Status Report

It all began Wednesday week. Which is to say, a week ago this past Wednesday, April 19. It was an up day. There was an issue of training that seemed would be helpful to the office, so I spent about an hour and a half creating a step-by-step guide, with screenshots. I confirmed with a few co-workers that the instructions were clear & understandable, and each one said it helped and thanked me for the effort. I then e-mailed the instructions to the entire office, most of whom are working remotely.

That felt pretty good.

The rest of the day was similar. I was hitting all cylinders, as I like to say. Then – an unpleasant experience at a local business, which need not be detailed here.

That contretemps had the potential of spoiling a very pleasant and energizing day. I thought I might break the spell by going to a potent temptation zone: a bookstore. The closest was Half Priced Books.

So, in I go, wandering the aisles — as is my wont. A gentleman was next to me in the fiction aisle. I looked professional (still dressed from work), so maybe that’s why he asked me: “Can you help? I’m looking for War of the Worlds.”

“Try science fiction.”

“Oh! Good idea! I didn’t think of that!”

A few minutes pass. I’m in a different aisle, a few yards north of the cash register. There’s a young lady - possibly a college freshman - and the gentleman hands her the book, and she thanks him. He notices me, points me out and says that I deserved the credit. She smiled; I nodded & smiled in return.

Purely by chance, I ended up in line behind her. She had three books — War of the Worlds, Of Mice and Men, and Huck Finn. I asked her why she was buying these (I had assumed they were school related). She said she was re-reading things she had enjoyed when she was younger, as well as some classics she’d been curious about.

I don’t know what came over me: “Well, if you like Huck Finn, you might also like Pudd’nhead Wilson. It’s like Prince and the Pauper, except the children are slave and free.”

She thanked me, and we each went our way. Oh, by the way, I bought two books from the discount section.

Now, back to that notorious anniversary: my church, St Paul’s Episcopal Cathedral, is about a block away from the original Federal Building. Our church experienced severe damage - the sanctuary was declared unsafe for use, and the congregation held services in the parish hall for about two years.

Two of our members were wounded; one worked in the Journal Record building, the other in the Veterans’ Administration, in the Federal Building. They shared their individual stories that evening, as well as their faith journey from that day to the present. This was also energizing, and uplifting.

So: I was wound up when I got home, a little after 8, and had a restless night. But Thursday went well, though I was punchy. Left work at noon, because a computer glitch prevented me from doing my job. Once I got to Norman, I changed into my lawn-work gear, and mowed Debra’s yard.

By the way, I had brought an impressive stack of books with me (mostly Neruda-related), which ended up piled on a chair in Debra’s living room.

I had a lot of energy through the weekend. I’d balance yard work with creative work with reading. But I was beginning to feel exhausted. I was not sleeping well. I haven’t had my average ~7 hours of sleep since that Wednesday. I felt like I’m running on adrenaline.

March was a challenge for me. As my Primary Care Physician (PCP) has put it, multiple stressors created a “perfect storm.” There’s the on-going stress of my job, the stress of loving someone also stressed (by a relative’s dementia), and the sixth anniversary of Brother Dave’s death. I reported all this in early March to my PCP, and indicated I thought I needed temporary pharmaceutical assistance. He agreed, and prescribed a generic formulation of Cymbalta ®.

At that same appointment, I wondered aloud whether I might be manic-depressive. He did a brief assessment - maybe five questions - and felt that my symptoms did not meet the criteria. And, since I have been going to work every day, and have not had any socially-unacceptable behaviors, I accepted that diagnosis.

By that Friday, I began to wonder if the heightened energy and mood was elevated as a side-effect of the medication. Happily, I had an appointment to see my PCP this past Tuesday. I reminded him of our previous discussion about the possibility of bipolar disorder. Given this more chronic expression of “mania”, he said it was possible I have cyclothemia (AKA, Bipolar Disorder III), and that Cymbalta increases the severity of the symptoms. He gave me permission to decrease how often I take my medication; I’ve been taking it every day, in the morning. For now, I’m skipping a dose every other day.

Yesterday was less manic. But I woke up with a sour stomach, and wonder if it’s adrenaline.

The story continues.

Forms of Prayer

Rev. Don Owens, former chaplain to St. Anselm of Canterbury Church of Norman, Oklahoma – the Episcopal college ministry for the University of Oklahoma – once broke prayer into four forms: verbal, physical, contemplation, and visualization.

Verbal prayer is the form most familiar to us. The Episcopal Catechism describes seven kinds of prayer, any of which could be verbal. Additionally, St. Augustine of Hippo said that singing is praying twice [paraphrased], which means that when we chant the Psalms or sing the hymns, we are also praying.

The second form is through our physical actions. This could be through whatever liturgical actions (e.g., kneeling or bowing our head) we observe during corporate worship; remembering that the word “liturgy” is Greek, and is translated as “the work FOR the people” or “the work OF the people.”

This holy work could also occur when we serve others. This is exemplified by Dorothy Day, who founded the Catholic Worker’s Movement, which was founded during the Depression, and continues to provide direct aid to the poor and homeless. The Episcopal Church observes her passing into God’s Glory on November 29.

Another physically active style of prayer is the prayer walk, which is best represented by the labyrinth. St. Paul’s is planning a labyrinth walk to take place during Advent. I encourage you to watch for the date, and sample this type of prayer.

Another form of prayer that involves physical action is the use of prayer beads. The two types of prayer beads you’ll find in our bookstore are the Roman Catholic Rosary and the Anglican Chaplet (which goes by several names). You’ll note the Roman Catholic version has a different design, with more beads. This version meditates on a set cycle of scenes from the life of Jesus while alternating between multiple recitations of the Lord’s Prayer and the Hail Mary. By contrast, the Anglican version is very Protestant, in that the person praying determines which prayer(s) are repeated on the beads.

The repetition used with prayer beads could lead to what the Rev. Ron Del Bene calls “breath prayer” – this is the point where whatever prayer you’ve chosen gets written on your heart (to borrow a phrase from the prophet Jeremiah). This type of prayer typically leads to the third type of prayer, contemplation.

This third type of prayer is a prayer beyond words. The author of the fourteenth century English guide The Cloud of Unknowing described this contemplative style of prayer as aiming the heart to God, like an arrow. There are a five kinds of prayer listed in our Catechism which could be contemplative: adoration, praise, thanksgiving, and oblation. You might also be meditate on various types of iconography – from the cross in our sanctuary, or our stained glass windows, or even formal Icons (most from the Orthodox tradition). Be mindful that you are using this iconography as a sort of window to God; you are not worshiping the object – you are using the object as a sort of spiritual technology (to borrow the Dali Lama’s phrase) to lead you to the divine.

The final form is Ignation Contemplation. In his Spiritual Exercises, St. Ignatius of Loyola directed his students to use all five of their senses to contemplate a scene from the life of Jesus. You might apply this version of contemplation to the scenes used in the Roman Catholic Rosary (which are called Mysteries in that context).

Why do we pray? I like the answer given in the book Walk in Love by Scott Gunn and Melody Wilson Shobe: to build our relationship with God. There is no right way to pray. All that is required is to show up, with an intention to focus our attention on the High Holy One.

Zorba the Buddha

Recently finished reading an interview with Tom Robbins by Mara Altman. She asked him if there was anyone in his life he considered a mentor. "No one living," he said; then, went on:

Oh, maybe Leonard Cohen. Leonard Cohen is my hero. He’s like Zorba the Buddha. Bhagwan Shree Rajneesh, the Indian guru ... who later changed his name to Osho, he had this notion of a character called Zorba the Buddha who — we’ll say a man, but it could be a woman too — who was contemplative, led a serene spiritual life, meditated a lot, was a nonviolent, placid person who lived in the spirit but who also knew how to work and make money, knew how to utilize the Internet, knew how much to tip a maître d’ in a Paris nightclub, who was of the world and enjoyed the world and all of its sensual pleasures in terms of food, sex, drink, color, art, but also at the same time was deeply spiritual. And I’ve kind of superimposed that Zorba the Buddha figure onto Leonard Cohen, perhaps unfairly, but he strikes me as someone who is close to that figure. I like the fact that he meditates, that he has spent time alone — a lot of it in anguish in a Buddhist monastery — that he is so adept with language and loves women and wears beautiful Armani suits and will sit and sip wine at a sidewalk café with beautiful girls and yet be able to have this rich inner life, not just creatively but also spiritually.

I remember Dr. Omed once telling me I needed to learn how to be in the world, but not of it. I imagine he meant something like this. Combining, as it were, the exuberance of Kazantzakis' Zorba with the supposed serenity of a Zen master.

Whether Leonard Cohen is that Zen master is another question. He's on the record of saying his interest in Zen was primarily motivated by the teacher, though he's also expressed an admiration for the strict discipline. I imagine he would be amused by Robbins' description, perhaps even flattered. He'd likely find it as amusing as his image as a lady's man.

For myself, it's my hope to live the words I pray. It's a daily struggle to practice the peace I seek. To find the joy in life, even in the darkness. I don't know that I have Zorba's lust for life, or the Zen master's discipline. I'm decidedly no lady's man, nor fashion plate. I'm a middle class guy, with no greater American dream than keeping my head above water while managing my consumer debt. I'm dazzled by things, and tempted by what they promise. I'm easily cut by the side-ways glance, or snide tone. I'm too nervous, too fearful, to wear the world as a loose garment.

Leonard wrote: “I practiced on my sainthood.” I think I know what he meant. My struggle and striving to live with integrity are that practice. It's not sainthood I seek, exactly: it's a spirit that is calm.

I'm no saint. I'm no Zorba. I'm certainly not Zen Master Cohen. I'm only Jac. I might as well begin with a song.

Through the Lens, through the Screen

I imagine I see the world through the viewfinder of this camera. Bright sun light gleams through. Hints of yesterday's clouds. Fresh-trimmed grass. The dry street. The darkened windows of the rental house across the street.

I imagine you, reading these words, peering into these mysterious pixels, trying to imagine you see these things as well. Imagining you see my face. Imagining you hear my voice, even as I imagine it while typing these words. I imagine you, with your coffee or tea, your morning radio, your sliced fruit, your inviting house. I imagine you, man & woman, friend and relation, drawing by this screen as our grandparents drew around the radio or tv. I imagine the community we are, the community we could be.

I imagine your voice. I imagine your warmth, your smile. I imagine your patience and your tolerance. I imagine you in California, in South America, in Michigan, in Ulverston. I imagine you strolling by this space, looking through all these words.

I remember, as a child, walking past window displays as Grandmother and I would walk down the street. I remember fascination with small animated villages, trains running through faux snowscapes. I remember the eerie faceless manikins. I often walk neighborhood streets, daydreaming of the dining room scenes, of the secret stories unspooling behind those doors.

That's how I imagine us: People passing by these electronic spaces, peering into each others' windows. Me, I don't leave much room to view between the blind slats. I keep my voice low, unless I'm singing.

Automatic writing, originally posted on Facebook

On Sadness

Sadness is cousin to grief
a haunted space
echoing what is lost

This past Thursday, I went on a guided tour of the Washita Battlefield (with friends from my church). We know the place because Magpie lived to tell the tale. A ranger told the tale, she told it well: How Gen. Custer sent four divisions to attack from each of the ancient sacred directions. "No women and children," Custer said, remembering the massacre at Sand Creek. Our guide pointed out Custer's knoll, where he surveyed the scene just before the attack. Where he would have heard reports on missing men. Where he would hear women and children were being killed, contrary to his orders.

The ranger told us she knew of some Native Americans who were sensitive to this space — who felt echoes of the lost lives. According to family lore, I am fifth generation Comanche. Perhaps it was the ranger's suggestion, perhaps it was the heat of the day and the exertion, perhaps it was my prayerful heart, intimately trained for contemplation. I felt it: I felt my heart burn. I was aware of the echoes of loss.

I keenly felt it as we crossed the field where the Cheyenne lived that winter, along the banks of the once mighty Washita. I keenly felt it as we passed the trees where people had left prayer cloths in the sacred colors of red, yellow, black, and blue. I felt it as we placed our own prayer cloth near where the ponies had been killed. I felt it as we climbed out the rise, back to the park center.

Sadness is a haunted space. Sadness is not the absence of happiness; not exactly its dark brother. Sadness is less than depression, but it may lead to depression with time. Sadness & grief are cousins: they often come together, but I don't suppose sadness is only caused by grief. It may have many kin.

There's a moment in the second movement of Henryk Goreck's Symphony No. 3 (Symphony of Sorrowful Songs) that, for me, bespeaks “Joyous Sorrow.” How can that be? I think that is the moment when you perceive the hopeful light on the dark's horizon. In the context of the symphony, it is the moment a mother grieves the death of her child — yet there is the suggestion that life goes continues. The mother's song concludes:
“And you, God's little flowers
May you bloom all around
So that my son
May sleep happily.”

Sadness is cousin to grief
a haunted space
echoing what is lost