Esteemed Reader of Our Magazine:

There is a little-known story of Moses who as a child was in the presence of the Pharaoh. As we know, he had been brought into court by Pharaoh's daughter who rescued him from his basket in the reeds, where his mother had placed him to save him from the then-current genocide on Jewish baby boys. In this story Pharaoh decides to test the baby's wits to see if he represents a threat and places before him a tray with two objects—a beautiful gem and a glowing-hot ember—and beckons Moses to choose. The baby reaches first toward the gem, but then grasps the ember (guided by the hand of angel Gabriel, the story tells) and shoves it in his mouth (as babies are wont to do with every thing large, small, hot or cold). This, it is said, is why Moses had a speech impediment. It also saved him once again from Pharaoh's sword and propelled him forward on his task of rescuing his people from bondage.

This story is potent in illustrating that power, depth, and possibility result from choosing what is less pleasant, "likeable" and apparently valuable. Moses' ordeal with the hot coal not only saved his life, it also provided the boon of further difficulties to overcome in the accomplishment of his mission. After all, his was largely a public relations job and it is difficult to be convincing when you can't speak straight. Because of this he would have been obliged to develop through adversity an aspect of himself that speaks for itself—his being.

The chief tragedy of our lives is that we throw out so many things because we dislike them. Situations, relationships, tasks, duties, opportunities of every kind are cast away when feelings of irritation, impatience, repugnance or disgust arise. We become the victim of our most automatic reactions with the result that we ruin innumerable fresh and bright possibilities. Life itself is sacrificed to the graven image of superficial preference.

How much of life is guided by this most mechanical and least authentic of our capacities—this bipolar disorder of "like and dislike." It is as base as the guiding impulse of the worm, moving away from light, open air, heat, and toward the gratification of the appetites for food, sex, and comfort. We see we "like" something when it makes us feel comfy and cozy; we gravitate toward the people that puff up our egos, situations that allow us to coast through without too much effort. Everything from the choice of books, films, restaurants, and varieties of exercise to political and sexual orientation, friends and long-term relationship partners, can be guided by this most automatic function of like/dislike.

"But what else is there?" you might ask. "After all, my likes and dislikes, preferences and tendencies are what define who I am!" In answer I suggest that this is not the case. There is something deeper, closer to the marrow, that makes up a person's identity, that we never get to experience because we are ever-reacting to details of existence. This finer instrument is the part that truly wants what it wants. It isn't simply avoiding the uncomfortable and gravitating toward the pleasant. And indeed the way to gain access to this part is to choose the less pleasing, and cook, however briefly, in the oven of discomfort. This is the key to the deeper realm of authentic desiring.

The admonition from the esoteric tradition to "like what 'it' does not like" is a finger pointing in the direction of the heart's desire. It suggests that we approach our lives with the knowledge that we are multi-layered beings; that on our surface is the conditioned part, the constructed personality that is held together by a tenuous web of deceit. It is the validity of that picture of ourselves which we are always seeking to prove, but which is fundamentally unprovable, because it doesn't exist! It is this fictional character to which the "it" of the esoteric intimation refers. Beneath it, closer to the core, abides the part of us which is sensitive, intelligent, and truly authentic. Only by choosing the less comfortable, and that which is more fertile with possibility, can the latent self see the light of the world and breath the fresh air of life (that Life to which we toast when we say "l'chaim!" or what dervishes invoke when they chant "hi, hi, hi...").

Clearly the strife and wars in the world are born of fear of the loss of what isn't possessed. Take the arrogant US regime which subjugates the world, maiming and slaughtering its inhabitants, to assure the continuance of a mode of living that is already impoverished, meaningless, and empty, amassing a bankrupting debt to the future earth in order to avoid seeing itself as it is.

But the possibility for a finer life—a life lived courageously, in presence, responding to what is true in the moment—does not depend on the malignant structures in which we live. A life rich with the childlike magic of discovery, embracing the hazards of unexpected situations, flowing with love and bereft of fear, is attainable in tiny moments of openness to the unknown. From such an openness we choose what is bold and unforeseen, what brings new possibilities into being, for ourselves and the world.

—Jason Stern