It's a funny thing about life - how much time we spend lost in thought about the future, or musings about the past. Wondering how tomorrow will look. Reflecting on what yesterday has taught.

Planning and remembering are really two sides of the same coin; yet neither one is the coin itself. And as we flip from one side to the other, the coin constantly remains in the middle - never changing.

The Past Arrives
We lost a cherished member of our family this week, and for the many lives he touched this has been a time of somber remembrance; looking hard at what was.

When someone we love and value leaves us, our contact with them seems to be rooted in the past. Moments of every description are remembered as we reach to touch them again.

Yet - in the end - we are always left with the finality of the inevitable arrival of absence. The reality that what was, is no longer.

The Imminence of the Future 
Of course, our gaze cannot remain directed behind for too long before we must again turn to what approaches. The coin is flipped. How do we get there? What must we do? 

The rhythm of treading the path to tomorrow takes the place of reflection - of remembering - and life continues on. The past slowly begins to fade.

Yet in many respects, when the coin is flipped to what lies ahead - and our thoughts once again become focused on how to get there - in a very real sense we are in the same place as we were a moment before.

Trying to envision what will be is actually quite similar to the effort we make when venturing into what was. In both cases, we are fully absorbed in trying to grasp a now that does not exist.

Spending the Present
What should we take away from our reflections on what is gone? When we try to look into the eyes of those we will never see again - what do we hope to see?

While I accept that there probably is no answer to a question like that - I also realize that knowing this doesn't mean we have nothing to learn from asking.

Perhaps it is nothing more than realizing that what will always lie delicately between the what was, and what will be - is what is. And maybe knowing that that is all we will ever truly have, is as close to an answer as we'll ever be.

I enjoy being alone. And one of the first things I noticed about living in a big city again is how rarely one gets to indulge in private time when you walk out your front door.

When I'm in Mill Valley California, there are a zillion places to be alone with nature and my thoughts. You just relax in a different way when you're not surrounded by people - and forced to wear the "social mask", and navigate the space of other people.

Montréal is much different - even than San Francisco. There are people everywhere. It just isn't possible to be out of doors here and really enjoy being truly alone. At least - not until it starts to get really cold. And then, a wonderful thing happens; people disappear from the normally crowded outdoor public venues.

I take a daily walk after writing in the morning. It's my zen time. A respite from working, worrying, practical planning - a chance to let my mind go where it wants, in its own way, at its own pace. But to truly free my thoughts and musings, I need to be alone during my walk. And that's hard to do in a city like Montréal.

The other day, though, the temperature dropped to a quite nippy -4 centigrade, and as I bundled up and set out for my daily jaunt, I was suddenly struck by an unusual sight. I was walking through a park that is usually bustling with activity of every type when I slowly realized that I was completely alone. Not another person in sight. No readers, sun bathers, dog walkers, children playing - no one.

It was one of my best walks ever. I covered a couple of miles, and even when I did encounter other people, they were in a hurry to get where they were going - because it was cold. But I wasn't bothered by the chill in the least. I was too absorbed in something that had accompanied the drop in temperature; solitude.

Most people speak of winter in Montréal with a sense of enduring a trial by nature. An ordeal of sorts. And while it is a quite different experience than life in California, when I see the weather forecast for Montréal, and it calls for bone chilling cold, I now have one consistent reaction. Yes!

It's my first year away from California in a long time, and one of the biggest differences I notice is that the Canadian east has seasons. And one of the first things I notice about seasons is that each one has its own special light.

Of course, now that fall is slowly giving way to winter, you have to be quick if you want to experience the light - because the sun starts to go down noticeably earlier here than on the west coast. 

The sun is at a different angle too; lower in the sky throughout the day, shadows are longer, and hues decidedly muted. The overall effect impacts everything from the way I look at things, to how I think about them.

It got me to wondering about the significance of light for how cultures evolve. People tend to be in a bit more of a hurry in Montréal than in San Francisco. It's as though they realize that in these late fall and early winter months, you've got to maintain a brisk pace if you're going to get anything accomplished during daylight.

The odd thing about this is that this northern light has the opposite effect on me. I find myself so taken with the altered shades and tinge of things that I wind-up moving slower since I spend more time captivated by the differences. But I also seem more reflective and thoughtful as a result of my slightly slower pace.

They say that "beauty is in the eye of the beholder". What I'm learning as I watch the seasons slowly unfold is that this is also true of light. And one's perspective on it can change so much.

To those of us who live in temperate patches of the planet, winter always seems to be a time when we're especially glad not to reside where that word has serious meaning. In Northern California's coastal regions, winter brings wet and gray into our lives, but rarely anything so extreme as to affect our daily activities. For us, we need merely find a few more sweaters and some rain gear in-order to navigate our daily routines. For us, winter is occasionally discussed - but almost never is it the main topic of discussion.

Bright and Early
Montréal is now part of my life. My life in California has become one that I view in portions; it's a nice slice to have, but hardly the whole of my existence. The upcoming journey to Québec has long ago stopped being my next trip - and evolved into a return. A trip is something you may never do again. A return signals permanence.

I always look forward to being there - but rarely to getting there. Three o'clock in the morning is not so much a time as it is a state. Each of my returns normally begins in that realm since in-order to arrive at anything close to a reasonable time, I must begin my day then. I mechanically maneuver through this state until I am at last en route. And then my thoughts turn to what we who face the Pacific know exists, but face so rarely; winter.

La Nuit Blanche
Montréal embraces winter. And nothing illustrates this more than the combined winter festival of Montréal en Lumière and its signature event, la Nuit Blanche. It is a time when the people and city of Montréal celebrate the joy of winter living. And it's now one of my favorite times to return

This is a city that really knows how to throw a party - and these are people who really know how to enjoy one. On the night of nuit blanche, nearly the entire city becomes part of a grand winter display. The center of Montréal and many of her neighborhoods remain open  all night - and hundreds of thousands partake in displays of art, food, music, poetry, literature - indeed, of everything that makes a city alive.

At a time when we on the left coast imagine the inhabitants of snowbound environs locked snugly away - the streets and venues are filled to overflowing. Celebrations are everywhere. Outside displays of street art, dancing, eating, listening to music, visiting ice sculpture gardens - there seems to be no end to it all. 

And inside and under the city, in the tunnels and walkways linking buildings, and in the buildings themselves - everywhere - Montréal celebrates its place - its circumstance - its self.

And so I return - and join this wondrous spectacle. And even on lovely sun filled January days facing the Pacific, I often eye the goose down coat in my closet and a sense of excitement and anticipation fills me as I contemplate my next 3am state - and my winter return.

It has been said that the deepest pleasure comes from the simplest of joys. The kind of things that require little money, or planning, or equipment. The kind of things we usually just take for granted. Go without a hot shower for a few weeks and when you finally get to take another one, it's a moment to be remembered. Or be without access to clean water for a few days - and the next glass you drink will be one of the best moments of your life.

Walking is like that. Next to breathing it's about as basic as human activity gets. And yet we usually do it without giving it much thought. Often we dread it. Forget something at the store - and the walk back is not an enjoyable experience. Yet if our ability to walk were lost - and then magically restored, not even a stroll to the mailbox would ever be the same again.

The Utility of Movement
It surprises many people when they first hear that of all the most beneficial of exercises, walking is high on the list. It just doesn't register that this most fundamental method of human transportation is anything other that an expedient necessity.  But the reality is that walking is restorative - both physically and mentally.

To walk in silence, not speaking or listening to another human being, is to treat both body and soul to something like what a warm bath is for sore muscles. It soothes. It calms. As the first five minutes passes, a certain clarity of thought begins to emerge as if from a shadow. And since you are alone, this clarity becomes your walking companion - and a different type of conversation begins; one between the you you always see, and the you in the shadow.

You begin to follow two paths; the one you're physically on, and that of the conversation with your new friend from the shadows. Both lead nowhere in particular - yet you can never arrive anywhere without beginning both journeys. 

Thoreau believed that one should begin all walks as though you would never return; as though maybe you would just keep walking - arriving at a new home each evening. And in a very subtle yet profound way - he's right. For the path we take internally, when we really take the time and energy to focus on it, leaves us in an entirely different place each time. And we can never, no matter how hard we try, return to where we started that internal stroll. 

Hand in hand
Walking and thinking were made for each other. Even the act of 'not thinking' while walking, is itself a form of thought. In-fact, that may be the purest form of thought there is. As though by not actively listening, we can finally hear.

So I often seek out places to walk - alone. I seek out the company of trees, streams, and dirt beneath my feet. I bathe in the solitude that is filled to capacity with every sound nature can muster. I listen to nothing; yet hear so much.

Each journey leaves me curious about where I will arrive; always joyful to be there when I do. And always certain that the only home I will ever know - is the destination I arrive at at the end of each stroll.

A Night to Remember
Forty years have passed since that night in 1971. But for anyone who was around then - sports fan or not - the Ali versus Frazier fight is still clearly remembered. This was more than a boxing match. This was the culture war brought to life. No one was neutral on that night. Everyone not only backed one man or the other - but fervently so.

And how fitting that what turned-out to be the greatest boxing match in history took place in New York's Madison Square Garden. No other venue than the very epicenter of world sports could possibly have done justice to what was known before - and after - as the fight of the century. Few events so eagerly anticipated ever live-up to the hype. This one exceeded it.

I can still vividly remember my own sense of desolation after that fight. I had been for the "People's Champion". Muhammed Ali was returning to the ring after having been stripped of his title and barred from boxing because of his refusal to be drafted into the US Army during the Viet Nam War.  And not only that - but he was a Muslim. And not just any kind of Muslim - but a Black Muslim. Oh believe me, Muhammad Ali was just way too left - and way, way too Black for America's comfort zone. 

The anti-war movement was in full force. The counter-culture had emerged. The Black Liberation movement (as we then called it) was going full throttle. Nearly every issue of the most radical of all publications at the time - The Black Panther - featured a photo of the exiled Ali with the caption "The People's Champ". Nothing else needed to be said. We all got it. He was us. 

A Night to Forget
Joe Frazier was what we all thought we were trying to get away from. He was conservative, humble, deferential. In the black community at the time, everyone's parents liked Joe. But to us young, radical, paradigm challenging youth - Ali was mythic. We were embarrassed by Joe Frazier. We were inspire and proud of Muhammed Ali. And his victory over "the Man's Champion" was to be a very delicious - and rare - bit of cultural redemption for an entire generation. An entire world view.

Well, the rest - as they say - is history. Frazier went on to win that fight in dramatic fashion. Withstanding 14 1/2 rounds of unbelievable abuse until - through an unfathomable act of pure will - he knocked Ali down in the waning moments of the 15th and last round - and thereby won the title. And to us - Amerika had won - and the people had lost. 

More Us than We Knew 
Times have changed. And so have we. Older and wiser, as the saying goes. And the saying is right.
 
Joe Frazier died yesterday. And when I heard the news, I thought of that night so long ago - and I remembered my disappointment. And it was weird. The feeling now seemed foreign to me. 

The electricity of the age had long ago faded, and given way to the struggle we all wage. The struggle to survive, to grow, to prosper and be complete. And with each skirmish in that battle - I grew to understand - and appreciate - Joe Frazier more and more.

Here was a simple man - struggling against every barrier America could erect - for maybe the only goal worth struggling for; dignity. And as much as anyone in the history of sports - he had won that struggle. 

I didn't realize it then - but I do now; that his attainment of dignity was the real victor that night. And because of it - we all gained a little ground in our own pursuit of the same. 

Thanks Joe.

The Industrial Revolution has made the world a place the Ancients would have a hard time recognizing as the same planet they walked thousands of years ago. From electrical devices, to modern transportation, to global climate change - industry has changed everything. 

The quantity, quality, and speed of change in the post-industrial world is mind boggling. By any indices you wish to cite, life has changed more in the last 250 years than in the previous 5000. It's astounding.

And this week the World's population will reach 7 billion. SEVEN BILLION. As in People.

To throw that mind-numbing figure into context - consider these interesting facts:

• in the year 1700 the Earth's population was 600 million
• in 1800 it was 1 billion
• in 1930 it reached 2 billion
• in 1999 - 6 billion

In other words - it took over six thousand years to reach 1 billion. But it has taken only 12 years to go from 6 billion to 7 billion. And that trend will continue.

 Experts calculate the Earth's population will reach 10 billion by 2083; almost 20 years before the turn of the next century.

To give you an idea of how many a billion is - consider that 1 billion seconds ago it was 1789. And we've added that many people in just 12 years.

The question comes to mind - how many people can the world support? It's a complex discussion - but one thing is clear. But no matter how many the Earth can support, a lot of thought and planning will have to go into making sure so many people can live in a way that is acceptable. 

With 1 billion people currently living without access to clean water - how do we insure that the next billion won't just be added to that group? To say nothing of eliminating this problem altogether. And that's just one factor of many.

Two-thirds of the water used on Earth today goes toward agriculture. And the lion's share of that (statistics vary) is targeted at meat production in one way or another. Cattle eat grain - and it takes 16 pounds of grain to produce 1 pound of meat. And that takes a lot of water.

So one thing is definitely clear; the 10 billion people of 2083 will not be able to eat the way most Americans eat today. There just isn't enough water to produce that much meat. And so - the world's diet will have to change. Whether we want it to or not.

Seven billion is a milestone worthy of noting; both for it's absolute quantity and the speed at which we reached it. And frankly, it's a little unsettling. 

It seems obvious that unless human societies begin to drastically and quickly change how we approach human organization on Earth - the tipping point at which unforeseen affects start to overwhelm the impact of conscious interventions will be reached - and soon.
 
And that's a little scary.

600 Years of Solitude
The rediscovery of the Inca city of Machu Picchu is officially recognized as taking place in 1911 when Hiram Bingham stumbled on the site while looking for the lost city of Vilcabamba. Of such good fortune are many careers made.

Other Western explorers had also been to the site, but their goal had been to plunder, not to study. Bingham, on the other hand, returned to the site in 1912 at the behest of Yale University and the National Geographic Society for the express purpose of documenting the find and conducting research. He is thus credited with the discovery, exactly 100 years ago.

That Machu Picchu was still there to find is somewhat of a miracle. The city had been essentially abandoned a few decades before the arrival of the Spanish Conquistadors, and as a result, was never discovered by them. 

If they had discovered it, there would probably be a big Catholic cathedral there now instead of the essentially intact remnants of an Incan civilization. At the very least, it would've been completely destroyed for being pagan, as the Spanish had done to every other indigenous site they discovered anywhere in the Americas. Of such good fortune are miracles born.

The End - and Beginning of Plunder
This discovery not only revealed Machu Picchu to the world, but it also prevented treasure hunters from continuing to steal items from the site. Or so it seemed. 

However, during the years immediately following Bingham's discovery, thousands of priceless artifacts were removed by the explorer himself and shipped to Yale University in the United States; ostensibly on loan for purposes of research.

The only thing is, the loaned items were never returned, despite repeated demands for such by the government of Peru. At first Yale took the position that Peru, as a third-world nation, could not be trusted with the priceless artifacts and simply refused to honor their earlier pledge to return them. As far as Yale was concerned, that was the end of the discussion; forever.

Ultimately, The National Geographic Society, who had also been part of the original agreement, declared their support for Peru's ownership of the artifacts and began to pressure Yale to relent and return their treasure. Meanwhile, the Peruvian government began legal action in US courts to force the return.

In the face of this double effort, Yale simply stopped talking. As far as they were concerned, the discussion was over.

Feliz Cumpleaños
But late last year former Peruvian President Alan Garcia appealed directly to President Barack Obama to intervene on Peru's behalf. And with Obama, Garcia was preaching to the choir. 

Within two weeks of that appeal, Obama summoned Yale representatives to the White House and shortly thereafter Yale announced that they would indeed - at long last - return all of the more than 40,000 "borrowed" artifacts to Peru.

That process is now underway. The first shipment, containing all of the museum quality pieces, arrived in Peru earlier this year to great fanfare. Eventually, these pieces will be displayed in the Inca Museum at the Casa Concha in Cusco.
Happy birthday Machu Picchu!

Below are some photos I recently took at Machu Picchu.

There is no word in Quechua for 'friend'; one can only call another brother or sister. Nor does this ancient Peruvian language have a word for Goodbye. In place of this rather final sounding sentiment is a word meaning "till next time".

To some, these two linguistic anomalies are nothing more than technical matters reflecting the difficulty inherent in all translations. Some even attribute the difference to a lack of precision in ancient tongues, reflecting their lack of intellectual evolution. 

After all, modern languages like French and English have many more words conveying an ever increasing precision of meaning and nuance. And viewed from this perspective, some have concluded that Quechua meanings are simply echoes of a simpler - less complex culture and time. The lack of ostensible exactness merely a semantic relic; an archaeologic footnote.

Or so it seems to some. 

The Modern World
Most visitors to Peru first arrive in Lima, the sprawling modern metropolis founded in 1535 by the Spanish Conquistador 
Francisco Pizarro. More than 1/3 of the entire Peruvian population resides here, and for many it is the very quintessence of contemporary Peru. Walking its streets is akin to a stroll in New York, Mexico City, or any number of similar giant cities of the modern world. 

Founded to facilitate the export of stolen treasure, its raison d'être is, and has always been, expediency. Lima's concerns are rooted in the practical demands of today's world; of the here and now. Her gaze is riveted on the commercial concerns of the moment. Little, if any, energy is devoted to looking backwards. The path from today to tomorrow consumes the attention of Lima; the cob-web covered road to the past is barely noticed - rarely traversed.
 
From the state-of-the-art newness and sophistication of Miraflores to the ramshackle slums of her outskirts - Lima is the capital of the present; the King of Now.

Into the Andes
Immediately upon arriving in any city of southern Peru you know you are in a world apart from that of Lima. If nothing else, the altitude at once grabs your attention as you struggle for breath in the oxygen thin air of the Andes. 

From the relatively lower elevation of Arequipa's volcano surrounded 2,335 meters to that of La Raya at 4,335 - the Peruvian Andes compel acknowledgement of their uniqueness. And in every corner of the altiplano you sense differentness; the unique is ever present. 

Skins are darker, languages more diverse, colors distinctly vibrant and new as you reach the rarefied environment of southern Peru. Not only do you struggle for breath in this somewhat otherworldly terrain - but for focus as well. 

The third-eye of your mind blinks again and again to clear the now from your consciousness as you are continually presented with something strangely other; something just beyond the focal-plane of your present-based gaze. Something decidedly un-now. 

The Capital of the Inca
While the cities of Arequipa, Juliaca, and Puno are each captivating and deserving a visit - it is Cuzco that is the portal to the otherworld that travelers to this region strive so hard to bring into focus. Here is the center of the Inca culture and the gateway to some of the most fascinating and mysterious historical sites on the planet.

With neighborhoods climbing into the hills surrounding its ancient core in the Urubamba river valley, Cuzco is striking in both its locale and its history. 

Its very name is a Spanish transliteration from the Quechuan original Qusqu or Qosqo, which itself traces its origin to the even more ancient Aymara language. Both tongues are still widely spoken in the Andes.

Indeed, the roots of history here stretch much further back than the time of the Inca. Archaeological research indicates that pre-Incan civilizations can be dated to 7000 BCE. 

So the basic psyche of the aboriginal Peruvian culture had been formed during many millennia prior to the Spanish conquest of the Inca in 1533. And that ancientness can be sensed, in a thousand different ways, just beneath the surface, in and around the Cuzco of today.

Still Waters Run Deep
One gets an odd feeling sitting in the main cathedral of Cuzco today. Everywhere you look you notice that each pillar and wall is constructed of the stones taken from destroyed Incan temples and buildings. The Inca were forced to worship their conqueror's God amidst the reconfigured remnants of their own past. 

Yet as I stood one morning watching my ostensibly Christian, Spanish (as a second language) speaking Quechua guide demonstrate to me the proper procedure for giving coca leaves to "The Gods" before ingesting them ourselves, I realized that this culture had only been subjugated; never conquered. 

As you browse Quechua markets seeing ebony pumas, serpents, and Inca crosses everywhere - you can feel it. As you stare into the coal black eyes of Incan descendants - eyes that seem to look back from another place - another epoch - you begin to sense the depth of time and place that lies behind those otherworldly glances.

 As you see festivals spilling spontaneously into the streets - the participants dancing steps with origins lost in the far distant past - wearing costumes which pre-date Christ - you somehow know that the cathedrals and plazas of the Conquistadors are but a ripple on the surface of a very still, and very deep river. 

And as you begin to absorb these messages - you begin to see why the Quechua has no word for friend - only for brother/sister.
You begin to know why goodbye never entered their language; why all leave-takings are seen as temporary; ephemeral.

As I left my guide before my return home - I knew that I had been subtly changed in some way by contact with these currents; by staring into this river. No words can adequately convey the nature of that change in me. I only know that as I left - I was certain that I would see my brother again.

Two Executions
This week two men were executed in different prisons here in the United States. Troy Davis was one of them, and his case received nationwide attention because there was considerable doubt about his guilt. 

And as last minute appeals to grant him a stay of execution were heard, nearly every news station in America covered the story live. Here was yet another case of a black American being put to death, in-spite of doubts about his guilt - and America was troubled.

Meanwhile, earlier that same evening, a man convicted of a brutal, racially motivated murder, was executed in Texas. And millions around the nation cheered. 

This man, Lawrence Russell Brewer, was a white man who had killed a black man by dragging him chained behind his truck for two miles - simply because he was black. It was a heinous hate-crime, and Mr. Brewer received little sympathy as he headed for the gallows.

But as thousands stood outside the prison (and millions more watched on television) and protested Mr. Davis' execution - nothing of the kind occurred in Texas. Indeed , for many, he couldn't be executed fast enough. However, there was one man there - protesting the execution of this white racist. There was a voice raised to say "This is wrong." And it was the voice of a black man who had himself often been on the receiving end of racist behavior. Yet here he stood to oppose the execution of one of the most evil of racists imaginable. This man was Dick Gregory.

A Slap to the Face
I first heard Dick Gregory speak in 1969, when I was a freshman in college at a little farm town in Washington State named Pullman; home to Washington State University. I remember him saying "I've never been here before, and even though this is a little all-white town in the middle of nowhere - I could find and buy heroin within three hours." That comment hit me like a slap in the face. It said to me, "you think you're in some protected bubble here? Well, there are no protective bubbles my friend. Reality is everywhere." And over his long career - Dick Gregory has slapped a lot of faces - and made many think the same thing I did, so long ago.

Dick Gregory became famous as a comedian. He was part of the first generation of so-called "cross-over" black comedians (negro, back then) that were allowed to present their material to white audiences. Hugh Hefner booked him into the Chicago Playboy Club in the early 60's - and he was on his way. He was funny. And safe. Along with other pioneering black comedians like Bill Cosby and Nipsy Russell, he delivered a tame sort of humor that white America could handle, while adjusting to the fact that he was "a negro".

But as time went on - he became less safe. He became a mentor to Cassius Clay - probably the most hated black man in America at the time. And when Clay became a Muslim and changed his name to Muhammed Ali, the association further weakened his acceptability in white America. 

Mr. Gregory then became a vocal and articulate critic of the war in Viet Nam. And white America pushed him further aside. And when Dick became a vegetarian - now he was deemed certifiably weird - and definitely no longer safe. 

Once weighing 350 pounds, drinking a fifth of Scotch and smoking four packs of cigarettes a day - his transformation both physically and ideologically troubled white America. Not only was he no longer safe - he had become downright threatening. And his days as a mainstream comedian were over.

Morality Affirmed
But Dick has stuck around, and continued to be the man he transformed himself into. His acerbic wit and unusual life-style have been challenging America's cultural pillars for over 50 years now. He has remained a fixture on the cultural periphery, a sort of modern Mark Twain, pointing to America's warts and blemishes and reminding us all that we're not nearly as cute as we think we are.

So when I saw him outside that Texas prison the other day - I wasn't really surprised. He was once again delivering a sharp 'slap to the face' of America. His presence there was a rebuke to the hypocrisy of those who opposed an unjust execution on the one hand, while they cheered a "just" one with the other. His presence and opposition to the killing of one of the most vile people to ever walk this Earth was a clarion call for moral consistency. For integrity.

I too had, deep within, cheered Mr. Brewer's execution. I remember thinking to myself, "Good. I hope he rots in hell." But as I saw Dick Gregory silently standing there - saying no to death, and yes to humanity - I once again felt that sharp slap in the face he first delivered to me as a young college student. And I felt pure, unadulterated shame for what I had just thought about this man's execution. 

And for instilling that feeling of shame and self-embarrassment in me, I have only one thing to say to Dick Gregory.
Thank you.