She spokeabout the Hunger Project work she did in Africa and some of the surprising anddisappointing things that happened while working in Zaire during the regime ofMobutu.
Mobutu is considered by some tobe one of the most cruel, brutal and reprehensible dictators in history. Lynne considered him to be a monster. During this time she was invited to attend astate dinner in Tokyo.
It turned outthat the guest of honor was the evil perpetrator Mobutu. She found herself standing in a longreception line (with all the other guests and dignitaries) waiting to shake hishand.
Deeply conflicted, she debatedwhether to stay in line or risk offending her host (and one of her largestdonors) by leaving the line. Just beforeit was her turn to shake the hand of the monster, Mobutu, she had anepiphany...she realized that something very terrible must have happened to him asa child that had him turn into the villainous man he became.
And with that she was able to find compassionfor the innocent child in him and shake his hand.Hearing thisstory triggered my own memories about stories of a monster and despicable humanbeing I grew up hearing about.
Until I wentaway to college, we spent every Sunday visiting my paternal grandparents inMiami, Florida. My Grandma Mae would make a big Jewish feast of brisket, noodlekugel, and other delicious food and delectable goodies and treats. At least once a year we would be joined byour cousins from New Jersey...Al and Carol Lipson...they were holocaustsurvivors.
Every visit theywould share the story of how they endured the horrors of the concentrationcamp, they would show us the numbers tattooed on their bodies, they would tellus about the dozens of other relatives who died in the camps, and then their grippingstory would end with the miracle of how they were reunited after the war.
After hearing thisscary story, year after year, I asked my parents why they always talked aboutit and revisited the unfathomable, inexcusable horror. My parents told me ifwas very important that we never forget how Hitler killed millions ofJews. I grew up with a deep knowing thatthere was evil in the world and that evil is called Hitler.
A few years agowe were in Venice, Italy with my sister Debbie and several friends and we wentto see a contemporary art exhibition featuring the collection of FrancoisPinault (Salma Hayak's husband). It wasin a gorgeous palace known as the Palazzo Grassi and it includedworks by Jeff Koons, Damien Hirst, Maurizio Cattelan and others.I enjoy seeing theseworks but I don't pretend to understand the depth, nuance and complexity oftheir meaning.
After viewing the artof the first floor, we began walking up a marble staircase to the nextfloor. Halfway up there was a landingand I noticed what looked like a young boy kneeling, in prayer position, facingthe corner.
From the back the boy lookedto be about 12 or 13 (the same age as my nephew Beau was at the time) and hewas wearing clothes from the early 1900's.He had brown hair and for a moment I thought - "that looks like it couldbe Beau." There was something still andserene about this boy in the prayer position.
I walked to the side to see the boy's face and Debbie and I werecompletely shocked and surprised to see the face of the adult Hitler, moustacheand all.
I suddenly rememberedthat Hitler's father had unexpectedly died when he was 13 years old and in thatmoment I felt a wave of compassion run though me. Hitler, the monster was once an innocentchild. (and yes, I still consider him a monster and this experience in no wayminimized for me who and what he became.)
I tried to take apicture of this statue but security guards quickly stopped me. I asked why there were two guards...was it justto stop people like me who wanted to take a photograph? The guard who spokeEnglish told me that many people had such a negative reaction to the art thatthey would try to spit on it or harm it in someway. (that was certainly the immediatereaction of some of my friends who were with us.)
Just as Lynne foundcompassion for Mobutu, I found that a work of art became a life-changingexperience for me....I learned that even in the most horrific of circumstances,compassion can be found.
Being able to open myheart and find compassion for a monster is a dimension of Wabi Sabi Love (theart of finding perfection in imperfection) that I never anticipated.
This experience became, for me, the nextlevel to grow a generous heart and to discover the depth and range in terms oflove, compassion and appreciation within myself ,when I am willing andcourageous enough to explore these potentials.
Where or when have youfound compassion for the impossible?
Love, Laughter and Magical Kisses,
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