I first interviewed my friend Daniel Roberto Ortega a few years ago about his art, which he creates from a combination of natural hemp and the cremated remains of beloved pets and people. I suspected at the time that Daniel was stoned, and I made light of it in my introduction to that show.

 

Well, Daniel came clean with me recently and admitted that he was high, and that’s how I learned about his new non-profit venture called Cannabis for Seniors, which is an informational resource for all things hemp.

 

But why seniors? What should people in the second half of life know about this plant and its medical and euphoric effects? Daniel and I talk about that, plus the variety of ways to use cannabis, how it is helping veterans and others with pain and trauma, as well as some things to be careful of. It’s all here in this episode of the Dance, and you can rest easy, neither of us were stoned at the time, so the interview is chock full of useful information for anyone who has never tried cannabis or for those who tried years ago but might want to try again.

 

So please join me in welcoming artist, stoner, and host of the website Cannabis for Seniors, Daniel Roberto Ortega.

Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness, and many of our people need it sorely on these accounts. Broad, wholesome, charitable views of men and things cannot be acquired by vegetating in one little corner of the earth all one's lifetime.

Mark Twain

I often hear nowadays, people being accused.

“He’s a racist.”

“She’s a racist.”

“Trump’s a racist.”

“So and so’s a racist.”

What I have yet to hear is: “I am a racist.”

So let me be the first.

I am a racist.

Yes.

I see the ugly thing, creeping around my soul like a roach in the kitchen. I squash it, but sometime later, there it is again.

I know there is a nest somewhere, eggs hatching, a source deep within me, hidden away where it’s easy to deny. There is where I'll find the library of my false beliefs, the lies I tell myself over and over, so often they become grooves cut into my gray matter, like fissures in rock where the water runs down, cutting deeper and deeper, until fissures become swales, and swales become canyons.

When did the first racist raindrop fall? I don’t know. As a child, for sure. How many drops of poison does it take to pollute the vessel of pure water of which we are born? When, exactly, does a person become a racist, and who gets to decide?

I don’t know, but then, neither does anyone else.

I don’t believe in permanence. That’s one thing the Buddhists have taught me.

Everything changes.

We can become aware of that library of false beliefs, that nest of nasties that colors our perception of things, often for the worse. Awareness alone brings change. We can cut new grooves. My challenge as a human being is not to deny that I am a racist, for that would be as foolish as denying I have cancer when I really do. My challenge is, rather, to stop the cancer from metastasizing and poisoning the whole man.

I doubt I will ever fully eradicate my racism. Unfortunately, I suspect some vestige of it will always be with me. But what I can do, and what I do do, is expose myself to experiences that lessen my racism, those being travel, kind and honest conversation, and breaking bread with “the others” whenever I can. These experiences, like wind and rain, smooth rock and, over time, lay low even the highest mountains.

So when I hear the angry crowd shouting, "He’s a racist,” I want to ask:

“Who among you is not a racist? Stand up then and take a bow...for you are surely a god.”

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