Pay no attention...

Who is this Mason?

I am not a mason. I do not lay brick, wear a hat bearing Middle Ages insignia, or exchange secret handshakes. I own no titles, and will accept none. I do, however, through no fault of my own, have a very real connection to The Masons.

The disbanding of the Knights Templar is widely considered to have been the catalyst for the formation of Freemasonry. On October 13, 1307, Grand Master of this largest of The Catholic Church’s Military orders, Jacques DeMolay, was arrested in Paris by order of King Philip the IV of France. On that day, at points around the known world, members of the Knights Templar were detained. Their organization was forcibly disbanded by troops in various countries, acting on the wishes of then reigning Pope Clement V. It is said that their demise caused the survivors to take their efforts underground, and that from those events, The Masons began their long history as a secret organization.

Certainly, it turned out to be a bad day for this privileged class of feudal knights. Through the centuries, Friday the Thirteenth has maintained its hold on the superstitious bent of European Mindspace. Today, movies about serial killers continue the litany of fear and trepidation, albeit, in a far less serious vain. Yet, when the thirteenth falls on a Friday, storytellers everywhere reinforce this morsel of now modern Urban Legend.

It turns out I was born on February 13th, considerably later than 1307. I was ushered forth from Doctor’s Hospital in Manhattan, a thirteen story building, with the top floor mislabeled: The Fourteenth Floor. When doctors put up with this kind of hooey it’s a bad sign. Anyway, that’s my connection to those Mason guys, a temporal connection, alone, never a Templar one. I don’t own a sword, and I am not a candidate to join a military order, because I don’t believe that the use of force leads to sustainable solutions. The Templars provided stunning proof of that assumption, and history since then has piled on plenty others. I refused this country’s invitation to join the organized violence as it was being unleashed in Southeast Asia. The wisdom of that choice has born out clearly for me.

I am Mason by name alone, but I do not stand alone.

My interest in Eastern thought began as a boy, while visiting my Grandfather one summer. He was the Court Clerk of Graves County, Kentucky; and he worked in a massive stone federalist-style building that occupied the centerpiece of Mayfield. The courthouse was a dusty and oversized monument, filled with strange people, all of who knew my name. I was an avid reader, and always hunting for new worlds to explore, both in and outside of books. The library on the third floor had not enjoyed public access for many years. The smell of must was overpowering, adding to my sense that important things were hidden there. When I discovered a long set of books inset deep into an upper shelf, being out of reach made them double intriguing. Weaving around on a rickety old stool, I peered at the leather-bound volumes, and blew dust off the bindings. The spines made up a numbered set, a collection called Sacred Books of the East. I randomly pulled out Volume 39, and opened to an 1891 translation of the Tao te Ching, by J. Legge. For the rest of the afternoon I poured over the yellowed pages, sure that I had found something special indeed. Nothing I had ever read was remotely like this. It spoke of the Superior man, not as forceful, but as someone who found a treasure in little things. I loved that book, and my Grandfather allowed me to carry it back to the Hall Hotel, where we stayed, on promise that I would return it in good condition.

My senior year in high school, I joined a judo dojo in Clearwater. My teacher was John Conrad, a tall pale man in his thirties with jet-black hair. Sensei, as we called our teacher, was Chinese American, third generation. He spoke English without an accent, but his mannerisms seemed very foreign, a steady, collected and beaming presence, set apart from the hip-shot and often laconic vibe of this Gulf Coast tourist town. I loved my sensei, and I gave everything to my practice. But I quickly learned that I didn’t have the same level of endurance as the other students. I hadn’t played much sports in school, and now I was simply unable to keep up. After class one day, I approached Sensei and tried to explain. I was nervous, because I didn’t want to disappoint him, and my words came out in fits. He asked me to wait a moment. We went into his corner office and he motioned for me to sit. Seated behind his desk, he was quiet for what felt like a long time, as he appeared to study my face. Then he nodded.

I told him that I had asthma, that my breathing had been constricted since I was a small boy. Actually, my family had moved from Lakeland because it was thought my lungs might benefit from the salt air. I was calm now, and the words came out easy. I wanted him to know that I really was trying- that my commitment and my effort were not the problem. He nodded along as I spoke, and when I was done he said, “I see.” He said nothing for so long. Anywhere else I would have been nervous, but oddly here, this was somehow comforting. Finally he rose from his chair without using his hands, and came around the small desk. He looked into my eyes and said,” Thank you. I appreciate knowing about your condition, and I will treat you properly because of it.”

The next class I got special attention, all right. I was worked twice as hard. This should have felt like punishment, but he made it something else entirely. His eyes were bright and clear, and I felt encouraged to press on, as if my ‘special attention’ was a privilege. So I continued my Judo practice, and my endurance over months began to improve. One class, I was grappling with an older student who had enormous upper body strength, but not much technique. After some dancing around, he tugged me toward him and turned to throw me. His pivot was not low enough, and I was not off balance enough, so he attempted to muscle me over with his arms. I had my hand on his hip, and as he pushed off, my feet got tangled up in his. He pulled so hard that our feet came off the ground in a knot. Launched together, we spun in the air, due to the ferocious momentum of his effort. I wound up underneath him, coming down flat on my back with his knee in my solar plexus.

Now my asthma had sent me to the hospital, blue and panicked and unable to breathe. And until this day, nothing had been scarier. But this time I was sure I was dead. For me, even the worst asthma attack gave me a tiny amount of lung space to pant with. But with this oaf’s knee buried down to my spine, breathing was out of the question. Everything was frozen. Still holding the lapel of my gi, his mouth was open, and he looked down at me as if I was a goner. I could feel my eyes getting ready to pop completely out. Two seconds after the crash, Sensei gently pulled the big guy off me. He was so slow and calm. Later that mystified me. I was on my side balled up, and he rolled me onto my back, and eased my shoulders to the mat. With another step he was holding my right ankle high in the air. With no warning he struck me hard underneath the arch with the edge of his hand. The instant the blow landed my breath rushed in. It was absolutely amazing. Not only could I get a breath, but it was not labored. There was no resistance at all. Sensei did not hesitate. His actions indicated none of the acute danger I had just experienced. He told me to get up, and I was astonished to find that I could. Then he bowed and gestured with both hands to resume the match. What! A minute ago I needed a hospital, now I’m supposed to just go on! Well, I did, and needless to say it didn’t kill me. After several attempts to get him to talk about the event, I gave up. He would not allow me to thank him, or to describe what I had gone through. Sensei simply expected me to go on.

After that class, two things were deeply impressed in my young mind. I could not depend on my own assessment of my endurance. And there really is a body of knowledge that is not obvious, and not readily available. I have devoted my life, in one role or another, to the pursuit of that knowledge. In my search to heal and integrate myself, I have participated in Gestalt Therapy, Polarity Balancing, Somatic Experiencing, Alexander Technique and Rolfing. I have studied Reiki, Qui-Gong, and Tai Chi and practiced Yoga for most of my adult life. I have received instruction from the schools of Zen, Vipassana, and Transcendental Meditation.

These practices, in various measures through my adulthood, have helped me to gain what amounts to an ordinary perspective on my own struggles. I use the word ‘ordinary’ because, looking back, I know that my own healing did not require any special talent. It seems clear to me that each of us is the only real expert on our own integration. After all, it is I who owns the presence that I have become in this world, because it has been drawn from the path that I have walked, the choices l have made. We could use a little information. We could benefit from a deep personal practice. But most of all, we need to know that the strength to expand into our greater potential is commonplace. It resides in everyone. We need to experience the enlivening that comes from the abundance of this essential resource.

The people we touch and the connections we grow come from our acceptance; and that experience makes us uniquely qualified to nurture those who are in our lives. My healing requires support. My healing fosters support. We all need to be nurtured, but for each of us to open to intimacy, we need to recover our innate ability to care for ourselves. As practice strengthens our center, our capacity for accepting others becomes genuine outreach. Then in turn, our outreach begins to kindle this same capacity within those we are closest with. My healing is aided by being nurtured. My healing inspires me to reach out to others. Developing broad and vigorous support for your personal development makes it sustainable, because it makes it livable.

We cannot depend on good fortune to find support. Connecting is a mutual act between two people. The success of any one connection, however, needs to start with you. At that awkward apex of social vacuum, if comfort is to be experienced between the two of you, then it is you who must bring it. Of course, the same would hold true for the other party, but their reluctance to open is not your problem. If you hold your breath in the vacuum, you will relinquish your own power to shift you both into connection. For me, “reaching out” is such an appropriate phrase for human contact, because it puts the first move where it belongs- on ourselves. I say, “Don’t let them in, bring them in”.

My own place in this process is, I think, reasonably predictable. I have seen that when I invite people in, my appreciation has room to flower. I am still growing, by looking inside, and finding my place- both within myself and with others. To these ends, however, I really don’t need to go out of my way, because opportunity meets me everywhere. Love is everywhere. Embrace becomes constant.