Robert Parker RIP

Robert Parker, creator of Spenser, has died at the age of 77. He died at his word processor, I understand. That's a pretty fine way for a writer to go. I will always love him for Hawk, which character introduced me to the sublime Avery Brooks. Some years ago I was supposed to co-write Avery's autobiography, and had a chance to talk with him extensively about Spenser, and Parker...(and Deep Space Nine, too, but that's beyond the range of this morning's essay). I digress, really. Parker ran into the limits of Spenser many years ago--there is only so much a series character can ever grow without damaging the connection to the readers. So those novels became more perfunctory. The last time I read one, however, Hawk was edging toward being a fully-fleshed human being rather than an iconic aspect of Spenser's own psyche. Didn't matter. Their relationship was always the core of those books, more important even than his relationship with Susan. In my opinion, anyway.

Ah, well. He's gone. That actually stings.

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1.2 Million years ago, human beings were almost driven extinct. Only about 18,000 of us on the whole planet, smaller than the breeding population of many "endangered" species.

http://sciencenow.sciencemag.org/cgi/content/full/2010/119/2

The question I ask is: could we still have a racial memory of this time? On some deep level, might we remember how close we came to extinction? And might that still be driving many of our behaviors as a species? The drive to increase our population, even as the consensus among environmental scientists solidifies as "we have too many people, and are heading for a cliff"? I wonder.

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Certainly, the pain and grief experienced in childhood affects us even as we walk about in adult bodies. I know of no complete human beings raised in love and nurtured without damage, totally loving of self and others. Such a being would be delightful, literally. "A creature of light." The wonder of a child and the mature vision of an adult. In some ways, isn't that what we wish for all our children?

And it's not to late to have that for ourselves, either. Meditation, for me, is being the water. Let me explain: there is an old parable, or demonstration, or something. Sometimes it's said to be about time management:

A teacher stands before his class with a large clear plastic beaker. He fills it with large rocks. "Is the beaker full?" He asks. And the class agrees it is full. He then pours in a bag of pebbles. "Is the beaker full now?" He asks. And the class agrees it is full. He then pours in a bag of gravel. "Is the beaker full now?" he asks. The class begins to grumble. He then pours in a bag of sand. "Is the beaker full now?" A few of them lift their hands, uncertain. He then pours in a beaker of water. "Is the beaker full NOW?"

The class rises as a group, seized the teacher...and when the police arrived two hours later, the beaker was, indeed, finally full...

No. I made that last part up. I just can't manage to be spiritual all the time: I wouldn't recognize myself. Anyway, you get it. This is used to explain why to do "the big things first" because if you start by filling the beaker with sand, you have no room for the big rocks. But there is another lesson.

Our psyches get filled with the psychic scabs from the damage we sustain over the course of our lives. Big and small, the disappointments, phobias, and guilt stuff fills our "beaker" until there is almost no room, and certainly little clarity.

I just got a note from an old friend who is spending more and more time confined to bed, in deep depression. The sum total of a life of disappointments, and an inability to focus upon the moments of grace and wonder.

When I meditate in the morning, oftimes I cannot see through the beaker. Too many rocks, too much gravel and sand. But "I" am not those things. I am the water. Poured into the beaker, the true essence of my existence slips between the chunks big and small. There is always room, if I eliminate my ego. Just for a few moments, every morning, my experiences do not define me. And here is the miracle: water is the greatest solvent on earth. When I slip between the spaces of experience, of thought and emotion, the grains of sand, the gravel, the pebbles and the stones dissolve, leaving only the beaker, shining and transparent to light.

And then, on the very best days, there is only the light.