一颗露珠中的宇宙：与退休教授阿尔吉斯·米库纳斯讨论生命的意义

"Tell the truth, and you won't ever have to worry about getting your story straight."

This thought echoed in my mind after spending an afternoon with Dr. Algis Mickunas, OHIO Professor Emeritus of Philosophy. A man whose journey took him from occupied Lithuania to the battlefields of Korea and classrooms across the globe, he firmly calls himself a "classical American." It's a commitment that’s apparent even now, as just weeks after our conversation, he was scheduled for an Honor Flight to Washington D.C.—a recognition of that long-ago Korean War service. 

When I arrived for our conversation, which would cover (among other topics) escaping Russia’s occupation of Lithuania, holding secret philosophy sessions for women in the United Arab Emirates, and building a network of peers and students around the world, I found Mickunas sitting upright on a yoga ball in his basement office (good for his posture, he explained) working on his next book, which explores the concept of "emptiness." Apart from being a teacher, he has authored, co-authored and edited over 50 books in three languages, and approximately 200 papers in five languages. To be a good teacher, one has to be a good researcher.

He started talking about mastery, and how true masters achieve a state of emptiness. It was a concept he first encountered long ago, recovering from a head wound sustained in the Korean War.

Finding himself near Kyoto, Japan, he sought out a Zen master. This master, a small man he said weighed “maybe 100 pounds,” effortlessly wielded a large Japanese bow. Mickunas, then a young, powerful soldier, couldn't even draw it.

"Hey, what the hell is that little scrawny…" Mickunas recalled thinking. "I couldn't pull the bow!"

Days of practice followed, mostly pulling and tugging while the master sat silently, sometimes inviting him for tea. Eventually, Mickunas could handle the bow, hit the target. Then, one day as Mickunas went through his regular routine, the master simply bowed and said, “That was all.” The lesson wasn't just about archery.

"As long as you try the slightest control, you're not a master," Mickunas explained. "Let the bow and arrow and target meet themselves through me without my interference. As long as I don’t interfere, I'm in control."

He returned to the idea of truth-telling, connecting it to mastery and that resistance-free state.

"Remember, if you tell the truth, you don't have to have a good memory," he said. "You're just saying the thing as it is."

He shared the modern fable about a biology professor facing four students who missed the final exam. They claimed a flat tire. The professor let them retake the test in separate rooms. The exam had two parts: 5% on a chemical problem, and 95% on a single question: "Which tire?" Mickunas chuckled, "’Oh, damn it, we didn't talk about that!’"

This appreciation for directness and inquiry permeates Mickunas's approach to life and teaching. Now 91, he remains as lucid and lively as anyone I've met, his journey marked by an intense curiosity. He didn't arrive at philosophy through conventional means. His early life was shaped by displacement and conflict.

Mickunas was born in a small village in Lithuania; his family were peasants.

"Well, let's see, we were peasants, illiterate, very happy," he remembered. Then came the occupations: Soviet, then German, then Soviet again. Each claimed to be bringers of liberation.

"We're liberating you from oppression," Mickunas recounted them saying. "We're looking around, who's oppressing us? Well, nobody."

Fleeing west, his family eventually landed in Athol, Massachusetts. Mickunas worked; he never attended high school. Yet, when the Korean War began, he felt compelled to enlist.

"Well, I was very happy to be in this country," he said. "I said, this is my country, and I am going to stand for it, okay? I was very young and very powerful." He earned his U.S. citizenship while serving.

"So, I came back as a citizen, a veteran, and hey, all is mine. It’s my country now." he told me.

After the war, working a grueling steel mill job in Chicago, he decided he needed education. He walked into the Illinois Institute of Technology. They told him he needed a high school diploma. Mickunas struck a deal.

"I said, I can pay... and I will sit in your classes. You don't have to give me credit, because I cannot register anyway," he proposed. He asked only to participate and take exams. They agreed.

His performance impressed an engineering professor who helped him navigate the GED exams. Mickunas finished his engineering degree, but philosophy found him by chance. While his wife attended night classes in downtown Chicago, he wandered, curious.

"I was walking past this university, DePaul... Things lit up, I walked in," he recalled. He initially looked for Russian literature but found the class wasn't starting yet. "Okay, I'll come back. So, I'm walking around. Philosophy. Open. I said, can I register? They said, yeah."

He found the logic and arguments captivating. Soon, the philosophy chairman called him in.

"He said, but you're taking all these courses. I said, well, it's fun. He said, you have enough credits, we can give you a degree."

With his engineering degree covering science requirements, he accepted. A master's offer followed, then a letter arrived: an invitation from the German Academic Exchange to study in Germany, recommended by his chairman. This led to study at the universities  of Cologne and Freiburg; upon return to U.S. he studied at the University of Chicago and later finished his Ph.D. at Emory University in Atlanta 

This unconventional path forged a teacher deeply connected to the Socratic method—questioning, debating and following the argument wherever it leads, not imposing his own views.

"My thinking is totally irrelevant, okay, and so I have no philosophy," he stated. "I simply say, well, let's look at what's going on in the world... and we'll discuss it."

His teaching career spanned the globe. He fostered East-West dialogue in Japan, helped re-establish education in Guatemala and lectured across Europe. His home, wherever it was, became a hub for his students.

"Every Friday at noon... they could come to my house," said Mickunas, referring to a group of his graduate students, who came from countries and cultures around the world. "They would start talking about some issue... and I would interfere without saying, this is what I think." These discussions, fueled by food cooked by the students themselves, sometimes lasted until Sunday morning.

He identifies simply as a "teacher," finding the label "professor" insufficient. His focus remains on fostering understanding and critical thinking, never discouraging students.

"Never criticize a student," he advised. "You don't know this, this is wrong, this is bad... No, this is the direction you took. Let's both work on it and unfold, go farther and further." 

His dedication earned him Lithuania's Bell of Freedom award. 

"That's a bell of freedom," he said, pointing it out. "Given to me two years ago. Lithuania elevated me to the Academy of Sciences that is above professors. For my teaching and freeing students, they gave me the Bell of Freedom and a Knight of the Cross."

What fuels this seemingly boundless energy and engagement at 91? I asked him for his secret to longevity.

"Well, there's no secret," he replied. "First of all, to be in love with anyone. You have to be in love with the universe. It's so interesting."

He described waiting for an attendant one early morning in a hotel in Poland. She arrived late, apologizing, thinking he must be bored.

"I said, I'm not bored," Mickunas told her. "This is fantastic. ‘What's going on?’ I'm looking at a tree outside. There's a little light showing up. There's fog. And the fog condenses on a little leaf into a little drop. And the drop is pierced by morning sunlight. And then the drop drops on another leaf and explodes into many; This is a whole universe."

As our conversation wound down, he noted the unique nature of our meeting.

"Our meeting will never happen again," he observed. "It is our only cosmic event that is so unique, and it's unrepeatable, but that made a difference in the universe."