I recommend his books:
Going All The Way: https://www.amazon.com/Going-All-Way-Dan-Wakefield/dp/0440029554
Returning: A Spiritual Journey: https://www.amazon.com/Returning-Spiritual-Journey-Wakefield-Hardcover/dp/B011MEQF24
i tried hard to be a beta, with the deep breathing & walking meditation, soft steps, thoughts of love, be the buddha, what would jesus do, turn the other cheek, my religion is kindness, of course i believe all those things, but underneath i’m still the alpha, the guy who walks in a room & thinks, no, not thinks, knows, deep down, that death is nothing to fear, meaning, fear doesn’t exist, subterranean alpha, so hidden i hardly feel it lurking in my plasma, my dna, my surface is placid, but when push comes to shove i’m no piggy, closer to the lord of the flies, endless abyss of ego, or lack of ego, no self, not scared of losing self, alpha, it’s not a physical thing, no need for hulking muscle mass, it just is, bury me in mantras & i laugh, thanks for the peaceful sayings, but i’m still the alpha.
i can’t see you, but you can see me, i’ve heard about bells and wings and things, hollywood movie, it’s a wonderful life, yes, of course it is, but are we all alone here? we mortals, plodding through the daily grind, doubtful, that you don’t exist, you do, sometimes we see you, in dreams, in our mind’s eye, or, as one might call it, our third eye, perhaps this sounds like new age mumbo jumbo, such a strange expression, but i’m on a tangent, back to you, entity of the spirit, soul, subconscious force of good, surrounding us, escorting us after passing, where do you take us? you are so many things to so many people, how do we come to know you? through prayer? meditation? faith? or just belief? are you christian? or does all that specific religion stuff not matter? if you answer me, how does that work? i’ve seen you in children’s books, watching over the sick, guiding people to be better, are you light? or just love? can any of us be angels, if we care enough?
I live two blocks from the Apple store, don’t own a cellphone or a TV, don’t have an internet connection. Some weekends I unplug my phone and I’m an ascetic, surrounded by my volumes of John Muir, Jane Kenyon, A Buddhist Bible, and my journals of poetic plodding. I watch them on their headsets, talking to the air, talking about technology into technology. They fill the Starbucks on University Avenue with their napkins, sketching schematas of the next IPO. I’m a walking anachronism, a luddite they call me, voluntary simplicity, I call me. Doing the mental math, I calculate whether I’m the only one in all of Palo Alto completely disconnected. Maybe a couple of Stanford religion majors without TV, but none would be internet free, no, that is just me, 1 out of 66,000. But there is Greg, that isn’t his real name, no one knows his real name, he drags his feet, toes sticking out of his shoes, his long, unkempt blondish brown hair jutting in all directions. Greg and the other homeless people by the creek are my kin, my kind, fiber-optically missing, invisible, off the grid. One night I meet Larry Page at a Stanford pub, we don’t talk about his company, Google. He tells me he likes Dance Dance Revolution, but only does it in private. The seven minute conversation sticks with me, like the mornings when I see Steve Jobs at the farmer’s market. Me, Steve, and Larry, we’re in this thing together, makes me feel like I’m a part of the team, the future. But all I teach about is the past, the Cherokee, the Californios, the buffalo, the removed, the replaced. I hike miles on Sundays, Butano Ridge Loop, Foothills Park, my fern-filled temple, my isolation, my solace. I try to make sense of it all, the movement of time, my standing still. After many days, maybe hours, I plug my phone back in, walk down Kipling Street, go to the library, check my email.
not old body parts: craggy eyebrows, gray hair, beard, failing eyes, not dusty books: shakespeare, socrates, aurelius, arendt, not words: erudite, precocious, sagacity, percipence, not education: cambridge, oxford, harvard, princeton, not military: combat, boot camp, target practice, bombing, not politics: president, judge, senator, prime minister, not bragging: instagram, birkin bag, nantucket house, porsche panamera, but rather: nameless nature, lakes, oceans, trees, mountains, timeless, perhaps one day dead, but still wiser than….
some question the point, why not just watch a screen, text, talk on the phone. why leave friends to immerse with already dead authors? why visit streets where horses pull carriages and fast food doesn’t exist? paper pages, turning them, what a chore. who wants to detach, disconnect from internet, iphone, streaming shows, online shopping? yet, somehow this has become me, always was me, by fireplace, under quilts, narnia, watership down, the hobbit, the color purple, quiet moments, alone, reading, reading, reading, imagination, walking with holden caulfield, questioning the phonies, the ones feeding us cookies, tracking our every electronic move, urging us to fear the next disaster- to quote billie eilish, when reading a book, no one can hurt you.
Rome in the summer is heat and tourists. The crowds are always too much for me and I don’t shop. My favorite thing to do is simply sit in churches, breathing, meditating. Most people enter the churches with their cameras, meaning their phones, they shuffle around, snap a couple of photos of the stained glass and leave. Others approach the image of Jesus and make the sign of the cross, perhaps kneel. Occasionally, a person places two hands together and prays for several minutes. For the first few moments I notice these things, then they disappear as my eyes close. I focus on my breath, but often my mind wanders and i become someone else, perhaps a parishioner from the 18th century, or perhaps it is easter mass 1946, just after the war, i imagine myself in time, of time, back in time, the musty air speaks to me. This traveling can last 50 minutes, maybe longer, i’m there, but i’m not there, like the shoes moving around me, they exist, but only when i open my eyes. This has become my Roman ritual, the highlight of my summer vacation day. After almost an hour, i open my eyes, bow my head, silently pray, walk back out into the ancient Italian piazza sun.
i have seen the goats nibbling on me, and the tan skin glistening with mediterranean sea that surrounds me, i grow perfect red and orange tomatoes, green arugula, and lemons, never to be forgotten, my sun is famous, kids even drink it with a straw, i’ve changed since the roman days when tiberius used to throw unfortunates from my steep rocky cliffs, now yachts undulate near my shores, celebrities film me with their phones, visit me in july and august, i am the mastic trees, bougainvilla, the bees, and cicadas, i am shady pathways through woods, and luxury hotels, i am the smell of grilled octopus and aperol spritz, summer in the square, i hear it all, dutch, spanish, italian, german, english, arabic, french, tamil, russian, swedish, i am the world on an island, but when winter comes i hibernate like a bear, rain, fog, and wind engulf me, daylight disappears in the afternoon, the caprese families stay on me, i hear their children, watch them walk to church on sundays, they slumber softly at night, i bless them all.
suffering, the buddhists say, because then we can accept what is, rather than grasping for what is not, gelato in late july, saying thank you and meaning it, crisp sparkling water, watching john travolta in grease, mother teresa, love, being of service, apologizing, peaches in early august, dusk, snow on pine trees, cold lake water, dancing to miriam makeba, sitting silently in a church, being grateful, making a snow angel, dreaming you can fly, deciding to be happy
Daniel W. Polk 