Discussion Forums

I'm going back a few years to when I first got on the Internet. Maybe about twenty years ago. A whole new world, at least for me. What do you look at? Pondering, I remembered a Buddhist magazine, Tricycle and wondered if they had their own website. Sure enough, yes, and I found it and looked over a few articles and photos of various Buddhas and Buddhist wannabees sitting on cushions seeking to meditate their way to nirvana. Scrolling down the Home Page I spied the words "Bulletin Boards" and wondered what they were. Perhaps private ads along the lines of "Buddhist, GSOH, wishes to meet like minded for zafu sessions". But no. Investigating I saw that here we had a rich assortment of various people, with "screen names" such as Dharmakara, Lotus Flower and other such exotic titles, all raising questions, answering back and forth, and all sounding quite knowledgeable as far as Buddhism was concerned. For a couple of days I read a few of the threads and then the thought popped into my head..........I too could register, I too could assign myself a name, I too could join in the talk, actually express a point of view.

Zafus, or meditation cushions ( significantly, perhaps, empty! )

Believe it or not this thought gave me the collywobbles. Did I have the nerve? Seriously, my hands shook and my heart thumped. Nearly fifty years old and the thought of expressing an opinion, even on the relative anonymity of the internet, filled me with apprehension.

But nothing ventured, nothing gained. With trembling hands I registered. As a first swipe at the obvious conventions of the media, I gave myself the name of "Dookie", a name my daughter had often called me - I have no idea why. Then I had to decide upon my very first post. There was a deep discussion taking place between two suitably named worthies, posting back and forth on various points raised by the classic zen book "Zen Mind, Beginners Mind" by Shunryu Suzuki, a book they obviously relished and admired. Me, it was one of those books I had found it hard to get into and in fact never really got into it at all. To be frank, it had bored me rigid. Should I say this? Should I step in and have my say? I hesitated but then thought that if I feared to do so and held back, what was the point? So in I went, speaking my mind. 

I was totally ignored! The conversation carried on around my meagre and rather paltry post as if Dookie was non-existent. Perhaps the fate of so many in this world. But Dookie was made of sterner stuff; what does not destroy us makes us stronger says Nietzsche. Soon I was back on another thread and this time drew a response! Someone in cyberspace had actually read my words and seen fit to answer! Very soon, another thanked me for "making my day" and I have to admit, this almost reduced me to tears. The thought that words of mine had touched another's emotions. 

From then on there was no stopping me. An English teacher in the USA, in fact a published novelist, sent me an email and told me that I was one of her "favourite voices on the Boards", another asked me where did I get my wisdom from. I never associated myself with wisdom and told them so in one way or another. The fact is that for me it was a question of self confidence, self esteem. There is a thin dividing line between this and pride. I tried, and endeavour, not to cross it. Good to take to heart the words of Honen, one of the "fathers" of Pure Land Buddhism, who said:- "When a scholar is born they forget the Nembutsu". Everything that is truly of worth is a pure gift of Reality-as-is; given, not attained, realised, not earned or gained by merit.

Anyway, eventually I learnt that Dookie was a word in the USA used by children for poo, a fact that threatened to tarnish my reputation just a little, not to mention forestall any suggestions of wisdom. But I soldiered on. 

Poo? Surely not?

The Bulletin Boards on Tricycle finally disintegrated, unmonitored they sunk under their own weight of spam, flaming, sledging and insults. So much for Buddhist ethics.

But I had the bit between my teeth. I registered again and again on various Boards. Christian, Secular, Atheist, Agnostic, Islamic, General, Ex-Christian, Inter-faith and various new Buddhist forums. Two hiccups when once I was censured for a "racist" post ( I had posted of my thinking that Wei Wu Wei was a "wizened little Chinaman" before finding out his true identity as the Irish Aristocrat Terence Gray) and then received a lifetimes ban on another when I crossed swords with the Administrator who took exception to my implying that a post of his was based upon gossip. 

Wei Wu Wei (I blame him)

A wizened chinaman

I have retired from all Boards now after perhaps 30,000 posts or so. In my time I have been called a hypocrite, a liar, the "voice of satan", even the Anti-Christ; I have been called wise and been called stupid. I have been known as Dookie, Tariki, Cobblers Apprentice and one or two other equally preposterous names, as the mood took me. Generally I have sought to be polite and truthful. We can only try. One of my fondest memories of meetings in cyberspace was various exchanges with a guy in Sri Lanka who had ambitions to become a Theravada bhikkhu (Buddhist monk) who eventually thanked me for extending his knowledge of the Buddhist Scriptures. My worst? Crossing swords with a member of a Fundamentalist Christian Sect whose bigotry, which he was totally oblivious to, was, to me, shocking. 

But it has all been good for me.

In the end, as the wag said, "There are only two types of people in the world, those who divide the world into two types of people and those who don't". There is great mileage in the zen advice that if we wish to know the truth then "cease to cherish opinions", simply because, as per the great parable of the raft, the Dharma is for "passing over, not for grasping". For me this has its echo in the Gospel advice not to judge others. 

From being afraid to say boo to a goose I will now say what I like, when I like. If not now then when?

Thomas Merton

Fundamentally I am a very secular person. Organised religion, its creeds and rituals, mean little if anything at all. As I see it, "belief" - in whatever - often acts more as an anaesthetic than as a catalyst for acting in the world. Nevertheless, I have admiration for various human beings who some would consider "religious". One such is the Catholic Trappist monk Thomas Merton. As I have implied, this is not "hero worship".  I see him more as a mentor, through whom I can come to my own understanding - Merton himself was very rarely didactic in any real sense of the word. Being a Trappist monk, his published books necessarily passed through the censorship system of the Catholic Church. Given that those books included essays on Buddhism and a translation of Chuang Tzu, this indicates that the censorship system is perhaps not as stifling of free thought as some might suppose. Yet it is for me in his letters - and Journals - that he speaks to my own tastes, and these escaped censorship in any real meaning of the word.

Merton in monastic garb 

I first read Merton when I picked up "The Seven Storey Mountain" in my local library. This book is autobiographical and tells of Merton's early life ( not one of religious indoctrination ), his conversion to Catholicism, and ends with his entry into the monastery of Gethsemane in Kentucky, U.S.A. I got about half way through before giving up. I found it over pious and stifling. Next I found a collection of his letters ("The Hidden Ground of Love") in a second hand bookshop. It was priced at only £5, and being a skinflint at heart, always having an eye for a bargain, I snapped it up. Once again, after about 100 pages I left it aside. Yet about a couple of years later, for some reason I picked it up again and this time read through to the end. It was pure delight. Merton wrote to so many people, of so many different faiths - and to some of none - and without betraying at any time his own fidelity to Christ, opened his heart to all, saying "yes" where he could.

Since then I have built up my own little library of Merton. All of his published letters (5 volumes), many of his Journals (published in 7 volumes) plus a few of his other books, mainly those concerned with Buddhism/Zen.

I suppose the impression can be given, when reading the words of others - particularly of a "religious" figure - that the words originate from some ethereal source and not from a concrete human being. Whether or not this is the case, I would just like to speak of Merton's own very lovable humanity. There is a wonderful photo of Merton in the Lion edition of "The Intimate Merton" that is worth a million words. The caption is "This is the old hillbilly who knows where the still is", and it truly captures the man as he must have been known to his own friends, full of fun and humour. 

Does he know where the still is?

When Henri Nouwen met him, he spoke of an initial reaction of disappointment as nothing "very special, profound or spiritual" occurred:-


Maybe I expected something unusual, something to talk about with others or to write home about. But Thomas Merton proved to be a very down-to-earth, healthy human being who was not going to perform to satisfy our curiosity. He was one of us...............(later) I became very grateful for that one unspectacular encounter. I found that whenever I was tempted to let myself be carried away by lofty ideas or cloudy aspirations, I had only to remind myself of that one afternoon to bring myself back to earth. (With) my mind's eye I saw him again as that earthy man, dressed in sloppy blue jeans, loud, laughing, friendly and unpretentious..................


There is a passage in one of his letters where he relates an episode following the ordination of one of his best friends, Dan Walsh, in 1967. Following the ceremony, Merton and a few of his other friends got just a little bit tiddly on alcohol and began falling around with laughter. Looking on were a group of nuns who appeared just a little shocked. "Another pillar of the Church had fallen" commented Merton.


Merton has also been called an "anti-monk" and wrote himself:-


I see clearer than ever that I am not a monk.........................I expect to live for a few more years, hoping that I will not go nuts...............This, I think, is about the best I can hope for. It sums up the total of my expectations for the immediate future. If on top of this the Lord sees fit in His mercy to admit me to a non-monastic corner of heaven, among the beatniks and pacifists and other maniacs, I will be exceedingly grateful. Doubtless there will be a few pseudo-hermits among them and we will all sit around and look at each other and wonder how we made it. Up above will be the monks, with a clearer view of their own status and a more profound capacity to appreciate the meaning of status and the value of having one.....

Maybe it can be all summed up by a comment made by Merton when visited in 1954 by his friend Mark Van Doren. Van Doren remarked that Merton had not changed much since joining the monastic community.  Merton replied:- "Why should I? Here our duty is to be more ourselves, not less"

Anyway, maybe enough. But just a couple of quotes from Merton which I find meaningful:- 

True communication on the deepest level is more than a simple sharing of ideas, conceptual knowledge, or formulated truth......and the deepest level of communication is not communication, but communion. It is wordless, it is beyond words, and it is beyond speech, and it is beyond concept. Not that we discover a new unity. We discover an older unity. My dear brothers and sisters, we are already one. But we imagine that we are not. And what we have to recover is our original unity. What we have to be is what we are.

And finally:-

(True religion is)......freedom from domination, freedom to live one's own spiritual life, freedom to seek the highest truth, unabashed by any human pressure or any collective demand, the ability to say one's own "yes" and one's own "no" and not merely to echo the "yes" and the "no" of state, party, corporation, army or system. This is inseparable from authentic religion. It is one of the deepest and most fundamental needs of the human person, perhaps the deepest and most crucial need of the human person as such.

(From "Conjectures of a Guilty Bystander")

Manet, Monet and General Waffle

I'm not really much of an art buff; in fact more one of those unfortunate people who "knows what he likes" without being able to name the artist or, indeed, understand anything else. Confused between Manet and Monet. But nevermind, I'm am a bit of a biography buff and love the life stories of those who could be deemed literary or "creators".

 

Recently I read a book on Claude Monet (NOT Manet) called "Mad Enchantment" by Ross King. The book was in fact not a full biography but concentrated upon the painting of the Water Lilies, lilies that adorned Monet's garden in Giverny. 

Monet's Water Lilies

I learnt that Monet painted the most renowned canvases when into his seventies, when he had considerable eye trouble; cataracts and partial blindness. The time period also took in the Great War, or in French, Le Grande Guerre. 

French soldiers of Le Grande Guerre

Astonishing that such beauty was created at such a time. And do we even need to understand anything or give a reason for liking anything? 

As Monet said:- Everyone discusses my art and pretends to understand, as if it were necessary to understand, when it is simply necessary to love.

Claude Monet at work

Another man who suffered from eye trouble was James Joyce. To call it "eye trouble" is putting it mildly given the sheer number of operations Joyce endured. 

James Joyce

Two responses of James Joyce to questions and criticisms remain in my memory (and make me think of the vast difference between understanding and love) The first was when he was asked what he did during the Great War, to which he replied:- "I wrote Ulysses". The second was when he was responding to attacks upon Ulysses by various critics who wished to ban it as obscene. Joyce said:- "If Ulysses is unfit to read then life is unfit to be lived". For him, Ulysses WAS life and I have always loved the ending, where Molly Bloom says YES. In spite of everything and possibly because of everything, YES.

"Life is a mystery, not a problem waiting to be solved". So said Einstein, who also said that if we were to judge a fish by how well it could climb a tree we would judge it to be stupid. Fundamentally, that is possibly why we often see others as "stupid".

Just checking that quote from Einstein and he actually said that the fish would think of itself as stupid. Which puts a slightly different slant on things, I'm not sure how, but I'm only waffling so forgive me.

Happy to finish with more words from Albert Einstein:-

The most beautiful thing we can experience is the mysterious. It is the source of all true art and science. He to whom the emotion is a stranger who can no longer pause to wonder and stand wrapped in awe, is as good as dead - his eyes are closed. The insight into the mystery of life, coupled though it be with fear, has also given rise to religion. To know what is impenetrable to us really exists, manifesting itself as the highest wisdom and the most radiant beauty, which our dull faculties can comprehend only in their most primitive forms - this knowledge, this feeling is at the centre of true religiousness. 

Albert with his famous equation. If you do not understand it, just love.

Empathy, Lamps (or, Other Peoples Shoes)

I recently downloaded a "freebie" Ebook, "Empathy" by Raoul Martinez. It was an excellent little read. Quite a lot of detail of how our World Economy "works", based as it is upon "realism" and how the world is considered to work. 

Apparently we just cannot afford empathy - that is, according to the politicians and economists. Another way of saying it is that we must always look after Number One.

We are far here from the verse found in the Buddhist Scriptures:-

Protecting ourselves, we protect others.

Protecting others, we protect ourselves.

Well, possibly there is realism and then there is realism. Does our world actually work the way it is?

There is a story in the Buddhist texts of the Buddha descending into Hell. He carries a lamp. By its light for the first time those there recognise that they are not alone. "Ah, there are others here besides myself!" Such a recognition is the beginning of ethics, morality, empathy. 

What shall we see when we live in the light?

Raoul Martinez, in his book, says that empathy trumps forgiveness. He quotes Jo Berry, who lost her father to the Brighton Bomb. Jo later met with the man who planted the bomb, Patrick Magee, who had been released from prison as part of the Good Friday Agreement. Jo says:- "I don't talk about 'forgiveness'. To say 'I forgive you' is almost condescending - it locks you into an 'us' and 'them' scenario keeping me right and you wrong. That attitude won't change anything . But I can experience empathy.........."

Patrick Magee and Jo Berry

Time again for William Blake's "mutual forgiveness of each vice opens the gates of paradise", which gives the context of forgiveness as mutual and thus not of "us" and "them". 

Compassion - a relationship between equals. An American soldier feeds an orphan kitten during the Korean War.

And Pema Chodren again:- 

Compassion is not a relationship between the healer and the wounded. It's a relationship between equals. Only when we know our own darkness well can we be present with the darkness of others. 

For interest, a video of Jo and Patrick:- 

Thank you

Mu, Perfection and Jung Again

My last ramble ended with us all having Buddha nature and the subsequent question:- does a dog have Buddha nature?

Mu

An encircled Mu

The answer, according to a zen master ( Joshu ) is "mu", which freely translated is "nothingness". At mention of nothingness the average mind will think of nihilism and perhaps find confirmation of the opinion that the "east" is a place of empty contemplation, of the Buddha in the lotus position, eyes closed, seeking inward resolution of the world's problems by not moving a muscle.

Maybe not. But at this point my own mind has remembered a poem by Billy Collins, one I have always loved. Here it is:-

Shoveling Snow With Buddha

In the usual iconography of the temple or the local Wok
you would never see him doing such a thing,
tossing the dry snow over a mountain
of his bare, round shoulder,
his hair tied in a knot,
a model of concentration.

Sitting is more his speed, if that is the word
for what he does, or does not do.

Even the season is wrong for him.
In all his manifestations, is it not warm or slightly humid?
Is this not implied by his serene expression,
that smile so wide it wraps itself around the waist of the universe?

But here we are, working our way down the driveway,
one shovelful at a time.
We toss the light powder into the clear air.
We feel the cold mist on our faces.
And with every heave we disappear
and become lost to each other
in these sudden clouds of our own making,
these fountain-bursts of snow.

This is so much better than a sermon in church,
I say out loud, but Buddha keeps on shoveling.
This is the true religion, the religion of snow,
and sunlight and winter geese barking in the sky,
I say, but he is too busy to hear me.

He has thrown himself into shoveling snow
as if it were the purpose of existence,
as if the sign of a perfect life were a clear driveway
you could back the car down easily
and drive off into the vanities of the world
with a broken heater fan and a song on the radio.

All morning long we work side by side,
me with my commentary
and he inside his generous pocket of silence,
until the hour is nearly noon
and the snow is piled high all around us;
then, I hear him speak.

After this, he asks,
can we go inside and play cards?

Certainly, I reply, and I will heat some milk
and bring cups of hot chocolate to the table
while you shuffle the deck.
and our boots stand dripping by the door.

Aaah, says the Buddha, lifting his eyes
and leaning for a moment on his shovel
before he drives the thin blade again
deep into the glittering white snow.

Shovelling snow, or "chop wood, carry water"

Where was I? Perfection - no, actually I wasn't but I started the blog with that word in mind so I will move on from hot chocolate and shovelling snow. The autobiography of Jung I mentioned in my previous blog was called "Wounded Healer of the Soul". The title suggests support for the words of Pema Chodron:- 

Compassion is not a relationship between the healer and the wounded. It's a relationship between equals. Only when we know our own darkness well can we be present with the darkness of others. Compassion becomes real when we recognise our shared humanity.

But relating this to perfection, my own thought is that "perfection" can prove an awful idea. Often involved with the pursuit of perfection is judgement ( of other and oneself ), self hate, and obstructions to appreciating what actually is now and thus stifling gratitude. For me the heart of Reality is Mercy and Grace; how can that heart know itself within the demand for perfection? 

Striving for perfection

"A clearly enlightened person falls into the well. How is that so?"

So, "Your not OK, I'm not OK, but that's OK", or as William Blake said, "Mutual forgiveness of each vice opens the gates of paradise". I think now that seeking the "meaning of it all" is a red herring.

"Love has no why" ( Eckhart )

Love also has no colour, labels, border or religion

Getting back to Jung, he said at one point that "nothing worse can happen to one than to be completely understood"

And.....

" The core of the individual is a mystery of life that is snuffed out when it is 'grasped' " ( a biographer of Jung ) 

Jung and All Things West

I recently read a biography of the psychologist Carl Jung.

Carl Gustav Jung

Jung, possibly looking for his spectacles

Really, I'm not actually looking for a new path ( if "path" is even the correct word to use for my stumbling approach to what is called "life" ) The last thing I need is another set of buzz words - in this case "anima", "archetypes", "individuation", "synchronity" and a few more. All a bit of a jigsaw puzzle needing to be put together to try to sort out the mysterious "self" we appear to experience ourselves as being.  Myself, I like biographies, life stories, and actually find the actual meaning of the buzz words easier to grasp when put into the context of a life as lived and experienced. Letters to friends by the subject of the biography are often another source of insight and illumination. 

An early quote  from Jung's letters caught my eyes so I'll copy it here.....

The journey from cloud cuckoo land to reality lasted a long time. In my case Pilgrim's Progress consisted in my having to climb down a thousand ladders until I could reach out my hand to the little clod of earth that I am.

What will grow from our own little clod?

"The little clod of earth that I am" seems pretty disparaging and in certain contexts could be seen as an expression of low self-esteem. But it IS all in the context. I think that everything must be known and seen in context to be seen at all. Just a case of getting the context right, which can be pretty tricky at times, given our own predilection of thinking ourselves more the diamond in the batch rather than a clod of earth. 

Seen in context, just the once, there, then.

"We all have Buddha nature". I have heard that one a few times. To think so could become a source of pride. But the context is in the "all". All living beings have the same real essential nature. Our personality, culture, our beliefs, are not inherent parts of us; more guests. Alas, we can take great pride in them and see some collections of often accidental conditions as better than others.

"Does a dog have Buddha nature?" is the great question which I will leave with my non-existent readers.

Thank you.

My Fertile Period

Rather encouraged by the fact that virtually no one actually reads this, I have the confidence to express myself more. Way back in the past I would attempt to write poetry. However, my "muse" eventually dried up (if it ever had any juice in it at all) and so I just have a small back catalogue. I will blog a few of my efforts here. 

The first is/was my one and only "success", having been read out at the "Old Court" theatre in my home town as one of the top ten in a local competition. Just to add that the reader got it all wrong, reciting the words with a deep serious pomposity that was far from my own rather ironical and ambiguous attitude towards the words. No matter, here is my opus, titled "Before Bacon: An Ode to Despair":-

Oh! I wish I'd been born before Bacon
When the sun still moved in the sky,
When hope was in more than a daydream
And beauty in more than the eye.

When the Great Chain of Being had God at the top
And Old Nic down below in his lair,
When people were burnt for love of their souls
And not just because they were there.

Back in those days before Auschwitz
When there was till trust to betray,
Before Symbol and Myth became Number
And the Cross became DNA.

Oh! I wish I'd been born before Bacon
When Saints trod the Pilgrim's Path,
When people still jumped at a bump in the night
And not at a bump in a graph.

When Crusades were fought for Truths believed
And Faith was the Devils hammer,
Nothingness only the clay God used,
The Absurd a Bishop's stammer!

When Man was seen as something more
Than atoms swirling in air,
Before the face of the Risen Christ
Became the face of despair.

Yes, I wish I'd been born before Bacon
Though there's not much to choose in the end;
But I might have had serfs and a castle
And I might have had Christ as a friend.

The "absurd" - unless, of course, "the journey is home"

Well, on to another, a poem about a young severely handicapped boy who once lived next door to us. His name was George. One day when I left the house his mother was standing beside his pushchair. She was chatting to another lady, who just as I passed reached down and patted the child's head and I heard her say:- "he's a little angel". I remember a feeling of rage at her words which I never understood at the time. But anyway, I wrote this - intentionally naive - little verse:-

see no wings on georgie

else he would be bound

set no seal upon him

place no fences round

see him not for what he could be

what he should or what he would be

see him as he is before you

love the living truth, see georgie

hope for guidance, hold no answers

in the mornings when you wake him

as he casts his eyes upon you

your response can make or break him

I think that the reason I eventually stopped attempting to write poetry was that I discovered the "real" stuff. Which is sad in certain ways. Even though our own attempts are often no more than doggerel they are ours and often seek to express emotions, viewpoints and human empathy. That such is expressed in what in a literary sense is poor is in many ways beside the point. Knowing ourselves and expressing ourselves has a value beyond literary merit as such.

Anyway, as I say I discovered the "real" stuff. Partly due to a guy called Malcolm Muggeridge who had a way with words. He would often quote a couplet or two from William Blake which touched a chord in me. Up until then, and from my experience at school (where the only poems we were introduced to were awful pompous celebrations of the British fighting spirit), the poetry I knew was boring. Blake I found was not boring, and I eventually bought a "Portable Blake" and his "Songs of Innocence and Experience" were genuinely life changing. I moved on from there.

The British Fighting Spirit

While my muse was active (I am joking) I kept a little note book, so my efforts must have meant something at the time. What was strange as I read through them many years later was that I could hardly remember writing some of them. One in particular seemed to come up out of nowhere and was particularly striking in a very emotional way; this because eventually my own mother declined with dementia, and her last three or so years were particularly stressful in many ways. So my words, written before this happened, made me think of those who may have just passed my own mother by as she must sometimes have stood, bewildered and lost.

And When She Had Gone, Pity Came

She seemed to have no yesterdays

And very little else

As she stood alone in the passing crowds

Staring, talking to herself.

I approached her with a numbing dread

Would she turn to me and speak

And isolate me from a kinship made

With all others on that street?

But I had no need to worry -

Her mouth gaped and trembled wide;

So I passed her without a sideways glance

And left her far behind

Yet looked back. She had moved at last

To the pavements edge, still lost -

(I remember thinking how strange it seemed

That she looked before she crossed)

As said above, with my own mother declining with dementia well after I wrote this, it now has more resonance with me. During her decline, mum went out and got herself knocked down by a car. So yes. Makes me think.

Another few of "me poems" and then I will call it a day. The next is called "Palm Sunday", which can mean many things. For me, at the moment, I think of the wars of religion and the inquisitions, the sheer pageantry and might of the so called "ages of faith", and I wonder what it was all about compared to, say, a mothers love for her child. Each to their own.

I was standing on some low ground

Near the road from Bethany

When suddenly the distant sound

Of cheering came to me.

I looked up, saw a distant crowd

Where rocks and roadside met

But what was causing cries so loud

I could not see as yet.

Within my heart a wonder flowed -

A longing to draw near,

Yet as I reached the winding road

I found the way was clear

The cheering crowds had moved away,

Left nothing to be found

But dust upon the beaten clay

And palm leaves scattered round.

What price a cup of tea?

Here we have a ditty written after actually hearing the words "Oh! What an exquisite desk!" in the High Street while feeling, myself, just a little pissed off with life.

"Oh! What an exquisite desk!" she said,
Gushing away from her husband's hand.
Then "Oh! what a lovely four-poster bed!"
(Later the Ming vase on its stand).

So she continued, voice rising shrill,
Straining to wrench life and death apart,
Using American Express to fill
The empty mansions of the heart.

And finally, we all know the programmes where the experts and the analysers all earn their wages summing up the latest "situation".

Those programmes are always the same;
Those Current Affairs programmes are always the same.
The editions that deal with some new war,
Those programmes are always the same.
First the historical background is given;
How historically the conflict arose,
How the crisis began - such information is given.
Then the World Perspective is given;
Everything is put into context.
The conflict is put into focus.
The Superpowers - all are placed in perspective.
The relevant politicians are referred to;
The words and attitudes of the relevant politicians are referred to;
A relevant speech of a relevant politician is referred to.
There is some in-depth analysis.
Then some film is shown of the actual battle area;
The areas actually touched by the conflict are shown.
Where the bombs have fallen - some film is shown.
Then come the women and children screaming.
Then come the women and children screaming.
Then come the women and children screaming.
Then come the women and children screaming.
Then various solutions to the crisis are discussed;
Various proposals for resolving the conflict are discussed.
The various experts discuss the various proposals.
Those programmes are always the same.

No one need be screaming

Protecting oneself, one protects others.

Protecting others, one protects oneself

(Buddhist text)