A glimpse beyond

They used what was available to them (terracotta)…in the time frame allotted to them (40 years) to leave behind traces of greatness…a glimpse beyond the transient and impermanence.

In so doing, they left their marks (Qi dynasty) and stayed true to their aspiration (Mandate of Heaven).

Each culture and country appoints ministers of Communication and Information. Those people make sense of (and out of) chaos.

The narrative.

The re-drawing of the map, re-invention of legendary (Putin has been in power forever).

Strong men. Guarding the Emperor tomb (not to mention musicians and concubines – gotta to have them, since the nights were long and life stretches beyond death toward infinity).

And so it goes…Ancient script for today’s world.

The problem? aplenty. The solution: me.

I drain the swamp. Clean up the mess. Build the equivalent of ancient citadels, knock down diseases and death (Jericho march – circling the borders).

The everyday presentation of self…(narcissistic one). Then since 1979, the culture of narcotic and narcissism joint forces, a confluence that makes a perfect storm. God has a lot of money!

Back to our glimpse of immortality of ancient Confucian ancestors. We all want what’s best for ourselves and our descendants…

Yet we leave behind dirty air and a gridlock (governmental shut-down).

All the while, calling it “freedom” “equality” and “brotherhood” in the Rousseau- tradition.

Give me the mike.

Give me the money.

Give me the credits (deservedly or not).

Give me, give me, give me.

Sounds no where near the democracy I used to know and aspire to.

Meanwhile, our Olympics’ aspirants and winners show us what could be.

They reflect our self-projection, what it is that we hope to become…a glimpse of immortality.

To go beyond the boundaries.

(Most times, self-imposed and self-inflicted).

We are no Papillons. We walk right in the prison of our own making.

We hear the clanking of iron doors (behind us).

Resigning to the usual (payments).

Giving up and giving in. Without a fight.

Without even kicking and protesting.

The Olympics will come around again. But ours never does.

So we inadvertently build ourselves up to be a terra-cottas army of one, standing guard over an unknown-soldier tomb.

What’s so precious that deserved guarding? our Values? our legacy? our shortcomings – collective and personal.

It took me a while to learn to separate the two…since people have a way to impose and pass the buck…to hand over more and more on your plate what’s supposed to be in theirs. Shared grief but unshared responsibility.

Prodigal son I am not. Disloyal soldier I am not. Apathetic citizen I am not.

Yet I find myself in shame when looking at those terra-cotta soldiers.

May their spirits live beyond the grave. Their humanity and heroism. There is nothing more noble than when one died in sacrifice for others. Our civic duty and our hope of enduring intangibles.

Just a glimpse, a spark. That’s all it takes…a light house…a fire that warms and shows the way. Glad to be born. Ready to die. Leaving traces beyond our temporal existence. We are all scholars and soldiers. To learn and to fight against ignorance and imprudence. To put the stake on the ground and draw a line in the sand. All the while, mindful of peace makers – honorable and admirable. We are ministers of culture, reshaping the narrative and carving up the .terra-cotta in our own images…in hope of getting beyond the transient and impermanence.