John Foley

Dear Family & Friends,

Greetings from Babyland! Our year has centered around young Sean Michael, naturally, and it’s been a rich experience.  We’re pleased that Jules has been able to stay home as a full-time Mom, because he surely is a full-time job.           

Just when we think we have our 13-month-old dynamo figured out, he pulls something new to keep us guessing. The other day, for instance, he was eating Cheerios off his tray, when he turned to me and said, “Pardon me, but do you have any Grey Poupon?”

He’s swimming every Saturday, and only pooped in the pool once. He has a long torso and short legs, just like Michael Phelps, and we’re thinking Sean “The Shark” Foley will represent the U.S. in the Butterfly in the 2028 Olympics. Not that we’re pressuring the kid. Sometimes we’ll feed him dinner even if he doesn’t swim his 50 laps.

Currently he’s working on walking and talking. He’s also a crawling maniac – he recently ascended the stairs for the first time – and can pull himself upright and walk around while using furniture for balance. He “reads” books, too, just in a language we can’t understand. Mandarin, maybe. Or perhaps Portuguese.

We’ve noticed that Sean Michael and his grandpa have quite a bit in common – nap time, activity hour, prunes, oatmeal…They were both bald for a time, but that Rogaine is really working wonders for Sean Michael – he’s even got curls.

Now we’re preparing for Christmas. Sean’s still too young to understand this holiday, of course, and Jules and I are debating about how to handle it in future years. She would like to fill his head with sugar plumb fairies and tales of Santa Claus bringing presents via the reindeer express; I’d prefer to tell him that Santa and the seven dwarfs – excuse me, the dozen elves — are nice stories, but Mom and Dad give him presents. Why set him up for later disappointment?

Jules calls me Scrooge. Bah bleeping humbug, I say. I’m a realist.

Wishing you all a wonderful 2010.

Love,

John & Jules

Some of my students are reading Night, Elie Wiesel’s somewhat depressing but important autobiographical novel. I’d forgotten that before his Holocaust experience, Wiesel was an intensely religious teen interested in Kabbalah, the mystic branch of Judaism. 

I’ve been interested in mysticism myself for many years. My understanding, though somewhat limited, is that mysticism involves unity with God, the Infinite, Nature — whatever term you might prefer. The mystical transformation – known as enlightenment or illumination, among other names, is sometimes brought about by intense suffering; sometimes by a sudden intuitive insight into the nature of reality; and sometimes by a gradual awakening. The transformation seems to be characterized by:

1)Seeing things as they are.

2)Surrendering to reality.

3)A shift in perception from the individual self to the universal self.

I’ve been interested in these concepts since I read Somerset  Maugham’s The Razor’s Edge in about 1983. Long before that, I had a couple of brushes with the mystic. The first came when I was about five or six. My family lived in Los Angeles, and I remember walking into the empty field next door one warm day. I sat down and looked up at the sun, then shut my eyes and felt a peace and purity and wonder that touched me very deeply. I’ve read that many children have such experiences, but forget about them, or trivialize them, as the mind hardens and the ego emerges. 

In high school – overall a terrible time for me – I’d practiced enough to master some basketball skills, and occasionally I’d enter that Zen-like state of “no mind.” In this peaceful place, when I was 14, I made 118 straight free throws one summer evening with my brother Chris feeding me the ball. And in a few games I went beyond the mere “zone” and seemed to become one with teammates, opponents, the basket and the ball; I remembered the light on the court would soften, the action slow, and I’d be completely happy.

I was not a good enough player to enter this state often, especially as I got older and the competition improved. And of course coaches wanted me to focus on teamwork, defense, plays, winning and other such nonsense – not realizing that I was using the game to access a semi-mystical state.

Where is Phil Jackson when you need him?

In college and through my twenties, I became interested in literature, especially mystic literature. Some works, both fiction and nonfiction, that have been important to me since The Razor’s Edge include: Siddhartha, by Herman Hesse; A River Run Through It, by Norman Maclean; Zen Mind, Beginner’s Mind, by Shunryh Suzuki; Walden, by Henry David Thoreau; Shibumi, by Trevanian; Mystics, Masters, Saints and Sages, by Robert Ullman and Judyth Reichenberg-Ullman; Wherever You Go, There You Are, by Jon Kabat-Zinn; The Power of Now, by Eckhart Tolle; Awareness, by Anthony de Mello; Esoteric Mind Power, by Vernon Howard; Freedom From the Known, by Jiddu Krishnamurti; The Thunder of Silence, by Joel Goldsmith; Loving What Is, by Byron Katie; and Silence of the Heart, by Robert Adams.

The religion found in churches has not interested me in many years. The best I can say is that I have sensed a certain peace in some of the grand cathedrals – St. Peter’s in Rome; Notre Dame in Paris; St. Patrick’s in New York. Perhaps all the people who have prayed in these places over the years have transformed architectural wonders into serene sanctuaries…In general, though, I agree with the late John D. MacDonald, who described organized religion as marching in formation to see a sunset. Mysticism just asks you to see the sunset.