Walking the Checkered Path: The Mosaic Pavement, the Indented Tessel, and the Blazing Star

California Freemasons explains that the ornaments of a Lodge are the Mosaic Pavement, the Indented Tessel, and the Blazing Star. The Mosaic Pavement represents the floor of King Solomon's Temple and symbolizes the mixed nature of human existence, marked by both good and evil. Surrounding it is the Indented Tessel, reflecting the ornamental border that encircled the pavement and symbolizing the blessings and comforts that accompany life. At the center is the Blazing Star, which represents Divine Providence and reminds Masons of the guidance available through trust in a higher power.

Like many portions of Masonic ritual, the explanation appears simple until one pauses to consider the symbolism more deeply. The three ornaments are often discussed separately, as though each communicates an independent lesson. Yet their placement within the Lodge suggests otherwise. They form a complete symbolic system. The Mosaic Pavement occupies the center of the floor. The Indented Tessel surrounds it. The Blazing Star shines at its center.

Taken together, these symbols describe the nature of human existence itself. They tell us what life is, the conditions under which it unfolds, and the means by which it may be navigated. They reveal a philosophy of life that is remarkably consistent with both ancient wisdom traditions and modern understandings of human development.

The first ornament, the Mosaic Pavement, is usually explained as representing human life, checkered with good and evil. While true, that interpretation may not go far enough. The pavement is not a picture hanging on a wall. It is a floor.

A floor is not merely observed. It is traversed.

Every Mason who stands in a Lodge symbolically stands upon the Mosaic Pavement. If that pavement represents life, then the Mason is not simply studying the symbol. He is participating in it.

This observation immediately changes the lesson. One cannot cross a checkered floor by stepping only on white squares. Neither can one avoid the black squares. Progress requires contact with both.

The symbolism suggests a truth that experience confirms. No human life consists entirely of joy, success, knowledge, health, and certainty. Neither does any life consist entirely of sorrow, failure, ignorance, suffering, and darkness. Human existence unfolds through a continual interaction of opposites.

The black and white squares may therefore represent far more than good and evil. They may symbolize light and darkness, knowledge and ignorance, success and failure, certainty and uncertainty, order and chaos, life and death. The pavement becomes a representation of the dualities that characterize human experience.

Psychologist Carl Jung argued that psychological growth requires confronting and integrating the opposing aspects of human nature rather than denying them. According to Jung (1968), individuation—the process of becoming a complete person—depends upon recognizing both the conscious and unconscious dimensions of the self. In a similar way, the Mosaic Pavement reminds us that wisdom is not achieved by pretending darkness does not exist. It is achieved by learning how to walk through it.

This interpretation is strengthened by one of Freemasonry's most recurring themes: the journey from darkness to light. The candidate enters the Lodge deprived of light. Knowledge, understanding, and enlightenment are not assumed. They are sought.

Yet darkness itself serves an important purpose.

Modern creativity research suggests that innovation frequently emerges from periods of uncertainty and ambiguity. Psychologist Rollo May (1975) observed that creativity often arises from encounters with disorder and tension rather than from comfort and certainty. The unknown becomes the source of discovery.

Nature provides countless examples. The seed germinates beneath the earth before emerging into the sunlight. The butterfly develops within the darkness of the chrysalis. Even the rough ashlar, one of Freemasonry's most powerful symbols, begins as an imperfect stone before being transformed through labor and discipline.

The black squares of the pavement may therefore represent more than hardship. They may also represent possibility.

Without questions, there can be no search for answers.

Without uncertainty, there can be no discovery.

Without darkness, there can be no appreciation of light.

The lesson is not that darkness should be feared or avoided. Rather, it must be navigated.

This brings us naturally to the second ornament.

If the Mosaic Pavement represents the journey of life, then why does it possess a border?

The Indented Tessel is usually explained as representing the manifold blessings and comforts that surround us. While this interpretation is certainly valid, the symbolism appears capable of conveying an additional lesson.

The border establishes limits.

The pavement may be traversed freely, but it is not infinite. It exists within boundaries.

This observation mirrors a fundamental reality of existence. Human beings enjoy freedom, yet that freedom always operates within constraints. Physical reality is governed by laws. Gravity cannot be negotiated. Time cannot be reversed. Cause and effect cannot be escaped.

Modern science has revealed an astonishingly ordered universe. Whether examining Newtonian mechanics, thermodynamics, relativity, or quantum physics, researchers consistently encounter patterns, structures, and laws governing reality (Greene, 2004).

Human life appears to possess similar principles.

Actions produce consequences.

Trust must be earned.

Character influences destiny.

Integrity strengthens relationships.

Dishonesty erodes them.

Freemasonry repeatedly emphasizes this principle through its working tools. The Square teaches morality. The Compasses teach restraint. The Plumb teaches upright conduct. The Level teaches equality. Each symbol implies that freedom is most meaningful when exercised within proper bounds.

The Indented Tessel may therefore symbolize the structure within which life unfolds. We are free to walk the pavement, but we do not create the laws that govern the pavement.

Yet there is another dimension to the border.

The tessellated pattern consists of many connected pieces. No single piece forms the border by itself. Each gains significance through its relationship to the others.

Viewed in this way, the Indented Tessel becomes a symbol of the human networks that surround every individual. Family, community, tradition, culture, friendship, and fraternity all contribute to the framework within which a life is lived.

No Mason walks alone.

The lessons inherited from previous generations, the support received from family and friends, and the guidance provided by mentors all form part of the symbolic border surrounding the pavement of life.

Perhaps the "blessings and comforts" referenced in the ritual are not merely material possessions. Perhaps they are the people who walk beside us.

At the center of both pavement and border shines the Blazing Star.

Its placement is significant.

The Blazing Star does not appear outside the pavement. It does not hover above the border. It occupies the center of the symbolic system.

Traditionally, it represents Divine Providence—the watchful care and guidance of the Great Architect of the Universe. Yet throughout Masonic history, many writers have associated the symbol with Sirius, the Dog Star.

Sirius is the brightest star visible in the night sky. For ancient Egyptians, its heliacal rising marked the annual flooding of the Nile, an event that brought fertility, renewal, and life to the surrounding lands. Because of this association, Sirius became connected with rebirth, illumination, guidance, and divine order (Allen, 1963).

Ancient mariners also relied upon the stars for navigation. The stars did not eliminate storms, calm rough seas, or remove dangers from the voyage. What they provided was orientation.

The star gave direction.

This may be the most profound lesson of the Blazing Star.

Divine Providence does not necessarily remove difficulty from life. The pavement remains checkered. The black squares remain. The uncertainties remain.

What Providence provides is guidance through them.

The symbolism therefore comes together in a remarkable way.

The Mosaic Pavement teaches that life consists of both light and darkness, certainty and uncertainty, success and failure.

The Indented Tessel teaches that life unfolds within an ordered universe governed by laws, relationships, traditions, and responsibilities.

The Blazing Star teaches that despite life's uncertainties, there exists a source of illumination by which the journey may be navigated.

The Mason stands upon a world of opposites, surrounded by order, and guided by light.

Perhaps this is why the Blazing Star occupies the center of the Lodge. It reminds us that the purpose of Freemasonry is not to escape the checkered nature of existence. It is to learn how to walk through it wisely.

The ornaments of the Lodge are not merely decorations.

They are a map of the human condition.

References

Allen, R. H. (1963). Star names: Their lore and meaning. Dover Publications. (Original work published 1899)

Greene, B. (2004). The fabric of the cosmos: Space, time, and the texture of reality. Vintage Books.

Jung, C. G. (1968). Aion: Researches into the phenomenology of the self (2nd ed., R. F. C. Hull, Trans.). Princeton University Press. (Original work published 1951)

May, R. (1975). The courage to create. W. W. Norton.

Mackey, A. G. (1927). An encyclopedia of Freemasonry (Vols. 1–2). The Masonic History Company.

Numberless Worlds, Old Carpets, and Ghosts in the Lodge

On Saturday, May 30, I made the 316-mile journey from my home to Mariposa Lodge No. 24 to participate in a Fellow Craft degree.

Rather than make the entire drive in a single day, I spent the night in Merced and continued into the Sierra foothills the following morning. On the way up the mountain, I stopped at Happy Burger in Mariposa, one of those restaurants I have eaten in for years whenever I find myself in town. They proudly claim to have the largest menu in the Sierra, and looking over the choices, it is hard to argue with them. That morning, I chose French toast with bacon and eggs.

But even over breakfast, my mind was already in the lodge.

The day before, I had published an essay on the symbolism of the Level, the Plumb, and the Square. I knew I would likely be asked to offer a brief Masonic education after the degree, and during the drive north, I kept thinking about the Fellow Craft degree itself. One phrase in particular stayed with me:

"Numberless worlds are around us."

Those words have always struck me as one of the most remarkable statements in Masonic ritual. They point to a profound shift in human thought that took place in the mid-seventeenth century, the same general period in which speculative Masonry was beginning to emerge from operative Masonry. For centuries, mankind had imagined the earth as the fixed center of creation. Then the universe expanded. The heavens were no longer a closed dome revolving around us. Earth became one world among many.

That shift demanded humility.

To contemplate "numberless worlds" is to realize that man is not the center of the universe. The Fellow Craft degree, in that moment, turns the candidate's eyes upward and outward. It asks him to consider immensity, order, mystery, and his own small place within creation.

Another phrase from the degree also came to mind: Shakespeare's description of death as "that undiscovered country from whose bourne no traveler returns." If "numberless worlds are around us" expands our vision into space, Shakespeare's phrase turns that same humility toward mortality. One reminds us that we are not the center of creation. The other reminds us that we do not master the final mystery.

Those thoughts were still with me when I arrived at Mariposa Lodge.

Mariposa Lodge possesses a remarkable artifact of continuity. Upon its altar rests the same Bible, Square, and Compasses upon which generations of Masons have taken their obligations. Every man obligated in that lodge for more than 175 years has knelt before those same Great Lights. That fact is even more remarkable because the town of Mariposa has burned three times in those 175 years, and the lodge itself has burned twice. Yet each time, the Bible, Square, and Compasses were rescued. They survived.

There is something powerful about that.

Buildings burned. Streets changed. Men came and went. Yet those Great Lights remained upon the altar, carrying the obligations of generations.

Before the degree, the floor cloth for the Middle Chamber lecture was brought out. Someone observed that it was the old carpet, not the newer one. It was faded, gray, and clearly marked by time.

"Leave it," I said.

The old carpet stayed.

As we waited for the candidate, I sat quietly in the preparation room. The brethren around me talked softly, as Masons do before the work begins. But my attention had shifted. The same degree that had made me think of "numberless worlds" was now opening another kind of immensity before me.

Not the immensity of space.

The immensity of time.

Looking at that old carpet, I began thinking about my own Fellow Craft degree in that very room. I remembered Dick Bondi delivering the Middle Chamber lecture. I remembered Manuel Rodriguez sitting as Senior Warden. I remembered the other officers and brethren who had guided me through that night many years ago. Their faces came back to me one by one.

Most of those men are gone now.

In that moment, the room began to fill with ghosts.

Not ghosts in a supernatural sense, but in the way memory makes the absent present. The old carpet became a bridge across time. The living brethren were sitting around me, waiting for the degree to begin, but another lodge seemed to gather in my mind: the men who had taught me, guided me, corrected me, encouraged me, and helped me make my own journey to the Middle Chamber.

That is when the two ideas came together.

The Fellow Craft lecture first expands the Mason's awareness outward into the immensity of space: numberless worlds are around us. But the old carpet expanded my awareness backward into the immensity of time. One teaches that we are not the center of the universe. The other teaches that we are not the center of history.

Every Mason enters the lodge thinking, naturally enough, from the perspective of his own experience. My degree. My lodge. My station. My year. My work. But the Craft gently corrects that illusion. The lodge existed before us. The work was being done before we arrived. The carpet was walked before our feet touched it. The altar received obligations before ours, and, if God wills, it will receive more after we are gone.

That is the humbling truth hidden in the room.

We are not the center.

We are stewards.

The men I remembered had once been the living workers of that lodge. They had filled the stations, delivered the lectures, opened and closed the lodge, instructed candidates, and carried the Craft forward. Now they belong to memory. Yet their labor remains. It remains in the men they taught. It remains in the ritual they preserved. It remains in the lodge they served.

Then there was a rap upon the preparation room door, and the present returned. The candidate was ready. The degree was about to begin. The ghosts quietly withdrew into memory, but they did not disappear entirely. They remained, as all good teachers remain, in the work itself.

Afterward, before the lodge closed, I offered a brief reflection on the Level, the Plumb, and the Square. I spoke about the Level not merely as a symbol of equality, but as a reminder that time itself is the great leveler. Rank, title, station, and pride all yield to it. What remains is the work we have done and the lives we have touched.

That old carpet taught the same lesson.

The journey to the Middle Chamber is not only the candidate's journey. It is the journey of every Mason across generations. Each of us is guided by men who came before us. Each of us walks where others have walked. Each of us receives light from those who once stood in the same room, faced the same symbols, and contemplated the same mysteries.

And one day, we will take our place among them.

Just as those ghosts once assisted me on my journey to the Middle Chamber, perhaps someday I will be a ghost in that room myself. Perhaps another Mason, waiting quietly before a Fellow Craft degree, will look upon that same old carpet and remember the brethren who guided him.

The names will be different.

The work will be the same.

The candidate will still knock.

The door will still open.

Numberless worlds will still be around us.

And the journey will continue.

The Geometry of Human Existence: The Level, the Plumb, and the Square

Among the many symbols presented in the Fellow Craft Degree, few receive less attention and yet possess greater philosophical depth than the Level. Most Masons learn that the Level teaches equality. The lesson is certainly true, but it may be incomplete. Equality alone does not explain why the Senior Warden answers, at the close of the lodge, that Masons should “meet upon the Level,” why the Fellow Craft is taught that all men travel upon the “Level of Time,” or why the Level is presented alongside the Plumb and the Square as one of the principal working tools of the Craft.

When viewed together, these symbols reveal a profound geometry of human existence. The Level, the Plumb, and the Square are not merely tools of construction. They are symbols of how human beings encounter reality, conduct themselves during life, and ultimately leave behind the record of their character.

The Fellow Craft is taught that the Level is used to prove horizontals, the Plumb to prove perpendiculars, and the Square to prove right angles. Operatively, these are practical tools. Speculatively, they describe three dimensions of existence. The horizontal represents the plane upon which human life unfolds. The vertical represents the relationship between humanity and transcendent standards. The right angle represents the proper ordering of relationships among human beings.

The lecture further teaches that all men travel upon the Level of Time toward “that undiscovered country from whose bourne no traveler returns.” Borrowed from Shakespeare’s Hamlet, the phrase reminds the candidate that every person, regardless of station, travels the same temporal road. Kings and laborers, scholars and tradesmen, rich and poor alike move through the same succession of hours, days, and years. Mortality becomes the great equalizer.

Yet the Level appears to teach something deeper than equality. It teaches perspective.

A horizontal line neither rises above nor descends below another point on the same plane. It extends outward. It connects. It establishes relationship. To meet another person upon the Level is to encounter him without the distortions of status, wealth, power, reputation, or prejudice. It is to meet the person before the title.

This interpretation finds remarkable parallels in traditions separated by geography, language, and centuries.

The Stoic emperor Marcus Aurelius repeatedly reminded himself that death eventually reduces all distinctions. He observed that Alexander the Great and his mule driver ultimately shared the same fate (Marcus Aurelius, trans. 2002). The Stoics believed that wisdom begins when one ceases to be governed by external distinctions and instead focuses on virtue, reason, and character (Hadot, 2001). In this sense, the Level frees the individual from the illusions created by social comparison.

A similar principle appears in Taoism. Lao Tzu warns that many human distinctions arise from the mind’s tendency to divide and categorize reality. High and low, success and failure, gain and loss exist in relationship to one another (Lao Tzu, trans. 1963). The sage learns to perceive reality without becoming attached to these distinctions. Such a person stands metaphorically upon the Level.

The I Ching presents a comparable ideal in the figure of the superior man, or junzi. The superior man is not superior because he dominates others. He is superior because he governs himself, remains centered amid changing circumstances, and perceives situations clearly (Wilhelm & Baynes, 1967). The superior man occupies the middle ground between reaction and passivity, between pride and despair. Like the Mason traveling upon the Level of Time, he learns to move through life without being consumed by its fluctuations.

Buddhist philosophy reaches a similar conclusion through a different route. The Buddha taught that attachment to transient things produces suffering (Rahula, 1974). Many of these attachments concern identity, status, prestige, and comparison. By recognizing the impermanence of such distinctions, the individual develops equanimity. The result is not indifference but clarity. The Buddhist no longer sees himself as above or below others. He simply sees.

The Hindu tradition expresses a related insight in the Bhagavad Gita. Krishna teaches that the wise person sees with equal vision the learned, the humble, the powerful, and the lowly (Prabhavananda & Isherwood, 1944). The lesson does not deny differences among individuals. Rather, it teaches that beneath those differences lies a deeper reality. The Level similarly invites the Mason to encounter the person beneath the circumstance.

Jewish mysticism contributes another dimension. Kabbalistic thought often describes reality through the image of the Tree of Life, a structure linking heaven and earth through a series of emanations (Scholem, 1974). Humanity occupies a middle position between the material and the divine. The spiritual task is not escape from the world but alignment with higher principles while living within it. This mirrors the relationship between the Level and the Plumb. The Level represents the plane of ordinary existence; the Plumb introduces the vertical dimension of transcendence.

The Plumb acquires special significance through the prophet Amos. In one of Scripture’s most memorable visions, God stands with a plumbline in His hand and declares, “Behold, I will set a plumbline in the midst of my people Israel” (Amos 7:8, King James Version). Here the plumbline becomes a divine instrument of measurement. It establishes an objective standard against which conduct is evaluated.

The symbolism is striking. Humanity travels horizontally through time, but life is measured vertically.

The Plumb asks whether a life is upright. The Level reminds us that all travelers share the same road.

The relationship between these symbols becomes even more compelling when considered alongside the closing questions of the lodge.

The Master asks:

“How should Masons meet?”

The Senior Warden replies:

“Upon the Level.”

The Master then asks:

“How should Masons act?”

The Junior Warden responds:

“By the Plumb.”

Finally, the Master declares:

“And part upon the Square.”

The sequence is often interpreted as a summary of Masonic conduct. Yet it can also be understood as a symbolic summary of human existence.

We enter life upon the Level.

We live under the Plumb.

We depart upon the Square.

The Square, unlike the Plumb, concerns relationships. It proves right angles. It ensures that parts fit together properly. Symbolically, it governs justice, fairness, and integrity. A life lived by the Plumb is measured against truth. A life that parts upon the Square leaves behind relationships that are honorable, obligations fulfilled, and duties discharged.

This sequence gains additional depth when viewed through the Fellow Craft lecture’s discussion of geometry itself. The candidate learns that a point extended becomes a line, a line extended becomes a superficies, and a superficies extended becomes a solid.

The symbolism parallels the development of human life.

A point represents potential.

A line represents a journey.

A superficies represents the shared plane upon which lives intersect.

A solid represents the completed structure.

Human existence unfolds in exactly this manner. The infant begins as potential. Life extends into a journey. Relationships create a shared social plane. Character transforms experience into substance. The completed life becomes a finished structure.

The Level occupies a central position in this process. It is the plane upon which development occurs. Without the Level there is no field of action, no place of encounter, no common ground upon which human beings may learn, labor, and grow.

This may explain why the symbolism of the Level resonates so strongly across cultures and philosophies. Stoicism, Taoism, Buddhism, Hinduism, Christianity, Kabbalah, and the I Ching all identify a common obstacle to wisdom: the distortions created by ego, status, pride, attachment, and comparison. Each tradition proposes a different solution, yet all arrive at a similar conclusion. Human flourishing depends upon seeing reality clearly.

The Level teaches precisely this lesson.

It does not merely proclaim equality. It cultivates perception.

To meet another person upon the Level is to see beyond the temporary distinctions that often dominate human judgment. It is to recognize a fellow traveler moving through the same stream of time, facing the same uncertainties, and approaching the same horizon.

The greatest advantage of living upon the Level is therefore not that it makes a man equal. It is that it frees him from illusion.

A man who sees clearly learns more readily, judges more fairly, acts more wisely, and responds more effectively to the changing circumstances of life. Such a man becomes capable of living by the Plumb and departing upon the Square.

In this sense, the Level may be the hidden foundation of the entire system. It is the plane upon which life is lived, character is tested, and wisdom is acquired. It is not merely a symbol of equality. It is a discipline of perception, teaching the Mason to see himself, his fellow man, and reality itself as they truly are.

References

Aurelius, M. (2002). Meditations (G. Hays, Trans.). Modern Library. (Original work written ca. 180 CE)

Hadot, P. (2001). The inner citadel: The Meditations of Marcus Aurelius. Harvard University Press.

Lao Tzu. (1963). Tao Te Ching (D. C. Lau, Trans.). Penguin Books.

Prabhavananda, S., & Isherwood, C. (Trans.). (1944). Bhagavad-Gita: The song of God. Mentor Books.

Rahula, W. (1974). What the Buddha taught. Grove Press.

Scholem, G. (1974). Kabbalah. Meridian.

Shakespeare, W. (2003). Hamlet. Arden Shakespeare. (Original work published ca. 1600)

The Holy Bible, King James Version. (1769/2017). Cambridge University Press. (Original work published 1611)

Wilhelm, R., & Baynes, C. F. (Trans.). (1967). The I Ching or Book of Changes (3rd ed.). Princeton University Press.

Yates, F. A. (1964). Giordano Bruno and the Hermetic tradition. University of Chicago Press.

Zafirovski, M. (2014). The Enlightenment and its effects on modern society. Springer.

The Great Bobblehead Panic

There are few things in life capable of transforming otherwise rational adults into a nervous mob. Fire alarms, shark sightings, and the words "limited edition" all come to mind. On May 27th, the Los Angeles Dodgers added another item to that list when they announced a Yoshinobu Yamamoto Game Seven Final Out World Series bobblehead giveaway for the first 40,000 fans through the gates.

The problem, of course, was that Dodger Stadium holds more than 50,000 people.

Knowing it was going to be crowded, I left earlier than usual. Not just a little earlier, but the kind of early that makes you feel slightly ridiculous. I figured I would beat the crowds, grab my bobblehead, and enjoy the game. Instead, when I arrived at Union Station, I found what looked less like a line for a baseball game and more like an evacuation route.

The line for the Dodger Stadium Express stretched far longer than I had expected. Every conversation around me revolved around exactly one topic: the bobblehead. Nobody was discussing the pitching matchup. Nobody was talking about the Colorado Rockies. Nobody seemed interested in baseball at all. The only thing anyone wanted to know was whether there would still be bobbleheads left when they reached the stadium.

After about twenty-five minutes of waiting, I finally boarded a bus. The mood immediately improved. We were moving. We were making progress. The coveted bobblehead seemed safely within reach.

Then we encountered four young men on rental electric scooters.

As the bus entered the dedicated bus lane on Sunset Boulevard, we found ourselves trapped behind them. Normally, scooters move quickly enough to stay out of the way. These scooters, however, appeared to be losing a battle with the incline. Their batteries were struggling so badly that the riders were pushing themselves along with one foot, just as if they were riding old-fashioned kick scooters.

The bus driver honked.

The scooter riders looked over their shoulders.

And laughed.

That was a mistake.

Someone on the bus yelled, "They're going to make us miss the bobbleheads!"

The effect was immediate and dramatic. The entire bus erupted into panic. Suddenly everyone was shouting. People stood up and pointed. Passengers began yelling at the scooter riders, despite the fact that there was virtually no chance the riders could hear anything over traffic. The bus driver joined the effort by leaning heavily on the horn. Before long, dozens of Dodgers fans were shouting, waving, and bouncing in their seats with such enthusiasm that the full-sized transit bus actually began rocking from side to side.

At that moment, the Dodger Stadium Express ceased being public transportation. It became a crusade.

The scooter riders continued their slow uphill journey while a bus full of increasingly desperate baseball fans imagined their bobbleheads disappearing one by one.

As we approached Vin Scully Way, a Los Angeles Police Department motorcycle officer sat near a side street. The scooter riders spotted him and immediately exited the bus lane, cutting down the side street and disappearing around him. As our bus rolled past, the officer looked toward us with an expression that suggested he was trying to determine whether a riot had broken out inside the vehicle. He could hear the shouting. He could see dozens of people pointing. What he probably could not understand was that the entire disturbance revolved around collectible plastic figurines.

Unfortunately, the bus could not make the turn onto Vin Scully Way as quickly as the scooters could. By the time we finally negotiated the turn and started up the hill toward the stadium, the four riders had vanished.

As we approached the gates, the tension reached its peak. Thousands of people were streaming toward the entrances. Everywhere I looked, people were predicting disaster.

"We missed the bobblehead."

"They're definitely gone."

"No way there are any left."

Fans spoke with the grim certainty usually reserved for natural disasters.

Then we reached the gates.

And everyone got a bobblehead.

The crisis had been entirely imaginary.

The scooter riders had not ruined anyone's evening. Civilization remained intact. The Yamamoto bobbleheads were still plentiful, and the collective panic instantly evaporated.

What followed was one of the most enjoyable games I have attended in a long time. Shohei Ohtani took the mound as the Dodgers' starting pitcher and also led off the game as their first batter. In a scene that felt almost scripted, Ohtani stepped to the plate for his first at-bat and launched a home run, electrifying the stadium and setting the tone for the evening. He pitched well, the Dodgers controlled the game, and they went on to defeat the Colorado Rockies.

By the end of the night, the only challenge remaining was getting home. The line for the return bus was long, and it took about forty-five minutes to board. Yet nobody seemed particularly bothered. The anxiety, the panic, and the imaginary bobblehead shortage were behind us. Fans compared their prizes, talked about Ohtani's performance, and relived the highlights of the game.

Looking back, it was a perfect evening of Dodger baseball. I got my bobblehead. I watched Ohtani pitch and hit a home run. The Dodgers beat the Rockies. And somewhere out there, four young men on rental scooters remain completely unaware that they briefly became the most hated people in Los Angeles.

For a few unforgettable minutes, an entire busload of Dodgers fans was convinced that those four riders stood between them and happiness. As it turned out, there were enough bobbleheads for everyone, the Dodgers won, and the only thing anyone really lost was their sense of perspective.

Ancient Camels and Classic Cars: A Memorable Visit to Redlands

Our recent day trip to the San Bernardino County Museum in Redlands turned out to be a surprisingly enjoyable and educational experience. Although the museum is relatively small and clearly designed with children and families in mind, there was still plenty to fascinate adults as well. Combined with a visit to downtown Redlands and the unexpected discovery of a major car show, the trip became a memorable and affordable outing.

The San Bernardino County Museum offers a wide variety of exhibits focused on the natural and cultural history of the region. One of the most interesting areas was the Hall of Earth Sciences located on the lower ground floor. The exhibit featured impressive displays of stuffed wildlife, including wolves, along with massive recreations of prehistoric creatures such as a mastodon and a mammoth. The fossil displays were especially fascinating because they connected visitors to the ancient history of Southern California.

One exhibit that stood out involved prehistoric desert camels. The museum displayed fossilized camel legs that showed evidence of fractures. According to the exhibit information, the camels had become trapped in mud and struggled desperately to pull themselves free. Their efforts caused their legs to break, and over time those remains became fossilized. Seeing the physical evidence of an event that occurred thousands of years ago made history feel very real and immediate.

The museum also does an excellent job creating hands-on activities for children. There was a special area where kids could dig for fossils and brush them clean like archaeologists working at an excavation site. Upstairs, another interactive display allowed visitors to press buttons that illuminated the locations of caves, springs, and fault lines throughout San Bernardino County. Considering that San Bernardino County is the largest county in the United States by area, it was interesting to see the geography and geology displayed in such a visual way.

Outside the museum, there was a native plant garden where visitors could walk around and enjoy the landscaping. The museum also featured a dedicated children’s activity room where kids could participate in crafts and educational projects for short sessions throughout the day. The museum clearly succeeds at making science and history accessible and fun for younger visitors while still remaining interesting for adults.

After spending about an hour and a half at the museum, we headed into downtown Redlands for lunch. What we did not realize beforehand was that the city was hosting the 27th Annual Redlands Firefighters Car Show. The downtown area was packed with people and lined with classic cars, custom vehicles, and restored automobiles of every kind imaginable. It was by far the largest car show I had ever seen. We spent another hour and a half walking through the streets admiring the cars and enjoying the atmosphere.

Originally, we planned to eat at one of the restaurants downtown, but the crowds were so large that we eventually decided to leave and keep things simple by stopping at In-N-Out instead. Even so, the experience of walking around downtown Redlands was enjoyable because the city has beautiful architecture and a welcoming atmosphere. During this time of year, the weather was perfect for strolling through the area, although the summer heat would probably make it less comfortable.

Overall, the trip was an excellent and inexpensive day getaway. Between senior citizen museum passes, lunch at In-N-Out, and gasoline, the total cost was only about twenty dollars each. The San Bernardino County Museum is highly recommended, especially for families with children who enjoy science, fossils, and hands-on learning. Downtown Redlands is also worth visiting for its historic charm, walkable streets, and community events. Altogether, it made for a relaxing and rewarding day trip.

Standing Between Past and Future: The I Ching and the Fellow Craft Degree

Within the Fellow Craft degree, the initiate encounters the symbolism of the winding staircase, traditionally composed of three, five, and seven steps. Among the most philosophically rich portions of this ascent are the first three steps. Across Masonic history, these three steps have received numerous interpretations. They have been associated with the three principal officers of the lodge, the three theological virtues, the stages of human life, and the progressive development of moral understanding. Like much of Masonic symbolism, their meaning is intentionally layered rather than fixed.

One particularly compelling interpretation understands the three steps as representations of the past, present, and future. In this reading, the Fellow Craft stands upon the middle step—the present—able to look behind him toward the lessons of the past while imagining the possibilities of the future. The symbolism presents man as a being suspended within time, shaped by memory, action, and aspiration.

This interpretation finds remarkable philosophical harmony with one of the world’s oldest wisdom traditions: the I Ching, or Book of Changes. The I Ching has influenced Chinese philosophy, ethics, spirituality, and governance for over two thousand years and centers upon the principle that life is characterized by perpetual transformation (Smith, 2008). Among its most famous teachings is the statement:

“The superior man acquaints himself with many sayings of antiquity and many deeds of the past, in order to strengthen his character” (Wilhelm & Baynes, 1967, p. 104).

Though originating in vastly different cultural worlds, the I Ching and the Fellow Craft degree converge upon a common lesson: wisdom arises when man studies the past, acts consciously in the present, and labors deliberately toward the future.

The I Ching and the Philosophy of Change

The I Ching is among the oldest surviving texts in human civilization. Its title is commonly translated as The Book of Changes, reflecting its central concern with the changing nature of existence (Huang, 1998). Rather than viewing change as disorderly or random, the text presents transformation as patterned and meaningful.

The I Ching is structured around sixty-four hexagrams composed of combinations of broken and unbroken lines representing the interaction of yin and yang. These complementary forces symbolize dualities present throughout existence: activity and receptivity, light and darkness, firmness and yielding (Wilhelm & Baynes, 1967).

At the ethical center of the I Ching stands the concept of the “superior man,” derived from the Confucian idea of the junzi. The superior man is not morally flawless, but he is committed to continual self-cultivation through study, reflection, discipline, and proper conduct (Yao, 2000).

Unlike systems that emphasize abstract dogma alone, the I Ching focuses upon practical wisdom. It asks how one should conduct oneself amid the ever-changing conditions of life. Wisdom is demonstrated not through withdrawal from the world, but through proper action within it.

Learning from Antiquity

The famous passage from Hexagram 26 captures this philosophy clearly:

“The superior man acquaints himself with many sayings of antiquity and many deeds of the past, in order to strengthen his character” (Wilhelm & Baynes, 1967, p. 104).

This statement reveals that the study of history and tradition serves a moral purpose. The superior man examines the past not for nostalgia, but for instruction. Ancient sayings and historical deeds become tools for self-improvement.

Classical Chinese philosophy repeatedly treated historical knowledge as essential to ethical cultivation. According to Adler (2014), Confucian traditions viewed the study of antiquity as a means of refining personal virtue and social harmony. The past served as a mirror through which present conduct could be evaluated.

Most importantly, the purpose of this study is “to strengthen his character.” Knowledge is not an end in itself. Wisdom must transform conduct.

This emphasis resonates strongly with initiatic traditions such as Freemasonry, where symbols, allegories, and inherited teachings are intended not merely to preserve information but to refine the individual. Masonic ritual similarly presents ancient forms and symbolic instruction as instruments of moral development.

The Three Steps of the Fellow Craft

The symbolism of the three steps at the beginning of the winding staircase offers a strikingly similar framework for understanding human existence.

The first step may be understood as the past. It symbolizes origins, foundations, inherited lessons, and accumulated experience. Every individual stands upon knowledge and conditions shaped by those who came before him. In Masonry, reverence for tradition, ancient landmarks, and transmitted teachings reflects the importance of this symbolic first step.

The second step represents the present. This is where the Fellow Craft symbolically stands. The significance of this position cannot be overstated. The past cannot be changed, and the future cannot yet be possessed. Only the present allows for labor, discipline, and conscious action.

The third step symbolizes the future. It represents aspiration, hope, possibility, and the unfinished work of becoming. The future is not fixed but emerges from present conduct informed by past wisdom.

This interpretation aligns closely with the philosophy of the I Ching. The superior man studies antiquity in order to guide his present actions and shape the future wisely.

Standing Upon the Middle Step

The symbolism becomes especially profound when one considers that the Fellow Craft stands upon the middle step rather than the first or third. He exists between memory and possibility.

This position reflects a universal philosophical truth. Human beings live within time, yet meaningful action occurs only in the present moment. The Roman Stoic Marcus Aurelius similarly emphasized that man possesses only the present and must therefore govern it wisely (Aurelius, trans. 2002).

The I Ching consistently emphasizes responsiveness to changing circumstances. Wisdom is not passive contemplation but disciplined action appropriate to one’s conditions (Lynn, 1994). The superior man reflects deeply, observes patterns, and acts intentionally.

Freemasonry teaches a comparable lesson. The rough ashlar is not perfected merely through thought or aspiration. It must be worked. The labor of self-improvement occurs through repeated acts of discipline, reflection, and ethical conduct within daily life.

The Fellow Craft therefore faces forward. He studies the past without remaining trapped within it. He imagines the future without escaping into fantasy. His work belongs to the present.

Time and Self-Cultivation

Both the I Ching and Freemasonry reject passive existence. The inferior man drifts through life unconsciously, ruled by appetite, habit, or circumstance. The superior man cultivates intentionality.

Confucian philosophy repeatedly emphasizes self-cultivation as a lifelong process requiring ritual discipline, moral reflection, and education (Tu, 1985). Similarly, Masonic symbolism presents moral improvement as gradual labor performed over the course of one’s life.

The symbolism of the three steps reflects this developmental journey:

• the past provides instruction,

• the present provides opportunity,

• and the future provides direction.

In this sense, the Fellow Craft and the superior man of the I Ching are engaged in the same labor. Both seek to strengthen character through conscious living.

The staircase itself reinforces this symbolism. The ascent is not instantaneous. Wisdom and refinement are achieved step by step. The initiate rises gradually through effort, reflection, and perseverance.

Conclusion

Though separated by culture, geography, and historical period, the I Ching and the Fellow Craft degree arrive at remarkably similar insights regarding time, character, and human development. Both traditions teach that wisdom requires reflection upon the past, disciplined action in the present, and deliberate movement toward the future.

The famous I Ching passage concerning the superior man studying antiquity “to strengthen his character” finds profound symbolic expression in the three steps at the beginning of the winding staircase. The Fellow Craft stands upon the middle step because the present is where the work of transformation occurs.

The past offers instruction. The future offers aspiration. But character is built in the present moment through conscious labor.

Ultimately, both systems teach that man is not merely carried through time. He is shaped by how deliberately he moves through it. Standing between memory and possibility, the Fellow Craft ascends step by step, strengthening his character through wisdom, reflection, and intentional action.

References

Adler, J. A. (2014). Confucianism as a religious tradition: Linguistic and methodological problems. Journal of Chinese Philosophy, 41(1–2), 5–21.

Ames, R. T., & Hall, D. L. (2003). Dao de jing: Making this life significant. Ballantine Books.

Aurelius, M. (2002). Meditations (G. Hays, Trans.). Modern Library. (Original work published ca. 180 CE)

Cleary, T. (1986). The Taoist I Ching. Shambhala.

Hall, D. L., & Ames, R. T. (1998). Thinking through Confucius. State University of New York Press.

Huang, A. (1998). The complete I Ching: The definitive translation. Inner Traditions.

Legge, J. (1882). The Yi King. Oxford University Press.

Lynn, R. J. (1994). The classic of changes: A new translation of the I Ching as interpreted by Wang Bi. Columbia University Press.

Needham, J. (1956). Science and civilisation in China (Vol. 2). Cambridge University Press.

Smith, R. J. (2008). Fathoming the cosmos and ordering the world: The Yijing (I Ching, or Classic of Changes) and its evolution in China. University of Virginia Press.

Tu, W. (1985). Confucian thought: Selfhood as creative transformation. State University of New York Press.

Wilhelm, R., & Baynes, C. F. (1967). The I Ching or Book of Changes (3rd ed.). Princeton University Press.

Yao, X. (2000). An introduction to Confucianism. Cambridge University Press.

Riding the Rails to the Fair: A Better Way to Visit the L.A. County Fair

This past Saturday, we decided to spend the day at the Los Angeles County Fair. Like many people, we have gone before and dealt with the usual hassles—traffic, crowded parking lots, long walks to the entrance, and expensive parking fees. General parking at the fairgrounds costs $25, and even then, depending on where you park, you can end up hiking across what feels like half of Pomona before reaching the gate. Preferred parking at the Sheraton is closer and more convenient, but that jumps the price to $40.

This time, however, we decided to try something different, and it turned out to be one of the best decisions of the day.

We parked at the A Line station parking lot in San Dimas. Currently, weekend parking there is free, though I do not know if that policy will continue permanently. From there, we took the train to the La Verne/Fairplex Station. The ride itself was only a single stop and took just a few minutes, making it surprisingly easy and convenient.

It was also one of those perfect Southern California fair days: cool, overcast, and comfortable. Honestly, it was probably the best kind of weather for spending hours walking around the fairgrounds without the usual heat and exhaustion.

Once we arrived at the station, the next step could not have been easier. Right in the station’s roundabout area, Foothill Transit’s Route 67 bus was waiting. The Route 67 line is dedicated specifically to serving the fair, and there were clear signs posted explaining the pickup frequency and operating times. Even near the Red Gate drop-off area at the fairgrounds, temporary signs helped direct passengers where to wait for the return trip.

The bus ride itself was quick and direct. It simply picked up passengers at the station and transported them straight to the Fairplex Red Gate entrance near the Sheraton without making additional stops.

That convenience alone made the trip worthwhile.

We had already purchased our fair tickets online and stored them on our phones. When we arrived at the Red Gate, we scanned our tickets and walked straight in with virtually no waiting. The walk from the bus drop-off point to the gate itself was short and easy.

By taking the train and bus, we saved a little money and probably only a small amount of time overall, but what we really avoided was a great deal of potential frustration. There was no stress about navigating crowded parking lots, no long walk back to the car at the end of the night, and no sitting impatiently in traffic trying to leave the fairgrounds. Instead, the train and bus became part of the Saturday afternoon adventure itself.

Inside the fair, we spent the day exploring the exhibit halls, admiring contest entries, viewing award-winning crafts and home goods, and simply enjoying the atmosphere. The fair always offers something interesting around every corner. But the highlight of the day was easily the blacksmith demonstration.

We sat comfortably watching the blacksmith work metal in the traditional way—heating, hammering, shaping, and explaining the craft as they worked. In a world dominated by technology and automation, there was something fascinating about watching a centuries-old skill performed live. It was authentic, educational, and surprisingly captivating. We ended up staying there for nearly forty-five minutes just taking it all in.

Afterward, we wandered through the entertainment areas, sampled classic fair food, and continued enjoying the sights and sounds that make the L.A. County Fair such a unique experience.

When we were ready to leave, the return trip proved just as easy. The Route 67 bus arrived within about ten minutes and quickly transported us back to the train station. We had just missed a departing train, so we waited for the next one, but even that delay was minor.

One thing we noticed on the ride back was how many other fairgoers were also using the train. Normally, stations like San Dimas, Glendora, and La Verne are not especially crowded, but this time there were plenty of riders returning from the fair. Many likely came from communities much farther away, which speaks to how practical this transportation option has become.

Overall, the experience was smooth, affordable, and stress-free. Between the train and Foothill Transit Route 67, getting to the fair was easier than driving ourselves. We saved some money, avoided a great deal of aggravation, reduced wear and tear on the car, and added a little extra adventure to the day.

For anyone planning a trip to the Los Angeles County Fair, I strongly recommend considering the train and Foothill Transit Route 67. Sometimes the best part of an outing is discovering a smarter—and more enjoyable—way to get there.