Ten to One, and It Has to Be, It Can Be No Other

By D.N. Greenwald

Is it the luck of the draw or the card that we are dealt,from a high 10 to a lowly 1,that places us within all of the variables,in every possible way of life,from the very best to the very worst, in our place on this world stage? Is our life as it is due to the luck of the draw or due to the card that God dealt us to live? It is not as it is because we wished it so.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Mar 27, 2019
• ISBN: 9781728300399

D.N. Greenwald

When in the baseball game of life and you are up to bat, try to do well, not because you want to beat the other team but just so you can be on base.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

What’s It All About

Any GPS could find him, that questioning, human miracle, searching for the seemingly simple answer to the conundrum that cunningly conceals his very essence. Rather, we ask of this contemporary device to zone in on a person who seems compelled to discuss this elusive broad government.

He is located, in common with his fellow man, quite at home upon the beautiful Blue Planet, a singular most bewildering, but happy circumstance. Yet, this man is even more fortunate in that he dwells within the United States of America.

Therefore, he is everyman, and still his own man, much like the assembled states, particularly blessed, prosperous, and healthy, even more a wonder of the enigma lottery. He has lived a long, generally, satisfying life. Even though engaged in a demanding career which has rendered more than ordinary results, he has consistently, through all those years, been a thinking man, a restless, questing soul.

So much like the neophyte child student, we can write his name: John Doe, his street and number, his state, his country, his continent, North America, his hemisphere: Western, and his placement amongst the nine other planets, his world called earth, the beautiful, breathtaking blue planet, all nine revolving around the burning, bright sun, and even more astounding and confirming, his location is but a mere, almost dismissible element in a vast galaxy, an almost impossible concept, a dazzling universe of shimmering stars, planets and black holes. He and his terra firma should not matter in the scheme of things, but inexplicably his home does matter and he, amongst some billion others, matter in a vital, fascinating momentum emanating from the maker of all things.

This very specific placement speaks of enormous odds in his favor, some would argue, even he would do so, unfair odds. There are other locations, other countries, other fates and destinies that can be considered pleasant enough, though most, coming with qualifications. Generally, there are all too many locations that can be ranked uncomfortable, too horrendous. Humans inhabiting these places may feel a certain loyalty, or even love, for their nation, nonetheless. They can have experienced an erratic series of beneficial happenings amongst the very difficult or seriously traumatic general atmosphere either personally or in the chronicle of their history. There can be an aching love for this dubious place, a fierce belonging and allegiance, despite incessant, abusive treatment either from tyrannical men and the machinery of sneering government or from the land itself, all too often menacing and hostile. They most often are countries of strange gods or without god.

Passing their days, they can routinely be engrossed, can achieve some loss of living and laboring, though rudely, assaulted with drought and floods, hurricanes and monsoons, starvation, disease, never ending wars, genocides and death. Torn between instinctive binding to the familiar and in many ways, fondly claimed, they are all too aware of grievance and grief, peril and deprivation. Beneath a very real belonging to this location, there has to be the plaintive cry of If only… and there is sheer survival and great paths in their endurance.

Not to say that our man’s land and fate are perfect, but America has warts not leprosy, keeping true, let it be known, alarmingly noted that this optimistic appraisal can be complicated and perhaps, alarmingly, a factor of complacent acceptance. In short, we may all be dwelling, within a deceptive bubble, of past tense, of long ago and faraway, of mythology and fantasy.

For America has changed, is under siege, is challenged, both from abroad, but sorrowfully from within. Authentic, worthwhile debate is good and refreshes the precious concept. But there is a raw rogue, mob of brigands, bent on utter mayhem, malice dogma.

Consistently, despite his earned wellbeing, our man has beaten a drum, each pounding, summoning up the eternal questions of who, what, where and how and, even more resoundingly, why? Our man appears to be especially haunted by inequality, cruel, persistent but, even more, hideous, arbitrary natural disasters and, all too individual, deprivating deadly attrition without decipherable regime or reason, the existence of God, the purpose of heaven and hell, of Earth, of firmament, life itself.

Nothing in him will swear allegiance to just lying back and enjoying it, to relax. Oh, yes, he does reap and enjoy his harvest. He is not a madman seething. He is merely bewildered and seeking, if not intensely in a rage of resentment, of simmering dissent and protest.

He seeks some Billy Righteousness, a Baedeker to the Universe, a roadmap to eternal reward, nothing much, we might chortle. Yet, he is entitled to quest, in fact, by his nature, the nature of man so constructed as to reasonably, naturally reflect upon himself and his venue. He requests some legitimacy, some validation for his tenancy, the quality of his lodging and his largesse here in this obscure universe, his housing here on Earth.

He is the philosophical adopted child, embraced by loving, giving parents who have admirably borrowed him. Yet, he is vulnerably human. Aware of the lucky inclusions that have been granted him, still he seeks his biological begetters or at least his flesh mother. Against his better judgment, he disregards to a degree, his lovely bird in the hand, chancing his inner wellbeing and good fortune in order to set out on a highly fraught journey of discovery, a need to trek a wilderness of emotion and hard facts to defy that alien wilderness, to dare the dark. He is an explorer yearning to discover, and to name, his very being, his elusive bird in the bush be it ruthless condor or sweet warbling robin. As is his nature, he very much believes in a bluebird of happiness to finish his portrait and not receptive to a ghastly resolution of a scavenging, screeching avian entity.

But, to be fair [he likes to aspire to] perhaps he truly craves not a dead end but an end that tells him it is far better to accept his lot in life [after all every man’s lot] i.e. a virtual know nothing of the secrets of the universe and divinity, or no divinity at all, who, regardless of his particular endowment and many other’s far less blessed inheritance, to just draw in his breath, to exhale, to sigh and to just enjoy, to borrow from that so perspicacious bard and ask, What am I to Hecuba or Hecuba to me? Or to join with a more contemporary fictional character and poignantly ask: What’s it all about, Alfie?

When we have turned to Shakespeare, we have not gone astray, and he truly ranks amongst mankind as an enormously gifted, wise and acutely observant and discerning soul. Mostly, he cannot be faulted. Yet, he is not infallible or all knowing. He is or was a man. When he has his character emote All the world’s a stage and all the men and women merely players, we are not willing to concede his point so readily. Our man asks if he is correct.

The world may be a stage of sorts in that it is a fitting enough designation for a venue where things happen and come to some conclusion as God may, in some way, serve as audience to a playout or production of his plan, as it embodies human beings enacting events and ponderings.

But all the men and women are not merely players in the sense of being actors enacting a written script. Actors excel at being someone else, and if they are good actors, do a bang-up job of it. They are a charming or intriguing vehicle of informing, of provoking, of above all, entertaining a willing audience. Superb actors, along with superb literature from a superb writer, will wonderfully draw in, even convince that audience. If the writer is brilliant and very authentic, made bountiful with knowledge and understanding, their audience will benefit and grow somewhat to this creator’s dimensions. This is great art depicting life and its piquancy, its grandeur, its sordid realities.

Shakespeare was real, and his authentic voice is a powerful sound. But he was one man utilizing, mimic talents to deliver through entertainment and stimulation.

We are not actors, with the partial exception of conmen and those unwilling to reveal their real selves. The wretched sociopath or psychopath would exemplify this monstrous deceit, but for the greater number of us what you see is what you get.

We are ourselves, living our lives with all the vicissitudes, rewards, challenges life implies. The actor, himself, is real enough, call him Harry Jones; but he is not Hamlet, Macbeth or Romeo, not even Horatio. Of course, Shakespeare not only created creatures of his own singular devisement, but beautifully rendered a theatrical accounting of real and gloried people, kings and queens, scoundrels and the heroic, verified children of God who breathed real air and many times altered the expected history. He may have taken poetic license but adhered quite closely to validated happenings and character analysis. Still, Harry Jones or Helen Mirren were not Hamlet or Cleopatra. They are actors portraying and delighting with their skill and talent. Sometimes, they seem to forget that limitation.

We can accept ourselves as players interpreting the word as now employed by some as a person, most especially, as a well heeled or important operator or participant, in either a highly recognized agency or sport, as a big shot gambler, a government agent seen, written about, regarded as significant, very vital, important or sadly in charge, or if we are lucky, looking out for us.

This personage is not an actor or only in the sense of one who takes action or only in the sense that he knows how to impress us, either in the tabloid, sensational way, [let’s confess to a natural tendency to be titillated] as the genuine article, a current prestigious performer of necessary and important things. He may be a somewhat disappointing, silent, undramatic, elusive personality who is nevertheless worthy and can justify his reputation; or he might be a very colorful, controversial soul who can delight us or anger us. He might be Winston Churchill or Don Juan, Abraham Lincoln or Casanova, a pope or Hugh Hefner. He might be the founder of Doctor’s Without Borders, Oscar Wilde or Thomas Jefferson, Florence Ziegfeld or Florence Nightingale, Mother Theresa or Adolf Hitler. He might be Albert Einstein or Charlie Chaplin. [neither saying much but communicating earthshaking or poignant issues.] Of course, the largely miming Chaplin was an actor and also a very busy philanderer of sorts.

Our human lives have witnessed a rich cavalcade of players down through exponential history; and we, in our time, are the beneficiaries or hapless observers of an embarrassment of riches. We see and know and guess a lot which often has the property of salvaging us from boredom or inevitably deceiving us. We may think we know a celebrity or larger than life events, but we cannot definitively know these situations or tragic draconian catastrophes. We may be variously good at it or a good guesser, but we are remotely informed.

There is no question that our world has grown smaller and that is undeniably satisfying but at the same time, we can hear in the wings, Remember, curiosity killed the cat. Being knowledgeable is not necessarily detrimental, but it is often painful and disillusioning, disheartening and disturbing. Above all, it can make us unimpressed, uninvolved, blasé or deeply cynical. The pensive may be profoundly brokenhearted, disenchanted, made hopeless and adrift.

Those intellectually curious, the watchers and thinkers, may thrive on being there in reality or as a wide receiver of history and daily happenings, be Pepys or Alexander Pope, a Johnson or an Ernie Pyle, as observer and in his interests and his spirit.

So, in life, in real life, a few can be players of extraordinary or tabloid worth. Whatever their influence or sterling characters or ersatz value, they impress the eye and ear of those who live a more quiet existence; but they are not actors on the wooden stage, in the cinema, on the television screen for the purpose of delivering scripted, genius or farce.

These players though great or glamorous or for the ages, trite or tremendous in importance are very much -us- in the vital sense that they are human beings created by a largely unknown divinity and more the same than different. They have devised a stage or have been thrusted upon the proscenium or into the limelight; but they are, like us, flesh and blood, vulnerable, mortal, blessed or indulged but not immune from adversity or sudden afflictions and like all of us, incapable of escaping death, a termination of their well-known parts and perceptions. They have not been visited [to our knowledge] by a majestic angelic parting the secrets of the universe, the definitive revelations of God. Some saints and children who have seen visions may well have been spiritually more informed and enlightened to be forever transformed but almost all of us are not so touched and changed, not so open to that guileless receptiveness. We do not like to test or try our faith or cynicism.

We are not, then, programmed entities playing at life, reciting our lines, however poetic or impactful, confined to matinees or the recording of film or tape, ready to move onto a new role or kicking back to actual more mundane ho-hum living. We operate on our own upbringing, our general tutoring, our reaction to other people and events, our managing circumstances, our dreams and ideals, our convictions or lack of same, our faith our indifference, our disaffection or atheism, our inspirations or our cynicism. We are variously equipped, endowed, blessed, seemingly cursed, weak or strong but we are imbued with free will always. The difficulties contingent upon the exercise of this free will are minimal, or on a large and excruciating scale unfair and disproportionate to multiple lives but well defined by God, who can be incomparably fair and merciful but not enabling.

To believe us actors, all the men and women merely players ‘is to’ play it again, Sam. That tired tune that God would trifle to make windup toys, robots, automations or clowns. He does not titillate or despoil himself. He does not mock his own essence. He is not playing a game or contriving a shallow travesty. We are not a plethora of clones. We are not that plethora of cloned clowns emerging from a small vehicle or Charley on Edgar Bergen’s knee. He has not wound us up to watch us sputter out, our batteries exhausted. God takes us seriously and cannot regard us as toys or trifles, cannot consider us a passing phase or a hobby. He is not a dabbler or a fleeting, disenchanted partner in a courtship. He has taken his vows and his fidelity with a commitment, humane only to consistency but never replicate. Yet, it is our entire raison d’etre whether we acknowledge it or not. We may wish to forget, but we cannot elude our destiny. Some of us are inveterate fugitives, dilatants; but we are pursued by the hound of heaven and are quarry but of the most fortunate sort. We are not the fox or the desperately degenerate fugitive, unless we chose to be but are the confused beloved children of a loving father. We just often do not have the sense or maturity to appreciate it. We are not, even so, unlovable, for our creator has not conceived us to be either unreachable or unworthy. We are his darlings, not his wooden device, his metallic contrivances; we are not replaceable.

It should be emphasized that the placement of humans on this earth, i.e. the individual qualities of appearance, health, I.Q., advantages or disadvantages offered by the nation, race or debate, religion has nothing to do with their worth. We may categorize or harbor bias or even relatively dismiss them as not very important or interesting or that even if we care a great deal, what can we really do for them, short of charity or engagement, in a continuous protest of wars? The other show of caring, paraded by extremists, is that we open our doors and never close them, to allow a constant horde of immigrants to inundate our nation. This may qualify as righteous, wonderfulness to the poor of thinking, the disregarders of consequences: in other words, for them, quantity is quality and wild generosity as a badge of honor.

There is great hope for culture progression as all people have ability and potentiality. The problem emerges that cruelty, disadvantaged people face formidable odds in reconfiguring circumstances that are not of their making. If affluent nations emptied their coffers, admitted all, then-all would be hopelessly sunk into the same pit.

One cannot entirely fault the government, as they were faced to a pragmatism, which would demoralize, incline to coarsen a badgered people, who wished to survive. This is all too often the result when bad habits and policies have created an almost insurmountable problem. The solution is bound to be draconian, unpleasant in the extreme and finally unattainable.

To return to human distribution throughout the world, we ponder. We are aware of ancient migrations, settlements and different civilization that emerged from such clannish practices and rules of living. We can explain some of it, marvel or disparage it, but we do not know why God made it so. If he did, why different colors, features, etc.? May it not be some result or adaptation of human journeys? One can torture it, a test set before us by this divinity, though we seem to have quite enough trials without that contribution. We note that despite our differences, we are the same.

CHAPTER 2

In the Image of God

For those of restless, inquiring minds, such as we are, visitation of denial is almost bound to torment, touching the barometer in varying degree of moderate to severe doubt. Keep in mind that even Mother Theresa confessed to having interludes of doubt. For most believers, this doubt is wracked with guilt. Some may admit to it publicly or only amongst friends or not at all. It may be safe to say that possibly only the saints have never harbored doubt. Yet, we refer back to Mother Theresa, surely saintly, exceeding by an altruistic life and now declared officially to be a bonafide Saint. There are those such as Bernadette Soubirous of Lourdes who seem to have been radiated with an impossible, even childlike, innocent faith. Pure. Stunning. Long suffering. Dedicated. Devoted. Lifelong, uncompromising, radiant faith.

The doubters [most of us. i.e. intermittent flashes of uncertainty] flail about straining for soothing or even combative arguments against this weakening. This is the constant contrariness of the human condition, that pernicious provocateur within us, the devil’s own imp of torment. There are countless confirmations such as the wonders of the universe, the instinctive, insistent need craving, urge, hunger for a God. The Native American could not compose his collective mind to declare a single, superlative God but did, at least, worship nature in its multitudinous forms, embracing the sky, the trees, the sun, the moon, every possible manifestation with its own properties of wonderment and power to bestow blessings upon the sincere and persistent seeker.

They could see their gods in form and action with ephemeral, if any, results more substantial than a Jew’s or Christian’s more elusive construct and pursuit. Yet, lacking the mystery and granduer of a more humanely centered belief. They were not the first, of course, to practice Pantheism. The Druids and many others seeking a god or gods looked about to gather up the visible and overtly powerful factors to fashion a convincing narrative. The sun and moon, wind, rain, snow and myriad other natural phenomena cannot be denied, to feature, overwhelmingly in the lives of animated creatures, very graphically illustrated, demonstrated and inescapable. These nomad people, without much to counteract the worst insults of nature, had to feel wretchedly at its mercy and at the same time, gratefully appreciative and, generating out of this, were made earnest supplicants; the weather exacts and bestows both punishment and reward. This Pantheistic approach can be appreciated rather wholeheartedly because nature has its undeniable magnificence and power