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

Idé d’jour

When I feed the hungry, they call me a saint. When I ask why people are hungry, they call me a communist.
— Helder Camara, archbishop (1909-1999)

Idée d’jour

Congratulation: The civility of envy.
— Ambrose Bierce

Idée d’jour

The big thieves hang the little ones.
— Czech proverb

Idée d’jour

A hungry man is not a free man.
— Adlai Stevenson

Idée d’jour

Show me a sane man and I will cure him for you.
— Carl Jung

Ill Omen

Mowing my lawn's courses
a bold grackle crosses my path
Begone, ill omen!

Idée d’jour

The greatest obstacle to discovering the shape of the earth, the continents, and the oceans was not ignorance but the illusion of knowledge.
— Daniel J. Boorstin

The Disciple

This past Sunday, a friend said I most resembled a disciple of all the people he knew. We were both in our worship-related vestments — I was wearing a floor-length white alb with cincture; he was wearing a verger's chimere. These vestments are intended to obscure our modern individual identities, and help all participants to experience kairos (timeless time, or "God time").

With that white alb and cincture representing the garb of the first and second century (C.E.), and my long face, long body, and thinning hair. I suppose I might have resembled a painting or icon of one of the disciples. Of course, I assume he meant I physically resembled a disciple.

He didn't compare me to any particular figure. After all, we know so few of the disciples' names. I could have been a nameless follower at a distance. I could have been one of the several outsiders (centurion or Samaritan) who sought out the Master.

I am, indeed, a follower at a distance — by about two thousand years. I am a bit more than a student. I strive to take on the discipline of the Master, to the best of my ability.

What is that discipline? The Master said: “You shall love God with your whole being, and love your neighbor as yourself.” I sometimes call this the “Law of Love” - a "Law" which is much more challenging than the hundred some-odd laws of Deuteronomy and Leviticus. Having a list of dos and don'ts is pretty clear-cut; an injunction to love is more challenging.

From this, and from the Master's actions, I draw some inferences. I don't think the Master had much patience for unthinking obedience to rules and regulations. Time after time, he valued compassion over social or religious norms and traditions. The Master never shirked from service, but was also intentional about caring for himself, especially by frequent respites for private prayer.

I don't claim to be a good student. Not only do I have bad days, I have frequent bad weeks and months. The point is not to make a list of my daily offenses (though that might be helpful); it's even less to list others' offenses. I strive to become more like the Master with each day.

I might look like a disciple of the first or second century. If so, my goal should be for my actions to be in harmony with that appearance. It's not enough to look like an disciple; I should live like one as well.

Idée d’jour

The more I think about it, the more I realize there is nothing more artistic than to love others.
— Vincent van Gogh

4.June.2013

Crack of lightening
Blast of thunder
The shaving mirror trembles

‘Create in me a clean heart, O God’

Ps. 51 (BCP)

Lately, my heart has become polluted. Just as our air has been polluted by car exhaust and factory smoke, so has my heart been deceived by the temptation of immediate gratification. It has been hypnotized by the popular song. It has been seduced by advertisements.

And I have been dumping wastes on my heart: resentment; self pity; and a rapacious ego.

We have learned, of late, how difficult it is to clean the pollution caused by the dumping of industrial wastes. And I know how hard it is to clean ego-wastes from my heart. For humans it is impossible, but all things are possible through God.

So I pray that God create a new, clean heart in me. And I consider two thoughts which comfort me in this process. We have heard that faith without works is barren. I now believe there is a corollary: works without faith is death.

And that faith is that it is not I who act, but Our Lord who acts through me. With thanks to God, “Whose power, working is us, can do infinitely more than we can ask or imagine.”

Originally published in October 1986 Pilgrim

Work in Progress

So. After a burst of creative energy, it may appear that I've gone underground again, so to speak. But that's not the case. I've been writing a rhymed quatrain every day for the past week, and posting it on Facebook (my friends know who I am) and Twitter (@jacsongs)

Most quatrains got "liked" by folk on Facebook. And I've toyed with the idea of a “crowd-sourced” poem where only the verses with the most "likes" survive the editing process. This might not be the best poem for that experiment; at the moment, it seems like plot less doggerel.

Well, plot less because I had no idea what the plot might be — or even if there were a plot — when the work began. The quatrains came to me in that estival space between sleep and wakefulness — which is not to claim they illustrate remembered dream imagery. I transcribed them in my little red notebook (a faux Moleskine), then typed them onto those social media sites.

The quatrains appear below, as they originally came to me. I've marked through one verse, because it doesn't seem to belong in this poem at this time.

I'm not sure, but I think this poem is a ghost story

---

I have to get that
said the kettle to the moon
there's a panther in the cupboard
and it may be mauling a spoon
But the phone wasn't ringing
And no birds were singing

She felt someone near her
with her heart of stone.
Nothing there but echoes
No one else at home.
The alarm wasn't pinging
And no birds were singing.

It's like it's often been said:
three can keep a secret
if two of them are dead.

First there's the lightening
then there's the thunder
soon the silence
is filled with wonder

The deceitful truth
stumbles down the hall
knocks down the portrait
of her father's caul
Perhaps someone somewhere is winning
But no birds are singing.

Oh, this and that
said the toaster
Where'd you go asked the lion
Oh, here & there, here & there

The dim figure in the rain
Wet footprints in the hall
Her famous heart of stone
Now feels so very small.

Idée d’jour

At the height of laughter, the universe is flung into a kaleidoscope of new possibilities.
— Jean Houston

Ten Long Years

State of the Blog

I was recently described as a “long-time blogger” a few days ago.  The phrase took me aback: have I really been blogging that long?  And how did Dave know?

A glance to the left quickly answers both questions: there is a rather long archive listing every month I've posted entries since March 2003.  It's rather mindboggling to think I've been doing this for a decade. 

I admit that I've been inconsistent.  I don't post every day.  Sometimes I don't post for months at a time (as witnessed by missing months in that archive list).  Nevertheless, I have accomplished over 2,200 posts, with over almost 50,000 page views.

I've been told my blog would be more successful if I stuck to one subject. Recent evidence suggests that a blog of reviews could receive a fair number hits, for example. But my interests are too widely varied, and I'm not the most disciplined writer. Thus, “Love During Wartime” is a sort of electronic commonplace book, in which I've collected political opinions, religious wonderings, original poetry, music videos (my own & others), original photography, and a wide-ranging collection of quotations.

I began this blog about a year and a half after the U.S. Invasion of Iraq. My posts were primarily political, and displayed a great deal of anger toward President B*sh. For this reason, I gave the blog the subtitle “Chevaux de Bataille and Random Quotidian Thoughts”: “Chevaux de Bataille” roughly translates as "hobby horse"; and “Quotidian” means "daily" (i.e., "ordinary").

I eventually tired of my anger over that miss-begotten war, and realized it had essentially played itself out as a topic. That's when I started posting my poetry and photos, sometimes combined, and my religious musings. I became a member of the RevGalBlogPal list, and through that became involved with the book cum blog Ordinary Time. I was one of many writers and editors for the book.

Through that list I became aware of Project 365, an initiative encouraging bloggers to post a photograph each day for a year. I created a side-blog, Jonah 365, on which I posted an image (photographic or verbal) every day. There was some cross-posting, but most of my attention was on the 365 blog in 2007. The practice did teach me that I could post something on a daily basis, if I set my mind to it.

After that hiatus, the archive list suggests I was reasonably regular until 2011, when I got a new job. It was more demanding, but also more rewarding. Honestly, a lot of my blogging prior to 2011 was done during down times at work (my day job essentially paid for my editorial work on Ordinary Time). Now that every day of every month is busy, I find I have little energy for writing when I get home.

Since then, the blog has primarily been the repository of various quotes — “Idée d’jour” is my bad French for “Thought for the day”. Additionally, there have been a few prayers, occasional poems, and a handful of original videos. Given my time and energy, this may be the best I can hope for.

As I say, I'm not the most disciplined writer. I'm one of those relatively lazy people who “wait for inspiration”. I've wondered what would happen if I did adopt a discipline — writing at least five lines of verse occurred to me about a month after national poetry month (April).

The bottom line is that I'm going to continue maintaining this blog. Don't think I could stop writing; don't want to. Who knows? There may be another decade of blogging in me yet!

White Noise

Fan on my right
purr on my left
predawn white noise

24.May.13

Who took my box of matches?
It was my box of secrets.
You will not find light,
only fire.

Walk with the Wolf

I've been facilitating a group at my church (St. Paul's Episcopal Cathedral) in a study of Barry Lopez's book, Of Wolves and Men. We completed our study two weeks ago, and I have some final reflections.

Overview

The book is divided into four sections: The first section is a scientific study of the wolf; the second is based on interviews with Native Americans, who have closely studied the wolf in the wild. Our group used these two sections as a means to attempt a well-rounded image of the wolf. The last two sections have to do with the rationales whites have used to exterminate the wolf: section three is a detailed and disturbing history of American justifications for this slaughter; section four relates the mythic history that might underlie those justifications.

The typical Western view, from the time of Genesis and the Greeks, has been to divide the light from the darkness, to judge things and creatures as good or evil. According to Lopez, America's indigenous peoples consider creatures from a more utilitarian view, wondering whether this creature has something to teach about survival in a given environment.

The Native Americans interviewed are primarily from the tundra (Alaska) and the plains (e.g., South Dakota). Their attitude concerning the wolf depends somewhat on their environment: on the tundra there is less fear because one can see what the wolf is up to; on a grassy plain, it is more difficult to discern what the wolf is doing, so the Plains Indian is more cautious around the wolf.

In neither case is the attitude necessarily of fear; it seems more one of respect. In fact, the Pawnee so closely identified with the wolf that other tribes call them “The Wolf People”.

What would it take for us to respect the wolf? Why must we romanticize it at one extreme, or demonize it at the other?

The Indian Wars of the late 1800s were coincident with a War on Wolves. Wolves were affected by the slaughter of the buffalo, which was enacted to starve out Indian warriors. But wolves were also slaughtered. It seems both the Indian and the wolf were unfortunate impediments to our “manifest destiny.”

Big Questions

When I facilitate these discussions, I like to focus on the “big questions”. In this instance the questions were:

1. The wolf are close kin with the dog, separated by no more than 15 generations. Why do we love the dog, yet fear the wolf?
2. Does our fear of the wolf reflect a fear of our own wildness?
3. If so, is it possible to reconnect with that wildness?
4. What does our attitude about the wolf say about our discernment of good and evil?

That last question made the group profoundly uncomfortable. I suspect this was because it could lead to a position of moral relativism, that is, the position that humans do not have the capacity to discern good and evil. It might be fair to say we lack sufficient evidence, in most cases, to pass such judgment.

The group was approaching this question as relatively liberal Christians. Ours is a denomination with a strong respect for sacred scripture — our view is that the Bible contains everything necessary for salvation. This respect is joined by valuing tradition and personal experience.

So: we begin with Genesis, of course, where JHWH declares all of creation “good”. JHWH may make distinctions between day and night, but the whole of the created order is declared good; even the beasts that walk the earth. Even the wolf. Then let us jump to this story from the Book of Acts: Peter is asked why he baptizes the uncircumcised along with the circumcised. He replies by describing a vision in which he is offered treyf (food an observant Jew should not eat). He refuses, saying “Let nothing profane or unclean enter my lips.” The voice in the vision replies, “What God has made clean, you must not call profane.”

These two passages suggest to me that humans are not qualified to judge other creatures. If God has proclaimed all creation good, and all creatures worthy, who are we to disagree?

We share much in common with the wolf: both species are primarily predators (rather than scavengers); both primarily eat meat; both are highly adaptive (wolves are native to forest, tundra, and desert). This commonality does not give humans the right to judge the wolf as good or evil. Where a human may have a complex moral compass, the wolf has a basic one: survival.

Judge Not

We do not walk with the wolf — we have not walked the paths of the forest or plain seeking food and shelter for generations. Lacking this experience, how can we judge the wolf?

This makes me question what right we have to judge anyone. Should we not, as the saying goes, walk in another's shoes first? Should we not practice compassion rather than condemnation, empathy rather than judgment?

Yet I am not fully a moral relativist. I believe I may judge actions, but not people. A person may commit an evil act (e.g., bombing innocents), but I am not entitled to call that person evil. As one striving to follow the Christ, I am called to reserve the harshest judgment for myself, and avoid judgment of others.

---

All praise be yours, through Brother Wolf, 
dweller of forest, tundra, and desert.
May we be blessed with his devotion, his vision, and his endurance.
May we confront our fear.
May we come to accept the darkness in ourselves 
that we project upon the wolf.
May we come to respect our brother,
learn from him, 
and recognize him as a fellow traveler in your grace.
This we ask in your Holy Name.
AMEN

A Conversation Worth Joining

If I knew where the good songs came from, I'd go there more often.
— Leonard Cohen

What makes a good song? The modern understanding of “song” is the combination of words & music. So, a good song is the perfect combination of words and music. Leonard Cohen's “Hallelujah” is an excellent example; especially the line “It goes like this: / The fourth, the fifth/ The minor fall / The major lift” — the supporting musical chords are, indeed, the fourth, the fifth, Am, then F maj.

A good song is also a conversation, or dialogue, between the words and music. I think especially of the songs of Simon and Garfunkle — “Bridge Over Troubled Water,” for example, is possibly the greatest hymn that never mentions God. This contrast can create a sort of dissonance that adds a layer of meaning that could not be found in the words or music on their own.

Dave Bonta's latest, Twelve Simple Songs, are not songs in this modern sense of the word. They don't appear to be in any formal structure that I'm aware of. Each poem is short and lyrical, filling no more than one page each. There's no obvious rhyme scheme or meter. The lines are variable in length, but typically very short.

It's fitting that these songs are one page each, because each is complemented by a photo on the verso. So, just as words and music create a conversation, so there is a conversation between each poem and picture. Indeed, Mr. Bonta describes this as “linked verses in dialogue with photographs about an intercontinental love affair.”

These are in fact love songs, which immediately remind me of Pablo Neruda's Twenty Love Poems. Neruda's poems are also lyrical; most are no more than a page long. Both Bonta and Neruda use nature imagery as metaphor for their beloved. Consider Neruda's lines:

In you the river sings and my soul flees in them
As you desire, and you send it where you will.
(Song III, trans. W.S. Merwin)

Then consider these lines from the last song in Dave's collection:

If my words are fish,
yours are lures,
marvels of ingenuity —
a water-bound being's
dream of flight.

In this instance, the photograph on the verso is of a crevasse: moss-covered boulders with a few small plants sprouting on the left center and near the upper-right hand corner. This may be an ancient river bed, but that's not my first impression. It's clear to me this is not an attempt to illustrate the poem, as in a common high school anthology. No: the reader is free to draw his own connections. The poem has to do with communication — “We play a game / called Mouth & Ear: / one speaks, the other listens.” But it's transcontinental communication — the classic long-distance romance. The crevasse suggests to me both the separation and intimacy implicit in such a relationship.

Song Two, “My parachute knapsack,” is another example of the dialogue between photo and poem. The poem closes with the lines “That's what it was like / being alone.” The photograph is of a pair of boots on a red porch, a white wall behind them and white snow bordering the left of the porch. This is possibly the most “illustrative” pairing in the collection, yet I don't see this as cloyingly obvious. There's no self-pity on either the verso or recto: both speak of being alone, rather than being lonely. Each offer images devoid of sentimentality.

I would be remiss if I did not mention that these poems are available in multiple formats: downloadable PDF; a downloadable MP3 file; an on-line version (which includes an embedded version of the MP3); a video version; and a print edition. The first three are free downloads; the last is available at cost. As Mr. Bonta says, the poems came to him freely, so he feels obliged to share them freely. A rather Franciscan attitude, I hope he doesn't mind my saying.

A few words about that video version: it is narrated by a female voice. She reads it as if it is one long poem, rather than an interconnected series of poems. The video does not incorporate Bonta's photography, though I think it would have been interesting if those images had occasionally flashed as small touches of "zen" (to use the videographer's term). The female voice lets us imagine the other side of that intercontinental conversation; it allows us to hear the words new, with new phrasing, new emphasis, added meaning. The images are primarily from nature, with still shots randomly flashing, against a mildly industrial sound-scape.

This may seem overkill for some “simple songs”. But the simplicity is deceiving. Though the chapbook began as a birthday present for Rachel, the beloved, the fact that all are addressed to “you” allows the reader to participate, to imagine himself as the lover, to see herself as the beloved. It allows us to be part of a greater conversation, between the words and the audience.

It is a conversation well worth joining.

Morning, 23.May.13

It's raining. Thunder. Dawn is eerie peach.

Idée d’jour

Hunting is not a sport. In a sport, both sides should know they're in the game.
—Paul Rodriguez

Morning Joe

Shall I have another cup of joe?
Let my heart dance a caffeinated tarantella.

The doorway comes into slow relief with cloud-covered dawn.
We hide, but clouds always sneak between the cracks.
That's how the wind blows,
when morning is dreaming
and the dawn hustles behind the stars

How to Write a Poem

Dave Bonta has done something bold in his electronic chapbook, Manual: he has created a set of instructions intended “only [for] those who have no need of it.” There is a great deal of whimsy and play in this collection; at the same time there are moments his instructions read like well-translated passages from the Tao de Ching.

I am reminded of Neil Gaiman's poem “Instructions”, collected in Fragile Things. It also balances whimsy with the imperative case. It also seems basically impractical, given that these “Instructions” are a charming how-to for surviving a fairy tale.

Bonta's poems also have to do with basic survival: how to breathe, how to sit, how to walk. These are things most of us have learned once we got past the age of two. But perhaps not with the aplomb and intention these poems call forth.

How to Mourn

Write his or her name in the snow, get a comfortable chair and watch how it melts: the letters expanding, becoming illegible and finally disappearing into the earth.

Spend time—the only form of currency the dead still honor.

Find the perfect slab of polished granite and release it into its native habitat.

Every year on the anniversary of your loss, take out a small ad in your local paper. Let it remain blank—an oasis of propriety among the ads for legal services and riding mowers.

Become migratory.

Visit caves that have lost all their bats to white-nose syndrome. Stand at the entrance and listen.

Visit mountaintop-removal sites in the Appalachians that have been terraformed to look like Wyoming.

Wear a cowboy hat and squint.

Become addicted to a tear-flavored brand of chewing tobacco.

Bleed yourself regularly with leeches to remove the black bile.

Follow a river from its mouth to its source: a spring small enough to empty with one long sip.

Plant a stump.

As you see, Dave combines form: he mixes lyricism with prose poem. He adds in the occasional surrealist touch — "Become addicted to a tear-flavored brand of chewing tobacco." — and drops in a note of political commentary — I find the mention of Appalachian strip-mining quite effective here.

This collection is only available through Dave's web-site, Via Negativa. This allows the author to take full advantage of html tools: he links to Sound Cloud recordings of his reading the text, and to avant-garde videos inspired by his poems. This enriches the multiple layers of possible interpretation already present in each poem.

I read through this brief collection in a few hours. But each poem deserves its own hour. Many of us think of poetry as some code that must be deciphered. These poems are a fine antidote to that fear: they are approachable, friendly (in their imperious way), tender, often whimsical, and sly.

I love dipping into this instruction manual at random. Give it a try: you may learn something about how to wait, how to learn, how to write a poem.

Idée d’jour

He who plants a tree / Plants a hope.
— Lucy Larcom

Idée d’jour

Nature's peace will flow into you as sunshine flows into trees. —
John Muir

Richie Havens, R.I.P.

I was sad when I heard that Richie Havens died this past Monday (April 22). It's not like I was a big fan; after all, I only own three things – a double LP, Richie Havens on Stage, one downloaded song, and a DVD, The Guitar Style of Richie Havens, which is essentially an interview about his career conducted by Artie Tatum (Homespun Video).

But here's the thing: Richie Havens helped me get my first guitar.

Padre always had broad musical taste: cowboy songs, country, jazz, some classical. He sang and played the guitar. We owned Joan Baez records, along with the Smithsonian Woody Guthrie LPs, and Phil Ochs. So, it made perfect sense that he would take me to see the documentary Woodstock in 1970 or '71.

I was around 15 at the time. I'm not sure I knew the story of how Richie Havens opened that three day weekend after significant delays and set-backs.

All I knew was that Richie Havens was the bomb, as the kids used to say. That rhythm, that soul-full voice, that passion! Recordings don't really do the man justice — you've got to watch how he moves, how his feet dance during the music.

One thing that really impressed me was how he would retune his guitar during a song. Padre had taken me to a few coffee house concerts by then, and I'd never seen a guitarist do that before.

As I say, I was 15, with the same self-centered sense of entitlement that any other teenager would have. It was summer, and I had the house to myself most weekdays. I knew where Padre kept his guitar. And it made perfect sense that I could retune his guitar and pretend to be Richie Havens.

What I didn't know was that the guitar belonged to his father before him. Grandfather Will reportedly performed with that guitar, and led music in church with it. By rights, it would be passed on to the elder son (Brother Dave). I didn't know the guitar was already around 35 years old by that time.

Padre noticed, of course. He didn't punish me. He said he didn't mind if I played the guitar, but he didn't want it to be out of tune when I was done.

Of course, I didn't know what the hell I was doing.

So it came to pass that Padre drove to Driver Music and bought a Silvertone Guitar (a.k.a, the finger-killer) and a couple of teach yourself guitar books. He came to my room one evening — no special occasion that I can recall — handed me the guitar and books, and said “Knock yourself out.”

He did take pity on my fingers some months later, and lowered the bottom bridge. I played that guitar all through high school. I carried it out around in a cheap gig bag. I learned all the folk songs in those two books, then taught myself some finger-picking styles with the help of the first Leonard Cohen songbook.

I never forgot the impression Richie Havens made on me. In addition to the alternate tunings, I was also impressed by how he used rhythm. I've often tried to recapture that, in my own way. I was also impressed by how he joined "Tupelo Honey" with "Just Like a Woman" (see video above). Not an obvious pairing, but a story seems to be taking place under the surface, between the strums, behind the stretched notes.

I now own five guitars, including that one that originally belonged to Grandpa Will. I try to find new meanings in how I bend my voice, in the rhythms I play on the guitar. I even play one medley that tells its own story:

Thanks, Richie Havens, for that first guitar. Thanks for the passion that helped me persevere though the strings dug ruts in the fingers of my left hand and raised a boil on my right thumb. Thanks for the new rhythms you taught us. Thanks for your music, your ever-lasting music.

The Tyger

So ... I've just spent the past hour and a half recording, editing, then uploading two videos of William Blake's The Tyger. For reasons only known to my inner Puck, I was amused to play it on the ukulele as well as the guitar. I credit the tune to Allen Ginsberg; I heard him perform it (acompanying himself on harmonium) back in the early to mid 80s.

I'm not sure which version I prefer; I definitely sing a little differently with uke than with guitar. So, I leave it to the wisdom of the cyber crowd: Do you have a preference?

The Tyger, from Songs of Experience, by William Blake.

Idée d’jour

Today I have grown taller from walking with the trees.
— Karle Wilson Baker

Idée d’jour

Nature doesn't need people, people need nature; ... nature would survive the extinction of the human being and go on just fine, but human culture, human beings, cannot survive without nature.
— Harrison Ford

Idée d’jour

I would feel more optimistic about a bright future for man if he spent less time proving that he can outwit Nature and more time tasting her sweetness and respecting her seniority.
— E. B. White

Idée d’jour

Not to hurt our humble brethren is our first duty to them, but to stop there is not enough. We have a higher mission – to be of service to them whenever they require it. — St. Francis of Assisi

Woody Guthrie's America

Well worth five minutes of your time

Prayer for the Wolf

Blessed are you, Lord God,
creator of heaven & earth;
blessed are you, creator of the denizens of the deep;
blessed are you, creator of the birds of the air;
blessed are you, creator of the beasts of the earth.
Blessed are you, who proclaimed ALL your creation "Good".
Blessed are you, who proclaimed ALL your creatures "Blessed".
All praise be yours through Brother Wolf,
dweller of forest, tundra, and desert.
May we be blessed with his devotion, his vision, and his endurance.
May we confront our fear.
May we come to accept the darkness in ourselves
that we project upon the wolf.
May we come to respect our brother,
learn from him,
and recognize him as a fellow traveler in your grace.
This we ask in Your Holy Name.
Amen.

Shelter From the Storm

I like to sing in the shower. Have I told you that? Are you surprised to learn it?

I also play with alternate tunes while in the shower. So it was, sometime in 2000, I decided this Bob Dylan song should really be a sea chanty.

I'm back in the St. Nicholas Chapel at St. Paul's Episcopal Cathedral. I prayed to be worthy to sing this song in this space; I lit a votive (immediately under the BVM).

Idée d’jour

The cat could very well be man's best friend but would never stoop to admitting it.
— Doug Larson

Idée d’jour

The day is coming when a single carrot, freshly observed, will set off a revolution.
— Paul Cezanne

Idée d’jour

You come to nature with all your theories, and she knocks them all flat
— Renoir

Your House of Light, ver. 2

Some of you may remember the version of this I posted early last year. This is a slightly different tune (sung acapella), with only a few words added for the sake of scansion.

I recorded this with a Samsung CL80 in the St. Nicholas Chapel at St. Paul's Episcopal Cathedral. The CL80 is really a still camera, so I was curious how well it's movie function worked. I was also curious how the echoes of the chapel would sound.

The tune here has a slight Celtic feel, so it seems proper that a Celtic Blessed Mary be by my side

Comments appreciated

Are You Holy?

Let me share a parable with you, which also happens to be a true story: A priest was leading a group of first graders on a tour of the church grounds. "This,” he would say, “is a room. It has tables, chairs, and other furniture in it. People work in it. I want you to study it very carefully.”

And the children scrutinized the church office. Then they went to the parish hall. “This,” said the priest, “is a room. It has tables, chairs, and other furniture in it.  People do things and work in it. I want you to study it very carefully.” And they did.

And so the tour continued, including the choir loft and the main church. Then they came to the sanctuary. One of the boys started to go in to study it as he had the other rooms. But the priest reached out and stopped him: “You can’t go in there.”

“Why?”

“Because ,” the priest replied, “it's a holy place. Now I want you all to study it very care­fully — from this side of the altar rail — and tell me what’s different about this room.”

So they studied it. They saw about four tables, five chairs, a bench, and even some carpeting. And they knew that people worked or did things inside this room. They couldn’t see anything at all different about this room. Not at all.

“You' re right,” said the priest, “that room is like all the other rooms we saw. But it’s still holy.  You know why?” And the children didn't.

"To remind us that all other rooms are holy".

Later, the boywho wanted to go into the sanctuary asked: “Father , are you holy?”

After thinking for a moment, the priest said: “Yes, I guess I am. Now, can you tell me why?”

And the boyanswered, “I’m not sure, but I think it has something to do with that room we couldn't go into.”

The sanctuary reminds us that all rooms (and all places) are holy. We remind ourselves that the sanctuary is holy by not entering it idly. Similarly, the priest reminds us that all people are holy. As Saint Paul wrote, “Don’t you know that your bodies are temples of the Holy Spirit?”

Perhaps we are called to treat all places with the respect we show the sanctuary. Perhaps, more importantly, we are called to show others and ourselves that same respect.

The One who indwells the sanctuary of the world also indwells the sanctuary at the center of our heart,. wherein we find the peace which passes understanding.

Originally published in The Pilgrim, July 1985

Woody's Spirituality

I do hear you speak to me, god, but no man hears
I do hear you speak new to me in no man's language
I do hear you, god, talkin' to me in words no human knows
In no known lingo, in no worldly tone
I do hear you god, sing to me above all men's miseries
— Woody Guthrie, from his play "Forsaken Bibel" (sic)
Quoted in the intro of Bring Your Own God by Steve Edington

Idée d’jour

I ask people why they have deer heads on their walls. They always say because it's such a beautiful animal. There you go. I think my mother is attractive, but I have photographs of her.
— Ellen DeGeneres

I Am An Orphan

I am an orphan. I lost my mother when I was six. My father was taken from me when I was seventeen. My brother never truly returned from the war. I do not know if I have any other family.

I am an exile, wandering in the desert. I'm trying to return Home, but I've forgotten where it is. I left the land of plagues almost three years ago.

I had thought the land of plagues was home enough. I never wanted for food, the shelter seemed sound, and the drink was good. Yes, the drink was very good. I had many friends, who seemed like family.

A time came when I began to hunger for something more. When I heard someone speak of “home,” I thought that might be what I longed for. Thus began my exile.

Now I am lost in the World, unsure of how exactly I lost my direction At first, all was well, and my heart burned within me as if Home were very close at hand. Then I took a wrong turn, or got distracted, and now I am lost.

I am an exile. I remember a loaf of bread that seemed enough. I remember a tent that was warm and welcoming and could have served.  I remember a draught of wine which set my heart ablaze. But none soothed my longing, and I was left even hungrier.

I am an exile lost in the World I helped build. I am an exile who has wandered for thirty-some years through this desert. I'm thirsting for a Home I believe is close at hand, although unseen. I am an exile, crying out in this wilderness, “How long, 0 Lord, how long?”

Originally published March, 1986

Idée d’jour

I realize that patriotism is not enough. I must have no hatred or bitterness towards anyone.
— Edith Cavell

Idée d’jour

Realize deeply that the present moment is all you ever have. Make the Now the primary focus of your life.
— Eckhart Tolle

Idée d’jour

The best time to plant a tree was 20 years ago. The second best time is now.
Chinese Proverb

Born to Be King

You had been born to be king. You were the heir-apparent, well-beloved of your father, as well as the people. You had been trained in the ways of a wise ruler by your father and his counselors. All was prepared for you to assume the throne when you came of age.

One summer, your father sent you to tour the north countries. While you were gone, your younger brother, Li Ching, spread rumors against you among the court and people. “Your son thinks you a doddering old fool,” he told your father. “When my brother becomes king,” he'd said to the people, “he will seize your inheritance and send your young men to die in the southern mines.”  And he said to the counselors: “My brother will have no use for you. He plans to rule by the stars!”

You had been born to be king. But now the counselors would no longer speak to you. The people were plotting to kill you before you ascended to the throne. And your father accused you of many things, full of fury, and sent you from his court in disgrace. You supposed you would die in the western wilderness.

For three months, you wandered with no direction. You ate roots, fruits, and berries, as the court horticulturist had taught you. You had several meals with strangers who found your face friendly. On the fifteenth day of the fourth month, you gained a traveling companion with a sun-darkened face and curly hair. He told you of a king who was coming to his native land, one who would be king over all other kingdoms. This was indeed good news; perhaps you could persuade him to speak to your father and restore your good name.- Perhaps you could once again come into your own.

You walked together for several months, speaking of many things. You walked with him to his destination, where he drew a map ,which would guide you the rest- of the way to his native land.  Now your main concern was what sort of honor gift you could offer to this great king.
Fourteen moons had glided through the nights. The fourth night of the fourteenth moon, you had a curious dream: A woman as large as the sky appeared before you; in her right hand she held a brilliant star, in her left she held a bitter herb. “What would you have of me?” you asked. She handed you the herb and said, “This is your gift. Then: “Follow. Follow the star.”

When you awoke, you found the herb growing nearby. You gathered it into your satchel bag. You trusted the dream. Somehow, it seemed such a gift would. persuade the great King of Kings to help you come into your own once again.
A new year had begun. You had come to a great sea, and saw the star shining in the south. It seemed to hover over a small, town. It certainly did not seem like a regal town.

The-star now shown like a hundred stars over a cave. Within you found some unwashed shepherds and-common cattle. Beyond them knelt, an impoverished and frightened couple. She was about seventeen; her hair was long and stringy, her garment was tattered, and yet she seemed the most beautiful woman you had ever seen. He was twenty-one; behind his scraggly beard, his eyes were filled with a sad wisdom.

Between them is the child, wrapped in torn pieces of cloth and lain in a manger filled with hay.

You had been born to be-king. What do you do? You kneel before the child. You hand the gift of the bitter herb to the mother. You have come into your own at last.

Originally published January 1986

Idée d’jour

I am always more interested in what I am about to do, than in what I have already done.
—Rachel Carson

Idée d’jour

Sixty minutes of thinking of any kind is bound to lead to confusion and unhappiness.
James Thurber

Idée d’jour

Time is not a line, but a series of now points. — Taisen Deshimaru

... darkness is my only companion

“. . . darkness is my only companion.” — Ps 88:19b (BCP)

There are often times in our lives when, like the psalmist, we feel wholly alone. We wander as though in a Wilderness, with no guide; with only Darkness as a companion.

There are many reasons for this dark wandering, but the story I hear most often has to do with self will, or pride. We really are thick-skulled folk, and most of the healthy choices sound too pat or cliched to be true. So we stubbornly try to do things our way.

Perhaps we use the moon as a guide. But the moon is remote and fickle; she is indeed a harsh mistress. And eventually the time will come when we are left with darkness as our only companion.

Or we throw yarrow sticks. Or we become existential atheists. Or we live for the pleasures of the dance floor and the bedroom. Those of us who have lived these sorts of lives know how utterly lonely they can be. When darkness is our only companion, it can be a form of living death.

But there is a light which can break through this darkness. It shines constantly, but it often seems we must be in the Tomb before we can see it. This light is cast by the Lord of Light, who is Lord of Lords.

Those of us who have wandered in the Wilderness with Darkness as our only companion have lived out a timeless story. It is the story of a Man Who Died, and yet lived again. It is a story which seems impossible to believe, yet we must believe because we have lived it — though in miniature.

It is a story we continue to live. It is present and fresh to us today, often with a greater vibrancy than the 6:00 news. And we know that the same Lord of Light who breathed life into the Man Who Died continuously breathes life into us. It is by this grace that we find the quiet space which is filled with a peace that passes understanding.

Originally written & published May, 1985

Idée d’jour

Humor is emotional chaos remembered in tranquility.
— James Thurber

Idée d’jour

It is a truism that almost any sect, cult, or religion will legislate its creed into law if it acquires the political power to do so.
— Robert A. Heinlein

Idée d’jour

I dreamt that my hair was kempt. Then I dreamt that my true love unkempt it.
— Ogden Nash

Idée d’jour

Laughter need not be cut out of anything, since it improves everything.
— James Thurber

Idée d’jour

To be capable of embarrassment is the beginning of moral consciousness. Honor grows from qualms.
— John Leonard

Idée d’jour

Blessed are they who can laugh at themselves for they will never cease to be amused.
— Anonymous

Idée d’jour

I would feel more optimistic about a bright future for man if he spent less time proving that he can outwit Nature and more time tasting her sweetness and respecting her seniority.
— E.B. White

Idée d’jour

Most folks are about as happy as they make up their minds to be.
— Abraham Lincoln

Idée d’jour

There is always music amongst the trees in the garden, but our hearts must be very quiet to hear it.
— Minnie Aumonier

Haiku: 31.Dec.2012

Brave blades break the ground.
How can I tell the jonquils
The sun is lying?

Playing with the end of the world

Actors lined at the edge of the stage
and, look! there at the end it's Meryl Streep!
She's wearing a pair of big dark-rimmed glasses
you know the kind - that only women can wear.
It was a play about the end of the world
how the tribes gathered by the standing stones
at 5:41 a.m.
where the shy sun rises from the deep blanket of night.
The tribes, the children of Abraham,
Adam's forlorn kin,
gather at the edge of dawn
and pray for the end of the world.
And Meryl had this profound monologue
about the quality of mercy;
it was a solemn pieta
the last blessed mother
mourning the last broken child.
I don't remember how the play ended
but I awoke to scattered applause.

Idée d’jour

It all begins with small numbers. A few more drops of precipitation, a little more wind, a slight rise in the sea level, a couple of degrees difference in the elevation of the moon. Great forces are born in small numbers, in the increments of existence, the mathematics of our physical being. And as with the natual, so the spiritual. A tiny bit more kindness, a single hope, a small increase in giving, a few more prayers, another moment of patience. Great souls are not instant in being, but being made up of instants. Life without and within, lived in the small things that count. — Bp. Stephen Charleston

Idée d’jour

The moment one gives close attention to anything, even a blade of grass, it becomes a mysterious, awesome, indescribably magnificent world in itself. — Henry Miller

Idée d’jour

I have some never-prayers, God. Please never let me grow too old to lose the delight of a child's imagination, never too disappointed in life to stop believing each morning is a new beginning, never too concerned with my own burdens to fail to help another whose needs are so clear and pressing, never so busy making a living that I forget what living is about, never so certain that I have all the answers that I stop enjoying the questions, never with so much to say that I don't be still and listen, never so far from you that I do not hear your voice when you call me home. — Bp. Stephen Charleston

Dream of the Prophet

Previously titled "Black History Month"; original lyrics posted below.

Idée d’jour

Knowledge once received is not wisdom. We learn best not by memorizing what others tell us, but by stretching our minds to discover the meaning of truth as we put it to work in the fields of hope around us. We were made to question. Made to think. Made to test the truth by a Mind that never ceases its endless quest of creation. How sad when some entomb their thoughts in a faith too fragile to wonder. We were made to breath cleaner air than dust in a museum. Tradition will hold us back if we run too far ahead, but we will never catch the Spirit if all we do is stand still.
— Bp. Stephen Charleston

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The Rt. Rev. Charleston is former Episcopal Bishop of Alaska, and recently Interim Dean of St. Paul's Cathedral, Oklahoma City, OK. A citizen of the Choctaw Nation, Bp. Charleston is currently Visiting Professor of Native American Ministries at Saint Paul School of Theology, Oklahoma City University.

He recently published a book collecting his daily meditations, Hope As Old As Fire.

Black History Month

From the halls of Trevon Martin
to the shores of Rodney King
we will share our nation's blindness
and our lost belief.
We will shore up the broken levies
along the shattered shore
where we'll dream of peace & freedom
and fellowship no more.

From the hidden Tubman railway
To Lincoln's bold brigade
we will tally all our losses
and the errors that we've made.
We will sing beside the fires
as we watch Atlanta burn
and offer solemn prayers
for the way the lesson turns.

Oh, the dreams of Frederick Douglas
and the life of Malcolm X!
We await another prophet:
Who will be murdered next?
And we bathe by water cannon
And we love the happy dogs
And we think we see our freedom
Beyond the tear gas fog.

Take a sip of Big Bill Broonzy
and a draught of Bessie Smith,
the love supreme of Coltrane
and Satchmo's swinging scat;
you can call with your mourning
or your low-down blues
I've got a Robert Johnson heartache
and my harp's just for you.

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Work in Progress.  “Black History Month” is a working title only

Behind the Curtain: A Loveless Marriage

This is probably the first poem I've written in a while that almost demands an explanation.  In fact, it's possible that the process will prove to be more interesting than the poem itself.

Except for a few stray phrases, this poem began on Wednesday, September 4, the 100th anniversary of John Cage's birthday. The NPR story mentioned that at one point, John Cage determined the motifs for a piece of work by throwing the I Ching; this was his way of removing his ego, and introducing an element of chance. I wondered whether this might be done with a poem.

Over the previous weekend, I had watched a documentary on William S. Burroughs, A Man Within. Burroughs, of course, is best known for his "cut up" technique — which was initiated by his friend Brion Gysin. This I Ching experiment seemed perfect for cut up.

I've also been reading John Neihardt's Black Elk Speaks. There are several phrases and images in this text I've found arresting, "poetic", no doubt because they are "foreign" to my experience.

So the last piece was to throw the I Ching. I couldn't find my copy, so I found a website that would virtually throw the coins. I asked the question, “Who is the blue man?” The "blue man" is a figure from Black Elk's vision. The resulting hexagram was number 54, Kuei Mei, which the website translated as “A Loveless Marriage” (another source translates it as "Converting the Maiden"). I pulled some phrases and images from the hexagram and individual trigrams (top & bottom) and wrote them on an index card. I had already written snippets related to Burroughs (Bill Lee) on an index card, and images from Black Elk on another index card

I assigned each card a value of Yin, changing; Yang, changing; Yin; and Yang. I simply copied out lines from each card, in order, as determined by whether the corresponding part of the hexagram was Yin or Yang.

The resulting poem seems to me fragmentary, but there are moments when the juxtaposition of fragments seem to point to a “meaning”. But clearly, this is a case where any meaning will be assigned by each individual reader. It's a fun process, which I may try again.

Enjoy!

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Addendum: I went to the second hand bookstore yesterday, thinking I might pick up a copy of the I Ching. There was a hard cover copy of Wilhelm's translation for $7.99; inside was a book mark from a family-owned bookstore I used to work for. Carl Jung believed the I Ching was an expression of synchronicity. This could well be an example. I didn't buy it, but I still might (the weekend is still young).

A Loveless Marriage

Morning thunder
Bill Lee said, It's a Bardo World
Groom draws no blood from the sacrifice
We're the monsters
Bride's basket remains empty
I've been dreaming

under a blood cherry moon
upon the red earth
crawling between earth & sky
A halt now proves tragic
Ride the china white train
walking east

Geese like arrows
the silver rails
Black-billed bird

The silent chains
Pebbles on heaven's shore
Grandfather Earth

Lightning in their wings
Old Bill Lee said, We're the monsters
No blood from the sacrifice
Crawling between spirit & flesh
Bride's basket remains empty
Grandfather Sky

It Ain't Me Babe / Big Girl Now

I've been doing new videos of some of the tunes I've posted to YouTube, hoping for recordings where the guitar is less distorted. My voice may seem a little distant here, but I think it's still better than the first posting.

Some reason, I think these two songs go together. They seems to tell a story, though they were written about ten years apart: "It Ain't Me Babe" appeared on Another Side of Bob Dylan, released in 1964; "You're A Big Girl Now" appeared on Blood on the Tracks, releaed in 1975.

Gun Control: Another View

This comes from Brother Dave:

Jac —
While I have a different view regarding particulars, in general I agree. Having said that, I am not sure the problem of US citizens killing each other, all at once or one by one, would be reduced as much as many would hope should either of our prescriptions be adopted...

There is, I firmly think, such a thing as “national traits” or a “national character.” Those things are, in my view, simply extensions of that which defines a society; its traits and shared beliefs. As such, this country has certain very deeply entrenched, very dysfunctional national traits. Our national immersion in violence has fed on itself for many generations and it does not seem to me that those traits can be up-rooted by more rational training and qualification requirements for firearm ownership (obviously, it would seem, they have effectively mitigated against such requirements be adopted). Such measures would most likely greatly reduce accidental homicide with firearms – a non-trivial accomplishment, to be sure.

It seems to me all but certain that we will not be able to test my assertion as the chance that this event, any more than all the other headline-grabbing, sensationalized similar events in the very recent or even more distant past, will lead to any meaningful and rational changes in firearms ownership requirements.

---

I responded:

America may not have invented the gun, but we certainly have perfected it and use it more (per capita) than any other developed nation. You may be right about extreme violence, particularly of the gun, being a part of our national identity.

I read an editorial this morning which essentially argued that these violent events can be traced to our greater immersion in our screens (which separates us from our fellow humans), and "shooter games" in particular. As you probably know, some studies demonstrate that our mind makes no distinction between killing a virtual person and an actual person, with the result that we become as desensitized to killing humans as a recruit fresh from boot camp.

Does Pop Culture Inspire Murder? by Owen Glieberman

Brother Dave's response:
While I doubt the assertion that our minds do not make such a distinction, I am persuaded that interactive video games, most importantly that class referred to as “first shooter” games, do play a role in desensitizing the individual to acts of violence as the “victims” return to “life” with the next playing of the game. The game also can instill a reflexive “pulling of the trigger.” I was much influenced in my views on this particular matter by the academic work of a retired US Army Lt. Colonel named David Grossman. He published his academic work in a popularly-accessible book titled On Killing. His research centered on his discovery that, prior to the American War in Viet Nam, the rate at which combat troops actually took part in killing had been quite low. He began to inquiry with WW I where he found rates as low as 5-10%. The “non-killers” might not fire their weapons at all or might fain taking part by firing in the air or the general direction of the enemy. He then traced the incremental change through WW II, the Korea to Viet Nam by which time the rate of participation had increased to 85%. His analysis turned to the training methods employed across those decades and he found the increase in killing participation rates tracked very closely to the increasing use of operant conditioning techniques in military training. The final chapter of the book turns to the role of certain of the techniques used in that training in entertainment, with special concern for the the violent video game. One of his more compelling observations was that while in a military context those trained to kill (over coming the strong, deeply instilled taboo) were under “adult” supervision and that violence directed toward approved targets (no commentary on the morality of that target selection), no such supervision was available for those young folks, many of exactly the same age as the military recruit.

I am going to append the comments of a man I know in Austin, Alan Pogue.... whom I respect tremendously. Alan has been a professional photographer, living in Austin, since his return from Viet Nam where he served as a field medic. Like me, almost as soon as he got back home he signed on with VVAW. Unlike me, ever since he has committed his time, his energies and his considerable talent as a photographer in the fight for social and economic justice and against wars of aggression. He has produced a body of artistic documentation of the lives and trials of others around the world engaged in such struggles to survive, rather than as a matter of moral conviction. With that context, Alan's thoughts on the latest mass shooting:

The shooter picked the best media moment to commit his crime insuring the maximum media coverage. He could simply have placed bombs in the theater and escaped undetected. He wanted public recognition. He picked the most public media moment. He allowed himself to be arrested. He placed himself at the vortex of violence idolatry and he called his shot at public recognition with precision. Our violent culture gave him the recognition he wanted. Our President has a kill list. Romney will have an even more refined eugenics plan. Why should a freelancer pass up his chance at fame? If he were only a Blackwater mercenary nobody would know his name. Now he has a shot at joining Charles Manson ad a household word. All because we worship violence.

Drones kill people every day. If our outrage was real we would be calling for an end to drone murder....

He could have planted a bomb and walked away, never gotten caught, but he didn't want that. He carefully chose the best media moment and dressed for the part, still has his Joker orange hair for court appearances. He stepped into America's love affair with violence and obtained the recognition he craved. The AR15 is far from the crucial element. It jammed anyway. The 12 gauge shotgun loaded with 00 buckshot is the better close quarters weapon and it will never be banned. He was a Ph.D. student in neuroscience. He could have used nerve gas. The whole point for him was to be caught and achieve fame. Now the media is his servant as is the whole culture. When there is a call for a ban on drones let me know. Our president has a "kill list" in his pocket. Where is the outrage? I'm sure Mitt Romney has a eugenics plan for us. The guy in Aurora was channeling the moral tone of the country. Blackwater/Ze/Academi kills more people every day but not in middle class white neighborhoods. Nathan Van Wilkins shot 17 people in Tuscaloosa, Alabama on July 18th. Did anyone notice? Since he didn't manage to kill anyone, used an unexciting weapon (the AP story did not bother to mention the type or brand), and it was at a bar and not opening night for a Batman movie the media didn't care. Not a good production and no body count.

Meanwhile back in Afghanistan, Pakistan, Yemen, Somalia the Predators drone on. Will Obama and Romney call a halt to them? They are saner than the man in Aurora, right?

Gun Control

Here's my 2¢ on gun control: there should be an exam for gun ownership. We have exams and driver's tests to legally drive cars. And god knows, we love our cars almost as much as we love our guns. And one gun can kill a lot more people than the average car can.

A gun is an elegant machine made for one purpose: to kill. It is a machine that demands at least as much respect as a car.

Ideally, the exams would demonstrate a knowledge of gun care, and proficiency in their use; a psychological exam seems warranted, as well.

It's human to want to blame; it's related to our desire to prevent future tragedies. We want to blame the NRA. We want to blame violence in media. Some will blame it on our nation's loss of “Christian Values” (as defined by one Republican Senator & the Westboro Baptist Church). Some will say tragedies such as the one in Aurora, CO, is the price the nation pays to maintain the freedom to bear arms.

I believe the NRA's excessive influence, and radical position on gun ownership plays a part in gun-related tragedies. At one time, the NRA had the reputation as an organization that promoted responsible gun ownership. It now has the reputation as an organization that refuses to consider any restriction on gun ownership.

The most troubling element of this latest tragedy is the fact that all the weapons and ammo were bought legally.

I know my proposal will not end gun-related violence. I know dedicated people will still find ways to buy guns outside the legal system. I only hope we can reduce the incidence of gun-related violence by raising the bar to ownership a bit higher.

Poetry on the Radio

You may recall I told the story of how I sent a poem to The Story a month ago.  It seemed appropriate; a story had aired about a Chinese poet, Liu Xiaobo, and his translator, Jeffery Yang, which had really touched me.  I wrote about it here.

My poem has now broadcast nationally; it appears in the last five minutes of the program (the play button follows the text). I'm very honored, and quite thrilled, that they aired my poem.

Soar on the Wind, Part Two

If my words be true, they would swirl off the page and surround you. If my words be true, they would catch you up like a feather on the storm. If my words be true they would open the sky to reveal the stars dancing across the great dome; they would bring the clouds, and invoke the storm.

My words are only hints. They are almost false; they are at best well-intentioned lies.

My words try to catch the wind, but the wind blows them away.

When the whirlwind speaks, it is not gentle. It confronts. It challenges. It does not distinguish between good and bad, dark and light.

My words are only hints, and bad hints at that. Do not ask me directions; I am most times lost myself. The wirlwind blew the map away.

If my words be true, if the wind could be conjured within this rectangular confine, the letters would dance over the page. They would lose their meaning and change partners. The alpha and omega would do-se-do. The f & the s would do a grapevine step. The r & the y would bow to each other, and waltz.

When the whirlwind speaks, it requires no translation.

I can only make shadow puppets. Mere puppets, to be blown away by the wind.

How shall I catch the wind? It will not be caught. I may struggle with the wind; I may seek to harness it; or I may join it.

Breath in: I welcome the wind to my small walking home. Breath out: I join the wind in its travels.
Breath in: I invite the Spirit to renew me. Breath out: I release all that separates me from the divine.
Breath in: divine light breaks into the wounded places. Breath out: all fear departs.

This I pray in the name of the Eternal One: the Creator, the Companion, the Comforter.
So be it.

Soar on the Wings of the Wind

In the beginning, the wind moved upon the face of the water (Gen 1:2).  In the beginning, the Creator breathed the spirit of life into the clay. (Gen 2:7) In the beginning, the same spirit brooded upon creation as a hen gathers her chicks.  The psalmist says the Creator soars on the wings of the wind (Ps 18:10).

The Master taught, “The wind blows wherever it pleases. You hear its sound, but you cannot tell where it comes from or where it is going. So it is with everyone born of the Spirit” (Jn 3:8). In his last days, the Master breathed upon his disciples that they might receive the Holy Spirit (Jn 20:22).

The wind is a reminder that the Creator, though unseen, surrounds us.  Our breath is a cousin to the wind.  Our breath is a reminder of that first breath, when we were filled with the spirit of life. It is a reminder of how the Spirit continually renews us. Ideally, each breath should be a prayer of thanksgiving.

One day, a pilgrim heard the reading from Thessalonians: “Pray without ceasing” (1 Thes. 5:17).  He heard this as a personal message from the Creator.  He sought all over the country for one who could teach him this method of prayer.  Finally, he found a master who taught him a method to pray without ceasing, so his prayer would be as close and constant as his breath.

This method is called breath prayer.

I will now teach you a simple prayer form using your breath. Create a quiet space; that is, no TV, radio, or MP3 player. Sit with your back straight and both feet on the ground. Inhale through your nostrils, drawing the breath as deep into your gut as possible. Purse your lips as if to blow through a straw and exhale slowly. Do this three times. Be sure to focus on your breathing; ignore all fleeting thoughts.

This method is called “straw prayer”. Once you feel comfortable with it, you can also apply it when you're stuck in traffic, and even when you're waiting in line.

Breath deep, and soar on the wings of the wind.

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Resources

• Cooperative Baptist Fellowship - on Breath Prayer
• The Way of a Pilgrim and A Pilgrim Continues His Way, trans. R.M. French, Hope Publishing, 1989
• The Breath of Life: Discovering Your Breath Prayer, Ron DelBene, Harper & Row, 1981
• The Breath of Life: A Simple Way to Pray in PDF format
• Dharma Road: A Short Cab Ride to Self Discovery, Brian Haycock, Hampton Roads Publishing Company, 2010
• Water, Wind, Earth & Fire: The Christian Practice of Praying with the Elements, Christine Valters Painter, Sorin Books, 2010.

---

The above was written for a presentation on the Four Elements.

Behind the Curtain: West TX, 4.June.2011

Here's the exciting news: My poem will be broadcast on The Story program probably sometime next week.  I emailed it to them, and a producer wanted to record me reading it over the phone. She asked me to talk about what inspired me to write the poem.

The following is based on some notes I wrote as prep.

I heard the promo for the episode either during my morning or evening work drive.  The story of dissident poet Liu Xiaobo caught my ear, and I thought it could prove a worthwhile listen.

I woke early Tue - sometime between 2:30 & 3 - unable to get back  to sleep, I listened to the podcast through the PRX Radio Ap on my iPod Touch.  The discipline of an elegy a year impressed me; the story of how the book came to Jeffrey Yang also impressed me.

Jeffrey Yang used the phrase 'In the middle of the desert', and it caught my ear. The phrase brought up associations - how the desert seems a barren & forbidding place, but it also can be a retreat (e.g., for the Desert Monastics), a way to enter deeply into your self, or to connect with the universe or the divine.  I had an intuition that Jeffrey Yang used it as a way to connect with Liu Xiabo.

I think of this type of poem as an "emotional photograph".  I'm thinking of  Ezra Pound's imagist poetry, or Jack Kerouac's American Haiku - where the goal is to inspire an emotion with as few words as possible.

As I now reread my poem, I wonder whether there's enough there to speak to someone who has not heard the story. I hope so. One advantage of the internet is one can link to a source, so I linked to the appropriate page on The Story's website when I posted the poem here. With any luck, my poem will stir enough curiousity to encourage the reader to research the inspiration.

After I listened to the podcast, I already had the first three lines in mind. I kept repeating "In the middle of the desert" over and over, like a mantra or breath prayer. When I got to the keyboard, all I knew for certain were the first three lines, and the fact that I wanted it to end in Tianamon Square. I hope that abrupt transition from the fires in West Texas to the smoke from China is haunting as well.

I think the lack of detail can be powerful in these emotional photographs. It can engage the reader, cause her to fill the spaces you've left open. S/he can bring her own desert associations with her/him.

Bad Biorhythm

When I was a teenager, there was a pseudoscience involving biorhythms. I bought a hand-held calculator which claimed to track one's rhythm for any given day. The calculator had a graphic display which showed flowing curves, which indicated whether you were in biorhythmic peak or valley.

Happily, the calculator did standard mathematical functions as well.

I rather wish I had that calculator this week. I somewhat suspect it would reflect a biorhythmic valley. Not Marianas Trench or Grand Canyon, but still.

It all started with the trunk of my car. I raised the garage door Monday morning to discover I had left the trunk lid open. Since about noon Sunday. I was prepared to have to plug the car battery to a charger and call in late. But I was lucky; the car started right away.

It's likely the car, a '98 Ford Escort, has a feature that automatically turns off the trunk light after a certain point. The dome light in the cab goes out within a few minutes.

But I wasn't sure. I chose to play it safe, and drive with the radio and lights off. It was about thirty minutes past dawn, so it was light enough to see and be seen.

But when I pulled into the parking structure, I felt the need for my car lights. I drove up the ramp to the second level and backed into my space, as I do every morning. I folded my glasses, and put them in their case, as I do every morning. I slung my satchel over my shoulder and clipped my keys onto the case, as I do every weekday morning. I strode confidently across the garage, with my head held high. Just like I do every weekday morning.

It wasn't until I was about half-way to my office that I began to wonder whether I had turned off the car lights.

I chose to walk on to the office, get the coffee started (I clearly needed it), and start the day. Then I walked back to the car. Turns out, I had turned off the lights just as automatically as I had performed all those other tasks.

The day pretty much continued in that vein. I hung up on customers when I intended to put them on hold. I ran into objects. Stuff like that. The remainder of the week hasn't been any better, or much worse.

It's just felt like I was a third-dimensional being trying to adapt to a fourth dimensional world.

West Texas, June 4, 2011

For Liu Xiaobo & Jeffrey Yang

In the middle of the desert
translating sorrow,
unwinding intricate ideograms.
Haunted mothers
collect tears
for their nameless children.
Fires in West Texas.
Smoke rolls from Tiananmen Square.

Joe and Mary

It's been over six months since I've been to the Traditional Music club. I remember Joe as a fine guitarist. I remember Mary as a competent, though insecure, banjo player.

I haven't been to the Traditional Music club for a couple of reasons. On the personal side, I struggle with entropy, or maybe depression, and it can be a challenge to leverage myself out of the recliner into the world of people. Also, the Traditional Music club is going through a transition that sometimes feels like death. There are active pockets of jammers — especially the celtic group and the guitar circle — but the one-time center of the organization, the Play Around (an open mike), is poorly attended.

So. I was walking down the hall to the Play Around room when my path intersected with Joe and Mary. Mary wore a white blouse and blue gingham dress and a straw hat. Under the hat, she had an earphone over one ear; she was holding a cassette player. "I can play the cassette now," she said, "Ray gave me batteries." I smiled and nodded, and wondered if something had gone wrong in her head.

We were early for the Play Around. There were six people in the room. There six mikes on the raised stage, as if waiting for all six people to perform at once. Joe commented that attendance at Play Around had been meager - only twelve had attended in April.

A few minutes later, Joe handed me a small photo album. "Mary wanted to share these with every body," he said, "She wanted people to remember what she was once like." Mary and Joe attended Al Goode's Big Band Halloween party every year, and the photo album was filled with pictures of their costumes. Mary as Charly Chaplin, Joe as a flapper. Joe and Mary as Napoleanic royalty. Joe and Mary as hillbillies.

The club president, Cliff, announced that since there were so few of us, we could sing two songs each.

John played "Nobody Loves You When You're Down & Out." Cliff played two poems by Rudyard Kipling set to music. Then it was Mary's turn.

By this point, there were about 14 people in the Play Around room.

The music for Mary's song was on the cassette player. Most of the time, only she could hear it. I don't mean she was having audio hallucinations; when her head was tilted so the earphone was close to the mike, we could hear the music as well. Occasionally, Joe would play a little guitar figure, but most of the time it was just Mary singing snippets of lyrics. Pretty much the same lyrics. Over and over again.

There came a point when there apparantly was an extended musical interlude. During this time, Mary told us about horse back riding. Her husband had decided to try this as a sort of therapy, and (at the least) Mary has enjoyed it. She spoke for several minutes about how gentle the old horse was. She described his mane and tail (though she couldn't remember the word "tail"). She demonstrated what it was like when the horse went at a trot.

This monologue lasted four or five minutes. Then she sang the same lyrical fragments she had been singing previously. I had never heard this song before; I don't if there were more lyrics to the song, or if these fragments were all she could remember.

I'm told this lasted 25 minutes. I have a low tolerance for repitition, and become frustrated when I'm only receiving a part of the information. At least five people left. Many people tried to gently talk Mary away from the stage. Joe tried. The sound man tried. The president tried. No one was willing to physically pull Mary away. I doubt that would have been safe in any case.

She was not hallucinating. The music was real. But Mary was not aware that no one could hear the music she heard.

I actually stayed a bit past the point my patience had run out. I had the sense the tape was on an endless loop. I felt sad for her, and embarrassed for her husband Joe.

I happened to see Joe as I was leaving. He thanked me for my patience: "I knew this was a kind group, and would be patient with her."

He told me Mary was suffering from dementia. Even when she was compos mentis, she did not trust medical doctors. She believed in natural medicine, took vitamins, and relied on herbal remedies. Now, if it's even suggested she should see a doctor, she becomes quite agitated. I suggested Joe find a doctor who would be willing to visit Mary at home. A house call is a very long shot, and there's a limit to how much a doctor can determine face to face, without running tests. But I saw it as worth a try.

Joe was grateful, a survivor reaching for a small bit of driftwood.

Joe and Mary have two daughters. One lives across the road from her parents. She and her father take turns watching and caring for Mary. The other lives in California, but is also involved in discussing options.

He recognizes he needs a support group, as well. I told him he was wise to seek help for himself, and recommended he call a local help line. They would be best equipped to refer him to such a group.

It was hard to leave. I had looked forward to performing. There just seemed to be no end in sight, until the tape or the batteries ran out. I hurt for Joe and Mary. I hurt that all of us were powerless in the face of this profoundly human suffering.

Before we parted, I held Joe in a hug for a moment. I held them both in prayer as I drove home.

I Miss Compassionate Conservatism

I wonder what ever happened to the concept of "compassionate conservative". Not that I suppose anyone (even the person who coined it) ever tried to live up to that title. But it was rather charming that the claim was made that compassion was a foundation for conservative ideals..

Today's conservative is more honest.  He does not have to pretend to be compassionate.  She can form policies based on belief rather than evidence. The modern conservative is sure each one of us is getting no more than what we deserve.

I get the sense there's an underlying Calvinism in the modern conservative's world view. Calvin was a Protestant reformer who believed strongly in the doctine of predestination. This held that an omnipotent God would know the name of each person who was "saved".  And one clear sign that you have God's favor, that you are among the predestined elect, was success in this world.

For the modern conservative, a person is out of work due to a flaw in his character.  Clearly, that person is a sinner predestined by the economic God for failure. It has nothing to do with market forces; you've been laid off or let go because you were not predestined for success.

As this suggests, there is an undercurrent of judgementalism present in the modern conservative. The poor are lazy, and deserve to be poor.   Anyone arrested by the police must be guilty. Any woman who is sexually active has implicitly accepted the responsibility of becoming a mother - even if she was raped.

This sort of judgmentalism frees one from compassionate action. If people are getting what they deserve, then I'm wasting my time if I help when they're down.  I might, in fact, offend God.

Think about it: most humans are programmed to be compassionate. People donate to Haiti relief regardless of political affiliation. In the aftermath of a disaster, charities are flooded with donations.

So there must be a narrative that conteracts this natural urge to help those in need. And that's the narrative embraced by the Tea Partiers, et al: each person gets what s/he deserves.  We've got ours, and we've earned it by the sweat of our righteous brow. Let them earn theirs.

I suppose the modern conservative considers himself among the economic elect simply because he is a Republican. She may not have reached the empryon of the 1% just yet, but she will. For her thoughts are God's thoughts, and God has marked her for salvation.

They are among those predestined for golden halls of the holy. And let the devil take the hindmost.

A Cold Friendship

Why does it send a chill down my bone every time Mitt Romney says "My friend"? Gotta say, it doesn't generally sound friendly. Former Gov. Romney generally sounds condescending when he says "My friend." He's really saying, "My rich pals and I know more than you do, so shut up and pay up, chump."

21.May.2012

Rolling thunderstorms
dreamed by meditating clouds
around a ring of fire

It Takes Time

A new & improved version of the song, with the most recent version of the lyrics. Just your standard-issue protest song, mouth harp included.

Kit Doodle

Your House Of Light

You possibly read the variorum version of the lyrics I posted on March 22nd. Here's what is likely to be the final version, words & music.

I'll have more to say about the writing process, but for now I'll mention that the song was inspired by a book discussion at my church of The Fragrance of God by Vigen Guroian. All the same, I hope the song is universal, and think of it as spiritual (rather than promoting a particular religion).

Your House of Light by James A. Collins is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

Behind the Curtain: Your House of Light

Last fall, I co-facilitated a book study at my church on The Fragrance of God by Vigen Guroian. This book covered seasons, gardening, and the seasons of life. The church book store was unable to obtain copies, so we chose to practice a type of Lectio Devina with the book.

My co-facilitator and I would agree on a paragraph to focus on. We'd bring the paragraph to the group, and the group would have two opportunities to respond to it. We both took careful notes during the discussion. The group would then spend 10-15 minutes creating a prayer based on the themes that came out of the discussion.

The response was positive, and it's a process I think lends itself to community building.

So, at the end of the four week study, my co-facilitator said, “James will write a song based our discussion.” Which came as news to me; but for some reason, I felt oblidged to try.

A phrase that came up in that last session was “God's House of Light”, and I really liked the sound of it. Somehow I knew it would be the chorus of the song. Another phrase that stuck was someone who said they felt the God's nearness when walking down a lane of trees where the branches form a canopy.

By January, I had a verse and chorus, but no melody and no idea where to go from there.

Sometime in late February I found the discipline to sit down with the notes from the class and copy down all the themes and phrases that came up. I quickly discovered it would be a great challenge to shoe-horn all that into a song.

About the same time, just to promote forward momentum, I decided I'd use an existing tune as a skeleton for the lyrics, with the goal of writing a new tune later on. I remember Elton John once said, “When in doubt, write a hymn.” Well, this song wasn't a hymn; my fall-back is the ballad. So I decided to borrow the tune from Bob Dylan's “Forever Young”.

I was still stuck by the second week of March, when I heard of an opportunity for a songwriting workshop with Bing Futch, who was going to be in the region in late March. I wasn't familiar with Bing's work, but I respected the promoter. And I figured the workshop would provide a deadline to work toward.

The remaining verses came in a sort of rush in the next two weeks. I decided I wanted the seasons to come in order, so the first verse I wrote became the second verse. In the days leading up to the workshop, I kept tweaking & futching with the lyrics, as reflected by the variorum version I posted on March 22.

I played the song at the workshop, and got some positive feedback from Bing. He was concerned about the use of the existing tune - he said the challenge was forgetting that tune to make way for a new one without losing how the lyrics and melody interacted.

So, he offered me a process to work around that. I really couldn't grok the process, but stumbled on another alternative. Playing with a different chord progression at a different fret position led me to a new tune.

This is possibly the cheeriest song I've ever written. I've had very positive responses to it, even from people who had not attended the book study. So I feel reasonably proud of what I've done.

Weeds

A gardening friend once told me that a weed was simply a plant that was not wanted in a particular bed or plot. An extreme, if unlikely example: a rose would be a weed in a potato patch.

I am at a point where I accept most of the growth in my yard as equal — I have no emotional attachment to bermuda grass (it ain't naturnal to this region anyway). It's green stuff that grows, most of it gets mowed to be acceptable in this suburban environment. With any luck, that green stuff produces enough oxygen to balance out the damage done by the mower's internal combustion engine.

I'd like to think God looks at creation in the same way.

I like to believe there are no weeds in God's garden.

I Cor. 13

If I speak in human tongues
or the tongues of angels
but have no love,
I am a sounding gong
or clashing cymbal.
If I have the gift of prophecy
and knowledge of every hidden truth,
if I have faith enough to move mountains
but have not love,
I am nothing.
If I give everything I have to feed the poor
and hand over my body to be burned, 
but have not love,
I gain nothing.

Love is patient and kind.
Love envies no one,
it is not snobbish.
Love is never rude, never selfish,
never quick to take offense
neither does it brood over injuries.
Love keeps no score of wrongs,
takes no pleasure in the sins of others
but delights in the truth.
Lover bears all things
believes all things
endures all things.

Love never fails.
Prophecies will cease;
tongues will be silent;
knowledge will pass away.
For our knowledge & our prophecy alike 
are partial,
and the partial vanishes when wholeness comes.

When I was a child, 
I spoke like a child;
I thought like a child;
I reasoned like a child;
but when I grew up
I put away childish things.
For now we see but puzzling reflections
as in a fun-house mirror;
but one day we shall see face to face.
My knowledge now is partial;
then it will be complete
as God's knowledge of me  is complete.
There are three qualities that last forever:
faith, hope, and love:
the greatest of these is love.

---

I found this as I was going through some old notebooks last night; it was written circa 1987.

I sat down with the Bible translations in my library (KJV, RSV, NAB,& Jerusalem) and picked out the phrases that seemed the most meaningful and/or felicitous. I'll confess I changed a few phrases for this transcription.

NPR's Micropoetry Challenge

For the second year running, NPR is hosting a micropoetry competition during April. I wonder if I dare rise to that challenge.

If you watch the bottom of this page, you'll see my tweets - which are normally quite rare (my handle is @Jonah). However, for the season of Lent I have been observing a discipline of "Praying the Psalms". This has involved posting a 140 (or less) response to the psalm(s) appointed in the Revised Lectionary for the Morning Office. As much as possible, I try to include a phrase or an echo in my response.

The point being, I have maintained a discipline of daily tweeting. I've proved it's possible.

I greatly respect the work of Dave Bonta, who tweets a poetic impression of the world around his morning porch. He knows more nature than I do, and has more to observe than I do in my suburban environment. The standard Dave sets seems above my humble abilities.

Still, it's an interesting challenge. Would you take the challenge?

Your House of Light - Variorum

I can see the redbuds dancing
along the early misty streets
and I see the dogwood blossoms
gathered at my feet.
I can hear the young birds singing
with their youthful delight
At their place in your House of Light.
May I dwell in your house of light forevermore.

I can feel you walk beside me
under a canopy of leaves
your words are soft & subtle
as a gentle summer breeze.
Your breathvoice is sweet as honey;
your eyes are warm & bright:
that's how I see your House of Light.
May I dwell in your house of light forevermore.

When the farmers reap their harvest,
we hear the sermon of the loam;
and the barn is standing ready
for the horses coming home;
when the leaves explode in color
that gives my soulheart delight:
I know I live in your House of Light.
May I dwell in your house of light forevermore.

Now,Soon the sun will soon hang lower,
and the sharp crisp air draw us close.
My days will be build up like snow banks
and I hardly barely count the cost
for the turning of the seasons
have brought my soul 'round right:
within the halls of your House of Light.
May I dwell in your house of light forevermore.

House of Light by James A. Collins is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

Strange Encounter

Josie started attending my church about two weeks ago. I met her this Wednesday — she made a point of introducing herself after Evening Prayer. She mentioned that she's very shy, but wanted to meet me because I made an impression on her. Turns out, she's been sitting one or two pews behind me at church.

Well of course, my ego enjoyed that. We continued on to the dinner after the service, and sat with mutual friends. During the meal, she said that I made an impression on her because I was tall & lanky.

Now, I'm pretty clueless about when a woman is flirting with me. But, you can imagine the assumptions I leapt to from that piece of information.

After the meal, she told me she wanted to share the real reason I made an impression on her: "I could tell you were a spiritual person."

I think she just mistook my bald spot for a halo.