Iron Wrapped in Wool

By Rais Tuluka

"Iron Wrapped in Wool” dives into the intricate layers of the psyche, offering readers a compelling journey through the labyrinth of the conscious and unconscious mind. Through a blend of introspective narrative and poetic exploration, readers navigate the complexities of the inner world, where the contrast of iron and wool symbolizes the dualities inherent within human nature.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: May 5, 2024
• ISBN: 9798823009768

Rais Tuluka

There is a new voice seeking to shape the landscape of science fiction. Rais Tuluka writes with excruciating detail, flair, and a robust sense of imagination. This writer brings to life a future that has seldom been imagined by his predecessors. With Sois Sage, Rais Tuluka sows the seeds of a thought-provoking, classic science fiction masterpiece. His sensibilities tap into the lineage of Bradbury, Orwell, Rand, Dick, and Huxley. This is a writer that possesses a stylish version of gritty science fiction and fantasy that will persist for generations to come.

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© 2024 Rais Tuluka. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or

transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse  05/03/2024

ISBN: 979-8-8230-0977-5 (sc)

ISBN: 979-8-8230-0976-8 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2023911028

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are

models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or

links contained in this book may have changed since publication and

may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those

of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher,

and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

CONTENTS

Acknowledgements

Prologue: Bricks

Meditations on Hatred

I.

II.

III.

IV.

V. Emma

VI.

VII.

VIII.

IX.

X.

XI.

XII.

XIII.

XIV.

XV. Always Be Abstracting

Intermission: Call Someone You Love

Meditations on Healing

Meditations on Life and Death

XVI.

XVII.

XVIII.

XIX.

XX.

Meditations on Culture

XXI. The Watchers

Meditations on Honesty

XXII.

XXIII.

XXIV.

XXV.

XXVI.

XXXVII.

XXVIII.

XXIX. The Grand Narrative

XXX.

Meditations on Harmony

XXXI.

XXXII.

XXXIII.

XXXIV.

XXXV.

XXXVI.

XXXVII. Mine

XXXIII.

XXXIX.

XL.

Meditations on Legacy

XLI.

XLII.

XLIII.

XLIV.

XLV.

Epilogue: Hallelujah

When I was a child, I spake as a child, I felt as a child, I thought as a child: now that I am become a man, I have put away childish things. - 1 Corinthians 13:11-12

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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I probably wrote and rewrote this dedication twenty times and that’s not a brag. I felt the need to accurately acknowledge the energy that made it possible for me to put this text together. While this book is a personal statement, I owe a lot of beautiful friends and colleagues who inspired me along the way. This is not just about me, but the grace I received from extraordinary individuals throughout my life.

A version of this acknowledgement named all of them but having first and last names here would’ve probably been invasive, so I decided to not.

I’ll just say thank you to my brothers and sisters. I’m grateful.

Thank you to my Mills College Educational Leadership Cohort class of 2023. Their kindness came at a time where I needed to soften my outlook on life, inspiring me daily with their intelligence and courage. I’m proud to call them lifelong friends and collaborators. I owe you all the world.

I’m thankful for my Good Compenny family. I owe them so much love. I learned about joy and the purity of creativity through each one of them.

I’m grateful for Tery and Momma Dee, two lights who let their home be a place of refuge for myself and many others.

Call it fate or destiny, but the best people in the world are within my reach, and I feel incredibly fortunate. I value everyone I have met in this life, honored, and privileged to be loved and supported, especially in a world that can falsely appear harsh and unforgiving.

— Rais

PROLOGUE: BRICKS

Bricks. Writing can feel like laying bricks. It’s as if a book is a house made of bricks, and I see an unnerving orange sunset through its windows. The clear rays touch my arm, and I move to block the orange from bleeding onto the pages. As I write in my notebook, the words become new walls.

There are intricacies within writing and hidden aspects of the craft that have always frightened me. It’s easy to lose sight of our audience and why we are writing. I used to be afraid of poetry, which is why I have included it in this book. I always found poetry to be a pretentious and snobbish form of writing, which made me hesitant to be viewed in that light. Not only have I been afraid of poetry as a medium, but I have also been fearful of sharing my poems with others. If I could write poems that no one could ever find, I would carry that notebook with me forever and observe how many thoughts turn into hymns unlit by sunlight.

I have defined my life by embracing the things that scare me. I hope to understand the source of all fear in the process. Fearlessness is what helps us learn to be truly human. When we develop the skill of fearlessness, we can genuinely connect with the human experience, which brings empathy to the world. How can we determine if fear or wisdom is guiding our steps? To overcome my fear of putting together a collection like this, I had to view each word as a brick, laying down the foundation, and building something unpredictable. I realized that in the process of composing a book like this, which consists of poetry, essays, and short stories, even an individual human being is composed of countless tiny things. We are all made of bricks.

I’ve never considered myself an artist, nor have I thought of my writing as art. I approach writing in a very blue-collar way, unintentionally or perhaps subconsciously. I schedule my writing time as if I were clocking in for a shift. As each shift passes, I realize my love for writing grows. I love the sound my fingers make clacking against the keyboard in a quiet room. I love seeing the white space of a page filling with black as I type. I’m a fiend for font. The sad thing I reckon with throughout this offering is the bitter realization that I have never loved anything or anyone as much as I love reading and writing.

One of my favorite poems in Rupi Kaur’s classic work Milk and Honey is in the book’s dedication, where the legend writes, My heart woke me crying last night/how can I help I begged/my heart said/write the book. There’s truth in those words.

When I was working on this project and grappling with the themes and concepts, I turned to something I learned about life. Rupi Kaur’s words resonated with me when I first read them: Life is only meaningful when we serve something or someone we love. I used to think that this would come from loving a woman or my children deeply, but I discovered it while pursuing my creative endeavors.. I can remember times in my life where I operated from an absence of that feeling and dug within to understand a mysterious vacancy.

I call the vacancy a mystery because I have been loved my entire life. Despite having experienced unanimous love, I can recall moments when I felt an odd absence of love and an ignorance of how to extend love outward. I remember feeling more like an item rather than a person, unsure whether it was society making me feel like a product or just part of growing up. Eventually, I stopped being loved just for existing, which shattered a part of me. Something inside me died, which I partly expressed in my work. I grieved the loss of that something.

When I was twenty-three years old, the local newspaper in my hometown ran a story on me because I had just released my first book. The interview took place at the journalist’s home. It was an experience that not only brought my story to the community but also highlighted the influential reach of the media. After the feature, many people reached out to me to speak. Most importantly, the spotlight in the paper got me in contact with a man who would run for city council in my hometown. Let’s call this gentleman Jack. I will never forget meeting with Jack at a strange building where some notable people from my hometown chatted and networked.

I will never forget meeting with Jack at a strange building where some notable people from my hometown chatted and networked. The assembly was an odd mix of ethnicities and ages, cobbled together like a community gumbo. Jack took me around the room, introducing me to people individually. One conversation stood out to me where a woman said, Darn it! I don’t know how you always discover the gems, Jack. That comment bothered me and, if I’m being honest, it pissed me off a little. The truth is, no one can discover me or anyone else. We exist in the world as we are and cross paths with whom we cross paths with. At best, Jack and I were teammates or collaborators. We met one another, but I would never be anyone’s product or discovery. Call it my ego or pride, but that’s how I felt.

There have been moments when I wanted to go back and simply exist—not exist as a child but as something effortlessly acquiring love and consideration just for breathing. Those are two fundamentally different states; of course, that’s childlike. However, moving from a system of external love to internal love is the definition of maturity, noting we can never return home metaphorically.

Home is meant to be a place where we first feel positive affirmation, if we are fortunate. That idealized version of home, which is symbolic, mythological, and archetypal, has been taken away from us by progress, the future, and the process of aging. As we grow older, the familiarity of home can turn into a place of indifference.

Progress has given us many good things in life, but sometimes it can be too much. In the past, cities were only illuminated during special occasions like national holidays and royal coronations Today, cities in the first world are never completely without light unless there is a disaster. Despite the importance of the light bulb’s innovation, we don’t always appreciate it. Although today is always capable of being better than yesterday, there may be some aspects of the past that feel more appealing to the imagination than the present.

I have noticed that people have attempted to love me in recent years, but I have blocked it. Sometimes I would catch myself still mourning, unable to accept love due to the grief of what I thought I had lost. I clung to validation from the past and grew tense as if the yearning was only in my imagination. However, the yearning was real. It is real for all of us, more authentic than the sun in the sky, 93 million miles away. The spiritual and psychological dimensions of this offering are not to be discussed in just a prologue, but I have presented a lot to you already. Please forgive me. There is a lot to unpack in this work, and by the time you have read this, I will have moved on to tackle a different set of emotions, experiences, and thoughts.

I have loved everyone I’ve encountered unconditionally, but I love them in a unique way. I welcome the tired, depressed, or poor, and love them without expecting anything in return. I sometimes feel alone, as the world is not designed to work that way. Humans are wired to fulfill their needs through external means, negotiating demands, both vocal and silent. The human psyche often fails to recognize that true maturity comes from within, and one must constantly affirm the Self in solitude. When we affirm the Self from within, we release everyone else from the responsibility of fulfilling our needs. At some point in my life, whether through my spiritual practice or my personality, I stopped feeling human and instead felt like a living organism, humbled by the opportunity to observe the world turn.

How can I justify writing a book in this era, using this style of communication, when our society has an obsession with technology and idolatry? I am not an old man who opposes progress, but books are no longer the dominant medium for expressing ideas, and my writing style may not be suitable for a post-modern society. If Socrates or Plato were alive today, they would have podcasts and YouTube channels, not to mention that contemporary publishers are not inclined to publish this kind of material.

I had difficulty pitching this book. While revisiting and revising the pieces within it, I attempted to view the work from the perspective of my younger self, who I feel went through multiple hardships before becoming the person I am today. Instead of mourning that innocent and inexperienced boy, I wanted to pay homage to him. In doing so, I came to the realization that this offering would benefit me the most.

Writing is disseminating the I am and then reckoning with the What am I? When the writer’s perception is contaminated, I am means, I am the king of all my perceptions. I am the one to enjoy these observations. The writer’s world, in this frame, evolves because they believe they’re the lord of the things they create.

Iron Wrapped in Wool is the most earnest thing I’ve written up until this point. It’s a collection of thoughts poignantly placing before the thoughtful reader some of the most difficult issues of civilization today. How do we preserve the non-duality of Self in a world filled with distractions and separations? How can we find meaning in our lives while acknowledging the importance of others? How can we love each other while also having the right to express hatred towards one another?

I needed to complete this work today to understand the value of my experiences. This is my way of learning and teaching out loud. However, like most people, I find it difficult to create material based on my real life for others to consume. It is easier to create fictional worlds where the characters are allegories for my feelings or emotions. But since these words are based on fact rather than fiction, I have chosen to honor my memories and keep the substance of truth intact while adding only a dash of fantasy."

I find something fascinating in the contrast between the ordinary and the sacred. I am drawn to the mysterious and ambiguous. It is in these spaces that you discover true stories. There is a raw energy when the ordinary and the sacred come together, and I feel that I exist within that space. The exploration of human character, which occurs within this divide, is first expressed on the page. It is through writing that we can explore our identity, ethics, and character. In our modern society, we rely on independent creative personalities, like me and others, to provide guidance and clarity amidst the confusion.

I’ve kept an honest record of my meditations, and in doing so, I have regained faith in the power of storytelling. Throughout my reflections, which span from 2013 to 2020, I have worked through moments of shame and doubt. Despite functioning as a seemingly healthy young man for seven years, I asked the Spirit to reveal my true self, and it did not hold back.

I was deprived of many things during this period, but I gained a lot. Despite losing and sacrificing, I worked on doing good deeds and learning how to grow into a responsible man. At times, I felt overwhelmed by the burden of being righteous. I lived by myself, spending a lot of time alone with my thoughts, and in doing so, I gained a deeper understanding of myself. Most importantly, I made plans and followed through with them. I started becoming who desired to become.

I always had a desire to help people, no matter the cost. My goal was to heal whoever I came across, and I refused to accept the common notion that being black and conscious in America meant living in a constant state of rage, as stated by James Baldwin. When I first heard those words, I wanted to find a cure for myself and everyone else. Just like when that sweet woman assumed I was a product of Jack’s discovery, I rejected Baldwin’s words.

I made a conscious decision to reject rage and hatred for the sake of my own wellbeing. I soon realized that this rejection was actually harming me. By outright rejecting any feelings of anger or frustration, I was suppressing my emotions and denying myself the opportunity to express them in a healthy way. In addition, my desire to always do the right thing was putting unnecessary pressure on me. I began to question the rules that I had set for myself. Did I create these standards, or was it God? I couldn’t help but notice that others around me were cheating, lying, and taking shortcuts without any consequences. This left me feeling confused and unsure of my own values.

During those seven years, I allowed many things to happen without reacting. Instead of responding with destruction and violence, I chose to be kind and humble. I paid attention to everything, experienced every feeling, and held onto it all. Although many people deserved to be punished, I chose to show them compassion. I made the decision to fearlessly choose kindness and had to stick with it. Being kind without fear has always been a choice.

I often think back on memories where I chose kindness and love, wondering what would have happened if I had chosen destruction instead. How would I be different today if I had chosen to destroy? What if, once a month, I punished someone for something I perceived as a transgression? Would I sleep better at night? I know I have spared people who would not have spared me, and forgiven people who deliberately wished me harm. I have yet to make peace fully from the feelings that arose from showing compassion instead of exacting revenge. However, just because I haven’t fully made peace, it doesn’t mean I’m regretful. I’m not perfect. I accept these thoughts as they come and then let them go. It’s crucial I hear my thoughts clearly and not lie to myself.

The title Iron Wrapped in Wool is significant to me for several reasons, starting with my experience with anxiety. I first began to experience symptoms of anxiety during my teenage years, and after doing some research, I self-diagnosed myself. In particular, I found that being in large crowds triggered physical reactions like a racing heart and a prickling sensation on my neck. I was always on high alert, feeling like a cat ready to pounce at any moment.

As I’ve gotten older, I’ve become more comfortable around large crowds. When I was younger, crowds would often overwhelm me with their energy, presenting me with endless possibilities that both fascinated and intimidated me. This prompted me to look for solutions and explore Eastern spirituality, as I diagnosed myself with a condition that made it difficult for me to cope with such situations.

When I was fifteen, I discovered a YouTube channel teaching meditation. Although I had seen meditation in movies and TV shows before, I had never tried it until then. After starting to practice meditation, I felt like my world opened up. I do not mean to say Western religion, which I had been involved in all my life through Christianity, was inferior to Eastern religion, but I felt Eastern teachings had a profound effect on my physiology and psychology in ways Christianity had not up to that point. Each day I meditated, I could feel myself becoming softer, calmer, less impulsive, less reactive, and more forgiving.

One of the central concepts of Taoist philosophy is the idea of iron wrapped in wool. Although different translations refer to it as steel wrapped in cotton or iron wrapped in cotton, the basic idea remains the same. Imagine wrapping a crowbar in soft cloth. Despite being covered in cotton or wool, the dense metal inside remains undeniably hard. Even with a soft exterior, the crowbar is still dangerous and capable of causing harm. This duality is what makes a person truly respectable: the wool symbolizes kindness, while the iron represents toughness and resilience.

The title of the work represents a curious combination of toughness and vulnerability, strength and softness, which is reflective of my personal experience with anxiety and the comfort I found in unexpected places. The pieces in this collection are intended to convey our ability to be strong on the inside while remaining courteous on the outside. We should strive to be guided by kindness, moderation, and goodwill in our thoughts and actions, particularly when it comes to treating others, while also being supported by a hidden strength.

This philosophy is important to me because it goes against traditional masculinity. Men are often expected to demonstrate their strength, both physically and mentally. It’s not always easy to understand how to show true strength in situations where we have the power to harm others, but instead choose to let things go. As human animals, we learn what is acceptable in society by pushing boundaries, but how can we do that without causing harm?

The answer lies in the life of Mahatma Gandhi, a great leader, and his concept of civil disobedience. He believed that true strength doesn’t come from physical power but from willpower. Willpower enables us to establish a connection between our internal and external worlds, which helps us determine what we can tolerate. Willpower is a function of consciousness, which is the energy available for our conscious intentions.

In our pursuit of success in society, we have prioritized efficiency over meaning. This has led us to rely heavily on force and innovation, which has resulted in spiritual devastation. While the idea of creating a new future is alluring, finding the necessary resources to achieve it is daunting. Our focus on force has caused us to disregard our emotions and become stagnant in the way we define ourselves. We now tend to value power over empathy and assume that might is the only path to greatness. In the past, I often wondered about the direction of humanity and pondered the purpose of our existence and where our species was headed. All of my interests were centered around questions like these.

At a mythology conference in Santa Ana last year, a featured lecturer invited me to join him for coffee before his talk. It seemed like he either needed a companion or he noticed me sitting alone and assumed I wanted company. I agreed to go with him, even though it was a twenty-minute drive to his preferred coffee shop and I had never been to Santa Ana before. I was just hoping to kill some time.

The Tesla owned by the man was well-maintained, with only minor things like a gum wrapper in the cup holder or a leaf on the ground being out of place. During our ride to the conference, we conversed about our lives and the reasons for attending the event, but our discussion remained superficial. We had not yet discussed what I referred to as The Lift.

The Lift is a hard-to-define phenomenon that is felt rather than explained. Sometimes, when I’m conversing with someone, I can sense that the topic we’re discussing is beyond my comprehension, and that the person I’m speaking with is venturing into uncharted territory. This can be risky because there’s a chance of offending someone, but there’s no judgment. These conversations are so honest that a bystander might find them painful to listen to. It takes skill to navigate them. The Lift cannot be forced; it occurs only when two or more people want it to happen. When it does happen, there is a sense of catharsis, as if something unique has been accomplished. I refer to this experience as The Lift, but it is surprisingly effortless. The telltale sign that I’m in the middle of The Lift is that my vision becomes clearer, which is amazing because I have poor eyesight.

Do you know who puts on the event? he asked.

I shook my head. There were rumors about the mysterious gentleman who funded the conference, but did I know him? Not at all. I have no idea, I said.

I hear he’s a billionaire. They say he’s a heavy drinker too.

That true? Is he a billionaire?

He nodded. He never shows up, though. He puts his money up. I think he lives in Morocco.

Why do you think he would use his money like this?

Some people say his son passed away really young and loved fairytales and myths and stories. He’s trying to honor him.

There was a pause in our conversation. In the silence, I heard some whispers of Tibetan Buddhist concepts emanate from an audiobook he was playing. It was the first time I heard anything coming from the stereo.

Who’s this talking? I asked.

Thich Nhat Hanh, he said. You’ve never experienced his work?

I’ve seen his name.

At the moment of my listening, Hanh was saying, We have negative mental habits that come up over and over again. One of the most significant negative habits we should be aware of is that of constantly allowing our mind to run off into the future.

The lecturer was driving his Tesla down the road while he elaborated on Hanh’s point. He spoke with a deliberate reverence, stacking lessons on top of one another. His delivery was very artful. I threw some of my ideas back at him, and I could tell he was interested. His eyes lit up as we engaged in a deep conversation, which is what I live for. There is a magic to dialogue of that sort, and it helped me to see things more clearly. During that conversation, he and I started The Lift.

There is something inherently magical about words. I am not saying this to brag. Conversations are one of the most magical aspects of being alive. In a conversation, we don’t get to decide what is valuable and what isn’t. If we listen to another culture’s words with spiritual value, it can rewire the brain.

The addition of Eastern philosophy to my worldview was life-changing, which is why I hold the title of the book in high regard. The title is a tribute. As I started to study and meditate, I was able to calm my mind and body through repeated practice, which helped me focus on my dan t’ien. I also learned to detach myself from the outcomes of material reality.

The poems and essays included in this book were written after deep and transformative meditative sessions. During these sessions, I would clear my mind and allow words and memories to flow forth. This process helped me to connect with the same energy that created the stars, planets, black holes, wind, snow, and warm sunlight. This feeling brought me peace and comfort, and there were moments of enlightenment that gave me a deeper understanding of the nature of all things, especially myself.

As humans, we often tend to focus on ourselves, wondering why we face challenges and questioning why they happen to us. It’s important to maintain a balanced perspective, where we not only appreciate the good things in life but also confront challenges with resilience. This prompts us to question why we feel we deserve the positive aspects of life more than others. Is our success solely due to our efforts, or do we attribute it to a higher power? These questions encourage us to reflect on the complexities of deserving a good life and challenge any notions of entitlement or divine