Idée d’jour

The true miracle is not walking on water or walking in air, but simply walking on this earth.
— Thich Nhat Hanh

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.

Idée d’jour

If you are not allowed to laugh in heaven, I do not want to go there.
— Martin Luther

Idée d’jour

Who thinks that they can kill time without injuring eternity?
— Henry David Thoreau

Jonquils wake late

Jonquils wake late
from a storm
of helvetica dreams

Thunder from the porch
a wandering wasp
diving the blossoms

Sun blinks behind
morse code clouds
over coffee streets

Response to In hepatica time, by Dave Bonta

Idée d’jour

Heaven is under our feet as well as over our heads
— Henry David Thoreau

Krista Tippett on Civility

The following are notes from a presentation given by Krista Tippett, the host of "On Being", on April 8, 2014, at the Mayflower Congregational Church in Oklahoma City, OK. These notes are a reflection of what impressed me in her presentation, and are not expected to be an accurate representation of what she said.

We need to make a distinction between public life and political life. The word “civility” is inadequate, for it seems too demure, prim and proper; but it's better than “tolerance,” the word much in favor from the 60s. Tolerance is passive; what is needed is an active engagement with, and acceptance of, our fellow terrestrial travelers.

We find the big questions of the 20^th century are being re-imagined for the 21^st century; e.g., marriage, beginning of life, etc.

This requires the reformation of all institutions

The most needed innovation is to recognize how our individual vulnerability is linked with others on the planet (all beings, all creation)

Anxiety about change in public life looks like anger (especially via "news" media) rather than fear.

The next needed innovation is to be conversational entrepreneurs; to see conversation as means to seek shared values rather than means to persuade, to win. This will plant seeds of the civil society we long for.

FOUR ENCOURAGEMENTS

• Words Matter
  • Share how we understand ourselves & perceive how others move through the world
  • Navigate pluralistic society through acceptance of diff rather than tolerance
  • Which is too cerebral
  • Never asked to be engaged or be curious about the Other
  • Find shimmering words to share the essence of ourselves
  • "Are we not of interest to each other"
  • Ground virtues rather than ground rules
• Questions
  • Elicit answers in their likeness
  • Ideal is to avoid yes or no, or leading questions
  • Remember, it's hard to resist a generous question, which invites dignity & honor
  • Seek the animating question, rather than simplistic. Seek what lies beneath.
  • Good question does not seek common ground or resolution
    • Pressure of agreement works against understanding each other
  • Questions are powerful within themselves — don't worry about the answers
• Honor difficulty of being human — starting small, as beginners
  • Which reminded me of the book Always We Begin Again, on Benedictine Practice
  • Change evolves slowly in the human heart
  • Conversation is a tool to make human connection (not change hearts and minds)
  • Be hospitable
  • We need critical yeast; that is, an unlikely combination of people
  • The radar (news media) is broken — if it ever existed
    • Change from public service to one more part of profit-seeking industry
• Develop eyes to see and ears to hear; for example
  • Civil rights movement sought to create a beloved humanity
  • We are in the midst of a long-term project; all of us are involved
  • We can be sources of social healing; again, to plant seeds of a civil society
  • Long term, seek to transform conflict rather than resolve it
    • If not transformed, the conflict will go underground (like repressed emotion) and rise again
    • However, transformation is a long term project; a minimum of 10 years
  • We are called to the inner work of integrity
  • Because, in the growing global community, it's about the other. Or, more practically, the person across town
  • In the words of Civil Rights leader and Congressman John Lewis, “When you pray, move your feet”

Peace to those who mourn

Went to a funeral for a friend's son yesterday. He died a week ago, at a relatively young 35. I knew him only as a small boy; there's a chunk of his life unknown to me. Just hints from the slide show displayed on the church wall, and comments from the minister.

I went as a support to his mother, who I haven't seen in almost 30 years. She looks much the same; I have less hair.

As I held her after the funeral, she kept saying how kind I was to drive 30 minutes south to attend the funeral. Don't know if it was kind; it was the right thing to do.

Saw a few old poetry friends at the ceremony. Somehow, seeing those people, and seeing the photos of the young boy I briefly knew, conjured ghosts of a sort. I felt haunted and on edge the rest of the day. There are echoes this morning.

Pray for Blake; pray for his father, currently in a far distant land and unable to be at the service. Pray peace to Lissa, the mother who has survived her only son.

Idée d’jour

I do not feel obliged to believe that the same God who has endowed us with sense, reason, and intellect has intended us to forgo their use.
— Galileo Galilei

Idée d’jour

Imagination is the key to my lyrics. The rest is painted with a little science fiction.
— Jimi Hendrix

Finger Labyrinth

I have a finger labyrinth
which I trace
from time to time
circling into the darkness
into the cave
where ego dwells
circling circling
a cosmos collapsing
into the darkness
where I am empty

I'm not here
but I'm not gone

I have Celtic prayer beads
upon which I count the weeks
a circle of stones
I trace the perimeter
I pray the center
I bless the days
the days bless me

I'm not gone
but I'm not here

I trace my return
from the labyrinth's dark center
I count the courses
the expanding universe
circling stars
greeted here by Whitman
embracing dark & light
greeted here by the angel
with fiery sword
welcomed to new light

What Was Said

What the turnstile said
to the whirlwind
under the snow-full moon

where the pilgrim's eyes
were opened
Jacob's well

Standing stone
infinite circle
where water overflows

Sunset a door
a thin line
on the horizon

Dreams beyond the beyond
an infinite circle
in the pilgrim's eyes

A thin skyline
a bottomless well
echoing whirlwind

Idée d’jour

An ounce of mother is worth a pound of clergy.
— Spanish proverb

Each can do an equal amount of good, or ill.

Finding Humility After a Sacred Walk

St. Jerome, that great holy crank, is often pictured with a lion. The Desert Fathers welcomed cats to their loosely aligned communities. It's likely the cat was useful for reducing vermin, but I think those felines great and small were also prized for another reason: humility. A cat teaches its human companion humility better than any other creature I know.

Living in community can also be humbling. If done with honesty, clear self-assessment, and integrity, it can be a spiritual discipline. Always I find myself balancing my needs against those of others. The goal, on the sacred path, is to put the needs of others first. But this is balanced by recognizing my own needs. For example, my need for alone time with God — just as Jesus would often step away for private prayer.

As an introvert, it's quite challenging to strike that balance. I'm most comfortable alone, with my own thoughts. The delusion of my perceptions, the delusion of self.

This is part of what I brought with me when I went to walk the labyrinth last Saturday at a Quiet Day at St. Paul's.

I had actually been on the fence as to whether to participate. I had, after all, walked the Healing Path just a few months ago. The deciding factor came on Ash Wednesday. No acolytes had been scheduled for the 7:00 p.m. service, so the Eucharistic Ministers were pressed into service. When I arrived — about 10 minutes before service — I was informed that I had been volunteered to carry the Gospel book.

I don't think I've ever carried the Gospel before; if I have, it was when I was a teenager, over forty years ago. Carrying the Gospel involves bearing it in procession — both at the beginning & end of the service — and holding it for the deacon as s/he reads from it. The Gospel book used at St. Paul's Cathedral is oversized — about as big as the average coffee-table book — and bound by an engraved metal cover. It's surprisingly heavy.

The Gospel expresses an ideal of human living. The life story of Jesus is a plumb line, against which the faithful measure their own manner of living. It calls the listener to judgment. This is why, in our faith tradition, we stand when the Gospel is read.

A hymn is traditionally sung as the Gospel is brought into the midst of the congregation. The crucifix and a pair of torches proceed the deacon and Gospel. The book is presented to the deacon, who finds her place then hands the book back to the acolyte. The acolyte holds the book as the hymn is sung. On this occasion, the hymn seemed especially long, at least six verses.

I stood there, facing the deacon, as the Book grew increasingly heavy. And I was struck by what an honor it is to carry this particular book. How I so often fall short of the ideal, yet am still worthy to hold and carry it in religious ceremony. It was a prayerful moment.

That feeling of prayer was a thin place; a moment when I was aware of the divine. I longed to return to that place, and knew the labyrinth was a way to enter a similar thin place.

I was one of the last ones to enter the labyrinth Saturday morning. I was taking my time. I was praying an Anglican rosary, using a prayer a friend had shared on Facebook: “Keep darkness out, keep light within; keep fear without, keep peace within; keep hatred without, keep love within.” I was two-thirds through the rosary when I noticed I was among the last pilgrims, and decided to complete the rosary as I walked the labyrinth's circuits.

As I've said before, one often meets the companions one needs on the Path. On this day, the first person I met was John, a Viet Nam vet who, I believe, suffers from PTSD. I stepped to one side so he could pass; we bowed to each other as he walked by: “The sacred in me recognizes the sacred in you,” to paraphrase the Hindu prayer.

This stepping to one side to let others pass was something I frequently did that day, mostly as a courtesy. It was also a way to honor my sense of personal space — to allow a bit of breathing room between my body and all those other bodies. The lanes were narrow, and only once did I turn to one side to walk the same circuit as another person — who was walking the opposite direction.

In time, I was the last person in the labyrinth. In time, most of the other pilgrims were heading downstairs for lunch. There were three facilitators walking at the edges of the labyrinth to support our prayer with their own. In time, I came to believe people were waiting for me – possibly my fellow pilgrims, certainly those three facilitators. There was also the possibility I'd be late for lunch, and would not know where it was being served. I was very near the entrance; no more than two or three circuits to go. I was at point where I could easily step over one border and enter the lane leading out.

So I did. I walked back to my chair, quickly jotted down a few notes, and put my shoes back on. I started to join the others, but as I walked down the stairs, I was aware the noise was painful. I had to admit I needed a few more minutes to transition from the sacred to the mundane.

I didn't think much one way or the other about my actions. I wasn't consciously thinking, “Man, I'm a really spiritual person. I've spent all this time in prayer, and I've been so considerate of my fellow pilgrims!”

I suppose that element of pride was there though, lurking in my subconscious.

I drove straight from church to the grocery store. It didn't take long to collect and purchase my paltry supplies — no more than 15-20 minutes. Returned to the car, put the bag in the trunk, started the car.

I couldn't pull out because another car was directly behind me. The driver, a woman with a young child, was waiting for a car on the opposite side to pull out. I wasn't really feeling impatient. I was listening to This American Life as my car ran, and was relatively content. I looked in the rear-view every so often to see if the woman had moved yet.

Our interaction became a silent movie, with each of us projecting dark voices (I suppose) onto the other. At some point the woman saw my eyes reflected in my rearview. I didn't think I was looking that often, but perhaps she thought I was getting impatient. She might have in my place, as I had no way of leaving (there was a car parked in front of me).

I don't know why she didn't pull back so I could exit; then she could have pulled into my former parking space. There was no way to communicate that option.

I was aware of her looking back at me, noticing my eyes in the rear view. I tried to think of a way to communicate I was in no hurry. So I drummed my fingers. Mistake — she read that as greater impatience. I could see her lips move; she was gesticulating to the space she'd been waiting for. Her lips moved some more.

I can't read lips, and that's the point I which I did become impatient. I unbuckled my belt and left the car, hoping we could speak like adults. However, she wouldn't roll down her window. All I could do is say, almost at a shout, “I'm just waiting, like you. What's your problem? There's no problem.” Felt altogether impotent and silly. I returned to my car.

Clearly, I had not made a full return from the mountain top. I was not ready to deal with other people. It's well and good to be courteous to people in your faith community, people you've come to know and care for. But the real test is how you treat the stranger.

I'm not sure I earned a passing grade as I confronted that woman in the grocery store parking lot. I went home, so my cat could teach me greater humility.

Bukowski on Writing

There's nothing to stop a man from writing unless that man stops himself. If a man truly desires to write, then he will. Rejection and ridicule will only strengthen him. And the longer he is held back the stronger he will become, like a mass of rising water against a dam. There is no losing in writing; it will make your toes laugh as you sleep; it will make you stride like a tiger; it will fire the eye and put you face to face with Death. You will die a fighter, you will be honored in hell. The luck of the word. Go with it, send it. Be the Clown in the Darkness. It's funny. It's funny. One more new line ...
— from The Captain is Out to Lunch and the Sailors Have Taken Over the Ship

Idée d’jour

Humans think they are smarter than dolphins because we build cars and buildings and start wars, etc., and all that dolphins do is swim in the water, eat fish, and play around. Dolphins believe that they are smarter for exactly the same reasons.
— Douglas Adams

Idée d’jour

Conceive of Nothing While you live And I give you Heaven.
— Jack Kerouac
Happy Birthday, Ti Jean

Idée d’jour

What is wanted now is not simply the Christian who takes an inner complacency in the words & example of Christ, but who seek to follow Christ perfectly, not only in his personal life, not only in prayer & penitence, but also in his political commitments and in all social responsibilities.
— Thomas Merton

Idée d’jour

To draw, you must close your eyes and sing.
— Pablo Picasso

Playing on the Old Banjo

Consider, for a moment, the humble banjo. Folk I travel with are fond of such jokes as “You know what you got when you throw a hundred banjos in the ocean?” The banjo is almost ridiculous in appearance, when compared with its cousins, the guitar & mandolin (add a bass, and you've got a bluegrass group). It has a loud brash sound, which cuts across the dreadnought guitar, chopping mandolin, and the dancers' feet.

Dave Bonta considers the banjo with just the right mix of seriousness and humor in his latest chapbook, Breakdown: Banjo Poems (Seven Kitchens Press). These poems take the reader on a little history of the instrument, both literal and imaginative.

The collection begins with the ominous sounding “Banjo Apocalypse,” which borrows heavily from the Book of Revelation. This may seem irreverent, and the more tender and easily offended reader may close the book immediately. It would be a shame if you did; you not only miss the fun of this first poem, but the fun journey of the poems which follow.

An “apocalypse”, of course, is a story of the end times (I write this on the supposed date of Ragnarok). And it seems odd to begin a collection with thoughts of the end times. The poem begins by giving the angels of John's vision seven banjos rather than seven trumpets; this seems right — the banjo blares & blasts (in its way) like a trumpet. After an imaginative breakdown of the banjo's construction, the poem closes with these lines:

And the seven angels
which had the seven banjos
prepared themselves
to sound.

This suggests that what is to follow are the sounds of those banjos, for the angels' trumpets sound in John's vision prior to the opening of the scrolls which describe end time events. Immediately, the collection turns from future end times to history — the fraught history of the banjo, which reflects our American history.

For we can't fully consider the banjo's history without addressing the issue of slavery. The banjo was stolen, in a sense, with its owners when European nations kidnapped people from Africa and brought them to the U.S. It's a troubling history; this collection does not shy away from it.

The fourth poem, “Catskin Banjo” is especially telling and (compared to other poems in the collection) relatively graphic. The narrative revolves around a cat, but it could also be about a female slave. The cat's fear could also be a slave's fear.

I don't want to give the impression that the collection dwells on this early history — just the first few poems directly reference the banjo as a slave's instrument. Other poems reference early minstrel days (five have “Medicine Show” in the title). One of the poems in the “Medicine Show” set reminds us that Shackleton took a banjo & banjo player to the Antarctic.

As a watch-repairman's son, I especially enjoyed “Open-Backed Banjo”, which compares it to “our only god the clock”, asking

Where's the balance wheel?
The escapement?
The gear train?

There's nothing there “... but a bare rod / & the smell of rain.” The ghost in its machine calls the narrator to make his hands those of this time-keeping machine, to

Play it, son!
Make it ring like a hammer on steel
& rattle like a Gatling gun
until it smokes.

Bonta's irreverent sense of fun returns with “Banjo Proverbs”, which "steals" from the KJV translation of the Book of Proverbs and Ecclesiastes, substituting "banjo" for "fool" or "foolish" in the original. Perhaps it's just me, but the banjo here seems more than merely foolish — it “mocks at sin”. A player returns to it as a dog returns to his vomit. “Forsake the banjo,” we're told in the final stanza, “and live”.

Many poems deal with the origins of the banjo, from the gourd in “How Jefferson Heard Banjar” to the mechanisms detailed in the opening poem and “Open-Backed Banjo”. One of my favorites is “Banjo Origins (3): Jesusland”, a playful imagining of how banjos might grow on trees. And how the banjo once followed the Grateful Dead. Side note: Jerry Garcia was a bluegrass fan, as detailed in the documentary “Grateful Dawg”.

Although the collection is headed “Breakdown” there is no other reference to bluegrass in the collection. Elsewhere, Dave has said he prefers the claw-hammer style to Earl Scruggs' new-fangled style. Earl Scruggs is best known for his partnership with Lester Flatt, but he began his career with Bill Monroe's Blue Grass Boys; it was Scruggs' banjo which gave the genre its distinctive sound.

A breakdown may be an instrumental (e.g., Foggy Mt Breakdown) or a break in a vocal song. This collection is an extended piece, with theme & variation — history, dream, myth, wonder. It's a charming collection, a worthy co-winner of the Keystone Chapbook Prize.

The chapbook is worth its $9 cover price. I also encourage you to preview the series on Dave Bonta's Via Negativa site, where they are prefaced (or presaged) by a series of Moving Poems.

Order a copy of Breakdown: Banjo Poems from Seven Kitchens Press.

Haiku: 5.Feb.14

Crystalline breath
Lingers on western sky
Quiet pink sunset

Thanks for our senses

Blessed are you, Lord God, for the gift of our senses; you fill creation with delight. We hear your word above the storm; we feel your voice behind the wind. We hear your word in stirring leaves; we feel your voice with every heartbeat. Grant we train our senses to perceive your good news in all creation. Grant we share your delight with all your creatures.

---

I am facilitating a class that uses haiku as a spiritual discipline to be fully present to God's creation. We are using the book Clear Water by Jeannie Martin as a guide. Tomorrow will be the third meeting of the group. I have asked the group to journal on a different set of senses each week. The prayer above is my response to tomorrow's assignment: hearing & touch.

27.I.14

Shock the tongue
jump start the nerves
coffee's first sip

25.I.14

Bitter dreams
soured moon
bitter morning

Literary Cat

On the meditative benefits of befriending a cat, from Muriel Spark, A Far Cry from Kensington :

If you want to concentrate deeply on some problem, and especially some piece of writing or paper-work, you should acquire a cat. Alone with the cat in the room where you work … the cat will invariably get up on your desk and settle placidly under the desk lamp. The light from a desk lamp … gives a cat great satisfaction. The cat will settle down and be serene, with a serenity that passes all understanding. And the tranquility of the cat will gradually come to affect you, sitting there at your desk, so that all the excitable qualities that impede your concentration compose themselves and give your mind back the self-command it has lost. You need not watch the cat all the time. Its presence alone is enough. The effect of a cat on your concentration is remarkable, very mysterious.

Courtesy Maria Popova's Brain Pickings site.

Bring Your Own God

Review of Bring Your Own God: The Spirituality of Woody Guthrie by Rev. Steve Edington; 3.5 stars

This book covers an aspect of Woody's life no other biography spends much time on: his spirituality. The basic case is made in the first chapter; the remaining chapters strive to support the argument. The author is a Unitarian minister, and possibly reflects some preference toward portraying Woody as a self-taught Unitarian. Having read much of Woody's writing beyond Bound For Glory, however, I agree with this portrayal.

The author's approach is not chronological, which I found interesting — though I was not sure why he approached the topic in this fashion. It certainly helped that I was already familiar with Guthrie's biography from three other sources (Bound for Glory, and Woody Guthrie: A Life by Joe Klein & Ramblin' Man: The Life and Times of Woody Guthrie by Ed Cray).

The book includes much of Woody's writing that I have not seen elsewhere, especially letters he wrote in response to condolence letters after the death of Cathy ("Stackabones"), and much of a play written after he was hospitalized with Huntington's. For me, these selections were worth the $4 for the Kindle edition.

The book does become repetitive in the last few chapters, which is the main reason it falls short of a four-star review. Otherwise, I would definitely recommend someone read this as a supplement with Klein or Cary's biographies to get a full picture of the man.

Idée d’jour

The meaning of life is to find your gift. The purpose of life is to give it away.
— Pablo Picasso

Idée d’jour

The rich have everything they want except happiness, and the poor are sacrificed to the unhappiness of the rich.
— Thomas Merton

Diving into the Ocean

There is a risk, when a book is written in the first person, of assuming the story is autobiographical. The reader imagines that the thin letter I is a sort of doorway through which the author is peeking. Neil Gaiman has written several short stories and graphic novels which are written in the first person, and I suppose the narrator of each of those tales shares some things in common with the author, but I don't suppose any of them are autobiographical in the same sense Henry Miller's or Charles Bukowski's novels are.

The Ocean at the End of the Lane is Mr. Gaiman's first adult novel written in the first person (also his first since 2005). I suppose it to be one of his most personal novels — it was written for his wife, Amanda F'ing Palmer — and I suppose the narrator to have many traits in common with the author. But I doubt it is autobiographical, not in the traditional sense.

Like many of his fans, I was introduced to Neil Gaiman's writing through The Sandman comics. I was working at the Infernal Bookstore, and a coworker loaned me the Seasons of Mists set. This was an excellent place to begin reading this series, and led me to read the whole series from the beginning. I then went on to read many of his other comic series, graphic novels, short stories, and novels.

The Sandman comics made me aware of some common themes in Mr. Gaiman's work: the nature of identity; what becomes of the old gods; and the betrayal of innocence. There's a degree to which Ocean touches on all three of these themes, but the emphasis is on the betrayal of innocence.

Innocence is betrayed when a child is traumatically exposed to adult concerns. Child abuse is an obvious example, famously explored in The Doll's House portion of The Sandman. The trauma in Ocean is the suicide of a lodger. This trauma sets the main action of the novel in motion.

I hardly know how to classify this novel — fantasy, horror, or myth. There are fantastic elements, the most apparent being that the ocean of the title actually appears to be a regular farm pond. The lodger's suicide creates an opening, of sorts, for a horrific and malevolent being who tempts humans with money.

Then there are the three women who live by that pond which may be an ocean: daughter, mother, grandmother. They are a mythic type readers of The Sandman will quickly recognize: maiden, mother, crone: The Fates. This distaff trinity pre-dates the Christian trinity, so often seen as male-dominant. This feminine trinity has many names: as the Fates, they both give life and end it.

I believe Neil Gaiman to be one of the best authorities on myth since Joseph Campbell. So I think he uses “the three-faced goddess” intentionally. The narrator is reflecting on the events which followed that initial betrayal of innocence. The narrator ultimately examines his life.

Myth, as Campbell would say, causes us to examine our lives. Myth can become a sort of pilgrimage, where the reader journeys with the main character and recognizes a new strength, or realizes new meaning, through the journey.

Gaiman creates this mythic space in many ways, primarily by his use of detail — or lack of it. The first person narrator, for example, is never named; thus, the reader is more likely to identify with the narrator. Likewise, we're never told such details as what he looks like, even what color his hair or eyes are. All we know is that he is seven — not too young, perhaps, for a country boy to encounter death, but certainly too young to be exposed to a suicide.

There are, in fact, very few named characters in the novel – only those three women, the Hempstocks; that malevolent force (which takes the name Ursula Monkton); and three cats (two kittens of unknown gender and one tom). The reader becomes more involved in the story by filling in these blanks.

The houses are described in fairly general detail — with the exception of three rooms in which the narrator sleeps. I've read that many readers picture their own house when imagining the narrator's.

This is a bit of a spoiler, but for me, the element which solidifies this as myth rather than horror or fantasy is a sacrifice. This sacrifice is not ritualistic, but more in the nature of a soldier sacrificing her/his life for a fellow. This element causes the narrator to question whether he has lived a life worthy of that sacrifice.

For myth to serve as pilgrimage rather than a diversionary story, the reader must exert some effort. As I say, the author has left some details out; it's up to the reader to fill them in. The reader may be intellectually aware of certain mythic tropes — the Fates, the ancient evil — but it's best to set that knowledge to one side; it's best to allow it to play a quiet counterpoint to the story. The pilgrim reader will allow herself to walk along with the narrator; may find himself seeing his own reflection when the narrator looks in the mirror.

The reader who has thus identified with that unnamed narrator, who has allowed himself to be vulnerable to the rhythmic beats of the novel, will likely find himself asking whether he has lived a life worthy of such a sacrifice. Perhaps, more than any turn of a calendar leaf, the pilgrimage through this mythic novel will lead to a resolve to live such a life.

Idée d’jour

Time is the coin of your life. It is the only coin you have, and only you can determine how it will be spent. Be careful lest you let other people spend it for you.
— Carl Sandburg

28.XII.2013

Dark veins intertwine
and stretch into hovering
grey clouds.

14.XII.13

Stout gritty coffee
grey pink sky slowly
develops into morning

Haiku: 10.XII.13

Bitter evening
inhale waning sun
exhale moonlight

Idée d’jour

We invent nothing, truly. We borrow and re-create. We uncover and discover. All has been given, as the mystics say. We have only to open our eyes and hearts, to become one with that which is.
— Henry Miller

Turn back, o death

Turn back, o death,
husband your reward
while I dream of refuge.

---

This is my variant on Dave Bonta's "erasure" poems. Dave has set himself the task of creating a poem a day, derived from Samuel Pepys' diary through a variant on the cut-up method.

I wondered if I could do something similar. As this idea was percolating, a group at church was studying the Book of Ruth. Most Bibles are printed in twin columns, and I wondered what would happen if my cut-up drew words and phrases from across the chasm dividing the columns. The above is the result of the first experiment — with one or two words added.

Breaking the rules? How can I break the rules when I'm the one making them?

Finding the Healing Path

They met when the blush was on the rose.
Sam's voice was strong; his hands soft as stone;
he was gentle; he was kind. His heart was fire.
Sara was laughter generous as water.
When the bottom fell out, it fell hard,
hard as hands on bluing flesh.

Miriam lived in the delight of flesh
and honored the passion of the rose.
John loved the feel of wood, hard
yet warm. Who knew when stone
consumed his heart, when she became water
who could not quench his fire?

Barry lived for the honest fire,
Mara wore the brands on her flesh.
Her dark wounds flowed like water.
His dark hand fell on the rose;
his dark face became a stone.
Her body, once so soft, became hard.

The night Julie fled was hard:
when she left, his bed was on fire;
but she had set her face to stone.
She brought her daughter, flesh of her flesh:
her light, her guide, her rose,
whose face reflected hers like water.

Janet left, then returned, like water:
returned, where love was daemon hard,
where petals were stripped from the rose.
She returned, but left again — fire
in her feet, in her hands, in her flesh,
and in her eyes. But her heart — stone.

It's been years since the bruising stone
fell upon her face of water.
Sam was the dagger to her flesh.
Sara ran, though it was hard;
she ran through the night, like fire,
to the healing path, the path to the rose:

The compass rose is the central stone;
the border is hidden fire, the path like water:
flowing hard, healing spirit and the flesh.

Golden Anniversary

Fifty years ago today, I was turning eight years old. I was probably in 3rd or 4th grade, at James Madison Elementary. It's unlikely our class – or school – was given the news that the president had been shot at 12:30 p.m. in Dallas, TX. It's probable I got the news from Uncle Walter, along with the rest of the nation.

From my point of view, there's been a lot of Kennedy talk the past couple of weeks. The media is mining all the gold it can out of this anniversary, with documentaries, made for TV movies, books, and radio specials by the score. I'm mature enough now to recognize an unfortunate coincidence. Just like the death of that other “Jack”, C.S. Lewis, or the fact that I share my birthday with several other luminaries (e.g., Hoagy Carmichael). Just an unfortunate coincidence.

But I was already a sensitive kid. I was an abused child, and I now believe that led to an anxious and fearful nature. My parents divorced when I was about five; my mother (the abuser) won custody for a time. My first six years are mostly lost to my memory, which is likely a blessing.

So I took the coincidental connection rather hard. There were at least a couple of years I chose not to celebrate my birthday. Though I've gained perspective, maturity, and a thicker skin through the years, some old emotions are stirred by the media's frequent reminders.

I am celebrating my birthday this year. I am making the choice to focus on the love and well-wishes shared by friends and loved ones. Still, I think it's a good thing I've taken the day off — if I descend into a “dark mood”, only my cat and I need endure it.

Idée d’jour

Too often we enjoy the comfort of opinion without the discomfort of thought.
— John F. Kennedy

Idée d’jour

The gift you offer another person is just your being.
Ram Dass

Numerology

One is for the compass rose
two is for the stone
three is for the innocent
longing for a home.

Four is a family;
five in anger rages;
six keeps the peace;
seven is for the sages.

Eight contains infinity.
Nine has left the room
Ten is the eternal dance
between the earth & the moon.

One is for the compass rose
one is for the home
two is for the doorway
two is for the stone

Three becomes a family
four contains a fire
five counts the nightingale
with a song sweet as a lyre.

Six is rolling rivers
seven stars mark the sky
Eight describes eternity
which nine then multiplies

Ten is another number
another secret sign
Ten is the keyhole
whose meaning is left to find

Idée d’jour

Everyone discusses my art and pretends to understand, as if it were necessary to understand, when it is simply necessary to love.
— Claude Monet

Idée d’jour

Poetry is the art of creating imaginary gardens with real toads.
— Marianne Moore

Idée d’jour

If people knew how hard I worked to get my mastery, it wouldn't seem so wonderful after all.
— Michelangelo Buonarroti

Idée d’jour

Poetry should please by a fine excess and not by singularity. It should strike the reader as a wording of his own highest thoughts, and appear almost as a remembrance.
— John Keats

Idée d’jour

Awareness can be best achieved and honed through working outside.
— Lionel Aggett

Saturday excitement

I had some unplanned excitement yesterday.

I decided to visit the American Banjo Museum in downtown OKC, as a research trip (I'll soon be reviewing a chapbook of poetry centering on the banjo and it's history). It's a charming two floor affair in the Bricktown area — immediately east of Lincoln Blvd and the railroad tracks — and covers the history of the instrument from Africa to the present.

I returned home for lunch, then resumed my journeys with more traditional Saturday errands — the Belle Isle Library to pick up a copy of Jeff Buckley's Grace; a visit to OKC Music and Sound; a jaunt to Akin's, a local health food store; and, finally, the grocery store.

I reached into the deep pocket of my mackinaw to pull the shopping list out of my checkbook. My pocket was empty.

Of course, I panicked. I had the shopping list fairly well memorized, so I went on shopping and paid with my debit card.

I took the groceries home, all the time hoping I had taken the checkbook out when I had eaten lunch. No such luck.

I called the Banjo Museum, and the nice lady at the front desk looked in the vicinity of the desk. Wasn't there. The obvious answer was to retrace my steps.

I had parked about three blocks away that morning, so I parked as close to that spot as possible on my return. No checkbook.

I walked through the whole museum, even the men's room. No checkbook. There was a little movie theater where movie clips which used banjo prominently on the sound track were displayed. The front desk lady suggested it had fallen out there. I hadn't sat down in there, but I was desperate. No checkbook.

Next stop was the library, which was 38 blocks south and about a half mile west. As I was driving, the penny dropped. The front desk lady's suggestion had a whole new application.

My checkbook had fallen out of that deep pocket of my red mackinaw into the rear passenger floorboard behind the driver's seat.

Hallelujah, with Ukulele

I recently read a biography of Leonard Cohen (I'm Your Man, Sylvie Simmons) which mentioned — off-handedly — that he plays uke. So it seemed a charming match.

I'm currently reading The Holy or the Broken by Alan Light, which is an exhaustive study of the growing popularity of this song. Aside from a discussion of record sales — a necessary evil — he talks about how each singer's interpretation brings something new to the song.

My interpretation, as is often the case, is a syncretic blend of other interpretations that have spoken to me. My aim is mix moments of innocence (an element of the Buckley interpretation, according to Light) with moments experience (Cohen's original and John Cage's cover).

Idée d’jour

The foolish man seeks happiness in the distance, the wise grows it under his feet.
— J. Robert Oppenheimer

Idée d’jour

The corporate grip on opinion in the United States is one of the wonders of the Western world. No First World country has ever managed to eliminate so entirely from its media all objectivity — much less dissent.
— Gore Vidal

Only Love

I continue to test the theory that serious songs are especially appropriate for the ukulele. The ultimate test will be a Leonard Cohen song (coming soon), but this Neil Young song is also a good proof of concept.

Idée d’jour

No battle is ever won .... They are not even fought. The field only reveals to man his own folly and despair, and victory is an illusion of philosophers and fools.
— William Faulkner

Idée d’jour

Cats seem to go on the principle that it never does any harm to ask for what you want.
— Joseph Wood Krutch

Haiku: 24.Aug.2013

Dragonfly squadrons
buzz fresh mown lawn:
prophets of solstice

Day of the Labyrinth

We are waves on God's ocean, ebbing and flowing from the Presence, playing hide & seek with the divine spirit.  We meet the pilgrims we need on the Way; often, we find ourselves meeting them at every turn.

I rose early Saturday morning, and began mowing the lawn as soon as it was fully lit by the sun (shortly after 7).  I have a mulching mower.  I mow as Padre taught me, in a concentric circle.  It grows ever more inward.  This circle reminds me of the labyrinth; it is almost a prayer walk - although I'm more goal-oriented than fully prayerful.

Later that morning, I went to a labyrinth workshop.  This ancient form dates to the pre-Christian era; most of us know the name through the tale of Daedalus and the minotaur. It had a resurgence in the Middle Ages, when it was no longer safe to make the longed-for Jerusalem pilgrimage.  Twenty-two European cathedrals were designated labyrinth cathedrals; making the pilgrimage to these cathedrals and walking those labyrinths was held to have the same spiritual benefits as making the pilgrimage to Jerusalem.

The labyrinth, we are told, has a resurgence at times of transition, such as this profoundly noisy millennial era.  Contrary to Thoreau, most people today lead lives of noisy desperation.  We bombard ourselves with multiple stimuli in a cacophonous stew of images, voices, music, and print.  Our minds chatter more than Monkey, and we long for peace.  We are fear-filled, and long for comfort.  We are bold individuals, making our bold way alone in this ever-changing landscape, and we long for community.

There are times we must tap into the Great Silence that is beneath all things.  The labyrinth is one of many spiritual tools which help us get in touch with that Great Silence.  It can be a means of deep healing.

There were over 60 people present for this labyrinth walk. My group had eight people. We were told to remove our shoes, for two reasons: the space was holy, and the labyrinth was cloth – an exact replica of the labyrinth at Chartres Cathedral. People were guided in at respectful distances, yet there were several times groups would cluster; the circuits were relatively thin (I estimate 4-5" in width), so the pilgrims would often need to side-step each other.

A labyrinth is a long winding path. You often think you are nearing the center — you could easily step right into it if you jump the designated path — then find yourself led far away from it. I applied two types of prayer that have been fruitful tools in the past – walking and breath (they are closely related). As I walked, I was mindful of the length of my pace; I was intentional as I rolled my weight onto my toes. I was acutely aware of my breathing.

I've been working the past several months on childhood wounds – most of which are hidden from conscious memory (I know of them through reliable reports). As I walked the circuits to the center, I repeated this prayer with each breath:
“Grandmother God, I bring my woundedness to you.”

A wooden floor was beneath the canvas labyrinth. Even the wood prayed as we softly walked the circuits.

I was acutely aware of a burning sensation near my heart – not indigestion, but the prayerful heart burning the disciples experienced on the Emmaus road. I was aware of the tears burning at the well of my eyes.

This tearfulness was quite pronounced when I finally reached the center, which was trimmed with fleur-de-lis. Each pilgrim stepped into his or her own alcove – we were still close enough to touch. I was in the west-most alcove. Within a few moments, a woman stepped into the ESE alcove. She was crying.

I prayed for discernment: was this private grief, to be shared with God alone? Or, would she welcome comfort? The spirit led me to her. I gently put my arm on her shoulder. She drew me close, and nuzzled her head into my right shoulder. My tears were strong. My heart-fire was strong.

As I walked out of the labyrinth, it seemed I met this woman at every turn. It seemed meant to be: Nothing romantic, just a reminder that I was not alone on my pilgrimage. I had a new prayer:
“Healing Spirit, descend upon me”

---

Grandmother God, I come to you with open hands.
I come to you with tender voice.
I come to your embrace.
Wrap me in your healing blanket.
Teach me your compassion.
Let me drink your life-giving waters.
Grandmother God, I come to you beloved.
I bring you my wounds:
with your tender kiss, I become whole.

Summer Morning

7 o’clock: mowing
through nostalgic
morning dew.

Prayer, 17.Aug.2013

Grandfather Great Spirit, we give thanks that you bring us together at this time in your sacred circle. We give thanks for the turning of the year. You are the source of renewal. You guide us to the road of forgiveness. You build us anew to serve the nations. Day and and day out, you lead us on the path of atonement. Give us courage for our path. Set us on the good road. Strengthen us to forgive as we have been forgiven. Grandfather Great Spirit, make us humble in judgment, generous in giving, tender in mercy. This we ask in your Holy Name.

Inspired by presentation on the Sundance

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

Prayer for our walk

Grandfather Great Spirit, we give thanks that you bring us together at this time in your sacred circle. You are older than all need, older than all prayer. You created all things, all life comes from you: all creatures who walk the earth, the wings of the air, and the bright green things. Day in and day out, forever, you are the life of all things. You have set the powers of the four quarters to cross each other. The good road & the road of difficulties you have made to cross; and where they cross, the place is holy. Grandfather Great Spirit, join us in this circle; embolden our spirits, and strengthen our voices. This we ask in your Holy Name.

Adapted from Black Elk Speaks

Idée d’jour

Stop. Breathe. Allow yourself the luxury of doing nothing for a moment, or an hour, or even a day. It is in emptiness that inspiration will appear.
— Carole Katchen

Idée d’jour

Lots of people talk to animals.... Not very many listen, though.... That's the problem.
— Benjamin Hoff

Idée d’jour

Don't worry about the world coming to an end today. It's already tomorrow in Australia.
— Charles Schulz

Idée d’jour

A gloss on Descartes: Sometimes I think: and sometimes I am.
— Paul Valery

Idée d’jour

No snowflake falls in an inappropriate place —
Zen saying

Happy Birthday, Woody!

A day early, but this is the day I had time to record, edit, and upload the video. I did a version in my study, but recording it in the shadow of the arbor in my backyard seemed so more appropriate.

Dear Daily Mail

I don't claim to be the biggest fan of Amanda Palmer's music, but this fun one-off is quite charming, and right on target. As a male raised in breast-obsessed America, I have (at times) been guilty of the crime perpetrated by England's Daily Mail rag: the objectification of women, the judging of a woman by her appearance rather than by her character.

I recommend you watch the video soon, before YouTube pulls it down. Hint: it ain't safe for work.

Idée d’jour

When people are fanatically dedicated to political or religious faiths or any other kind of dogmas or goals, it's always because these dogmas or goals are in doubt.
— Robert M. Pirsig

Idée d’jour

Every day, think as you wake up, today I am fortunate to be alive, I have a precious human life, I am not going to waste it.
— The Dalai Lama

Idée d’jour

The sunrise, of course, doesn't care if we watch it or not. It will keep on being beautiful, even if no one bothers to look at it.
— Gene Amole

Idée d’jour

Human kindness has never weakened the stamina or softened the fiber of a free people. A nation does not have to be cruel to be tough.
— Franklin D. Roosevelt

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

Earth cannot escape heaven, flee it by going up, or flee it by going down; heaven still invades the earth, energizes it, makes it sacred.
— Meister Eckhart

Out of the Wilderness, II

There was a new light shining in my eyes
when I woke on the wilderness' edge.
I had been dreaming of a rose in bloom,
fiery petals dancing before my brow.

When I woke near the wilderness' edge,
it was as if a tomb had been opened.
The fiery petals danced before my brow
and my hands were cleansed of blood.

It was as if a tomb had been opened
when I took my first steps into the light.
My hands had been cleansed of the blood
that I'd gotten from a broken wine glass.

When I took my first steps into the light,
there were those who did not recognize me.
Though I'd gotten, from a broken wine glass,
these desert scars, they still didn't know me.

There were those who did not recognize me
until we sat and broke bread together.
These desert scars, they no longer own me,
for a Breath has given me a new life.

When we sat and broke bread together,
I had a vision of a rose in bloom.
A loving Breath gave me a new life
where a new light was shining in my eyes.

19.III.85; published in The Pilgrim, April 1986

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