This practise of generating compassion and having loving kindness is said to be the best protection against demons. Milarepa was meditating in a cave in Tibet. In the sky before him he saw a cloud coming and from this cloud came the appearance of his teacher Lord Marpa and on seeing the appearance of his teacher Lord Marpa he became very happy and supplicated to Marpa for his blessing.
After this vision of Marpa he went off to collect some wood and generally, when he was collecting wood, he would put it in the bottom of his robes. Because of having done this over a long period of time a lot of tears had appeared in his clothes. Whilst walking along with the wood all of a sudden a big wind came up and almost blew the wood out of his hand, so he held on tightly to the wood. The wind blew again and almost blew the cloth away, so he held more tightly to the cloth.
Milarepa thought I have been meditating in a cave on ego-clinging and I still have a little bit of clinging and right at this moment I'm clinging to the wood and so he just let it all drop down. As Milarepa climbed up to his cave the wind became less. When he entered the cave to his surprise there were seven beings there and their bodies were the size of a thumb and they had very big heads, and their eyes were half the size of their heads and they had very long beards and large noses and they were sitting in the cave.
They ran all over the cave and one was sitting in Milarepa 's chair and looking through the pages of the texts, one was in the corner of the cave giving the appearance of teaching the Dharma and one was sitting there listening to him. The other couple were running around making noises, looking at Milarepa and making funny faces at him. Milarepa thought , oh there are a lot of them, and he was a little frightened. he thought he had better do something and he prayed to the Buddha, but as he prayed nothing really happened there wasn't much benefit because they were still there making their clucking noises at Milarepa, making faces at him and frowning.
Then he thought I better try something else so he visualised himself as a wrathful deity and said wrathful mantras, he said Hung Hung Peh Peh and became a wrathful deity, but the demons multiplied and became more. They became so many they were jumping around and the cave became full of these demon creatures.
Milarepa thought, what I can do, what method can I apply here. The idea occurred to him that maybe these creatures were apparitions from the local deity. Maybe I have been here such a long time and haven't made any prayers to the local deity maybe it is upset with me. So he made some nice offerings of wood and sang a song of praise to the local deity saying how nice he was and praising him and what happened was two of the demons disappeared but the others were just as made and crazy as before running around all over the cave.
Then Milarepa thought nothing I do seems to help. Then he generated compassion for these beings who did not know the nature of emptiness; they don't know this truth or how to cause benefit for sentient beings. All they can do is cause harm and because of this continuously causing harm to beings they are sowing the seeds of a rebirth in hell. He had great compassion arise in him and he sang another song. Milarepa said in this song everything is fine, whatever you want you can have it, if you want to eat my flesh you can eat it, if you want to drink my blood you can drink it. Anything you do to me is fine.
He asked them stay in his house and said he would talk to them. Milarepa sang this song from the doorway of the cave whilst the creatures were running around inside. Milarepa then vanished from the doorway and re-appeared inside the cave. One of the creatures was there shaking and making a lot of noise and the other demons were running around but one by one they dissolved into him and he became very large.
Finally the last big remaining demon ran out of the cave.
They were not able to harm Milarepa, what was the reason for this?
It was because he generated this great compassion. Before Milarepa did not have compassion for them and he had gotten a little bit annoyed with them and they multiplied, but when he generated the compassion they all run off.
Sunday, April 09, 2006
Monday, June 20, 2005
Monday, June 06, 2005
"What a Wonderful World..."
Hi Friends/Family/Countrymen…
Just a quick hello from the land of the employed! I’m back at work and, wow, does it take stamina to stand up for 50 hours a week! And Amoeba is an amazing, energetic, vortex of all things San Franciscan —a spot where hippies who never left the Park after the Be In, punks with pit bulls, yuppies, hipsters, seniors and teens come to feed their souls and keep themselves humming. A place where my first customer was a man head to toe in fluorescent orange with a hot pink bike asking if he could lick me. (??!!) After six months of unemployment stress and inertia, the change in lifestyle/pace is taking some getting used to. I don’t think I’ve seen any of my friends since I started. Fugee has, however, beenenjoying long naps with me on my days off.
So what’s the logical choice when you’re exhausted?
Start running again! Yup, this Gemini on a deadline does much better to make himself get out of the exhaustion of too little time and energy, and to run. Weird how expending energy gives so much more.
I wanted to take this time to just reflect on a strong emotional flood of memories, sorrow, compassion, and hope that I went through earlier this evening. It’s AIDS/LifeCyle 4 Eve—the ride starts tomorrow morning at 6 am and continues seven days and 575 miles down to LA—a journey I’ve pedaled three times, and worked as a staff member for twice.
I’ve had quite a journey with the rides. From a concerned person who didn’t really know anyone with HIV but wanted to help others affected by catastrophic illness, to a person who started losing friends and acquaintances, to a person who found out that they were living with AIDS at the Southern California beneficiary of the rides. As a Positive Pedaler, regaining my personal power, hope and health by redefining the possible. As an example of living with intention and integrity, without shame, compromise or apologies, facing fear and accepting each day as a wonderful present/Present.
I am alive because of these rides. And there are thousands more like me, so fortunate to have been given the gift of unconditional love and compassion by those willing to do something so wonderful, painful, crazy, difficult as riding a bike so far and raising so much money.
I wish I could thank the 10,000+ people involved in the rides I participated in, rides which saved so many lives. And all those who continue to ride and fundraise when AIDS is no longer a fashionable cause, where religion still tries to attach stigma to an illness, where complacency is more the norm.
Thank you Alex, Ricci, Michelle, Diane, Beth, Cal, Redge, Michael, Jane, Susan, Cal, Lisa, Renata who continue the fight to end the pandemic and human suffering caused by HIV. You are heroes.
What prompted all this nostalgia?
Seeing good friends excited to be leaving on a ride again, some nervous about their first ride and a journey of unknown endurance/fatigue/hope/celebration, to friends who’ve been riding since the early 90’s and still pedal on.
Feeling deep nostalgia and a touch of regret at not being on my bike with them this year.
And the emails from friends. I’m attaching my friend Ricci’s email. It made me cry. A lot. Haven’t done that in a while. But not from sorrow. From beauty. What a wonderful world.
I ask you to send wishes for safe riding, warm tailwinds, and good karma/vibes the way of the extraordinary folks participating in AIDS/LifeCycle 4 tomorrow.
Thank you, AIDS/LifeCycle friends. Thank you, friends and family.
You are the beauty which is our world.
Peace.
Craig
Below, an email received from Ricci Treffer, a woman I was so fortunate to have worked with at California AIDSRide, and to have ridden with in the Canada/US AIDS Vaccine Ride. You'll sense her enormity of spirit and enduiring commitment by reading her beautiful words.
Aloha friends,
This time next week we will touch down in San Francisco to once again begin our amazing journey to fight AIDS. I've been out of commission for the last couple of days, fighting a pesky cold, and was forced to slow down and reflect on why I'm doing the Ride again this year. We've had a whirlwind of a year so far with work, training, fundraising, moving etc. and it can get a bit overwhelming, and I guess it's no wonder I sometimes lose sight of why we do this ride. You're the lucky ones on the receiving end of this somewhat lengthy message, so bear with me.
To all of you, who have helped out, with donations, encouragement, moral support and more - THANK YOU! We couldn't do this without you all!
The first time I rode was in 1999. I had seen the ride go by the year before - an endless string of people on bikes. People from all walks of life, all ages, all sizes, all colors. I saw Love and Hope on wheels. I had never considered myself an athlete and dabbling around on my $300 hybrid bike was what I considered a workout. 585 miles is an unimaginably long way-especially on a 25+ pound hybrid bike. Especially when the furthest I had ever ridden was 15 miles, which had just about killed me. But I was ready for a challenge, and I was ready to break out of my world of self-pity and heartbreak and focus my energy on something that wasn't about me. I wanted to do something extraordinary. I wanted to give back to the community and this seemed like a significant way to do that.
I didn't know-or, I should say, I wasn't aware that I knew-anyone who was HIV-positive or living with AIDS. I knew it was an epidemic, an incurable and fatal disease, but it hadn't yet touched my life directly.
My training began in December, and for the next seven months I was either at the gym or on my bike 5-6 days a week. The motto "Eat, Sleep, Ride" became my mantra. Or rather, "Eat, Sleep, Panic, Ride, Fundraise, Panic"-that was probably more like it, especially as the ride drew closer. But I knew I was only going to do this once, and that when I reached L.A. at the end of the ride I could go back to my quiet, self-centered life.
What I didn't know was how deeply the ride would affect me, and what a different person I would be at the end of it.
During that week I experienced a sense of community unlike any other. Everyone was so open and so kind to one another. Even when I wasn't with my friends, I never felt alone, or lonely. Strangers cheered for me, encouraged me, smiled and told jokes and sang songs. I felt safe and I felt like we all belonged-and how often does one feel that in out in the "real world"? For hundreds of people to be so kind of their own volition (and for an entire week) was something I had never experienced. Love and Hope travelling in tight quarters.
It enabled me to let my guard down. Not only was I able to laugh freely with strangers, I was also able to cry. So as I pedaled along those endless roads, through farmlands and cities, over foggy hills and through hot, dusty valleys, I started looking at all the symbols of loss people carried with them. The red ribbons, the photographs, and the names. So many names. I remember one banner that extended so far behind the rider-so long to make room for so many names. There must have been at least 20 names on that banner. I couldn't imagine the pain of losing so many friends. This was no longer about statistics-this was about people's friends and spouses, people's brothers, fathers, sisters, uncles, mothers, sons and daughters, nieces and nephews.
It was also no longer about me. For what were my complaints in the midst of all this loss? So I got dumped-so what? So my butt hurt-so what? So my bike weighed 10 pounds more than everyone else's-so what? So there was a knot between my shoulders that felt like a small boulder-so what? These were all temporary pains, insignificant among so much grief.
But alongside this sadness, there was also a sense of profound happiness and gratitude. Gratitude for being alive and healthy. Gratitude that the simple act of riding a bicycle could make such a profound impact. And pride in everyone around me-the fact that 1,999 other individuals also chose to act, and not simply stand by hoping somebody else would do something.
On the final day, as we rode through Malibu, we saw a woman standing at the side of the road holding a single balloon. She was cheering all of the riders, and when we stopped to wait for the light to change she asked if we would carry this balloon with us. "It's for my son." she said. My friend took the balloon from her, giving her a big hug, and carried it with him the rest of the way.
To this day, whenever someone asks what the ride means to me, that woman comes to mind. It's as if that simple request, and the act of carrying that balloon, defines what the ride is for me. It's about caring for others. It's about not forgetting. It's about giving hope to someone's mother. And doing all that we can because we can. Hope and love is truly what the ride is about for me.
Six years later, I'm picking up the Maui Newspaper. The headline reads 'Maui Highschool will show gay film'. A video to teach the importance of tolerance and respect for diversity. The article mentions how students will be required to have a permission slip to watch it and how a number of parents excluded their children from watching it. I feel sadness and anger and mostly frustration. And I know that I have an opportunity to raise awareness and educate. 1,500 riders of all walks of life, all colors, all shapes and all sizes will travel in harmony, in peace, in understanding, in unity. For one week, this event will be what the world should be at all times. And maybe, just maybe, there will be a group of elementary school kids selling cookies or cheering us on. And maybe, just maybe, one less young adult will become an HIV infection statistic and one less kid will be bullied for being different and unique. Hope and Love.
So we will keep riding. Thank you for joining our team. While we're getting ready to box our bikes, pack our bag, get a housesitter, and finally, finally, make the first pedal stroke of countless to come, please follow along by visiting our websites at:
www.aidslifecylce.org/5282 for Ricci, www.aidslifecycle.org/5281 for Michelle, or www.aidslifecycle.org/539 for Team Maui Mana
Thank you again for all your kindness and support. It's going to be an amazing journey.
Warmest Aloha,
Ricci
Cyclist # 5282
Team Maui Mana
'Powered by Aloha'
'Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens can change the world - indeed, it's the only thing that ever has.' - Margaret Mead
Just a quick hello from the land of the employed! I’m back at work and, wow, does it take stamina to stand up for 50 hours a week! And Amoeba is an amazing, energetic, vortex of all things San Franciscan —a spot where hippies who never left the Park after the Be In, punks with pit bulls, yuppies, hipsters, seniors and teens come to feed their souls and keep themselves humming. A place where my first customer was a man head to toe in fluorescent orange with a hot pink bike asking if he could lick me. (??!!) After six months of unemployment stress and inertia, the change in lifestyle/pace is taking some getting used to. I don’t think I’ve seen any of my friends since I started. Fugee has, however, beenenjoying long naps with me on my days off.
So what’s the logical choice when you’re exhausted?
Start running again! Yup, this Gemini on a deadline does much better to make himself get out of the exhaustion of too little time and energy, and to run. Weird how expending energy gives so much more.
I wanted to take this time to just reflect on a strong emotional flood of memories, sorrow, compassion, and hope that I went through earlier this evening. It’s AIDS/LifeCyle 4 Eve—the ride starts tomorrow morning at 6 am and continues seven days and 575 miles down to LA—a journey I’ve pedaled three times, and worked as a staff member for twice.
I’ve had quite a journey with the rides. From a concerned person who didn’t really know anyone with HIV but wanted to help others affected by catastrophic illness, to a person who started losing friends and acquaintances, to a person who found out that they were living with AIDS at the Southern California beneficiary of the rides. As a Positive Pedaler, regaining my personal power, hope and health by redefining the possible. As an example of living with intention and integrity, without shame, compromise or apologies, facing fear and accepting each day as a wonderful present/Present.
I am alive because of these rides. And there are thousands more like me, so fortunate to have been given the gift of unconditional love and compassion by those willing to do something so wonderful, painful, crazy, difficult as riding a bike so far and raising so much money.
I wish I could thank the 10,000+ people involved in the rides I participated in, rides which saved so many lives. And all those who continue to ride and fundraise when AIDS is no longer a fashionable cause, where religion still tries to attach stigma to an illness, where complacency is more the norm.
Thank you Alex, Ricci, Michelle, Diane, Beth, Cal, Redge, Michael, Jane, Susan, Cal, Lisa, Renata who continue the fight to end the pandemic and human suffering caused by HIV. You are heroes.
What prompted all this nostalgia?
Seeing good friends excited to be leaving on a ride again, some nervous about their first ride and a journey of unknown endurance/fatigue/hope/celebration, to friends who’ve been riding since the early 90’s and still pedal on.
Feeling deep nostalgia and a touch of regret at not being on my bike with them this year.
And the emails from friends. I’m attaching my friend Ricci’s email. It made me cry. A lot. Haven’t done that in a while. But not from sorrow. From beauty. What a wonderful world.
I ask you to send wishes for safe riding, warm tailwinds, and good karma/vibes the way of the extraordinary folks participating in AIDS/LifeCycle 4 tomorrow.
Thank you, AIDS/LifeCycle friends. Thank you, friends and family.
You are the beauty which is our world.
Peace.
Craig
Below, an email received from Ricci Treffer, a woman I was so fortunate to have worked with at California AIDSRide, and to have ridden with in the Canada/US AIDS Vaccine Ride. You'll sense her enormity of spirit and enduiring commitment by reading her beautiful words.
Aloha friends,
This time next week we will touch down in San Francisco to once again begin our amazing journey to fight AIDS. I've been out of commission for the last couple of days, fighting a pesky cold, and was forced to slow down and reflect on why I'm doing the Ride again this year. We've had a whirlwind of a year so far with work, training, fundraising, moving etc. and it can get a bit overwhelming, and I guess it's no wonder I sometimes lose sight of why we do this ride. You're the lucky ones on the receiving end of this somewhat lengthy message, so bear with me.
To all of you, who have helped out, with donations, encouragement, moral support and more - THANK YOU! We couldn't do this without you all!
The first time I rode was in 1999. I had seen the ride go by the year before - an endless string of people on bikes. People from all walks of life, all ages, all sizes, all colors. I saw Love and Hope on wheels. I had never considered myself an athlete and dabbling around on my $300 hybrid bike was what I considered a workout. 585 miles is an unimaginably long way-especially on a 25+ pound hybrid bike. Especially when the furthest I had ever ridden was 15 miles, which had just about killed me. But I was ready for a challenge, and I was ready to break out of my world of self-pity and heartbreak and focus my energy on something that wasn't about me. I wanted to do something extraordinary. I wanted to give back to the community and this seemed like a significant way to do that.
I didn't know-or, I should say, I wasn't aware that I knew-anyone who was HIV-positive or living with AIDS. I knew it was an epidemic, an incurable and fatal disease, but it hadn't yet touched my life directly.
My training began in December, and for the next seven months I was either at the gym or on my bike 5-6 days a week. The motto "Eat, Sleep, Ride" became my mantra. Or rather, "Eat, Sleep, Panic, Ride, Fundraise, Panic"-that was probably more like it, especially as the ride drew closer. But I knew I was only going to do this once, and that when I reached L.A. at the end of the ride I could go back to my quiet, self-centered life.
What I didn't know was how deeply the ride would affect me, and what a different person I would be at the end of it.
During that week I experienced a sense of community unlike any other. Everyone was so open and so kind to one another. Even when I wasn't with my friends, I never felt alone, or lonely. Strangers cheered for me, encouraged me, smiled and told jokes and sang songs. I felt safe and I felt like we all belonged-and how often does one feel that in out in the "real world"? For hundreds of people to be so kind of their own volition (and for an entire week) was something I had never experienced. Love and Hope travelling in tight quarters.
It enabled me to let my guard down. Not only was I able to laugh freely with strangers, I was also able to cry. So as I pedaled along those endless roads, through farmlands and cities, over foggy hills and through hot, dusty valleys, I started looking at all the symbols of loss people carried with them. The red ribbons, the photographs, and the names. So many names. I remember one banner that extended so far behind the rider-so long to make room for so many names. There must have been at least 20 names on that banner. I couldn't imagine the pain of losing so many friends. This was no longer about statistics-this was about people's friends and spouses, people's brothers, fathers, sisters, uncles, mothers, sons and daughters, nieces and nephews.
It was also no longer about me. For what were my complaints in the midst of all this loss? So I got dumped-so what? So my butt hurt-so what? So my bike weighed 10 pounds more than everyone else's-so what? So there was a knot between my shoulders that felt like a small boulder-so what? These were all temporary pains, insignificant among so much grief.
But alongside this sadness, there was also a sense of profound happiness and gratitude. Gratitude for being alive and healthy. Gratitude that the simple act of riding a bicycle could make such a profound impact. And pride in everyone around me-the fact that 1,999 other individuals also chose to act, and not simply stand by hoping somebody else would do something.
On the final day, as we rode through Malibu, we saw a woman standing at the side of the road holding a single balloon. She was cheering all of the riders, and when we stopped to wait for the light to change she asked if we would carry this balloon with us. "It's for my son." she said. My friend took the balloon from her, giving her a big hug, and carried it with him the rest of the way.
To this day, whenever someone asks what the ride means to me, that woman comes to mind. It's as if that simple request, and the act of carrying that balloon, defines what the ride is for me. It's about caring for others. It's about not forgetting. It's about giving hope to someone's mother. And doing all that we can because we can. Hope and love is truly what the ride is about for me.
Six years later, I'm picking up the Maui Newspaper. The headline reads 'Maui Highschool will show gay film'. A video to teach the importance of tolerance and respect for diversity. The article mentions how students will be required to have a permission slip to watch it and how a number of parents excluded their children from watching it. I feel sadness and anger and mostly frustration. And I know that I have an opportunity to raise awareness and educate. 1,500 riders of all walks of life, all colors, all shapes and all sizes will travel in harmony, in peace, in understanding, in unity. For one week, this event will be what the world should be at all times. And maybe, just maybe, there will be a group of elementary school kids selling cookies or cheering us on. And maybe, just maybe, one less young adult will become an HIV infection statistic and one less kid will be bullied for being different and unique. Hope and Love.
So we will keep riding. Thank you for joining our team. While we're getting ready to box our bikes, pack our bag, get a housesitter, and finally, finally, make the first pedal stroke of countless to come, please follow along by visiting our websites at:
www.aidslifecylce.org/5282 for Ricci, www.aidslifecycle.org/5281 for Michelle, or www.aidslifecycle.org/539 for Team Maui Mana
Thank you again for all your kindness and support. It's going to be an amazing journey.
Warmest Aloha,
Ricci
Cyclist # 5282
Team Maui Mana
'Powered by Aloha'
'Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens can change the world - indeed, it's the only thing that ever has.' - Margaret Mead
Thursday, May 12, 2005
"Doctor, Doctor, Gimme the News, I Gotta Bad Case of..."
“… loving you.”
No, that’s not it…
What do I have, you may wonder?
Amoebas! A wonderful case of Amoebas!
.
Starting on Monday, May 16th, I will rejoin the world of the gainfully employed as I make another foray back into music and start my next great adventure working for the world’s best record store, Amoeba Music on Haight Street. That ain’t hyperbole, baby, just check out Rolling Stone’s February 19th, 1998 issue proclaiming just that honor.
True to the Cherokee belief that you stand on the shoulders of all those who come before you, my work history has given me an insanely deep set of skills and experience to draw from. In marketing, branding, management, event production, customer service, nonprofit, for profit. The common thread, a passion for what I was doing. Music, an active lifestyle, AIDS and breast cancer fundraising.
It was definitely going to take a visionary company to appreciate and place value on the diversity of experience I bring, a work history driven by my need to feel passionately about my work and my life, and to effect positive change in our world. Amoeba “got” me, I also get them. And I’ve successfully avoided having to wear a suit yet again. Right on!
At Virgin, I had the great good fortune of working with amazing, passionate people like my former Virgin colleagues and now Amoebites, Kristen Frederick & Viola Galloway. Creative people. Funny people. Smart people. We were changing how music was sold. Obscure artists we loved sold in large numbers. We broke artists. We created trends. We believed it and we lived it until Virgin became a lifestyle.
Amoeba Music is very much the place that I had hoped Virgin Megastores could sustainably become—a tastemaker location with an unmistakable authenticity driven by a love of music, with integrity, and a desire to proselytize about the things they love so that others can love them, too.
Like my last waltz through the realm of retail, my beloved Sports Basement it is locally owned, doesn’t believe in titles, is enormously socially responsible (they’ve saved over a million acres of rainforest for indigenous people by donating a percentage of all sales to the Rainforest Action Network), with a total DIY ethic, and a staff FULL of expertise, personality, and heart. It is also a community magnet/gathering place of insanely loyal and passionate customers who are personally invested in the store.
What’s not fun about spending time in a place like that?
On a prophetic side note, on my last day at the Basement before joining the Breast Cancer 3-Day (anyone need a flow chart to track the “‘Where’s Craig?’ Wonderful, Wandering Career Path?”), I was given a gift certificate to Amoeba—how perfect is that? A similarity of culture, passion, integrity.
And because Amoeba does great work like donating to RAN and tsunami victims, it fulfills my need to be creating positive change in the world. After five years in the realm of non-profits, I’ve had three jobs and been laid off from two of them. San Francisco is a fairly toxic environment for folks who are laid off. Let me tell you, it is not easy. It’s stressful, makes you question your value as an employee and as a person. And it’s drained the bank account into the negative tens of thousands of dollars, twice. Let’s just say I didn’t thrive during those periods.
But, pish posh, enough of that!
It’s over! No regrets, and I have learned a lot about myself. If you release expectation and just let the future take care of itself, you will be where you are supposed to be. Life’s funny that way. If you stay open to opportunity, you’ll be provided the lessons you need in just the right time, challenging you to grow, and all the while taking care of you.
Here is one of my favorite monologues dealing with this phenomenon. It’s from the movie ‘American Beauty’:
"It was one of those days when it's a minute away from snowing.
And there's this electricity in the air, you can almost hear it, right?
And this bag was just... dancing with me. Like a little kid begging me to play with it. For fifteen minutes.
That's the day I realized that there was this entire life behind things, and this incredibly benevolent force that wanted me to know there was no reason to be afraid ever.
Video's a poor excuse, I know. But it helps me remember...I need to remember.
(distant)
Sometimes there's so much beauty in the world I feel like I can't take it...and my heart is going to cave in."
I am glad to be rejoining the work force, reconnecting with my love of music, the rhythm and the beauty.
Thanks for being a vital part of my beautiful world.
Peace/Music/Heart.
Craig
____________________________________
"I hate quotations, tell me what you know." -Ralph Waldo Emerson
PS- Above is a picture of Fugee, who swooned upon hearing the news that he would not be spending 24 hours a day with me. Wish him well…
No, that’s not it…
What do I have, you may wonder?
Amoebas! A wonderful case of Amoebas!
.Starting on Monday, May 16th, I will rejoin the world of the gainfully employed as I make another foray back into music and start my next great adventure working for the world’s best record store, Amoeba Music on Haight Street. That ain’t hyperbole, baby, just check out Rolling Stone’s February 19th, 1998 issue proclaiming just that honor.
True to the Cherokee belief that you stand on the shoulders of all those who come before you, my work history has given me an insanely deep set of skills and experience to draw from. In marketing, branding, management, event production, customer service, nonprofit, for profit. The common thread, a passion for what I was doing. Music, an active lifestyle, AIDS and breast cancer fundraising.
It was definitely going to take a visionary company to appreciate and place value on the diversity of experience I bring, a work history driven by my need to feel passionately about my work and my life, and to effect positive change in our world. Amoeba “got” me, I also get them. And I’ve successfully avoided having to wear a suit yet again. Right on!
At Virgin, I had the great good fortune of working with amazing, passionate people like my former Virgin colleagues and now Amoebites, Kristen Frederick & Viola Galloway. Creative people. Funny people. Smart people. We were changing how music was sold. Obscure artists we loved sold in large numbers. We broke artists. We created trends. We believed it and we lived it until Virgin became a lifestyle.
Amoeba Music is very much the place that I had hoped Virgin Megastores could sustainably become—a tastemaker location with an unmistakable authenticity driven by a love of music, with integrity, and a desire to proselytize about the things they love so that others can love them, too.
Like my last waltz through the realm of retail, my beloved Sports Basement it is locally owned, doesn’t believe in titles, is enormously socially responsible (they’ve saved over a million acres of rainforest for indigenous people by donating a percentage of all sales to the Rainforest Action Network), with a total DIY ethic, and a staff FULL of expertise, personality, and heart. It is also a community magnet/gathering place of insanely loyal and passionate customers who are personally invested in the store.
What’s not fun about spending time in a place like that?
On a prophetic side note, on my last day at the Basement before joining the Breast Cancer 3-Day (anyone need a flow chart to track the “‘Where’s Craig?’ Wonderful, Wandering Career Path?”), I was given a gift certificate to Amoeba—how perfect is that? A similarity of culture, passion, integrity.
And because Amoeba does great work like donating to RAN and tsunami victims, it fulfills my need to be creating positive change in the world. After five years in the realm of non-profits, I’ve had three jobs and been laid off from two of them. San Francisco is a fairly toxic environment for folks who are laid off. Let me tell you, it is not easy. It’s stressful, makes you question your value as an employee and as a person. And it’s drained the bank account into the negative tens of thousands of dollars, twice. Let’s just say I didn’t thrive during those periods.
But, pish posh, enough of that!
It’s over! No regrets, and I have learned a lot about myself. If you release expectation and just let the future take care of itself, you will be where you are supposed to be. Life’s funny that way. If you stay open to opportunity, you’ll be provided the lessons you need in just the right time, challenging you to grow, and all the while taking care of you.
Here is one of my favorite monologues dealing with this phenomenon. It’s from the movie ‘American Beauty’:
"It was one of those days when it's a minute away from snowing.
And there's this electricity in the air, you can almost hear it, right?
And this bag was just... dancing with me. Like a little kid begging me to play with it. For fifteen minutes.
That's the day I realized that there was this entire life behind things, and this incredibly benevolent force that wanted me to know there was no reason to be afraid ever.
Video's a poor excuse, I know. But it helps me remember...I need to remember.
(distant)
Sometimes there's so much beauty in the world I feel like I can't take it...and my heart is going to cave in."
I am glad to be rejoining the work force, reconnecting with my love of music, the rhythm and the beauty.
Thanks for being a vital part of my beautiful world.
Peace/Music/Heart.
Craig
____________________________________
"I hate quotations, tell me what you know." -Ralph Waldo Emerson
PS- Above is a picture of Fugee, who swooned upon hearing the news that he would not be spending 24 hours a day with me. Wish him well…
Tuesday, April 12, 2005
What Is An AIDS Ride?
Hello Friends and Family-
A good friend recently asked me to help them define what an AIDS Ride is. It seems their employer was feeling that it wasn’t an appropriate cause for them to be affiliated with. Strange to encounter that depth of ignorance and desire to stigmatize HIV almost a quarter of a decade into the pandemic.
I wrote the attached piece saying what an AIDS Ride is for me. It really gave me a chance to think about how extraordinary these events are. In fact, you wouldn’t receive all these unsolicited emails without them. I am alive because of them and so are countless other thousands.
I wish I could ride this year, but I have to deal with trying to keep the roof over Fugee’s head, and to have him rolling in pricey whole foods kibble. But I do have four friends riding this year. I ask that you might consider sponsoring one (or all!) of their journeys’ to create a more perfect world.
My friends are:
Alexandra Brucker https://www.aidslifecycle.org/donate/form.cfm?n=5710
Jason Webber https://www.aidslifecycle.org/donate/form.cfm?n=3066
Ricci Treffer https://www.aidslifecycle.org/donate/form.cfm?n=5282
Michelle Wharton https://www.aidslifecycle.org/donate/form.cfm?n=5281
I salute you guys, (and Mike and Darla who are crewing!)... Well done.
As Margaret Mead noted, "Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful committed individuals can change the world. In fact, it's the only thing that ever has."
Peace.
Craig
.
What is an AIDS ride?
Quite simply, it is an example of mankind in its finest hour. It is hope for those living with a virus which has no cure. It is education and outreach to help prevent others from having to know what it means to live with HIV. It is access to treatment and quality of care for those that cannot otherwise afford it. It is essential funding for programs and policy here and in Africa, the Caribbean, Eastern Europe.
It is action in the face of dire odds, compassion without limits or conditions, it is hope, it is love made tangible, a human tapestry of people united by a common goal—to make a personal commitment in the fight to end the pandemic and human suffering caused by HIV.
It is a personal effort to make a difference in our world. Doing something extraordinary, difficult, at times exhausting, painful, something bold, beautiful and necessary—not because it is a vacation, or a cycling adventure, or a diversion. It is simply the right thing to do.
How did I come to do the AIDSRide that first time back in 1995? I had heard of the ride and decided I must do it; it was my obligation having my health and the determination to make a difference. Not an easy decision—actually a terrifying one—not knowing if I could ride my bike 600 miles in 7 days or raise the 2,000 dollars. But it was the only logical decision.
At the time, I didn’t know anyone affected by AIDS or HIV. But in a period of four years, I had been hospice care person to each of my parents. It was the most difficult and beautiful period of my life. That experience made it increasingly clear that I would do anything I could to ensure that no one should have to face any catastrophic illness without access to treatment or support. So I rode.
At the time, I was national marketing director for Virgin Megastores. The ride fell at a time which was not convenient for third quarter advertising. When I approached my boss about participating, he didn’t hesitate. He immediate said, “Of course. You must do it. There is no convenient time.” Later that day, Richard Branson called and personally sponsored me for $2,500 dollars and said “Well done, mate.”
That ride had a profound effect on me. Seeing so many disparate people united doing something difficult, joyously, tirelessly, just because it was the right thing to do. Young, old, gay, straight, athletic, sedentary, healthy, very ill, black, white, Latino, Asian, Native American, poor, wealthy, famous, homeless. We were family. Boundaries were erased, and for that week, we were one living, breathing testament of hope in action.
I swore I would ride every year that I could, as long as there was a need. So I rode the following year. And signed up to ride the year after that.
In 1997, I was an example of what ride could do. While accessing the services of the Southern California beneficiary of the ride, I found out I, too, was HIV positive. They got me into quality medical care, ensured my support system was strong, treated me with dignity and hope and compassion.
I took two years off from doing the ride as my body adjusted to toxic though effective medications. In 1999, I anxiously returned to the ride as a Positive Pedaler, a group of men and women living with HIV, dealing with the challenges an extreme endurance event while simultaneously coping with neuropathy, fatigue, nausea, anemia—and doing everything they could, riding those same 600 miles, to make sure that there would be hope, services and treatment for others. I was scared, not sure if I would be able to do the ride, if I still had it in me.
I never rode stronger or faster that I did that year, finishing each day hours earlier than I ever had.
It refined the possible.
So I continued to up the bar. In 2001, I worked for the AIDSRide and as a rider representative, I supported 600 riders from Northern California, keeping them trained and fundraised. We raised 12 million dollars that year. In addition, I personally committed to riding my bicycle 1,500 miles in six weeks, from Fairbanks to Anchorage, Alaska, from Missoula to Billings, Montana, and from Montréal to Portland, Maine—raising over 20,000 dollars for AIDS vaccine research, so that just maybe, my niece and nephew might know a world without AIDS.
In 2002, I helped form AIDS/LifeCycle so that the funding and services that were there for me would be there for others. In addition, I raised 5,000 dollars running in the Honolulu AIDS marathon program, and also raised another $15,000 for a self-designed ascent of Mount Kilimanjaro to raise funds for AIDS relief in Africa. As an extremely fortunate man with access to medications my body responded to and could tolerate, I was more fortunate than more than 95 % of the world population of those living with HIV. I must share my good fortune.
So, that is a rather long way of saying the ride is a journey. Difficult, beautiful, powerful, life affirming, perfect. Seven days to remember that all is one. That we are our brother’s keeper. That kindness and sweat and joy and determination erase limitations and create a world as it should be. Without judgment or stigma or diffusion of responsibility. It is our world, and we choose life, love, compassion, brotherhood. Hope over inaction, we choose life.
That IS what an AIDS ride is.
A good friend recently asked me to help them define what an AIDS Ride is. It seems their employer was feeling that it wasn’t an appropriate cause for them to be affiliated with. Strange to encounter that depth of ignorance and desire to stigmatize HIV almost a quarter of a decade into the pandemic.
I wrote the attached piece saying what an AIDS Ride is for me. It really gave me a chance to think about how extraordinary these events are. In fact, you wouldn’t receive all these unsolicited emails without them. I am alive because of them and so are countless other thousands.
I wish I could ride this year, but I have to deal with trying to keep the roof over Fugee’s head, and to have him rolling in pricey whole foods kibble. But I do have four friends riding this year. I ask that you might consider sponsoring one (or all!) of their journeys’ to create a more perfect world.
My friends are:
Alexandra Brucker https://www.aidslifecycle.org/donate/form.cfm?n=5710
Jason Webber https://www.aidslifecycle.org/donate/form.cfm?n=3066
Ricci Treffer https://www.aidslifecycle.org/donate/form.cfm?n=5282
Michelle Wharton https://www.aidslifecycle.org/donate/form.cfm?n=5281
I salute you guys, (and Mike and Darla who are crewing!)... Well done.
As Margaret Mead noted, "Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful committed individuals can change the world. In fact, it's the only thing that ever has."
Peace.
Craig
.What is an AIDS ride?
Quite simply, it is an example of mankind in its finest hour. It is hope for those living with a virus which has no cure. It is education and outreach to help prevent others from having to know what it means to live with HIV. It is access to treatment and quality of care for those that cannot otherwise afford it. It is essential funding for programs and policy here and in Africa, the Caribbean, Eastern Europe.
It is action in the face of dire odds, compassion without limits or conditions, it is hope, it is love made tangible, a human tapestry of people united by a common goal—to make a personal commitment in the fight to end the pandemic and human suffering caused by HIV.
It is a personal effort to make a difference in our world. Doing something extraordinary, difficult, at times exhausting, painful, something bold, beautiful and necessary—not because it is a vacation, or a cycling adventure, or a diversion. It is simply the right thing to do.
How did I come to do the AIDSRide that first time back in 1995? I had heard of the ride and decided I must do it; it was my obligation having my health and the determination to make a difference. Not an easy decision—actually a terrifying one—not knowing if I could ride my bike 600 miles in 7 days or raise the 2,000 dollars. But it was the only logical decision.
At the time, I didn’t know anyone affected by AIDS or HIV. But in a period of four years, I had been hospice care person to each of my parents. It was the most difficult and beautiful period of my life. That experience made it increasingly clear that I would do anything I could to ensure that no one should have to face any catastrophic illness without access to treatment or support. So I rode.
At the time, I was national marketing director for Virgin Megastores. The ride fell at a time which was not convenient for third quarter advertising. When I approached my boss about participating, he didn’t hesitate. He immediate said, “Of course. You must do it. There is no convenient time.” Later that day, Richard Branson called and personally sponsored me for $2,500 dollars and said “Well done, mate.”
That ride had a profound effect on me. Seeing so many disparate people united doing something difficult, joyously, tirelessly, just because it was the right thing to do. Young, old, gay, straight, athletic, sedentary, healthy, very ill, black, white, Latino, Asian, Native American, poor, wealthy, famous, homeless. We were family. Boundaries were erased, and for that week, we were one living, breathing testament of hope in action.
I swore I would ride every year that I could, as long as there was a need. So I rode the following year. And signed up to ride the year after that.
In 1997, I was an example of what ride could do. While accessing the services of the Southern California beneficiary of the ride, I found out I, too, was HIV positive. They got me into quality medical care, ensured my support system was strong, treated me with dignity and hope and compassion.
I took two years off from doing the ride as my body adjusted to toxic though effective medications. In 1999, I anxiously returned to the ride as a Positive Pedaler, a group of men and women living with HIV, dealing with the challenges an extreme endurance event while simultaneously coping with neuropathy, fatigue, nausea, anemia—and doing everything they could, riding those same 600 miles, to make sure that there would be hope, services and treatment for others. I was scared, not sure if I would be able to do the ride, if I still had it in me.
I never rode stronger or faster that I did that year, finishing each day hours earlier than I ever had.
It refined the possible.
So I continued to up the bar. In 2001, I worked for the AIDSRide and as a rider representative, I supported 600 riders from Northern California, keeping them trained and fundraised. We raised 12 million dollars that year. In addition, I personally committed to riding my bicycle 1,500 miles in six weeks, from Fairbanks to Anchorage, Alaska, from Missoula to Billings, Montana, and from Montréal to Portland, Maine—raising over 20,000 dollars for AIDS vaccine research, so that just maybe, my niece and nephew might know a world without AIDS.
In 2002, I helped form AIDS/LifeCycle so that the funding and services that were there for me would be there for others. In addition, I raised 5,000 dollars running in the Honolulu AIDS marathon program, and also raised another $15,000 for a self-designed ascent of Mount Kilimanjaro to raise funds for AIDS relief in Africa. As an extremely fortunate man with access to medications my body responded to and could tolerate, I was more fortunate than more than 95 % of the world population of those living with HIV. I must share my good fortune.
So, that is a rather long way of saying the ride is a journey. Difficult, beautiful, powerful, life affirming, perfect. Seven days to remember that all is one. That we are our brother’s keeper. That kindness and sweat and joy and determination erase limitations and create a world as it should be. Without judgment or stigma or diffusion of responsibility. It is our world, and we choose life, love, compassion, brotherhood. Hope over inaction, we choose life.
That IS what an AIDS ride is.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
