On peace of mind

Joshua Loth Liebman "On my head pour only the sweet waters of serenity. Give me the gift of the Untroubled Mind."

Once, as a young man full of exuberant fancy, I undertook to draw up a catalogue of the acknowledged "goods" of life. As other men sometimes tabulate lists of properties they own or would like to own, I set down my inventory of earthly desirables: health, love, beauty, talent, power,riches,and fame.

When my inventory was completed I proudly showed it to a wise elder who had been the mentor and spiritual model of my youth. Perhaps I was trying to impress him with my precocious wisdom. Anyway, I handed him the list. "This", I told him confidently, "is the sum of mortal goods. Could a man possess them all, he would be as a god."




At the corners of my friend's old eyes, I saw wrinkles of amusement gathering in a patient net. "An excellent list," he said, pondering it thoughtfully, "well digested in contented and set down in not-unresonable order. But it appears, my young friend, that you have omitted the most important element of all. You have forgotten the one ingredient, lacking which each possession becomes a hideous torment."

"And what." I asked, peppering my voice with truculence, "is that missing ingredient?"

"With a pencil stub he crossed out my entire schedule. Then, haveing demolished my adolscent dream structure at a single stroke, he wrote down three syllables: peace of mind. “This is the gift that God reserves for His special Proteges." he said.

"Talent and beauty He gives to many. Wealth is commonplace, fame not rare. But peace of mind - that is His final guerdon of approval, the fondest insignia of His love, He bestows it charily. Most men are never blessed with it; others wait all their lives- yes, far into advanced age - for this gift to descend upon them."

A Smuggling Syndicate

The smuggler in many ways is just another international businessman and his turnover would do credit to many international corporations. His business happens to be illegal and risky, but look at the stakes involved: $5 billion worth of heroin smuggled into the United States each year, and $1.5 billion in gold passing annually along smuggling pipelines to India and Indonesia, to France and Morocco, to Brazil and Turkey. Perhaps half of all the watches made in Switzerland reach their eventual wearers by some back door. Most of this illicit trade is carried on with all the efficiency of any multinational company. Entirely legitimate businesses, such as a travel bureau or an import-export agency, are also often fronts for smuggling organizations. One of the world’s largest gold smugglers also owned and operated the franchise for a leading make of British cars in a small Middle Eastern country. He made a good profit from both activities.

A smuggling syndicate operates much like any other business. The boss is really a chief executive. He makes all the plans, establishes international contacts, and thinks up the smuggling routes and method but remains aloof from actual operations. He is aided by a handful of managers looking after such specialties as financing, travel (one reason why many smuggling syndicates find it handy to have their own travel agency), the bribing of airline or customs officials, and recruitment of couriers, or mules as they are called. There may also be someone in charge of local arrangements in the countries to which the smuggled goods is going.

Another similarity between legitimate business and its illegal counterpart is price fluctuation. Just as the prices of products traded legally vary with quality and market conditions such as supply and demand, so do the prices of goods go up and down in the smuggling trade. Consider the price of drugs. Heroin and cannabis, in whatever form or by whatever name, cone in several grades, each with a going price. The wholesale price at which big dealers sell to big dealers is less than the street price. When the authorities are successful in reducing the supply buy seizures, the price of all grades rises.

softly I can hear you tread

Softly I can hear you tread.
Above the softness I feel breath
you’re wafting to me, not yet dead,
but peacefully awaiting death.
I do not mean the death of those
who die and never will return,
but, while I dream and you, too doze,
the non-death of Keats’ Grecian urn,
for we will simultaneously
awake with words that I have said
to you in ode-ious poetry
that’s not beneath, but in, your head.
Death does rhyme with you or me,
as Keats does not with William Yeats;
my words, embroidered cloths, will be
what bonds our two tectonic plates.

Inspired by “Cloths of Heaven, ” by W. B. Yeats:

HAD I the heavens’ embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

The slightly lugubrious tone of this poem is related to the death of Mike Robyn on the morning that I composed the poem.

Women and Fashions

Whenever you see an old film, even one made as little as ten years ago, you cannot help being struck by the appearance of the women taking part. Their hair-styles and make-up look dated; their skirts look either too long or too short; their general appearance is, in fact, slightly ludicrous. The men taking part in the film, on the other hand, are clearly recognizable. There is nothing about their appearance to suggest that they belong to an entirely different age.

This illusion is created by changing fashions. Over the year, the great majority of men have successfully resisted all attempts to make them change their style of dress. The same cannot be said for women. Each year a few so- called top designers in Paris or London lay down the law and women the whole world over rush to obey. The decrees of the designers are unpredictable and dictatorial. This year, they decide in their arbitrary fashion, skirts will be short and waists will be high; zips are in and buttons are out. Next year the law is reversed and far from taking exception, no one is even mildly surprised.

If women are mercilessly exploited year after year, they have only themselves to blame. Because they shudder at the thought of being seen in public in clothes that are out of fashion, they are annually black-mailed by the designers and the big stores. Clothes, which have been worn, only a few times have to be discarded because of the dictates of fashion. When you come to think of it, only a women is capable of standing in front of a wardrobe packed full of clothes and announcing sadly that she has nothing to wear.

Changing fashions are nothing more than the deliberate creation of waste. Many women squander vast sums of money each year to replace clothes that have hardly been worn. Women, who cannot afford to discard clothing in this way, waste hours of their time altering the dresses they have. Hem-limes are taken up or let down; waist-lines are taken in or let out; neck-lines are lowered or raised, and so on.

No one can claim that the fashion industry contributes anything really important to society. Fashion designers are rarely concerned with vital things like warmth, comfort and durability. They are only interested in outward appearance and they take advantage of the fact that women will put up with any amount of discomfort, providing they look right. There can hardly be a man who hasn’t at some time in his life smiled at the sight of a woman shivering in a flimsy dress on a wintry day, or delicately picking her way through deep snow in dainty shoes.

When comparing men and women in the matter of fashion, the conclusions to be drawn are obvious. Do the constantly changing fashions of women’s clothes, one wonders, reflect basic qualities of fickleness and instability? Men are too sensible to let themselves be bullied by fashion designers. Do their unchanging styles of dress reflect basic qualities of stability and reliability? That is for you to decide.

In A Sinner's Eyes

I feel the flesh on my bones weighing heavy and dense.
As my muscles within, sporadically grow frightfully tense.
I feel my spirit spiraling down towards weak.
Every time I part my lips to courageously speak.

A million sins cause my death, their hands wrapping around my throat.
Desperately grasping my freedom that originally arrived by boat.
Forcing my cooperation swirls of wine trickle droplets onto my tongue.
Unhealthy air chokes me as it moves thick throughout my lungs.

A world surrounded by dangers caused by violent adjectives, verbs, nouns.
Words roll off my lips easily; into your ears they are forever bound.
Never winning battles as I fight harsh hate with pure love.
Evil and violence always seem to be the only ones to overcome.

As I travel steep hills and climb rocky mountains,
My only one true goal is to reach a place filled with peace once again.
I pray God washes away my piles of sin, wrong, and lies.
And I ask your understanding the next time you look in a sinner’s eyes.