What’s the Problem,
The bus hurtled down the highway at the edge of the canyon, weaving back
and forth on the twisting road. I was in the front passenger seat, right
up next to the windshield, staring open-eyed at the exotic landscape.
It was raining hard. I watched the river below through the thumping windshield
wipers. The bus leaned on its side at every turn, and I grasped my seat
to keep from falling over, but I felt strangely unconcerned about falling
over the cliff and into the chasm hundreds of feet below.
The giddy voices of my fellow trip members in the back of the big air-conditioned
bus rose over the roar of the storm. I tried to ignore them, but I couldn’t
help paying attention. They gossiped about romances, musical groups, jobs,
acquaintances. It was all somehow painful to me. I had nothing to say
to them. Our relations did not seem real. In all our interactions, there
was not a single moment of mutual recognition.
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Responsible for Global Poverty?
am walking down the street, striving to feel the earth under my feet.
I am the only pedestrian in sight. The streets are spotlessly clean, broad
and smooth and black. The cars fly by, and not a single horn is blown.
Are there living beings in those machines, graced with the capacity for
intelligence and love?
I walk a full minute through a great parking lot and into the store, which
is my destination: a great big box shaped store, without any architectural
features to speak of, just gray slab cement walls. The lights are brilliant,
the plastic floors squeaky clean. Overweight and pasty-faced mothers load
up their shopping carts, and wait patiently at the registers. I shake
my head, somewhat confused. Where did this wealth come from? Is it the
result of the inventions of scientists and engineers? Was it manufactured
in factories, by machines? Did we really earn this bounty, and do we deserve
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Those Who Have
Center of Vitality