Throughout human history there is there was an element of untouchability that we applied to our fellow human beings, the belief that certain people were beneath others the fact their mere touch would be polluting. Such a system existed in India through caste, in japan as Burakumin, and often was culturally socially and religiously enforced. While this system was wrong, that is not to say untouchables do not exist. The true untouchable is not born as such, nor made to be. The true untouchable pollutes not with his body but with his mind his surroundings, he who chooses to divide our beautiful humanity, defiles the ideologies of unity to ones of division. The true untouchable is a product of choice, for he who is the one who chooses to hate.
Take a hurricane, a storm that stretches hundreds of miles wreaking destruction its path, Yet in the center lies the eye, a region of uncharacteristic calm unaffected by the havoc that surrounds it. Peculiar how nature allows such a contradiction, yet many a man does not, how they suffer in not allowing themselves to find a measure of peace despite the engulfing difficulties.
I reject the right wing’s idea of patriotism, the flag waving ,military marching kind we see Americans often engage in, the love for symbols. Someone who speaks a different tongue, prays to a different being or calls another nation home these things do not matter. A greater indictment to our society is if someone on our soil is through no fault of their own is made experience poverty and injustice, they are a reflection of our failings, our need to do better by our fellow people. If a person truly loves their nation, that begins and ends with the humanity that inhabits it, to support programs that seek to reduce the divisions between people be they social,legal and economic, so that we not only see each other as different but live as such.
We all know those wandering souls, those strange people that seeming appear from nowhere at the door step of our existence. They enter into our lives as a guest would ones home, they stay for a time yet unselfishly they do not a make a home of it yet care for it all the same. Like all guests they too must leave, going as they came without any expectation. Yet what remains is the impression they make on you, how they change you.Even in their taking leave they manage to give. It is only then their beauty is truly understood.
In my culture when a person is dead they are burned, that how it is, that how it should be. Yet in forgetting forgiveness, in holding on to their hate, their anger so many come to lie in their funeral pyres long before their time. Flames recognizing neither the dead nor alive consume a man all the same. It is up to a man how he wants to meets that fire, at peace and at rest or in a state of turmoil and alive.
I have known no two words more dangerous together than “What if?”. How something so simple, so feeble a question will destroy a man, in attempting to answer what may prove unanswerable it will enslave him to the past. Those invisible chain will confine him while time in its slow unstoppable march carries the world forward. Left behind, alone chained he wastes away in that prison of his own making.
A miner and a writer are no different in many respects, journeying into the deep dark depths of the earth, the other of his soul. Both searching to bring something back from darkness to light.
I used to think that it was wealth that lead to peace, it lay in the ability to generate so much money that it would be limitless one would give up counting . The older I get however it seems I had it all backwards, he had to be at peace to point the he give up the counting of his coins and bills. In doing so he no longer attached limits to what he he had, it in turn become limitless and he became wealthy. It was peace that lead to wealth, true wealth.
They speak of a god who created a man in his image, I cannot speak of the veracity of that statement. However man since his appearance shapes and continues to shape the world in his own likeness, it reflective of both the cruelties and gentilities so inflict his character. Man the sculptor and the earth his sculpture.
What right the Sikh have to live this life in willful ignorance? He who bows to a book, calls his almighty the teacher and himself the student, to which his relationship is one based upon his own enlightenment and not his own enslavement.