Early in my Wall Street career, I was rejected for a trading job at a premier money management firm because I was apparently Jewish. The firm's managing partner, Carl, was a reasonably smart and affable salesman. We met many times for interviews, got along very well, and I was clearly the best candidate for the job (the person ultimately hired was not particularly talented and didn't last long). However, Carl's discomfort with Jews kept him from hiring me. His prejudice was rooted in family lore (someone generations back had been financially screwed by a Jew) and evident in his social circles: exclusive country clubs without Jews, a co-op with no Jewish residents, and no one on staff at his firm had a Jewish background. His prejudice was further underscored by his previously being the sole board member of a Wall Street brokerage firm to oppose its merger with a Jewish-owned commodity trading firm. The merger went through, resulting in the commodity firm becoming the largest stockholder of the brokerage firm; meaning, Carl would henceforth be working for Jews. Being denied a plum job on the grounds of my religious heritage might have angered others likewise situated; but, I found it funny. I viewed Carl as struggling with a mental handicap that limited his ability to make choices in his best self-interest. His handicap was "labeling," or categorizing, a generic form of distinguishing between people that shadows who they are as individuals. Labeling, like broad generalizations, is a way to try to make sense of complexity, but it ultimately prevents us from truly understanding what we label. It's funny, when someone knows little; yet firmly believes otherwise. In this specific situation, Carl's ignorance was my bliss. Ultimately, the entertainment value of the story of this experience is greater than the rewards that might have been had I gotten the job. When I recounted this experience to others, a few asked if I had confronted Carl to express my assumed anger. I never said anything to him. How could I speak when I was laughing? Ironically, those upset by discrimination are also funny, for they are also engaging in categorization....

At the end of days, as we are transitioning from the now into the Soul -- what's before and after the now -- we have a life review. The review allows us to be in the space before and after the now, with all of creation; a timeless space, where every thing that ever was, is and will be exists simultaneously. We can see the entirety of our life happening simultaneously. This is our life review. If what we see makes us happy, we are in heaven; otherwise, we are in hell....

Years back, I knew a highly regarded tribal art collector who at the end of his years sold his best objects and bought fakes. Confounded, I asked him why was he doing this: "have you lost your discerning eye or have your finances changed?" He said: "When I started collecting, I wanted to be a sophisticated collector and as a self-confident customer I was so regarded by dealers and collectors. But then I came upon the etymology of 'sophisticated' and that's not what I wanted to be. Now I collect things based on whether they continue to engage my eyes, not how they look through my ears; not how they compare in my mind to other objects or what pricing suggests about their importance."...

In college, I had three psychedelic journeys. Now, in hindsight, I understand their revelations. In the first journey, I wanted to eat my brain. I felt that my mind (the consciousness of the soul) and body (the self) were a duality. By eating my brain, my self and the consciousness of the soul would merge into oneness with everything. In the second, I was looking at a painting and seeing its colors dripping beyond its frame and onto the floor. This was a revelation that all things are interconnected, like in peripheral vision; yet, our mind, through foveal vision, creates independent things. In the third, I was wallowing naked in mud in the backyard of my parents' attached house in Brooklyn. I was holding onto Earth for dear life as Earth was spinning incredibly fast and I was afraid I would otherwise fall away from Earth and into endless space. This suggested that if we let go our self-identity (as Earthlings), we will be one with the universe. While these journeys might sound somewhat harrowing, I remember them as wonderful—psychedelic, soul-revealing. Each vision, in its own way, was a lesson in dissolving boundaries: between mind and body, between things, between self and cosmos. Perhaps, in the end, all journeys—psychedelic or otherwise—are invitations to remember our oneness with everything....

Years back, on a frigid winter evening, my son, Max, 8, and I walked passed some homeless men setting up their cardboard sleeping surfaces under an overhang at the foot of the Fifth Avenue Presbyterian Church on 5th Avenue and 55th Street in New York City. Seeing them with few liberties for food and shelter, I commented: "When you grow up, if you're not successful, this is a kind of prison where you might find yourself." Max replied: "Maybe they don't mind." "Wow! Role reversal. The homeless are free and I'm a prisoner of a bourgeois mindset," I said; followed by a good laugh that warmed the evening....

At a recent family birthday party with twenty or so people, I asked my 10 year old grandson, Penn: "What I am?" "You're grandfather," Penn said. "Grandfather is who I am to you. But, what am I?" I replied. "I don't know what you're talking about," he said. "I am God," I said. "Anyone who doesn't recognize I am God doesn't recognize they too are God." "That's ridiculous," Penn said. "No one thinks you're God. If you are God, you could help me do anything which you can't." "Those who see my essence, recognize I'm God," I replied. "If I take off my clothes right here right now, many here will say: "Oh my God." We then both burst out laughing. "We're both God," I said. "As God, we can help people who don't take their self too seriously; otherwise, we can't do much but laugh."...

More than 40 years back, I found myself in a NYC taxi. Though the driver didn't greet me, he didn't seem unfriendly. As he was dressed in clothes from the Indian subcontinent, I assumed he had recently arrived in the States. To know his story, I asked him in mock pidgin English: "You here, long time?" He responded in the King's English: "I have been here 10 years, but I don't know if that is long or short." We laughed. There is nothing to know....

Sometime in 1967, I went to the Garrick Theatre in New York City to see Frank Zappa and The Mothers of Invention perform a sparsely attended show. It was a rainy day and Frank wore a rain hat which brought a few streams of sweat rolling down his face. After the show, I went backstage to meet Frank. My sole question was: "What do you look like without that prophylactic hat?" To which Frank responded: "Like a real man." Frank was a real piece of work; not one of infinite copies or an overpriced fake.   The following year, Frank produced a song, some of whose lyrics have ever since resonated with me as funny and profound:   "What is the ugliest part of your body? Some say your nose Some say your toes But I think it's your mind."   Nothing to the eye is inherently ugly or beautiful. However, the mind, by comparing things, deems some things uglier or prettier than other things. The mind is the ugliest part of the body, for it's the only part that makes things ugly....

In the last year of my mother's life, she was mentally clear but otherwise incapacitated. Living in a nursing facility, she couldn't do much but be carted around to group entertainment activities like movie watching. Her days must have been intolerably long, as she had little to do to kill time until time killed her. Yet, her perspective was otherwise. I once asked her if she was often bored, to which she replied, "Oh, I am busy all day; barely have time to do anything." What was she busy with? "Thinking about my life." My mother traveled to the land of her memories. Her memories must have been happy as she never complained and had no regrets. That's how my mother transitioned, living in her memories until she became a memory. For me, only a happy memory....

In January, 1990 I went to trial in U.S. Federal Court for "insider trading." Prior to trial, I went to Rebbe Menachem Mendel Schneerson, the spiritual leader of the Chabad-Lubavitch Hasidic Judaism dynasty, to ask for a blessing. The "Rebbe" as he was commonly referred to was renowned for his wisdom, compassion and connection the the Almighty. As there is a good deal of randomness determining the outcome of a trial, I had hoped the Rebbe would put in a good word for me and bring me some luck. Some days after my visit, the Rebbe sent me a message: "Hopefully, the Messiah will arrive before the trial ends." I took this message to mean I would lose the trial which three months later I did. However, as I considered my good fortune in terms of healthy, family and future opportunities, I gracefully accepted the loss and the resultant financial penalties and time in prison.   Now, 34 years hence, the Rebbe's message still resonates with me. Life is a trial. Everyone is executed at trial's end. Yet, there is hope for reprieve before execution. The Messiah will bring reprieve. In the "Messianic Era" there will be peace, harmony, abundance and prosperity. God will be universally recognized and communicated with and evil will cease to exist. Moreover, the dead will be resurrected; that is, we will realize no one dies. Essentially, all will be enlightened. Looking around the world today, it seems a far cry from the Messianic Era. Yet, Messiah is here for those who open their eyes, for they will be enlightened. Enlightened, they realize that however difficult their circumstances, they are lucky their circumstances are not worse. They realize that when circumstances are difficult, things will likely get better. The Rebbe's message did bring me luck. The luck to realize the Messiah is here. "Hap" means luck. Hap is the root of happiness....