I care?

But on a physical and visceral level, this hurt. I was getting older. When would I ever be this young, or this fit, or this motivated again? I feel that more and more now: the ticking clock. I don't really fear it, but I find I kind of resent it. Who is this guy Father Time who's trying to tell me what I can't do? Mostly, I feared that if I didn't complete this marathon, I would be establishing an irreversible pattern for these bucket list goals: my body failing me at the threshold. A willing heart, but weak flesh.

All of that circulated through my mind at the starting line. I had rested my hamstring, done yoga, stretching, physical therapy, dry needling (ouch!), massage, ice, heat, ibuprofen, and mostly rest, and then for the final week I had done nothing. Trust your cardio fitness, my runner brother and friends told me, but rest your legs. You can't run without two legs.

So on a chilly autumn morning before sunrise, as we waited in a ridiculously long port-a-potty line, I tested my leg. Stretched, twisted, jumped. It felt pretty good. But because I hadn't run in a week, I didn't know how it would respond to running. I made it to my corral just prior to the gun, and then I was off with the mob. My strategy was to take the first two miles a full two minutes slower than my planned pace so that I could ease into it. But in the thick of the crowd, that seemed way too slow. I wanted to get out ahead of some people. I was feeling good. I picked up the pace. No problem. Then we hit the first hill at about the 3.5 mile mark.

Tweak. I felt my left hamstring grab. Just a bit, but a flood of worry washed over me. I had over 22 miles to go. I'd spent a lot of time thinking about the psychology of this moment, how would I respond if the injury reared its ugly head? I was somewhat ready. I backed off the pace, I focused on maintaining an even stride. I "breathed into" my legs. Yoga breaths. Imagined lava orange fire seeping healing power into my hammy. It seemed to work. The grab was still there, but manageable, and once I got to the top of the hill, I felt it relax.

So I picked up the pace again. So far so good.  At mile seven, after another small hill, I felt it grab again, this time in my calf, too. More breathing. Seemed okay. At mile ten I felt a new and ominous pain in my left anterior hip. I suddenly had a hitch in my gait. Not good. For the next mile I considered, with a sense of utter failure, that I might have to bail at the halfway point. (The course loops back on itself at the half point. By the way, the course was totally amazing. A tour of all things Denver: Civic Center, Convention Center, Auraria, Pepsi Center, Broncos' Stadium, Coors Field, Downtown, City Park and Zoo, Capital Building, and Wash Park.) But as I approached the congested mid portion of the course, the crowd swelled, the bands rocked, people cheered, and on the flat stretch my legs felt almost okay. I was at the halfway point. All I had to do was . . . do this all over again. Tough, but doable. I pushed on.

By the time I got to City Park, I was in substantial pain. Up until that point, I had been within striking distance of my desired pace. But it got away from me in a hurry. Instead of passing people, now I was being passed. Fortunately or not, my Garmin GPS watch ran out of juice at that point, so I no longer had the direct awareness of my decreasing pace, but neither did I have that burr in my saddle. By mile eighteen, as the course looped back toward the central area and crossed the capitol steps, I was in severe pain. Eight more miles to go. I referenced my training runs in my head. That's not so long, I thought. I can't quit now. Then I'd have to do this again some day. Better just to bite the bullet and grind this baby out. I can do this. But remember: never stop.

Never stop, indeed. The next eight miles were endless, and became pure agony. The pain in my hip passed from severe to excruciating, and I couldn't figure out why. Probably because I was compensating in some way for my hamstring, thus putting unexpected stresses on my hip flexors. But how the hell was that going to help me now? This is the point where things became involuntary and clouded. My feet actually went numb. Why? I didn't have a clue. I began to feel emotional. I tried lamely to encourage the other runners I encountered, some having pulled out to walk, other trudging on past me. But I sounded less like a cheerleader and more like a mortally wounded soldier whispering to his comrades to press on, and tell Lizzy I always loved her.

The killer thing about it was that it lasted so long. It seemed like a hundred miles. It was late morning now and the sun was hot. I had no idea of my time. People lined the streets and cheered generically (which I truly appreciated), but no one actually cared about me, knew my name, could fathom my motivations, could understand my pain and disappointment, could applaud my tenacity, or cajole me to man up and press on. The bystanders cheered for the human race, for the multitudes, for the spectacle of sport and achievement, but not for me. Except for one person, a beautiful woman I hoped had survived her race and would be waiting for me at finish line, a line that I began to think may be fiction.

Eventually, the crowd and band noise began to swell. The buildings grew taller, and I could see the finish. I had imagined at this point I would feel an adrenaline surge, but that tank was dry. As I rounded the final corner, I heard my name for the first time: "Mark! Good job, Mark!" I turned around but couldn't find her in the crowd. I staggered across the finish and for the first time in 26.2 miles, I stopped.

I frightened myself by the strange gasping quality of my breathing, punctuated by sobs. It all seemed rather dramatic, except that in the melee of other finishers, not a soul among thousands was paying attention. This was what Mr. Mark Foster looked like in extremis, maxed out and beyond, and I was alone in the boisterous sea of humanity. I propped myself up against a fence until Elizabeth came limping up towards me. I leaned into her and wept, separated by bars.

After that we made our way to grass, where I collapsed to the ground and lay still, nearly unable to move my rigid joints when I tried to rise fifteen minutes later.  Brain sending signals, limbs not responding. Then the mile long walk back to the car, then home for a shower and an afternoon of football and laying motionless on the couch.

To my great surprise, I have recovered much quicker than I thought. It's now two weeks later, and I've got minimal pain, even went on a 3 mile jog yesterday. Hot tubs have been good to me. Yoga, too.

And so here's the obvious metaphor: Life is a race, man. There's a ticking clock. We race together. We race alone. The distance is arbitrary. (Favorite sign on the course: "Why 26.2 miles? Because 26.3 is CRAZY!") We invent the goal and busy ourselves with achieving it. We move the goal posts when our physical limitations demand it. If we're lucky, we may have one person among billions who cares as deeply for us as for herself, who will call out our name at the finish, and hold onto us when we can no longer stand.

And when we've finally pushed ourselves to the absolute extreme, when we call out to some deep inner well of soul power that is as vulnerable as it is strong, we only hope that it echoes back to us at the finish line, "Well done, dude. I love you."

Dalai Lama Quote: 18 Rules For Living

I've found great wisdom in quotes from the Dalai Lama, delivered with simplicity, compassion, and humor. This is a true messenger. Let's give heed to his word. Number 11 is my favorite. And number 5.  And 17 and 18 . . . Good stuff.

At the turn of this century, the Dalai Lama issued the following statement and eighteen rules for living:

Of the many problems we face today, some are natural calamities and must be accepted and faced with equanimity. Others, however, are of our own making, created by misunderstanding, and can be corrected. One such type arises from the conflict of ideologies, political or religious, when people fight each other for petty ends, losing sight of the basic humanity that binds us all together as a single human family. We must remember that the different religions, ideologies, and political systems of the world are meant for human beings to achieve happiness. We must not lose sight of this fundamental goal and at no time should we place means above ends; the supremacy of humanity over matter and ideology must always be maintained.

By far the greatest single danger facing humankind – in fact, all living beings on our planet – is the threat of nuclear destruction. I need not elaborate on this danger, but I would like to appeal to all the leaders of the nuclear powers who literally hold the future of the world in their hands, to the scientists and technicians who continue to create these awesome weapons of destruction, and to all the people at large who are in a position to influence their leaders: I appeal to them to exercise their sanity and begin to work at dismantling and destroying all nuclear weapons. We know that in the event of a nuclear war there will be no victors because there will be no survivors! Is it not frightening just to contemplate such inhuman and heartless destruction? And, is it not logical that we should remove the cause for our own destruction when we know the cause and have both the time and the means to do so? Often we cannot overcome our problems because we either do not know the cause or, if we understand it, do not have the means to remove it. This is not the case with the nuclear threat. ~ Dalai Lama

Eighteen Rules For Living:

Rule 1. Take into account that great love and great achievements involve great risk.

Rule 2. When you lose, don’t lose the lesson

Rule 3. Follow the three Rs: 1. Respect for self 2. Respect for others 3. Responsibility for all your actions.

Rule 4. Remember that not getting what you want is sometimes a wonderful stroke of luck.

Rule 5. Learn the rules so you know how to break them properly.

Rule 6. Don’t let a little dispute injure a great friendship.

Rule 7. When you realize you’ve made a mistake, take immediate steps to correct it.

Rule 8. Spend some time alone every day.

Rule 9. Open your arms to change, but don’t let go of your values.

Rule 10. Remember that silence is sometimes the best answer.

Rule 11. Live a good, honorable life. Then when you get older and think back, you’ll be able to enjoy it a second time.

Rule 12. A loving atmosphere in your home is the foundation for your life.

Rule 13. In disagreements with loved ones, deal only with the current situation. Don’t bring up the past.

Rule 14. Share your knowledge. It’s a way to achieve immortality.

Rule 15. Be gentle with the earth.

Rule 16. Once a year, go someplace you’ve never been before.

Rule 17. Remember that the best relationship is one in which your love for each other exceeds your need for each other.

Rule 18. Judge your success by what you had to give up in order to get it.

Mandela: "As I Walked Out The Door . . ."

The Demon-Haunted World: A Review

I just finished reading Carl Sagan's final book, The Demon-Haunted World: Science As A Candle in the Dark.

"It is far better to grasp the Universe as it really is than to persist in delusion, however satisfying and reassuring."
--Carl Sagan, from The Demon Haunted World.

I'm on an intentional spiritual quest to find meaning and purpose after Mormonism. A big part of my program this year involves reading. Lots of reading, all sorts of books. This was first on my list, and I'm going to review it here.

The Demon-Haunted World was published in 1995, shortly before Sagan's death in 1996. As I read it, there was the sense that this was his last, best effort to convey to us (and to history) the central passion of his life: the overwhelming power of the scientific method to illuminate real truth and dispel myth. Many of the chapters were adapted from other articles and essays that he had previously written, so the book at times feels a little scattered, unfocused. Also, at times he comes off somewhat pretentious, erudite, dismissive (no matter how justifiably) of the cherished experiences or feelings of that vast majority of the human race. But at welcome intervals, he tempers that attitude with expressions of genuine humility and even affection for the rest of us who have a hard time telling just what we're seeing as we gaze through the glass darkly.

Carl Sagan has long been a hero to me. After spending time with him in this book, he's moved further up my hero's totem pole. For the most part, he speaks in the languages I most appreciate: curiosity, clarity, rationality, integrity, skepticism and real truth. I have vague memories of the first Cosmos series in the late 1970s: "Billions and billions" is the famous (and inaccurate) line. One of my all time favorite books and movies is Contact. Recently, my admiration for him has been renewed through the new Cosmos series, hosted by Neil deGrasse Tyson, a former student of Sagan.

The homage paid to Sagan by the new show is touching and deserved. Sagan was a world-renowned scientist in his own right, but his ability to articulate, captivate, animate, persuade is what defines his legacy today. To do what he did--speaking hard truths about scientific discovery, dispelling myths and superstitions, and making it understandable and persuasive--takes courage, intelligence, savvy, and also a sort of meta-perspective on the nature of humanity, a rare ability to see beyond the muddy waters of the moment and point himself and thus others towards a higher understanding of our place in the universe. He's been called the greatest science communicator of all time, and so I think it makes good sense to pay attention to his last best effort to share his hard-gained wisdom.

The title "The Demon Haunted World" sets the tone for the book. There are no real demons in our world. There are only people. And yet from the dawn of the human race, humans have imagined demons up, been haunted, persecuted, driven mad by them--or by ghosts, witches, Big Foot, UFOs, aliens, or cursed by gods and devils. But this belief in the supernatural and pseudoscience, our ceding of control to imaginary forces, is not just a charming relic of the past. It's a terrifying, ubiquitous, and frighteningly contemporary feature of human life, all based on fear and fantasy. The Witch Trials of Europe and Salem, the Spanish Inquisition, the Holocaust and the wars that now rage in the Middle East and elsewhere, have religion, irrational fanaticism and superstition at their root.

The first two chapters discuss how the rigorous application of the scientific method can dispel myth and superstition, how it can light "a candle in the dark." Then, in order to illustrate his point, Sagan launches into a discussion about aliens and alien abductions. This caught me by surprise. I've never taken those stories very seriously. But as this book was written twenty years ago, apparently there was somewhat of an epidemic of alien abductions in the 1980s. The statistics are pretty alarming. In 1994, a Gallup poll showed that up to 3 million Americans believed they had been abducted by aliens. A lot of the stories had similar features, and usually involved some sort of sexual assault. Support groups, conferences, societies, and an alarming amount of psychologists gave enhanced credibility to the stories. It was accepted as a fact of life by many: aliens would come at night and adbuct you, and there was nothing you could do about it. How could so many people have the same experiences with such strikingly similar features?

This is a question that Sagan dismantles easily. He asks in return, how could there be such a stunning increase in abductions, and such an absolute dearth of actual evidence? In the end, all of these tens of thousands of abduction stories have one thing in common: they are entirely subjective. Sure, some people present with evidence of bruises, or missing gaps of time on their watches. But there are many ways to be bruised, many ways to reset a watch. What is lacking is any sort of tangible, reproducible, independently verifiable evidence.

(Sidenote: I imagine that one reason Sagan spends such time deconstructing alien abductions is that, due to his extensive involvement in the Search for Extra Terrestrial Intelligence (SETI) program, he was often unfairly associated with these stories. He puts those suppositions to rest. He does believe in extraterrestrial intelligence, merely based on the unfathomable size and age of the universe and the number of likely inhabitable planets. But he doesn't believe any of these life forms has yet contacted earth, much less stealthily invaded our atmosphere within the last fifty years and stolen us away in the night to examine our genitals.)

Saga takes the same approach in dealing with pervasive folk legends about UFOs, crop circles, satanic cults, and divine visitations. Each superstition is evaluated fairly, and the objective evidence that speaks strongly against their veracity is weighed against the subjective testimonies of those who swear on their souls that it's true. When fairly weighed, those scales always tip towards hoax or delusion.

One of the most famous chapters is "The Dragon In My Garage," an allegory about how rational beings should skeptically evaluate truth claims that are not falsifiable. The story goes like this: I tell you there is a dragon in my garage. You doubt my claim, and ask me to show you. I say, Sorry, can't show you, because it's invisible. You say, Let's spread flour on the floor so I can see it's footprints. I say, Sorry, no footprints, because this dragon floats. You suggest we spray paint it to make it visible. I say, Sorry, this an incorporeal dragon, so paint won't stick. And so on.

I've made an incredible claim. You've suggested ways to prove it true. But I've fended off every attempt by telling you a more fantastical way to evade that proof. Eventually a simple question arises, as Sagan states: "Now, what's the difference between an invisible, incorporeal, floating dragon . . . and no dragon at all? If there is no way to disprove my contention, no conceivable experiment that would count against it, what does it mean to say that my dragon exists? Your inability to invalidate my hypothesis is not at all the same thing as proving it true. Claims that cannot be tested, assertions immune to disproof . . . are worthless, whatever value they may have in inspiring us or in exciting our sense of wonder. What I'm asking you to do comes down to believing, in the absence of any evidence, on my say-so." (p 171)

Another essential chapter is "The Fine Art Of Baloney Detection," Sagan's famous toolkit for avoiding logical and rhetorical fallacies when evaluating truth claims. Here is a great link to a website that summarizes it. Sagan gives us a way to look at various tactics that are often used to support a fantastical truth claim, or at least to stifle a doubter's disbelief. Ad hominem attacks, false dichotomies, straw men, suppressed evidence, and mostly appeals to ignorance and appeals to authority: these strategies form the playbook for FAIR Mormon and pretty much any other dogmatic institution's apologetic arm. When I confront a truth claim, I want to answer this question: "How can I know for sure this is true?" But dogmatic organizations will not address such a question--they are existentially threatened by them. Instead, their apologists pose their own question: "How can we make the evaluation of this spurious truth claim, which we know if our heads and hearts to be baseless but which if definitively repudiated would undermine the authority of the whole organization . . . how can we make this so confusing that an average reader will give up trying to find out whether or not it is actually true, and instead fall back to their leader's appeal to just accept it on faith, fear or feeling?"

I have another critique of this book, which I think illuminates some limitations of Sagan's scientific world view. He references a few times the biologic basis of mental illnesses, and the triumph of science in developing the efficacious drugs used to treat them. On one level, I can give him a pass here, because this is not his area of expertise, and because twenty years later we know a lot more than we used to.  From his perch in 1994, the secrets of the brain appeared to have been unlocked, just like the secrets of the stars and the atoms had been. He trusted the "scientists" in authority who produced the DSM and developed the drugs, like Prozac, that had been recently introduced to the market. But man, do I have a book I'd like Carl to read now: Anatomy of an Epidemic by Robert Whitaker, which I've written about previously. In my opinion, the current state of psychiatry and the psychopharmaceutical ideology that supports it, represents a failure of science to correct itself. This is not to say that there is not some biological basis for symptoms of emotional and cognitive distress, or that medications are not helpful for some people in some situations.

But Sagan's Baloney Detection Meter would go bezerk if evaluating the current practice of biopsychiatry. The mental health industry is fundamentally compromised by Big Pharma money, and underwritten by people's undying desire to believe in magic pills and quick fixes. Much of the research is corrupt or incomplete. Evidence is suppressed, or cherry-picked. Dissenting opinions are attacked personally instead of objectively. It is a terribly complex issue, and most people--doctors, patients, families affected by it--are simply trying to do the best they can. But in this instance, unexamined faith in science, not religion, and psychiatry's unholy marriage to profit motive, has caused net harm to society.

But in a round about way, even my critique here is a expression of faith in science. I believe Carl would agree with me, or would at least be open to re-evaluating the evidence and our conclusions. That is a fundamental part of the scientific method: be open to new evidence that would challenge your old assumptions. Reversing the damage of psychopharmacology, inverting the current paradigm, will require a renewed application of the scientific method to our broad societal assumptions about mental health. If I'm wrong, if the evidence proves otherwise, I'll admit it, and adopt the evidence-based model. So let's try it. Let's have a real, objective societal conversation about it, and follow where the evidence leads.

Other chapters of note:

• "Obsessed With Reality":  Sagan shares a fascinating story that occurred in Australia in 1988, where a man with a supposed brain injury began channeling a wandering spirit named Carlos. Carlos came with a "great lesson" to teach humanity. He filled the Sydney Opera House with believers, only to reveal the next week on national television that it was all a hoax meant to show people how gullible they can be. 
• "The Path To Freedom": He tells us, through the story of Frederick Douglas, the incredible power of books and literacy to transmit ideas across time and space, to level the playing field in a democracy, and to propel lives from the abyss of physical or mental slavery to the pinnacle of freedom of thought and expression.
• "When Scientists Know Sin": He discusses what can happen when science is unbridled by ethics, or by considerations of the consequences of its discoveries and innovations. This is told through the story of the development of the hydrogen bomb, and how that unnecessary weapon led to the escalation of the cold war and the near annihilation of our species.
• "The Marriage Of Skepticism And Wonder": He shares how science unfortunately can turn some people into crotchety party poopers in the fiesta of life. Yet he argues that true science should evoke a sense of reverence and awe, similar to religion. I like this quote: "At the heart of science is an essential balance between two seemingly contradictory attitudes--an openness to new ideas, no matter how bizarre or counterintuitive, and the most ruthlessly skeptical scrutiny of all ideas, old and new. This is how deep truths are winnowed from deep nonsense. The collective enterprise of creative thinking and skeptical thinking keeps the field on track." (p 304)

Finally, I want to highlight a few quotes regarding the dichotomy of certainty/uncertainty, seeing as that's the title of this blog and my 40th year quest. Here's the question: Does the rigorous application of the scientific method allow us to arrive at any measure of certainty in an uncertain universe?

Sagan quotes Rene Descartes, who said, "I did not imitate the skeptics who doubt only for doubting's sake, and pretend to be always undecided; on the contrary, my whole intention was to arrive a certainty, and to dig away the drift and the sand until I reached the rock or the clay beneath." This reminds me of a favorite quote by Sir Francis Bacon: "If a man will begin with certainties, he shall end in doubts; but if he will be content to begin with doubts, he shall end in certainties."

But, Rene and Francis, is that true? Will science and skepticism, in the end, lead us to certainty? Of course both of those quotes were offered a few centuries before we discovered relativity and quantum uncertainty, principles which govern the universe at the cosmic and subatomic levels in apparent defiance of Newton. Here's what Carl has to say about it:

"Humans may crave absolute certainty; they may aspire to it, they may pretend, as partisans of certain religions do, to have attained it. But the history of science--by far the most successful claim to knowledge accessible to humans--teaches that the most we can hope for is successive improvement in our understanding, learning from our mistakes, an asymptotic approach to the Universe, but with the proviso that absolute certainty will always elude us. We will always be mired in error. The most each generation can hope for is to reduce the error bars a little . . . 
"One of the great commandments of science is, 'Mistrust arguments from authority.' This independence of science, it occasional unwillingness to accept conventional wisdom, makes it dangerous to doctrines less self-critical, or with pretensions to certitude.
"Because science carries us toward an understanding of how the world is, rather than how we would wish it to be, its findings may not in all cases be immediately comprehensible or satisfying. It may take a little work to restructure our mindsets. Some of science is very simple. When it gets complicated, that's usually because the world is complicated--or because we're complicated. When we shy away from it because it seems too difficult . . . we surrender the ability to take charge of our future . . .
"But when we pass beyond the barrier, when the findings and methods of science get through to us, when we understand and put this knowledge to use, many feel deep satisfaction . . . how gratifying it is when we get it, when obscure terms suddenly take on meaning, when we grasp what all the fuss is about, when deep wonders are revealed.
"In its encounter with Nature, science invariably elicits a sense of reverence and awe. The very act of understanding is a celebration of joining, merging, even if on a very modest scale, with the magnificence of the Cosmos. And the cumulative worldwide buildup of knowledge over time converts science into something only a little short of a transnational, transgenerational meta-mind.
"Science is not only compatible with spirituality; it is a profound source of spirituality. When we recognize our place in an immensity of light-years and in the passage of ages, when we grasp the intricacy, beauty, and subtlety of life, then that soaring feeling, that sense of elation and humility combined, is surely spiritual." (p 28-29)

Wow. That's what I'm looking for. Wisdom. Humility. Clarity. Beauty. Truth.

I'll close with one more famous quote from this book that demands to be read:

"One of the saddest lessons of history is this: If we've been bamboozled long enough, we tend to reject any evidence of the bamboozle. We're no longer interested in finding out the truth. The bamboozle has captured us. It's simply too painful to acknowledge, even to ourselves, that we've been taken. Once you give a charlatan power over you, you almost never get it back." 

Thank you, Carl. This is a book that deserves a prominent place on any seeker's shelf. But be careful, fellow seekers! It's the sort of book that, when its tools are applied conscientiously, may cause some heavily-laden shelves to crack . . .

Shavasana

Shavasana is a yoga pose. It means corpse pose, or dead man's pose. Sounds gruesome.

This image isn't exactly shavasana, but it's close.

This past week marked the 10th anniversary of the premiere of LOST, which is, by my reckoning, still the greatest television show of all time, followed closely by The Office and Air Wolf. Here's a discussion about its rightful place in the pantheon. 

My purpose in posting this image is two fold: first to commemorate this anniversary by paying homage to Jack Shepherd, the ultimate hero.  (Runner up: Stringfellow Hawk.)

But second is to illustrate how I feel at the end of a yoga session. That is, dead. But not in a bad way.

Let me explain.

I think there may be no more powerful practice on earth than the gentle practice of yoga. I say this not just because I'm married to a yoga instructor, or because I recommend yoga to my patients all the time, or because I discovered in yoga a sanctuary, a temple, an oasis of spirituality that revived me while traversing the desert of my disaffection from Mormonism. 

I say it because the heart of yoga, like no other practice I know, brings into balance some of the most powerful, pervasive dichotomies that shape our lives: yin and yang, mind and body, strength and flexibility, discipline and relaxation, precision and fluidity, rationality and creativity, expression and silence, remaining grounded and becoming transcendent, holding on and letting go, just being and always becoming, and, metaphorically, life and death. Sun salutation and shavasana.

These dichotomies are active in our lives most of the time, and I often have a hard time reconciling their competing agendas. Except in yoga. In yoga, I breathe in, breathe out. Reach for the sky as I plant my feet firmly on the ground. Then forward fold, reach down and barely touch my knees. Let my mind focus, let it wander. Fingers kind of brushing against my shins, when I really force it. Fill my body with light, fill my mind with darkness. Okay, not even getting close to my toes, but you know what? That's alright, I'm not going to sweat it because I'm doing the best I can and there must be some genetic flaw in me that will prevent me from ever touching my toes with my legs straight, and I'm okay with that. Yes, even if everybody else in the class can somehow touch their forehead to their glutes like they were made of silly putty, I'm not comparing myself to them, I'm just concerned with my own efforts, and dang, how can anybody do that?

So yoga has powerful metaphorical meaning for me. As I get older, I want both my body and mind to remain fluid, flexible, adaptive. I used to think that being "firm as a rock" in faith or politics or opinion or relationships was a desirable thing. And of course constancy, commitment, loyalty and reliability are all essential traits for becoming the person I want to be. But I've seen it happen so often that those traits, when left unchallenged, stiffen into intolerance, close-mindedness, laziness, cynicism, and self-righteousness, especially as the body and brain age. 

That's not a destiny I aspire to.  Don't want to spend my whole life cultivating awe and wonder, being regularly humbled into recognizing how little I actually know, only to become deluded with a false sense of certainty and sanctimony in my old age. Thus, each week as I strain to hold onto Downward Dog for just another five seconds, or wobble precariously through the final flow of Warrior Two, I imagine that I'm creating in myself not just muscle flexibility, but mental flexibility.  Core strength of body, core strength of spirit. It's soul power, baby, all over again.

There are some aspects of traditional yoga that I don't particularly like. Elizabeth has had to study it all, the different deities and literalisms and prayers and rituals that have been built up around the practice like any other dogmatic religion. People love themselves some structure, a format, the "right way," the "only way." But unlike other orthodoxies, yoga peddles its wares softly. None of that stuff really matters anyway, and yoga is fine with that. It just wants to bring you into its healing, balanced, life-affirming heart, and whatever vehicle or tradition gets you there is just fine.

Whether through cosmic convergence or random chance, the first yoga instructor Elizabeth and I ever had was Monique, who teaches Beginner's Yoga at Club USA. I imprinted on her like a duckling to its mother. I continue to go to her class twice a week, and I feel a void when I miss it. Other teachers just can't quite measure up. She challenges me without overwhelming me. She's always positive. She always reminds us to "Let your body tell you what it wants to do today." Even as Elizabeth has progressed to expert level yoga, she still enjoys going to Monique's classes. Unlike many instructors, Monique isn't afflicted with "Yoga Teacher Voice": that blasé monotone that seems unnaturally calm, even lifeless. Monique is chipper, sometimes silly. She makes little asides about her kids and life. She imparts tiny pearls of practical wisdom, a motivational speaker when you least expect it, just when you're exhausted and at your most impressionable, like this gem from last night, "Each of you has such tremendous talent and potential. Never be afraid to share it. That's what you were born to do!" I'm not being coy when I say that, amidst all the turbulence of my own mental life, I appreciate such clarity and simple wisdom. Yes, I think. Maybe that's all there is to it.

After fifty minutes of twisting, snapping, cracking, and popping, Monique guides us into final relaxation, or shavasana. This is what I crave. This is why I'm here. This is why I've tied myself in knots for the last fifty minutes. Lay flat on your back. Hug knees to chest. One leg in the air, then spinal twist. Switch legs. Again flat on your back, arms to your side, palms up, hips open, eyes closed. Breathe in and out deeply through your nose. Let go of all the tension and frustration in your body. Find an image that is calming. Focus on it.

I've developed a dozen images to choose from. A placid mountain lake in summer. A silent forest in a winter snowfall. A sunlit turquoise beach, waves in sync with my breath. Sitting in a hammock, gently rocked by a breeze, looking up at the trees. A bird soaring through a canyon. A disembodied "I" silently floating towards a glorious desert sunset. 

I go into a zone. A zone of remembering and forgetting. A zone of letting go. A zone of simply being. It's almost like, after an hour of physical exertion, I have to be given permission--by Monique, by someone other than myself--to completely relax and open my mind.  I often try to meditate by myself, but I'm never more mentally ready for it than during shavasana. And it's in that moment, within the mental worlds I've called forth, that I glimpse it. Not for long. But I taste it. The Tao. The Way. The Mind. The Kosmos. God. The Eternal Now/Here. The Ocean of One Taste. The Fullness That Is Empty. The Emptiness That Is Full.  

And then it's gone.

"Coming back to my voice. Bringing your awareness back into the room. Move your fingers and toes. Roll onto your side in a fetal position, like you were going to sleep."

(At this point, Monique's simple wisdom is imparted: "You are great. Life is amazing. You can do it!")

"Now sit up. Open your arms wide and take a deep breath. Gently roll your head from side to side, forward only. Right ear to right shoulder. Left ear to left shoulder. Give yourself a hug. Uncross.  Give yourself another hug. Thank you so much for coming to my class today and sharing your presence. The light in me honors the light in you, which is the light in everything. Namaste."

And with that, the class is over. Me and thirty other yoga students peel ourselves off the floor, roll up our mats, and head back into a world that is so often anti-yoga, that is everything but calm, balanced, gentle, enlightening. But I feel prepared, rejuvenated, centered in a way that nothing else does for me now.

I wish it could last. But shavasana can't. It's short and sweet. It's not life. It's a metaphor for death, a preview of that rest and ultimate Oneness that someday awaits us all.

And that brings me back to Jack Shepherd. After confronting the unsolvable mystery of the Island, after dodging death and traveling through time and facing betrayal and confronting both ultimate evil and soul-numbing ennui, our hero Jack finds himself stumbling through a grove of trees, blood seeping out of a fatal abdominal wound, strength and life slipping away. He collapses to the ground, rolls over and finds himself in the same place he awoke on the island six seasons previously, but now as a nearly-dead man, in shavasana pose. Is this coincidence? Metaphor? Intentional by the writers of the show? Or just me projecting my values onto my hero?  Does it matter? I'm going with it.

Jack breathes in, breathes out. A plane crosses through a window in the waving treetops overhead. He smiles. He knows his friends have escaped the island, a life and the future awaiting them. But not for Jack. His work is done. His dog curls up by his side. He takes a deep shuddering breath and closes his eyes for the last time. There is a wash of light, and the hero's journey ends exactly where it began.