"The Sky where we live Is no place to lose your wings. So love, love, Love" ~Hafiz

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Sunday, November 30, 2008

Either Fire or Fire


















After this visit

"We only live, only suspire
Consumed by either fire or fire, "

wrote T.S. Eliot. We must be consumed either by the anger of the storm god or by the love of the living god. There is no way around life and its sufferings. Our only choice is whether we will be consumed by the fire of our own heedless fears and passions or allow God to refine us in his fire and to shape us into a fitting instrument for his revelation, as he did Moshe. We need not fear God as we fear all other suffering, which burns and maims and kills. For God's fire, though it will perfect us, will not destroy, for "the bush was not consumed."

-Thomas Cahill
The Gifts of the Jews

**


My brothers and sister and I (not even to mention spouses) are guaranteed to cancel out one another's votes. We are mostly dissimilar and share few passions.

I am completely uninspired by football, surfing, fishing, right wing politics, and the list goes on.
My siblings are uninterested in religion, psychology, art or anything else that is most meaningful to me.

Yet our time together has become a rich meditative time on the ties that do bind us, which become clearer, less murky, more easily understood.

It is a place in the heart that calls us.

I was reading Thomas Cahill's "Gifts of the Jews" and thinking about the Ancient Hebrew culture . The harshness , even murderousness of the O.T. God.
It's all well and good for us to talk about loving one another as a sort of 'be a good person' formula. The 20th century sunday school culture was particularly fond of turning Bible stories into sentimental dime novels. A cutsie ark, a movie star Moses.
But I imagine sometimes what it must have been to be alive in that culture -- the terror, the fear of being nomadic, being a sojourner all one's life, with no real home, no safety no security. Especially as a woman, to belong to a man , to a family, to be guaranteed no autonomy at all.
What would 'love' mean to a people like that? Brother striving against brother for their father's blessing, to be their mother's favorite, where to lose favor could mean death or worse. The struggle in fear against harsh elements that are without mercy.

What binds us together and gives us sustenance? What is binding and true, and not just sentimentality and wishful thinking?

What defines our culture as a family, as siblings? It's not just the photos , the stories, the nostalgia. We went through some searing times together and are able to laugh about it. We lost our parents to mental illness and alcoholism, respectively. Yet our parents were, in their ways, uniquely gifted and remarkable people and deserve our respect, even our honor.

My father was a decorated war veteran who earned a bronze star. I could list a lot of things about him, and about our mother. Things that speak of charming dear people. And yet. As my brother reminds me, they were also hell on wheels.

**
"It is no accident, therefore, that the great revelations of God's own Name and of his Commandments occur in a mountainous desert, as far from civilization and its contents as possible, in a place as unlike the lush predictabilities and comforts of the Nile and the Euphrates as this earth of ours can offer. If God -- the Real God, the One God -- was to speak to human beings and if there was any possibility of their hearing him, it could happen only in a place stripped of all cultural reference points, where even nature ( which was so imbued with contrary, god-inhabited forces) seemed absent. Only amid inhuman rock and dust could this fallible collection of human beings imagine becoming human in a new way. Only under a sun without pity, on a mountain devoid of life, could the living God break through the cultural filters that normally protect us from him. "YHWH, YHWH," he thunders at Moshe, the man alone on the Mountain:

"God,
showing-mercy, showing-favor,
long-suffering in anger,
abundant in loyalty and faithfulness,
keeping loyalty to the thousandth (generation),
bearing iniquity, rebellion and sin,
yet not clearing, clearing (the guilty),
calling-to-account the iniquity of the fathers upon the sons
and upon sons' sons, to the third and fourth
(generation) ! "

This is God's self-description, the one he would have us remember. His is the God of mercy and forgiveness, the God who never deserts his people, faithful to the end, patient with all our failings however dismaying, but reminding us that a household -- a familial environment, holding three (or sometimes four) generation -- cannot escape the sins of the oldest generation; they necessarily infect the atmosphere."

--p. 163
The Gift of the Jews
How a Tribe of Desert Nomads Changed the Way Everyone Thinks and Feels

Thomas Cahill


Saturday, November 29, 2008

The World Is Moving























It's my birthday.

I went for a walk on the beach in a sweater and scarf. It was just me and the fisherman the sandpipers and the old ladies with poodles (one poodle had a sun visor).

Driving North today. Back home maybe by 2 a.m.

My brothers and sisters threw me a birthday party last night. I am absurdly blessed.

**
THE WORLD IS MOVING

The moving world
like a morsel of food -- devoured.
Crusts
and then
molten centers with
fluffly surfaces.

Pulse of wave and wind --
cooked
baked
shaken
cut
stirred
and
poured out.
We are eating our world
riding and moving
everything locomotive
structures built to travel --

Our bodies worlds in miniature
cells and systems
in motion
ready to go
in conversation with their own elements
signaling to other systems outlying -
other cells.
Earth
and
Heaven

Nov. 29, 2008

**

Lower your standards

--William Stafford's advice to poets

**
Never think of yourself
as a person who didn't count --
Festival of the Souls.

--Matsuo Basho's poem on the death of his friend, Jutei,
in July 1694, near the time of the Japanese All Souls' Day

**
Yantou and Xuefeng were snowed in on Tortoise Mountain.

Day after day, Yantou slept while Xuefeng sat up and meditated.

On the third day, Yantou sat up too and said, "Get some sleep. What do you think you are -- a roadside shrine?"

Xuefeng touched his chest and said, " My heart isn't at peace. I can't fool myself."

Yantou gave a great yell. "Don't you know that the family treasure doesn't come in through the gate?" he said. "Let the teaching flow out from your own breast to cover the sky and the earth."

Xuefeng was suddenly enlightened and cried out, "Today Tortoise Mountain has finally awakened!"

--John Tarrant
from "Bring Me The Rhinoceros"

**
"I saw then that this is one of those embarrassing stories in which the storyteller unconsciously describes his own mind. I thought the koan was boring, but I hadn't let it all the way in. I thought the koan was lazy, but no, that was also me. And I had convinced a few of my colleagues as well. It's really nice to have your delusions exploded; it's like getting out of prison. If you can see a delusion of your own, it's wonderful, you can breathe, you can't find the walls that lately hemmed you in. I like to sit on a verandah overlooking the valley, counting the Pleiades coming up in the cold air, the Crow, the Big Bear turning around the pole as the night goes on.

And that's what meditation is like really, doing nothing, looking at nothing in particular, relishing the plainness, the life in between.

--John Tarrant
"Bring Me the Rhinoceros"

**

The Covers Of The Album Are Closing Behind Us
















Seen at Sujatin's blog


Seeing the suffering in the world around us and in our own bodies and minds, we begin to understand suffering not only as an individual problem, but as a universal experience. It is one of the aspects of being alive. The question that then comes to mind is: If compassion arises from the awareness of suffering, why isnt the world a more compassionate place? The problem is that often our hearts are not open to feel the pain. We move away from it, close off, and become defended. By closing ourselves off from suffering, however, we also close ourselves to our own wellspring of compassion. We dont need to be particularly saintly in order to be compassionate. Compassion is the natural response of an open heart, but that wellspring of compassion remains capped as long as we turn away from or deny or resist the truth of what is there. When we deny our experience of suffering, we move away from what is genuine to what is fabricated, deceptive, and confusing.

~ Joseph Goldstein, Seeking the Heart of Wisdom

**
These days
whatever you have to say, leave
the roots on, let them
dangle

And the dirt

Just to make clear
where they come from

- Charles Olson

[from wood_s_lot]

**
link

Home For Thanksgiving

The gathering family
throws shadows around us,
it is the late afternoon
Of the family.

There is still enough light
to see all the way back,
but at the windows
that light is wasting away.

Soon we will be nothing
but silhouettes: the sons'
as harsh
as the fathers'.

Soon the daughters
will take off their aprons
as trees take off their leaves
for winter.

Let us eat quickly -
let us fill ourselves up.
the covers of the album are closing
behind us.

- Linda Pastan

**


"Gratitude is a real practice, as valid as yoga or Zen meditation or Sufi dancing - if you take it seriously. Gratitude starts with surprise. We deprive ourselves so much by not allowing ourselves to be surprised."
- David Steindl-Rast

[whiskey river]

Because It's In Another Mind -- Mine

















Digging in the family archive this past few days I found a letter I wrote to the Family from England in 1969 after visiting Stonehenge.


"Took a train to Salisbury and hitchhiked from there to Stonehenge. Stonehenge is really fantastic -- no words can describe, mainly because its particularly vivid in remembering it. It's near a town named Amesville -- you round a corner and go over a hill and Stonehenge sits there, surrounded by little burial mounds. You must pay one shilling to go up to the rocks and touch them, but there is no effort to hide them from the road.

I think the reason they were so impressive is that they are unlike a monument or other sorts of "ruins." For example, it's not a burial ground, but that's part of it. It's not a monument, but that's another part of it. It's not a ruins, but that's part of what it is. It's not ruined, buried, etc. as if it's over. It's not final. So it's not really past. It still is. The rocks aren't dead rocks. They were constructed to point outward -- out of themselves to some universal things. To the sun and moon and eclipses and other things. Somehow, seeing those 35 ton rocks pointing out, you believe that maybe they just dropped out of the sky that way, like the black box in "2001-A Space Odyssey".. The construction is perfectly ingenious. For example, stones line up so that from any angle you can look out through that crack between the stones -- it's like a gunsight in that there becomes only one place you can see the horizon. Heel rock stands right where you see it, coming through the tunnel, and the sun sets over that on June 21st. Also, the Druids dance there the 21st.

We caught the train back just in time to catch the Beethoven concert -- the 9th with London Orchestra and Chorus. We were lucky enough to get a box seat. It was like floating out over top of the Royal Festival Hall, right on top of the music. There's a close connection between that music and Stonehenge. The same hint of a secret -- something weird and supernatural .

They're part of the same thing, somehow, they are. Stonehenge has stood there millions and millions of nights, but tonight maybe it's different, because its in another mind, mine. I wonder if it can collect people like that? It keeps pointing at the sky, so strange. I wonder what the people knew that built it?"

**

Friday, November 28, 2008

Read It and You'll Know Why


















From Marilynne Robinson's new novel "Home"

"Why do we have to read poetry? Why "Il Penseroso"? Read it and you'll know why. If you still don't know, read it again. And again. Some of them took the things she said to heart, as she had done once when they were said to her. She was helping them assume their humanity. People have always made poetry, she told them. Trust that it will matter to you. The pompous clatter of "The Charge of the Light Brigade" moved some of them to tears, and then she had talked to them about bad poetry. Who gets to say what's good and what's bad? I do, she said. For the moment. You don't have to agree, but listen. Some of them did listen. This seemed to her to be perfectly miraculous. No wonder she dreamed at night that she had lost any claim to their attention. What claim did she have? Could it be that certain of them lifted their faces to her so credulously because what she told them was true, that they were human beings, keepers of lore, makers of it? That it was really they who made demands of her? Her father taught his children, never doubting, that there was a single path from antiquity to eternity. Learn the psalms and ponder the ways of the early church. Know what must be known. Ancient fathers taught their ancient children, who taught their ancient children, these very things. Puritan Milton with his pagan muses. It is like a voice heard from another room, singing for the pleasure of the song, and then you know it, too, and through you it moves by accident and necessity down generations. Then, why singing? Why pleasure in it?

And why the blessing of the moment when another voice is heard, dreaming to itself? That was her father humming "Old Hundred" while he shaved. It was John Keats in Cheapside, traveling his realms of gold. No need to be a minister. To be a teacher was an excellent thing. Those vacant looks might be inwardness. The young might have been restless around any primal fire where an elder was saying, Know this. Certainly they would have been restless. Their bodies were consumed with the business of lengthening limbs, sprouting hair, fitting themselves for procreation. Even so, sometimes she felt a silence in the room deeper than ordinary silence. How could she have abandoned that life? For what had she abandoned it ?"

**
Today,my brothers and sister and I went through a lot of boxes of archived stuff that mother had from her mother and her mother's family. A lot of it I'd never seen before. Or I'd seen it before but forgotten it. It hadn't seemed meaningful then the way that it does now.

There was an entire archive of letters written by some young man who fought in the Civil War -- and I don't think he made it home. They were written to his mother, who was my grandmother's grandmother -- a Mrs. Robey. He must have been terribly young -- a teenager, I think, asking to be sent letters with news of home, socks, boots, complaining of boredom, cold, illness, fear, homesickness.

There is so much precious history in these items carefully preserved for over a hundred years in the attics of widows and divorcees. To tell the story, to preserve the memory of someone precious who was lost to us. There was the letter posted in the window of the bank on VJ Day, saying the bank would be closed to celebrate , then, handwritten, "come back to work Friday, and thank God you have a job."


It is also exhausting to dig through all of that . There's also stuff that needs to be pitched. Old Christmas card lists -- who were these people? Pictures of old friends from the 20s 30s 40s 50s. Pictures of a cousin of ours who is dead. Magazine articles about our famous war hero uncle "Big Ben" -- Wow, it's really kind of overwhelming. The sense of -- maybe not holiness, but certainly reverence. That we are in a way conjuring up these folk and bidding them to come and sit with us and tell us about their lives.

Lots to do. What shall we do with all the treasures? How to preserve, archive and tell this history?

**

The Attitude of Thanksgiving


From Amida Trust

Thursday, November 27, 2008

Like a Soul In A Body























First Thanksgiving

(from BLOOD, TIN, STRAW, 1999)

When she comes back, from college, I will see
the skin of her upper arms, cool,
matte, glossy. She will hug me, my old
soupy chest against her breasts,
I will smell her hair! She will sleep in this apartment,
her sleep like an untamed, good object, like a
soul in a body. She came into my life the
second great arrival, fresh
from the other world — which lay, from within him,
within me. Those nights, I fed her to sleep,
week after week, the moon rising,
and setting, and waxing — whirling, over the months,
in a steady blur, around our planet.
Now she doesn’t need love like that, she has
had it. She will walk in glowing, we will talk,
and then, when she’s fast asleep, I’ll exult
to have her in that room again,
behind that door! As a child, I caught
bees, by the wings, and held them, some seconds,
looked into their wild faces,
listened to them sing, then tossed them back
into the air — I remember the moment the
arc of my toss swerved, and they entered
the corrected curve of their departure.


--Sharon Olds

**
Someone once asked Suzuki to describe Zen in two words. He thought for a minute, and then said, "Everything changes."

I'm back in my sorta hometown for Thanksgiving.

This year particularly is suffused with evidence of the passage of time.

My father has died -- my mother already gone these seven years. My 'baby' brother is retiring. Many of our children won't be here because , well they have their own lives and so have less urgency to gather as an extended family with all of us.

Why did we form up our annual pilgrimage? I suppose it was the effort to keep a family of some sorts intact for our mother. To maintain a kind of touchstone in the sad years after our parents' acrimonious divorce. And then just for the reminder of who and what we are, where we come from -- so many different possibilities, but in the end, who really knows? The bonds of affection for something that goes beyond personality and conviction. To pay homage to the good in our family and the hope for future generations to discover and rediscover the gifts of our ancestors in our own families.

May the dead rest in peace. May the living continue to grow in humility, compassion, and in the love of God.

**
Today for dinner, my brother and I are going to sing "Seek Ye First The Kingdom of God" for the grace.

"Seek ye first the Kingdom of God
and His righteousness
And all these gifts will be given unto you.
Allelu - Alleluia
Alle - lu - ia
Alle - lu - ia
Alle - lu - ia
Alle - lu - ia"

**

God, we give you thanks
for the blessings and joys of life in this world.
We give thanks for the lives and sacrifices of our parents and our ancestors who brought us into this world, with our particular and peculiar ways of seeing living and being in this world.

We give thanks for one another, our brothers and sisters and the adventures we have shared together, both the good and the bad.
Thank you for giving us this opportunity to learn the lessons of love together.

We give thanks for our children, for our nieces, nephews, cousins, aunts, uncles and our friends. We thank you for our husbands and wives and partners. May we be worthy of the love and trust that others have given us.


HOLY ONE - Give us the energy and the creativity to live as you would have us live --
The humility to follow the path that you would ask us to follow.
Help our lives to more beautifully reflect the love you bear us.

In Jesus Name

AMEN

**

"Seek ye first the Kingdom of God
and His righteousness --
And all these gifts will be given unto you.
Allelu - Alleluia
Alle - lu - ia
Alle - lu - ia
Alle - lu - ia
Alle - lu - ia"

**

Monday, November 24, 2008

The Circle Game

From Anglicans Online

Richard Hillary

We doubt whether the name of Richard Hillary is particularly well known to many. Born in 1919 in Sydney, early in his life he came to England, was educated at Shrewsbury, and proceeded to Trinity College, Oxford. Possessed of a personality that courted daring and danger, he joined the University Air Squadron in 1938 and was called up to the Royal Air Force in 1939. He was handsome, flirtatious, and a bit unthinking. He flew brilliantly, but took risks. In August 1940 his plane was hit by gunfire and he bailed out of it, horrifically burned. Spending three excruciating months in hospital, he underwent a series of experimental plastic surgeries. He was eventually released, his striking face somewhat rebuilt, but still bearing the scars.

His muscles were irreparably damaged and his movements forever impaired, but he insisted on resuming flying, despite being barely able to manipulate a knife and fork at the dinner table and despite all recommendation to the contrary. Hillary's last fatal flight was 'round midnight, 8 January 1943, wintry and windy. Shortly after take-off his plane straightaway ran into difficulty. The undercarriage would not come down for landing and the fuel was running low. Hillary and his navigator were instructed to circle a beacon near the centre of the aerodrome.

'Are you happy?', came the somewhat unusual question from the radiotelephone operator, querying their dire situation. 'Moderately', replied Hillary. 'I am continuing to circle'. Minutes after, the plane began losing altitude and soon smashed into the ground, killing both.

On this last day after Pentecost or Sunday next before Advent or Stir-up Sunday or the Feat of Christ the King (however one counts it), Hillary's last words — 'I am continuing to circle' — resonate. We have come to the end of the Christian liturgical year, having woven our Sundays and Holy Days into yet one more annual ring of celebration, observance, feast, and fast. We have formed our circle once again. And yet, and yet, only for this life. Our yearly ring, through God's mercy and at a time unknown to us, will slow and stop. Our time will no longer be measured by feast and fast or marked off as 'ordinary'. We shan't 'continue to circle'. Our journey continues in a way we know not. But we trust it will continue, spiralling towards the centre, towards God.

A circle game'The disagreement between the two kinds of religion is chiefly on the point whether it is a good thing or a bad thing to be born at all', writes Eithne Wilkins*, continuing:

'The negative wheel is that which merely circles, causing birth and death to recur ceaselessly, and it also broke the spiked wheel of human passions under which we are torn to pieces. St Catherine might be regarded as a good Buddhist in that through her prayers she broke the wheel, so that it could no longer harm her, and after she was decapitated her unsullied body was wafted away by angels. She did not, in a negative sense, "continue to circle". The positive wheel is not that on which we dismally recognize "This is where we came in", but that with a spiralling movement towards the centre. It is the great glowing round that is also the western window, the rose'.

We are part of the circle game of life, made meaningful by our following the pattern of Christian fast and feast, and marking the yearly passage of our pilgrimage. Our Lord broke through the circle of life and death on that first Easter, shattering its meaninglessness once for all: 'The Last Enemy to be destroyed is death'. The circle was broken here on earth, spiralling to an eternal circle in the life of the world to come. Double helix indeed!

And now — here's where we 'come in' — we stand on the threshold of Advent, waiting in this strange end-of-year space briefly before we enter that dark quiet time of count-down once again. The liturgical year is indeed a way of time travel, a circularity that brings with it the story of salvation. Our parts are waiting for us, if we will join in.

For the First Time The River In the Tree


















windsurfer. birds.

The Koan
The red thread

Songyuan asked,
"Why can't clear-eyed Bodhisattvas sever the red thread?"

The idea here is that a red theme runs through everyone's life. This red thread is passion and sorrow -- all the vulnerability and desire that link you to the world. the direction this thread takes in your life is only gradually observable over time...

**

To connect, to help, to be of use in this world, you have to walk with people. You have to let them act upon you also, and you won't remain unchanged. The interesting thing here is that the person who is attached to desire is the one who is a bodhisattva, the Buddhist version of a saint who is seeking to help others. Your own desire, your own red thread, might be the source of your empathy for others.

--Bring Me The Rhinoceros
John Tarrant

**

'If the Perceptive Organs close, their Objects seem to close also.'

--Blake: Jerusalem

The house-snake dwells here still
under the threshold
but for months I have not seen it
nor its young, the inheritors.

Light and the wind enact
passion and resurrection
day in, day out
but the blinds are down over my windows,
my doors are shut.

When after the long drought at last silver and darkness swept over the hills
the dry indifferent glare in my mind's eye
wavered but burned on.

-- Denise Levertov

**
Friday I tasted life. It was a vast morsel.
A Circus passed the house -- still I feel the red
in my mind though the drums are out. The Lawn is full of
south and the odors tangle, and I hear today for the first
time the river in the tree.

-- Emily Dickinson

**
We must agree on what matters: kissing in public places, bacon sandwiches, disagreement, cutting-edge fashion, literature, generosity, water, a more equitable distribution of the world's resources, movies, music, freedom of thought, beauty, love.

--Salman Rushdie

**

Sunday, November 23, 2008

Once, On A Dangerous Stretch of Coastline....


















crazy person wind surfing dangerous inlet

Sullivan

“Who are we as men to say that we are called by God to the ministry of priesthood, but women are not? That our call is valid, but theirs is not? We profess as Catholics that the invitation to the priesthood comes from God, and it seems to me that we are tampering with the sacred.”

- Rev. Roy Bourgeois, who is being threatened with excommunication for ordaining a woman as a priest.

(Hat tip: Simplistic Art)

**

"For many years, I believed it was foolish and faithless to acknowledge all that is wrong with my life. I believed I was a new creation, and admitting anything less was not acceptable. I missed seeing a lot that was wrong with my community, my family, and myself because I thought the Christian thing to do was to emphasize the positive, glory be to God. But Jesus came for the sick, not the healthy--by which he surely meant that he came for those who know they are sick, and not those who, being sick, nonetheless claim they are healthy. Since I took up the habit of lamenting, my life has not improved, at least not directly. But life improvement isn't the goal. The goal is faithfulness and servanthood--becoming like the image of God in Christ. I've come to believe meeting that goal involves severe honesty, self-awareness, and nakedness. There is power in honesty, because it removes any hint of deception, and puts us before our God as we really are,"

- Patton Dodd, Beliefnet.



**
Emerging Grace
from Anchors & Masts

A modern parable

There’s a lot more I could try to share from this webcast - my mind and spirit are buzzing with it. But I’ll end with what Fr Rohr actually began with - a parable about the institutional Church:

Once, on a dangerous stretch of coastline, was a small life-saving station. Although small, the station was filled with dedicated people who risked their lives and saved almost everyone whose ships were wrecked on the treacherous rocks.

The reputation of the small life-saving station grew, money was raised along with its reputation, and new boats were bought, more lives saved.

The building itself was crude, and poorly equipped. The growing number of volunteers there through it would be more welcoming for those they saved it if was better equipped, so they built a warm space with comfortable furniture.

Over time the volunteers became less interested in going out to sea themselves, so they hired crews to man the lifeboats.

One day there was a terrible storm in which a great ship foundered. Many people were saved and brought to the station. There were people with black skin, red skin, yellow skin, and many of them were very dirty and wet, and dripped on the new carpet in the life-saving station.

So the life-saving station committee built shower facilities outside the building so those who were saved could get cleaned up before coming into the station.

Not long afterwards, the station committee decided that they would put a stop to the life-saving side of things, because it got in the way of the social activities and community life of the station, and some pretty disreputable people were spending time in the building after each shipwreck.

A few individuals objected to this, saying that the whole purpose of the station was saving lives. And they left and started up their own small life-saving station a little way up the coast.

The new life-saving station, although small, was filled with dedicated people who risked their lives and saved almost everyone whose ships were wrecked on the treacherous rocks. And then its reputation grew, money was raised…

Soon, the whole coastline was dotted with life-saving stations.

There were the same number of shipwrecks along the coast, but fewer and fewer lives were saved.

MORE>>>

**

Whiskey River

link

"Reality is the last nostalgia. We look upon it with hopeful sweetness, yet we grip it with the iron tenacity of desperation brought on by the terrifying accident of life. Purpose. Meaning. Certainty. Truth. Or perhaps the other view – Emptiness, Chaos, Doubt, Chance. However we seek to understand reality, whether through the scientific method, reason, religion, mysticism, philosophy, whatever perspective the conditions of our being compel us to use, we nevertheless wish reality to be so."

- Terrance Keenan
St. Nadie in Winter

**

Wood_s_lot

Societies worse off 'when they have God on their side'
Ruth Gledhill

Religious belief can cause damage to a society, contributing towards high murder rates, abortion, sexual promiscuity and suicide, according to research published today.
According to the study, belief in and worship of God are not only unnecessary for a healthy society but may actually contribute to social problems.
The study counters the view of believers that religion is necessary to provide the moral and ethical foundations of a healthy society.
The paper, published in the Journal of Religion and Society, a US academic journal, reports: “Many Americans agree that their churchgoing nation is an exceptional, God-blessed, shining city on the hill that stands as an impressive example for an increasingly sceptical world.
“In general, higher rates of belief in and worship of a creator correlate with higher rates of homicide, juvenile and early adult mortality, STD infection rates, teen pregnancy and abortion in the prosperous democracies. “The United States is almost always the most dysfunctional of the developing democracies, sometimes spectacularly so.”
Journal of Religion and Society
**

There Is So Much Silence Between the Words


















The View From My Window



I am down in Fla. for Thanksgiving and a the baptism of one of my blood relations.
This is taking place in a church where I grew up. I have since changed denominations. Well, there was a lot of other stuff in between the denominations, which helped with the choice to change. Sometimes you have to leave home to see.

This was a good reminder about why I changed denominations. About why I left this place. The church of my childhood [this same denomination, but taking place in a different space and time] was not this. It had depth and breadth, height and width, heft and weight and an interesting cast of characters. The formative people and experiences were so good, and of such high quality that they sent me on a journey, they prodded me to ask critical questions, not just of the world but of myself. They were appropriate introductions into the Great Mystery.

But Great Mystery has since moved on somewhere else. The people who mentored me met their various ends, after wandering off into the desert. Not all stories that start off strong have powerful and positive endings. Some stories just end. Or seem to end. The meaning is left to subsequent generations. Maybe there is no meaning, in the way that convention seeks meanings. I just don't know.

I shouldn't be so critical. I'm a snob. I shouldn't point fingers.

But.

The word 'just' needs to be deleted from the 'prayer leader' 's vocabulary. I want to rush back to the Book of Common Prayer after a too-long sloppy prayer filled to the brim with all the possible kitschy cliched Christianist bon mots of the 2000s. I can only say, how difficult it is to form , nurture and bind a community to the true spirit of Christianity. Or to any true Way. And I do think that there are many true Ways, many righteous paths. I admire the effort, I bow to those who are making an attempt, no matter how seemingly far off the mark.

And all of this 'our God is a mighty God.'

Sitting next to my brother, reminded me of all the time I spent sitting next to him in church when we were kids. He could always [and still can] make me laugh. There are so many wonderful things about my family. The many people that we have been together makes for a lot of imaginative literature.
My brother started singing sotto vocce "our god is a pretty good god, he tries real hard and does his best."

After being used to a more Catholic liturgy, the hodge-podgey feel of this liturgy seemed unanchored and random. It also felt forced and like a painting that has too much stuff in it. There was no space no silence no spirit no eucharist no magic.

The sermon felt that same way. It was stuffed full of patriotism, internet kinds of founding fathers anecdotes, strange opinions old jokes and half-hearted truisms. It was hard not to get all argumentative up in my head, where all the arguments get arranged.

"There's not enough religion in public life."
"If there were MORE public religion, our country would be better."

Really?
Hogwash,
I thought. That's hogwash.

This is a church that talks at you. Actually yells at you and hurls scripture at you and pushes real hard to make sure you GOT IT. There is no listening room here-- just a vast echoing certitude. The sermon had me talking under my breath. Pure bromide.

But the most hurtful thing, I can't really discuss here on the blog. Not really. It has to do with my mother, a pioneer woman of great accomplishment in her prime. This woman who helped to found and nurture this church in many many ways, who was a choir director, an organist and a Sunday school teacher -- in the public acknowledgment of 4 generations of my family, she was obliterated, and replaced by someone else. This is just wrong. But I suspect that she's not the only one. A lot of history has been rewritten here.

My mother, who has been dead now since 2001 , tells me not to be bothered by it, that she doesn't care. She said, 'Fuck those people.'

I need to take a walk. There are so many reasons that I left home in the first place , so many years ago.

**

TWO by MARGARET ATWOOD


Flying Inside Your Own Body

Your lungs fill & spread themselves,
wings of pink blood, and your bones
empty themselves and become hollow.
When you breathe in you’ll lift like a balloon
and your heart is light too & huge,
beating with pure joy, pure helium.
The sun’s white winds blow through you,
there’s nothing above you,
you see the earth now as an oval jewel,
radiant & seablue with love.
It’s only in dreams you can do this.
Waking, your heart is a shaken fist,
a fine dust clogs the air you breathe in;
the sun’s a hot copper weight pressing straight
down on the think pink rind of your skull.
It’s always the moment just before gunshot.
You try & try to rise but you cannot.

Margaret Atwood

**
In the Secular Night


In the secular night you wander around
alone in your house. It's two-thirty.
Everyone has deserted you,
or this is your story;
you remember it from being sixteen,
when the others were out somewhere, having a good time,
or so you suspected,
and you had to baby-sit.
You took a large scoop of vanilla ice-cream
and filled up the glass with grapejuice
and ginger ale, and put on Glenn Miller
with his big-band sound,
and lit a cigarette and blew the smoke up the chimney,
and cried for a while because you were not dancing,
and then danced, by yourself, your mouth circled with purple.

Now, forty years later, things have changed,
and it's baby lima beans.
It's necessary to reserve a secret vice.
This is what comes from forgetting to eat
at the stated mealtimes. You simmer them carefully,
drain, add cream and pepper,
and amble up and down the stairs,
scooping them up with your fingers right out of the bowl,
talking to yourself out loud.
You'd be surprised if you got an answer,
but that part will come later.

There is so much silence between the words,
you say. You say, The sensed absence
of God and the sensed presence
amount to much the same thing,
only in reverse.
You say, I have too much white clothing.
You start to hum.
Several hundred years ago
this could have been mysticism
or heresy. It isn't now.

Margaret Atwood

Friday, November 21, 2008

The Soul Of the Person Adheres To The Bones...


An Ancient Monument to the Soul

In a mountainous kingdom in what is now southeastern Turkey, there lived in the eighth century B.C. a royal official, Kuttamuwa, who oversaw the completion of an inscribed stone monument, or stele, to be erected upon his death. The words instructed mourners to commemorate his life and afterlife with feasts “for my soul that is in this stele.”
**

University of Chicago archaeologists who made the discovery last summer in ruins of a walled city near the Syrian border said the stele provided the first written evidence that the people in this region held to the religious concept of the soul apart from the body. By contrast, Semitic contemporaries, including the Israelites, believed that the body and soul were inseparable, which for them made cremation unthinkable, as noted in the Bible.

**

“Normally, in the Semitic cultures, the soul of a person, their vital essence, adheres to the bones of the deceased,” said David Schloen, an archaeologist at the university’s Oriental Institute and director of the excavations. “But here we have a culture that believed the soul is not in the corpse but has been transferred to the mortuary stone.”

**

A translation of the inscription by Dennis Pardee, a professor of Near Eastern languages and civilization at Chicago, reads in part: “I, Kuttamuwa, servant of [the king] Panamuwa, am the one who oversaw the production of this stele for myself while still living. I placed it in an eternal chamber [?] and established a feast at this chamber: a bull for [the god] Hadad, a ram for [the god] Shamash and a ram for my soul that is in this stele.”

Dr. Pardee said the word used for soul, nabsh, was Aramaic, a language spoken throughout northern Syria and parts of Mesopotamia in the eighth century. But the inscription seemed to be a previously unrecognized dialect. In Hebrew, a related language, the word for soul is nefesh.

In addition to the writing, a pictorial scene chiseled into the well-preserved stele depicts the culture’s view of the afterlife. A bearded man wearing a tasseled cap, presumably Kuttamuwa, raises a cup of wine and sits before a table laden with food, bread and roast duck in a stone bowl.

**

What Happy People Don’t Do


*

Interview with Asta Scheib

From One Catastrophe to the Next

AS: Have you accepted your existence as a writer?

TB: Well, one wants to get better at writing, because otherwise you become crazy. That happens when you get older. The composition should always get more concise. I always tried to do something better when going on. To take the next step depend on the one before. Of course one always has the same theme. Everyone has his theme. He should move around in that theme. Then he does it well. There were many ideas. Maybe one wants to become monk, or work on the railroad, or cut wood. One wants to belong to the very simple people. That's of course a mistake, because you do not belong. If one is like I am something like that is of course impossible, one cannot be a monk or work on the railroad. I was always a loner. Despite that one strong relationship I was always alone. At the beginning of course I thought I had to go somewhere and join in the conversation.

But since almost a quarter of a century ago I haven't had contact with any other writers.

**

"One act
of retaliation
burns down
to the ground
a whole forest
of merit."

Zen commentary

**


The Healing Time

Finally on my way to yes
I bump into
all the places
where I said no
to my life
all the untended wounds
the red and purple scars
those hieroglyphs of pain
carved into my skin, my bones,
those coded messages
that send me down
the wrong street
again and again
where I find them
the old wounds
the old misdirections
and I lift them

one by one
close to my heart
and I say holy
holy.


© Pesha Joyce Gertler


**

Thursday, November 20, 2008

The Storm Irresistibly Propels Him Into the Future




















Image by Shalin Scupham


**

Help us to create a Charter for Compassion

People of all nations, all faiths, all backgrounds, are invited to contribute.

By recognizing that the Golden Rule is fundamental to all world religions, the Charter for Compassion can inspire people to think differently about religion. This Charter is being created in a collaborative project by people from all over the world.

We urge you to take a moment to watch a short video that went live on the web today. Beautifully filmed and edited by TEDster Jesse Dylan and his team at Form TV, it might just be the most inspiring thing you see this week.

**
Sullivan:

"A Klee painting named ‘Angelus Novus’ shows an angel looking as though he is about to move away from something he is fixedly contemplating. His eyes are staring, his mouth is open, his wings are spread. This is how one pictures the angel of history. His face is turned toward the past. Where we perceive a chain of events, he sees one single catastrophe which keeps piling wreckage and hurls it in front of his feet. The angel would like to stay, awaken the dead, and make whole what has been smashed. But a storm is blowing in from Paradise; it has got caught in his wings with such a violence that the angel can no longer close them. The storm irresistibly propels him into the future to which his back is turned, while the pile of debris before him grows skyward. This storm is what we call progress,"
-
Walter Benjamin.

Angelus Novus
Permalink

**
The following is from “Take This Bread” by Sara Miles:

“Early Christians, worshiping in houses, shared full feasts,following Jesus’s promise that he would be among them when they ate together in his memory. They ate believing that God had given them Christ’s life and they they could spread that life through the world by sharing food with other in his name......
*
I read a commentary by Grant Gallup, a cranky liberation theologian and Episcopal priest who’d retired to Nicaragua. “The little loaf-sharing church,” he wrote, “stole away from the neighborhood of Jerusalem Temple and the synagogues of the diaspora, hounded by a good imperial government to martyrdom for hundreds of years, and then, one day, found its bishops enthroned and basilicas built for it by emperors. It issued rescripts and itemized its metaphysics. It created a dogmatic mind of Christ to supplant the flesh of Nazareth. But there was always and remains still the opportunity to make Jesus your friend, and to invite him to share your supper.”
Supper with God. This was what had grabbed me -- and it wasn’t an accident. .....
**
“The only thing worthwhile is being God’s friend.”

**
Separation at Burnt Island

Brothers and sisters, who live after us,
don't be afraid of our loneliness,
our dented wiffle ball, the little kerf
the dog chewed in the orange frisbee.

Don't grieve for our kite; not the frayed string
that clings to your ankle, not the collapsed wing.

We lived on earth, we married, we touched each other
with our hands, with our hair that cannot feel
but that we felt luxuriously, and with promises.

We made these bike tracks in the sand
—don't follow them—and this calcined match head
is the last statue of our King.

We lived between Cygnus and Orion,
resenting the blurriness of the Pleiades,
in a house identical to its neighbors—
stepwise windows, ants never to be repelled,
TV like a window into the mind
that can't stop talking, redwood deck
facing the gulf.

Everything was covered with sand: the seams
of the white lace dress, the child's hinged cup,
the watch (even under the crystal), the legal papers.

We were like you, or tried to be. We divided our treasures
(a marble with no inside, a brooch from Siena),
signed our names with all our strength, and went home
in two directions, while the marriage continued
without us in the whirling voice of gulls.

Excerpt from BURNT ISLAND. Copyright © 2005 by D. Nurkse.

**
Poem: "Antilamentation"
by Dorianne Laux.


Antilamentation

Regret nothing. Not the cruel novels you read
to the end just to find out who killed the cook.
Not the insipid movies that made you cry in the dark,
in spite of your intelligence, your sophistication.
Not the lover you left quivering in a hotel parking lot,
the one you beat to the punchline, the door, or the one
who left you in your red dress and shoes, the ones
that crimped your toes, don't regret those.
Not the nights you called god names and cursed
your mother, sunk like a dog in the livingroom couch,
chewing your nails and crushed by loneliness.
You were meant to inhale those smoky nights
over a bottle of flat beer, to sweep stuck onion rings
across the dirty restaurant floor, to wear the frayed
coat with its loose buttons, its pockets full of struck matches.
You've walked those streets a thousand times and still
you end up here. Regret none of it, not one
of the wasted days you wanted to know nothing,
when the lights from the carnival rides
were the only stars you believed in, loving them
for their uselessness, not wanting to be saved.
You've traveled this far on the back of every mistake,
ridden in dark-eyed and morose but calm as a house
after the TV set has been pitched out the upstairs
window. Harmless as a broken ax. Emptied
of expectation. Relax. Don't bother remembering
any of it. Let's stop here, under the lit sign
on the corner, and watch all the people walk by.

**
"God is present in everything around us, in everything we do, wherever we are, and in whatever situations we find ourselves. It is coming to a sense of the Presence of God that changes our attitude toward life. "Every day is a god, each day is a god, and holiness holds forth in time, " Annie Dillard wrote."

Joan Chittister, in "Becoming Fully Human"

*

Wednesday, November 19, 2008

Most Corrosive To the Common Good














Inward Outward

Wearing Away Rock

Tilden Edwards

Like spring water slowly wearing away rock, meeting with a spiritual director over time can bring to light the ceaseless dripping water of the spirit in our lives. We become more and more aware of that holy water wearing away whatever hardness is left in us. Little by little we find ourselves identifying who we truly are---identifying not with that hard rock, but rather with the fluidity of the Holy Spirit whose child we are. Slowly we give ourselves with Christ to that sparkling stream of God's Spirit and let it be our way, our truth, our life.

25th Anniversary Reunion of Spiritual Guidance Program of Shalem Institute for Spiritual Formation

*

The Role of the Mantra in Dealing with Distractions

I want now to address a particular question that we all encounter. It is the question of distractions. What should you do when you begin to meditate and distracting thoughts come into your mind? The advice that the tradition has to give us is to ignore the distractions and to say your word and to keep saying your word. Don’t waste any energy in trying to furrow your brow and say, ‘I will not think of what I’m going to have for dinner’, or ‘who I’m going to see today’, or ‘where I’m going tomorrow’, or whatever the distraction may be. Don’t try to use any energy to dispel the distraction. Simply ignore it and the way to ignore it is to say your word.

John Main, (Moment of Christ)

**

faith-theology
Dishonest money: what the financial crisis tells us about ourselves

by Scott Stephens


"This surprisingly modern idea – money generating more money – was actually first put forward by Aristotle in the fourth century BC. He observed the introduction of markets into the first great metropolises of Asia Minor, and even described trade as “the salvation of the states.” But Aristotle was then shocked to observe that the efficiency and simplicity of the market seemed to unleash something monstrous in the human heart. As people saw how much money there was to be made, they began lusting after “profit without limit.” They traded “the good life” (namely, a life organized around virtue and the common good) for lives of excess. Aristotle concluded that, whereas trade had the potential to be “the salvation of the states,” the seemingly limitless flow of money trade introduced into the life of the city brought along with it vices or moral impairments that would be the destruction of the city.

The vices he named were: greed, an inability to be satisfied, a lack of sobriety or self-control, and the willingness to profit through usury. The great tragedy, of course, is that the very vices that Aristotle identified as most corrosive to the common good have become the celebrated virtues upon which the modern economy is built. Capitalism thrives only through these vices."

**

Jonny Baker

"one of the things they said has stuck with me since -

you don't fit and that's your gift

it reminds me of a marshall macluhan quote - the role of the artist is to create an anti-environment as a means of perception and adjustment. it was so surprising from this particular person and was a huge relief at the time. there are lots of artists, prophets, creatives, entrepreneurs, and change agents for whom this is true and it is why they are able to do what they do. cultures need people that don't fit - it's how things get moved on when they get stuck."

*
http://web.ncf.ca/ek867/wood_s_lot.html


Zero confidence

Steven Lukes


Durkheim called anomie "the malady of infinite aspiration". His central idea was that human beings need regulation – a framework of informal and formal rules that set limits to what they are entitled to expect, for instance, in the form of economic rewards. It is an idea that contrasts sharply with the culture of capitalism, not least its US version. Could there be any more striking contrast with his idea than the culture of Wall Street and the City of London in the last three decades? Durkheim, who was a late-ninetheenth-century socialist, hoped to "moralise" capitalism – a notion that has, perhaps, a somewhat conservative ring. But recall RH Tawney, egalitarian socialist, who once wrote a pamphlet called The Sickness of the Acquisitive Society. Anomie, for Durkheim, manifests itself in times of economic disasters, when
a kind of declassement occurs, suddenly thrusting certain individuals into a situation inferior to the one they occupied hitherto. They must therefore lower their demands, restrain their wants, learn greater self-control [...| they are not adjusted to the condition imposed on them and they find its very prospect intolerable; thus they experience suffering.
And it is also found during crises of prosperity when the scale regulating needs
is upset; but a new scale cannot be improvised [...]. One no longer knows what is possible and what is not, what is just and what is unjust, which claims and expectations are legitimate and which are immoderate. As a result there is no limit to men's aspirations [...] appetites, no longer restrained by a disoriented public opinion, no longer know where to stop.
*

Tuesday, November 18, 2008

To Make The Compassionate Voice of Religion Audible












Image: andrewsullivan.theatlantic.comLink
Sculptor Kris Kuksi in his own words

**

Obama's Faith

Joe Carter basically calls Obama a fake Christian. By Carter's lights, who isn't? Freddie differs.

Permalink

**
From the Mad Priest:

[quote of the day]

The practice of compassion is central to every one of the major world religions, but sometimes you would never know it. Instead, religion is associated with violence, intolerance and seems more preoccupied by dogmatic or sexual orthodoxy.

Why, then, do we hear so little about compassion from the religious? Because whether they are religious or secular, people often prefer to be right rather than compassionate. Certainly the religious traditions have a deeply intransigent strain. But we have a choice.

We can either emphasise this intolerance, as extremists and fundamentalists do, or we can make a concerted effort to make the compassionate voice of religion audible in our troubled world.

Karen Armstrong
"The Guardian"
14th. November 2008

[ref; Mad Priest]

**
There are so many kinds, types, flavors of Christianity. It amazes me that we should presume to judge the faith of another. My own brother has said (in an offhand yet authoritarian way) that I am not a 'real' Christian. As if he is the final word in such things. No where can I find Jesus saying that he came to found a church as an institution and these were the rules. These people 'in' ; these people 'out.' The most remarkable thing about his teaching and example was that no one was 'out.' That 'the Kingdom' was very different from the standards we were used to, i.e. that the rich and powerful would rule forever. Mostly, his teachings were very mysterious, and those who were closest to him often seemed baffled.

I know those that are far advanced in theology, philosophy, scholarship, archaeology, advanced education and ceremonious laying on of hands and ordinations are so much more enlightened than such a numbskull as 'this one.' What do I know ? I know that Jesus, that hippie commie socialist would value me no less than those more educated enlightened and favored in terms of the world. I know that the hierarchical 'dominator-dominated' dichotomy that we live in this world with would be swept aside by his equal vision. That the political 'belief' lists of the Nicene Creed and the loyalty oaths sworn as religious belief would (I imagine) be of little importance to Jesus.

I met a woman in church this last Sunday who I think was an angel sent to show me something.
She was a member of a religious order, not of my church but of another church. She told me that she had stepped outside the lines that had been drawn for her, as a way of stitching together many who overlapped traditional boundaries. She said a lot more too, but what was so startling was her presence, her way of being. Her presence spoke for her. It wasn't just the head but the heart, the hands, the eyes, the love and compassion that emanated from her. It was her simplicity and directness. There was no contradiction. It was as if she was from the place that could 'will the one thing.'

Was I reading my own 'stuff' into her? Probably. At any rate, it made me turn over and over in my own mind what I 'believe' and what I feel called to at this juncture in my life. How to spend my life energy as I grow older, what should I do with the gifts and talents born in me ?

I think of the great risks God has taken in giving us life and talent. I have to remember that I am a servant of God, that I am not called to build a kingdom.

**

Sunday, November 16, 2008

Status Quo Is Unacceptable
















Andrew Sullivan

A reader writes:

You wrote:

"When every gay person and every friend or family member of a gay person really, truly believes that the status quo is unacceptable, we will win."

I'm not gay. I don't have gay friends or family. This isn't about homosexuality. This is about civil rights.

I attended the rally in Portland, ME (no pictures, sorry) with my wife and 4 year old son. A lovely older gay woman in the crowd thanked me for coming, and I thanked her right back. I don't support gay marriage as a favor to gays, and I'm not owned anything for fighting discrimination. We don't--we shouldn't--need to rely on gays, on friends and families of gays, to ensure equal rights for all Americans.

I've got no special affinity for the gay community, but I'm an American and a patriot: I've got a special affinity for my fellow Americans. I'll be damned if I acquiesce to such shameful hate and discrimination.

(Photo: Protesters cast shadows on the street as they take part in a demonstration to condemn the ban of same-sex marriages in Los Angeles on November 15, 2008. The same-sex marriage ban sparked angry protests across the nation with thousands taking to the streets in Los Angeles chanting slogans like 'Yes We Can.' By Jewwel Samad/AFP/Getty.)

:

**
Great photographs and coverage of the Prop 8 protests nationwide over the weekend at The Daily Dish

**

Thousands Rally Nationwide for Marriage Equality

LGBT rights advocates, organized by Join the Impact, turned out in eight countries, 50 states, and 300 cities in support of marriage equality Read more »


**
Sullivan again:

Saturday

Chris Crain compiles a pretty comprehensive set of links to coverage of the day of protest against the anti-gay Mormon initiative in California. The Dish covered it extensively. If you missed it, just go here and scroll down for a view of the day from the ground up - from Montana to San Diego. It was a beautiful day.



**
Integrity

"the quality of being complete; unbroken condition; entirety"
~ Webster

A wild patience has taken me this far

as if I had to bring to shore
a boat with a spasmodic outboard motor
old sweaters, nets, spray-mottled books
tossed in the prow
some kind of sun burning my shoulder-blades.
Splashing the oarlocks. Burning through.
Your fore-arms can get scalded, licked with pain
in a sun blotted like unspoken anger
behind a casual mist.

The length of daylight
this far north, in this
forty-ninth year of my life
is critical.

The light is critical: of me, of this
long-dreamed, involuntary landing
on the arm of an inland sea.
The glitter of the shoal
depleting into shadow
I recognize: the stand of pines
violet-black really, green in the old postcard
but really I have nothing but myself
to go by; nothing
stands in the realm of pure necessity
except what my hands can hold.

Nothing but myself?....My selves.
After so long, this answer.
As if I had always known
I steer the boat in, simply.
The motor dying on the pebbles
cicadas taking up the hum
dropped in the silence.

Anger and tenderness: my selves.
And now I can believe they breathe in me
as angels, not polarities.
Anger and tenderness: the spider's genius
to spin and weave in the same action
from her own body, anywhere --
even from a broken web.

The cabin in the stand of pines
is still for sale. I know this. Know the print
of the last foot, the hand that slammed and locked the door,
then stopped to wreathe the rain-smashed clematis
back on the trellis
for no one's sake except its own.
I know the chart nailed to the wallboards
the icy kettle squatting on the burner.
The hands that hammered in those nails
emptied that kettle one last time
are these two hands
and they have caught the baby leaping
from between trembling legs
and they have worked the vacuum aspirator
and stroked the sweated temples
and steered the boat there through this hot
misblotted sunlight, critical light
imperceptibly scalding
the skin these hands will also salve.

Adrienne Rich

You Look At Me Like An Emergency
















What Is Art For?
Published: November 14, 2008


Last April I asked the writer Lewis Hyde if he would take a trip with me to Walden Pond, in Concord, Mass. At 63, Hyde has boyishly tousled brown-gray hair, freckled, soft-looking cheeks and the slightly abstracted gaze of a man who spends a disproportionate amount of his time in library carrels. He has an ironic streak, but his default mode is a kind of easygoing acquiescence, and so one slate gray Saturday afternoon he picked me up in Cambridge, where he lives and works half the year, and drove us the 12 miles west to Walden.
**
Hyde has been writing and publishing for more than three decades, and he has received numerous high-profile awards, including a MacArthur “genius grant” in 1991, but his name is still obscure to most readers. His body of work is slim; he has published two books, a volume of poems and a smattering of essays, translations and edited anthologies. His reputation, however, is rich. David Foster Wallace called him “one of our true superstars of nonfiction.” Hyde’s fans — among them Zadie Smith, Michael Chabon and Jonathan Lethem — routinely use words like “transformative” and “life-altering” to describe his books, which they’ve been known to pass hand to hand like spiritual texts or samizdat manifestoes. The source of much of this reverence is Hyde’s first book, “The Gift” (1983), which has never been out of print (it was recently rereleased by Vintage in a 25th-anniversary edition) and which tries to reconcile the value of doing creative work with the exigencies of a market economy.

Hyde began his career as a poet in the naturalistic vein of Gary Snyder or Mary Oliver, but over the years he has transformed himself into an accomplished scholar. “The Gift,” the core argument of which depends on establishing an analogy between the making of art and how objects accrue value in traditional “gift economies,” has been praised as the most subtle, influential study of reciprocity since the French anthropologist Marcel Mauss’s 1924 essay of the same name. His second book, “Trickster Makes This World” (1998), a cross-cultural study of the mischievous, mythological trickster figure (examples from the 20th century include Duchamp, Picasso and Ginsberg), weaves together literary strands from West Africa, India and China and concludes with a new translation of the “Homeric Hymn to Hermes,” for which Hyde spent months working one on one with a tutor in ancient Greek. Jonathan Lethem told me that when he first read “The Gift,” he pictured its author as a kind of inapproachable seer, either long dead or soaring so high in the intellectual stratosphere as to be unreachable. “It’d be like reading a book by Nietzsche or Freud when they were alive and thinking, Oh, I gotta send this guy a note!”

Hyde’s admirers often point out with awe (and his reviewers with frustration) that his books are all but impossible to summarize. Hyde doesn’t object to this assessment. He wrote “The Gift” because he could find no place where his own motivations for writing poetry were well articulated, but articulating them required a poet’s suggestiveness. “One thing I’ve always liked to read is the kind of literature you find in Jung and Freud, which combines personal anecdote, philosophy, mythology, dreams,” he told me in his Cambridge office last May. “I like the way it jumps from one discursive realm to another.” His books exhibit this lively heterogeneity to an at-times dizzying extent; in the course of 12 pages in “The Gift,” Hyde hops from a discussion of a Pali Buddhist parable to Marx’s “Capital” to the Ford Pinto and then moves quickly on, in the next 3 pages, to Christmas, country-western music and the psychological fates of Vietnamese refugees in Southern California.

In the late 1990s, Hyde began extending his lifelong project of examining “the public life of the imagination” into what had become newly topical territory: the “cultural commons.”

MORE >>>

**
Trying to Talk With a Man
by Adrienne Rich

Out in this desert we are testing bombs,

that's why we came here.

Sometimes I feel an underground river
forcing its way between deformed cliffs
moving itself like a locus of the sun
into this condemned scenery....
....Coming out to this desert
we meant to change the face of
driving among dull green succulents
walking at noon in the ghost town
surrounded by silence

that sounds like the silence of the place

except that it came with us
and is familiar
and everything we were saying until now
was an effort to blot it out--
coming out here we are up against it
Out here I feel more helpless
with you than without you
You mention the danger

and list the equipment
we talk of caring for each other
in emergencies--lacerations, thirst--
but you look at me like an emergency

Your dry heat feels like power
your eyes are stars of a different magnitude
they reflect lights that spell out: EXIT
when you get up and pace the floor
talking of the danger
as if it were not ourselves


**
I was talking on the phone with an old friend last night.
She lives in a very remote part of California.
While we were talking, she was sitting in an earthquake.

Now that seemed very strange to me, because I've never experienced that. I've been in hurricanes and tornadoes but not an earthquake.

She said that you're supposed to keep rubber soled shoes [that don't need to tie] under your bed, because when earthquakes come at night, people tend to jump out of bed and step on broken glass that they do not expect to be everywhere. I never thought of that. She also told me that the rocking chair was rocking, first slowly, then faster, then maniacally. That there was a strange sound that she would only call the earthquake sound. She said it was more intense if you were on the second floor. She built her own house, and built the foundations to conform to earthquake specifications. She said in a giant quake, the earth could move 60 feet. 60 Feet !!

I talked to my brother on the phone once , while he was sitting in the midst of a hurricane. It was a bad one, and his house is on a river. The hurricane just parked on the Inlet and sat there for 16 hours. So the high tide comes and goes and comes again, and by the time it was over, not a dock was left intact on the river. He said after awhile , they just pulled the drapes and stopped watching , it was just too frightening.

Even if we subliminally expect the worse, do we really want to watch it? Or is it better to just go to bed.

**
And now good-morrow to our waking souls,
Which watch not one another out of fear;
For love all love of other sights controls,
And makes one little room an everywhere.
Let sea-discoverers to new worlds have gone;
Let maps to other, worlds on worlds have shown,
Let us possess one world; each hath one, and is one.

- John Donne, The Good Morrow

*

Deeper Into The Heart Of The Matter












nick at bird sanctuary in nm

Delta

If you have taken this rubble for my past
raking though it for fragments you could sell
know that I long ago moved on
deeper into the heart of the matter

If you think you can grasp me, think again:
my story flows in more than one direction
a delta springing from the riverbed
with its five fingers spread

Adrienne Rich (b. 1929)

"Delta" from Time's Power: Poems 1985-1988 by Adrienne Rich. Copyright © 1989 by Adrienne Rich. Used by permission of the author and W.W. Norton & Company, Inc.

*

THE PROBLEM OF CONSCIOUSNESS
A Talk with Alva Noë

[ALVA NOË:] The central thing that I think about is our nature, our human-animal nature, our being in this world. What is a person? What is a human being? What is consciousness? There is a tremendous amount of enthusiasm at the moment about these questions.

They are usually framed as questions about the brain, about how the brain makes consciousness happen, how the brain constitutes who we are, what we are, what we want—our behavior. The thing I find so striking is that, at the present time, we actually can't give any satisfactory explanations about the nature of human experience in terms of the functioning of the brain.

What explains this is really quite simple. You are not your brain. You have a brain, yes. But you are a living being that is connected to an environment; you are embodied, and dynamically interacting with the world. We can't explain consciousness in terms of the brain alone because consciousness doesn't happen in the brain alone.

In many ways, the new thinking about consciousness and the brain is really just the old-fashioned style of traditional philosophical thinking about these questions but presented in a new, neuroscience package. People interested in consciousness have tended to make certain assumptions, take certain things for granted. They take for granted that thinking, feeling, wanting, consciousness in general, is something that happens inside of us. They take for granted that the world, and the rest of our body, matters for consciousness only as a source of causal impingement on what is happening inside of us. Action has no more intimate connection to thought, feeling, consciousness, and experience. They tend to assume that we are fundamentally intellectual—that the thing inside of us which thinks and feels and decides is, in its basic nature, a problem solver, a calculator, a something whose nature is to figure out what there is and what we ought to do in light of what is coming in.

We should reject the idea that the mind is something inside of us that is basically matter of just a calculating machine. There are different reasons to reject this. But one is, simply put: there is nothing inside us that thinks and feels and is conscious. Consciousness is not something that happens in us. It is something we do.

A much better image is that of the dancer. A dancer is locked into an environment, responsive to music, responsive to a partner. The idea that the dance is a state of us, inside of us, or something that happens in us is crazy. Our ability to dance depends on all sorts of things going on inside of us, but that we are dancing is fundamentally an attunement to the world around us.

And this idea that human consciousness is something we enact or achieve, in motion, as a way of being part of a larger process, is the focus of my work.

Experience is something that is temporarily extended and active. Perceptual consciousness is a style of access to the world around us. I can touch something, and when I touch something I make use of an understanding of the way in which my own movements help me secure access to that which is before me. The point is not that merely that I learn about or achieve access to the world by touching. The point is that the thing shows up for me as something in a space of movement-oriented possibilities.

Visual consciousness relies on a whole set of practical skills that we have, making use of the eyes and the head. I understand that if I move my eyes, I produce a certain kind of sensory change. Perceptual consciousness is a mode of exploration of the world, making use of a certain kind of practical bodily understanding. And that is what dance is. And this makes dance, for me, the perfect metaphor for consciousness.

But there's more to the comparison with dance.

Consider this. On the traditional conception of the mind, if you want to study experience, you shut your eyes and you introspect. You look inward and reflect on what is going on inside of you, on the inner show. But if experience, if seeing, hearing, thinking, and feeling, isn't something going on inside of you, but is something you do, then you need a different paradigm of what phenomenology would be, that is, of what a reflection on experience itself would be.

To reflect on experience is not to look inward, it is to pay attention to what you are doing, and to the way in which what you are doing is world and situation and environment involving. Suppose I am a hiker. I walk along and move my legs in all sorts of subtle ways to follow a path along a trail. But the steps I take and the way I move my legs are modulated by, controlled by, the textures and bumps and patterns of the trail itself. There is a kind of locking in. To study experience, to think about the nature of experience, is to look at this two-way dynamic exchange between world and the active perceiver.

Not only is dance a good analogy for what consciousness is, but the experience of watching dance and the way in which we can cultivate our aesthetic appreciation of something like dance is, actually, a good way of thinking about what phenomenology itself could be. What do you see when you look at a dance? You understand the movements and the forms and the patterns of the ensemble in a particular dance environment, which may be a stage or it may be some other kind of environment. To watch a dance is to make sense of this kind of dynamic.

Contemporary dance—contemporary art more generally—can be hard to appreciate. If you're not already familiar with an artist's work, it can be difficult even to bring it into focus. But we do. It is interesting to compare this process whereby we bring a dance or other work of art into focus for aesthetic experience with the project of phenomenology itself, that is, with the project of bringing experience into focus for science. Scientists ask, how does our biological being enable us to have the kinds of experiences we have? That should be understood as a question less about how the function of our brain produces images inside our skull and, rather, about how our full embodiment enables us to carry on as we do in an environment in a situation. This raises an interesting possibility. Maybe we can think of aesthetic experience as a model of the workings at least of an important core of human consciousness—perceptual consciousness. And then may be we can think of artistic, creative, aesthetic practice as making a direct contribution to the study of mind itself. Art is not something for science to explain; art is a domain for scientific investigation, a potential collaborator for science. It is certainly clear that the empirical investigation of consciousness requires help framing the phenomena of interest for itself.


Friday, November 14, 2008

Can I get an L-D-S ?








Link
















From the
Village Voice

Why the Mormons Hate the Gays


"..... As a public service, we thought it might be useful to provide a brief primer about where the Mormons are coming from.

And keep in mind, we're not making this stuff up.

One of our favorite authors in the whole world, the late Fawn Brodie*, did the world a service by helping us all understand a really fascinating time in our country's history -- the wild, wild 1820's.

This was the Era of Good Feelings, when the United States experienced a rare period lacking in partisan political bickering -- the Federalists were dying off, the Democratic-Republicans were dominant, and the country was enjoying several years of prosperity after defeating the British military in a second war. The young republic was secure, drinking heavily, and was generally very, very isolated.

In other words, Americans were extremely bored.

Which explains why the period seemed to generate some of the wildest fads -- religious and otherwise -- in our nation's history. The absence of national emergencies -- the Revolution was a fading memory, the growing crisis over slavery had yet to gain critical mass -- meant that more, shall we say, frivolous matters had a way of absorbing the national imagination.

Specifically, Brodie points out that three national fads had an especially tight grip on the minds of people in western New York in the early 1820s.

1. Where did all these Indians come from? After generations of slaughter, Native Americans had been so decimated, white folks in the Northeast no longer saw them as a threat. In fact, it had been so long since the days of wanton violence, authors like Fenimore Cooper were now looking back on the tribes of upstate New York through a romantic lens.

But if the Indian had begun to change from the frightening serpent in America's Eden to the Noble Savage, there was still a question nagging at the Christian mind -- particularly among those who figured that all of history worth knowing was recorded in their favorite book. In other words: who were the Indians, how did they get here, and why aren't they mentioned in the Bible?

In particular, people in parts of New York were fascinated by the Moundbuilders -- a people that had built sophisticated earthworks and then had vanished. Folks -- and preachers especially -- endlessly debated which of the lost tribes of Israel might have ended up in North America and left behind the mysterious mounds in western parts of the state. This promoted a sort of amateur archaeological fervor that spread across the land.

2. What are these mysterious symbols, called 'hieroglyphs,' that we're learning about in news reports from Egypt? Adding to the public's budding archaeological interest, stories about the strange writing system of the ancient Egyptians were proving to be fascinating reading in the country's newspapers. What tantalizing secrets of the Egyptians -- and perhaps the time of Moses -- might be revealed when the hieroglyphs could finally be deciphered! The key to solving that puzzle -- the Rosetta Stone -- had been discovered by French troops in 1799, but publication of an English key to the Egyptian code was still years away. But that didn't stop people from speculating wildly about what earth-shattering truths might await the person who could read the ancient texts.

3. What fabulous treasures did Indians or Spanish explorers bury in my backyard? This third archaeological fad was not only amplified by the other two, it provided fertile ground for flim-flam artists. What better way to romanticize the (more exciting) past than to daydream about Indian gold or Spanish doubloons hidden away somewhere on your back forty? Quick to take advantage of that longing was an army of itinerant scammers: a man would arrive at a farm, claim to be a fortune-teller, and swear that he sensed the presence of buried treasure nearby. Some set the hook by showing the gullible a special "seer stone" that the fortune-teller claimed he could use to zero-in on buried gold. For a substantial fee, he'd dig up what was sure to be a whole cache of treasure that would make the farmer very rich. After being paid that fee, naturally, the fortune-teller would then make himself scarce. Farmers in western New York, in particular, seemed to be susceptible to the scam.

Isn't this fun? What an imaginative, feverish place was the young Republic! So, with that table set, now let's take a look at what Brodie tells us happened one day in Palmyra, New York in 1827.

A man named Joseph Smith -- who already had a court record for scamming a farmer in the buried-gold scheme -- came forward and claimed that an angel had come to him four years earlier with a revelation.

What did the angel ask Smith to do? Are you ready?

-- The angel, Smith said, directed him where to dig up a buried treasure, a set of gold tablets. (See: Fad Number Three, above.)

-- The tablets were etched in a strange code that looked remarkably like Egyptian hieroglyphs. (See: Fad Number Two.)

-- The angel gave Smith a special pair of seer stones that enabled him to read the hieroglyphs as easily as if he were reading English (a really creative combo of Fad Two and Fad Three).

-- And what did the tablets describe? Have you guessed? Yes! It was the answer to the ultimate riddle, Fad Numero Uno: The super-cool, heretofore unknown and like, bizarre actual origin of North America's Indian tribes!

Can I get an L-D-S!

Whew. Of course, Smith's explanation of the origin of Native Americans proved to be complete nonsense, and reports that a few of Smith's early believers also laid eyes on the golden tablets turned out to be no more substantial than Smith's own claims.

But Smith's fairy tale was smartly played -- it hit all the high points with a population desperate for romantic silliness to distract them from their dreary lives, and soon enough Smith was making all sorts of pronouncement that were taken to be the Revelations of a Living God. Like, for example, that he and maybe a few of his most trusted right-hand dudes should be able to marry as many young ladies as they wanted to.

To cut a long story short, smart folks like Mark Twain (years later) made endless fun of Smith's nuttery, but less wise people somehow figured that Smith's new religion threatened their own, and you know what that means - Jihad! Smith fled with his flock to Missouri [Oops, make that Illinois - my mistake, not Brodie's], where he was killed, but his successor, Brigham Young, took the Mormons to Utah, which they to this day largely run while also somehow managing to support an NBA team named after a musical form created by black geniuses from a place called New Orleans.

It's complicated. But anyway, try to understand that if your entire worldview was based on the completely unreliable ravings of an early 19th-century flim-flam artist with a harem fetish, you too might have a burning inferiority about your belief system, and you might manifest that inferiority by picking on the queers, who make an easy target and scare the bejesus out of your typical Mormon.

Anyway, I hope that helps.

And hey, see you at the picket.

*Fawn McKay Brodie, a UCLA professor of history, died of cancer in 1981, which really sucks, because it cut too short the career of a woman whose biographies are among the most provocative ever written. After her groundbreaking unmasking of Joseph Smith in 1945's No Man Knows My History, Brodie was excommunicated by the Mormon Church. She then put out a luminous biography of the 19th-century explorer and Arabian Nights translator, Sir Richard Francis Burton (The Devil Drives), and then shocked the world by being the Thomas Jefferson biographer with the guts to write about what all of her predecessors had known but didn't dare make public: evidence that Jefferson had fathered children with his slave, Sally Hemings (Thomas Jefferson: An Intimate History). In her last book, which was interrupted by the death of her husband and was finished prematurely as she fought the cancer that ended her own life, Brodie took on Richard Nixon. The book was less well received than her others, but is still a fascinating read (Richard Nixon: The Shaping of his Character). If you haven't read the Smith and Burton biographies, in particular, you've missed the highest examples of the form."

*
and
Slacktivist gives us

Sauce for the goose

I don't want to rehash the whole normative vs. descriptive debate we had over the term "un-American," but voters in California disappointed me last week by behaving in a very un-Californian manner and voting for Proposition 8.

This was a ballot measure attempting to clarify the meaning of the state's constitution, restricting the application of certain "rights" to only certain Californians and not to others.

The word rights is in scare quotes there necessarily because that word cannot be made to do what Californians are trying to make it do there. Rights, by definition, are rights for all. If a "right" exists for me, but not for thee, then it isn't really a right at all, merely a privilege.

And please note that this is what has happened here. For all the scaremongering "defense of marriage" language used by supporters of Proposition 8, the passage of this silly measure actually dealt the institution a severe blow. What had been a right is now only a privilege -- a privilege that the state is free to withhold as it sees fit. Yielding that kind of power to the state is not the sort of thing that a free people ought to be doing if they wish to remain a free people.

The next thing that needs to happen has already begun -- this majority vote restricting a minority must be challenged again in the courts. California's highest court had already ruled that the state's constitution does not permit the restriction of marriage "rights" to some Californians and not to others. It's not clear to me why or how Proposition 8 would change that basic principle. The proposition was written, introduced and campaigned for as an attempt to change that ruling, but piling such after-the-fact interpretive statutes on top of the constitution doesn't strike me as the same thing as actually amending and altering that constitution, so I'm not sure what Prop 8 really changes.*

Imagine, for example, that California's legislature had passed a law stating that the Irish were forbidden from getting driver's licenses. Such a discriminatory law would have been quickly voided by the courts. Anti-Irish bigots would have decried that ruling as "judicial activism," but that's an epithet, not an argument. The state's constitution simply will not tolerate new law that attempts to exclude particular classes of people from the same rights and protections available to everyone else. Voters might well respond to the court's decision by passing a ballot measure redefining a "driver" as a "non-Irish person," and thus excluding by semantics those whom the constitution did not previously allow them to exclude by statute, but I can't imagine the courts finding this transparent ploy convincing. This hypothetical anti-Irish proposition wouldn't be any more constitutional or legitimate than the shamefully non-hypothetical anti-gay Proposition 8 is.

Another frightfully ugly aspect of this whole affair has been the willingness and eagerness of Prop 8 supporters to lie in support of their cause. Atrios calls these folks "Liars for Christ," and the term is apt. This is a common and dismaying consequence of what James A. Morone calls "The Corrosive Politics of Virtue." One starts by demonizing one's opponents then, having established that they're demons, one can justify accusing them of all manner of absurd evils. What's a little white lie -- or two, or 20 -- when you're battling demons? Truth is a luxury you can't afford when protecting innocent babies from bloodthirsty babykillers. When you're defending your marriage against the barbarian others out to destroy the very notion of the family then you can't be expected to fight with one arm tied behind your back by the shackles of honesty, facts or reality.

MORE

**

Surprise and the Sacrament of Letting Go




















From Onehouse

Theology of Surprise.

Oh, I really love this care for the details. And especially because I am not good at the door, nor am I great with surprises. Once again from Insight for Living, Joan Chittister's online commentary on the Rule of Saint Benedict:

CHAPTER 66. THE PORTER OF THE MONASTERY

At the door of the monastery, place a sensible person who knows how to take a message and deliver a reply, and whose wisdom keeps them from roaming about. This porter will need a room near the entrance so that visitors will always find someone there to answer them. As soon as anyone knocks, or a poor person calls out the porter will reply, "Thanks be to God" or "Your blessing, please" then, with all the gentleness that comes from reverence of God, provides a prompt answer with the warmth of love. Let the porter be given one of the younger members if help is needed.

Of all the questions to be asked about the nearly 1500 year old Rule of Benedict, and there are many in the twentieth century, one of the most pointed must surely be why one of the great spiritual documents of the Western World would have in it a chapter on how to answer the door. And one of the answers might be that answering the door is one of the arch activities of Benedictine life. The way we answer doors is the way we deal with the world. Benedict wants the porter to be available, "not roaming around" so that the caller is not left waiting; responsible and "able to take a message," so that the community is properly informed; full of welcome; prompt in responding to people "with the warmth of love"; and actually grateful for the presence of the guest. When the person knocks--whenever the person knocks--the porter is to say, "Thanks be to God" or "Your blessing, please," to indicate the gift the guest is to the community. The porter is to be warmth and welcome at all times, not just when it feels convenient. In the Rule of Benedict, there is no such thing as coming out of time to the monastery. Come in the middle of lunch; come in the middle of prayer; come and bother us with your blessings at any time. There is always someone waiting for you.

The chapter on the porter of the monastery is the chapter on how to receive the Christ in the other always. It is Benedict's theology of surprise.

***
Someone once said to me (and a few others), "Be the group that tried."

--Onehouse

**
Little Clown, My Heart
by Sandra Cisneros

Little clown, my heart,
Spangled again and lopsided,
Handstands and Peking pirouettes,
Backflips snapping open like
A carpenter's hinged ruler,

Little gimp-footed hurray,
Paper parasol of pleasures,
Fleshy undertounge of sorrows,
Sweet potato plant of my addictions,

Acapulco cliff-diver corazón,
Fine as an obsidian dagger,
Alley-oop and here we go
Into the froth, my life,
Into the flames!


***
My oldest son has been living in multiple art environments over the last year -- artists, mostly young, banded together for mutual support and craziness, not to mention the sharing and the savings.

The New York Collective, Flux Factory, lost their building to Eminent Domain last month and closed with a *bang* -- a giant party to which the entire city was invited, with well over 60 acts, bands , DJs, call and response DJs (whatever that is).... [Click here for the list of acts, including but not limited to...

~~
Abigail Ohlheiser presents “Come Get Washed in the Blood”, A drag king and a puppet show, Andy Gilliss, Bright Mares, Brooke McGowen’s “Action for Iraq”, Campfire Stories, Carlos Rigau, Cathy, Cave Bears, Caylie Staples, Children of Terminator X, D.A. Meeks, , The Danger presents “In the Wake of the Serpent’s Tattoo”, Ducktails, Flux Factory Fashion Show, F/M presents “Drone to Dance”, The Genderless Siblings from Yellow Bizarre, Greg and Ted’s Satisfaction Factory, Golden Times / Giggle Town, The Hemlock Society, The Heuristic MC, Igor and Tony Have a Spat, Jeremy Chance, Jeremy Williss, Kate Ferencz, Kitlace/The Stink, Konnichiwa, Lady Firefly feat Wolfgang von Stuermer, Lily Maase, Manburger Surgical Presents “The Final Incompetancy”, Mary Ivy Martin’s “Communidate”, Miss Scarlett, No Sound, The NYC Minutes Confessional Booth, The Oracle of Random Quotes, Peter Bonos, Poetix on Da Rox, The Play Party, Rosa Rugosa, The Spirit of a Century (Junk or chains pressure neglects Rogers-in-cranks) GET LOST, SURPRISE!!!, Soul 45’s from Jonathan Toubin of New York Night Train productions, Taliesin, Tarot, Ted Lee, The Mob, Tiger Mouth, Timothy Hospodar and 0H10M1KE present “Omnium-Gathera”, Unicornholio featuring Sebastien Sanz de Santamaria + Marie Losier, Bernard Losier (dad), and Coco (his wife), The Venn Diagrams, White Limo, The Wonderland Collective, Zebu, Zenith Foundation, and Zuvuya Collective presents “Twilight” and “Ladies Room”

There was something going on in each room of a large empty warehouse. I asked, "Like what?" to which he responded that one of the goings on in one of the rooms was "Surprise !" where you would wait in the hall, someone would come and blindfold you and then lead you into a room, and the lights would go on , the blindfold would go off, and everyone in the room would yell, "Surprise !" and then confetti, celebratory words [Happy Birthday! Congratulations!
Bon Voyage! Whatever !] sparklers, cupcakes, jumping up and down, excitement , thrills , chills -- all for one minute, then, you and your cupcake out in the hall while the room was readied for the next participant.

Life is a bit like that, you know. A lot of fuss and then back in the hall and it's someone else's turn. I'm in that seasonal fall place. So many leaves to rake. Whatever.


**

The Sacrament of Waiting

Macrina Wiederkehr


Slowly
she celebrated the sacrament of letting go.
First she surrendered her green,
then the orange, yellow, and red
finally she let go of her brown.
Shedding her last leaf
she stood empty and silent, stripped bare.
Leaning against the winter sky
she began her vigil of trust.

Shedding her last leaf
she watched its journey to the ground.
She stood in silence
wearing the color of emptiness,
her branches wondering;
How do you give shade with so much gone?

And then,
the sacrament of waiting began.
The sunrise and sunset watched with tenderness.
Clothing her with silhouettes
they kept her hope alive.

They helped her understand that
her vulnerability,
her dependence and need,
her emptiness,
her readiness to receive
were giving her a new kind of beauty.
Every morning and every evening they stood in silence
and celebrated together
the sacrament of waiting.


***

Wednesday, November 12, 2008

The Head and the Heart


















Enough

Patrice Vecchione

You don't have to have everything. Whatever it is, whatever you have within yourself, consider it enough, and that the Spirit behind, above, and below you will do the rest. Your house is enough; it's got plenty of floor space, great windows. The goods stored in your cupboards are all you need. The place you live will give you what's necessary. Notice how different it feels in your body to have enough. Try it. Say to yourself, "It's enough. What I have is what I need."

Writing and the Spiritual Life

**

"And so it is with all things. If you are not happy, act the happy man. Happiness will come later. So also with faith. If you are in despair, act as though you believed. Faith will come afterwards.

-Isaac Bashevis Singer

**

He fumbles at your Soul
As Players at the Keys
Before they drop full Music on --
He stuns you by degrees --
Prepares your brittle Nature
For the Ethereal Blow --
By fainter Hammers -- further heard --
Then nearer -- Then so slow
Your breath has time to straighten --
Your brain -- to bubble Cool --
Deals --One--imperial--Thunderbolt--
That scalps your naked Soul

--Emily Dickinson

**

Sabbaths 2004
Wendell Berry

VIII

It takes all time to show eternity,
The longest shine of every perishing spark,
And every word and cry of every tongue
Must form the Word that calls the darkest dark

Of this world to its lasting dawn. Toward
That rising hour we bear our single hearts
Estranged as islands parted in the sea,
Our broken knowledge and our scattered arts.

As separate as fireflies or night windows,
We piece a foredream of the gathered light
Infinitely small and great to shelter all,
Silenced into song, blinded into sight.

**

SLEEP TREE

The Drowned Book
Bahauddin

I was sitting, wondering what I should do, when I received this revelation: Open your heart. Feel the closeness with God. Look inside yourself. Tend the awareness there.

Which led me to think, There are two entities here, God and myself. God, the dazzling mystery; me, the confused mixture of dead and bitter that I must suffer through to reach God.

Tangled in these thoughts, I get drowsy. In sleep I become a night-silent tree, rooted in nonbeing. As I wake, the tree puts forth branches and leaves. Eyesight returns; libs move in the air. My heart feels like flowers opening along a branch. Prayer expands to become fruit, and nonbeing is the taste of language in my mouth.

**

via wood_s_lot

Christ Über Alles
An interview with Jeff Sharlet
The religion reporter talks about his experiences with "the Family," the secret Christ-loving, Hitler-quoting powerbrokers of the modern world.

One of the most interesting things about anti-intellectualism in American life is that it’s a very intellectual project. Real anti-intellectualism, the Family kind, you know, “Jesus plus nothing,” the systematic stripping away of history, of theology, of any kind of influence—that’s an intellectual project. Not for nothing does Doug Coe express some admiration for Pol Pot. In year zero, he did the same thing. Pol Pot had all the intellectuals killed. You only do that if you have an idea. That’s an extreme form of ideology that says: I can purify things.

There are two great traditions that have been written about before, which are American rationalism and American sentimentalism. What you see in the Family’s expression of power is that these are not two opposite poles, but the head and heart, the realpolitik of world power. The sentimental narrative, which is anti-intellectual—is absolutely interwoven with the rationalist Family agenda.

Forget Red vs. Blue -- It's the Educated vs. People Easily Fooled by Propaganda
Chris Hedges

***

Sunday, November 09, 2008

God Of Our Weary Years, God of Our Silent Tears....



















*
A community is the mental and spiritual condition of knowing that the place is shared, and that the people who share the place define and limit the possibilities of each other's lives. It is the knowledge that people have of each other, their concern for each other, their trust in each other, the freedom with which they come and go among themselves.

Wendell Berry
"The Loss of the Future"

Church this a.m. at Ebenezer Baptist Church.
The gospel for the day is Matthew 6: 25-34


Do Not Worry

25"Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or drink; or about your body, what you will wear. Is not life more important than food, and the body more important than clothes? 26Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they? 27Who of you by worrying can add a single hour to his life[a]?

28"And why do you worry about clothes? See how the lilies of the field grow. They do not labor or spin. 29Yet I tell you that not even Solomon in all his splendor was dressed like one of these. 30If that is how God clothes the grass of the field, which is here today and tomorrow is thrown into the fire, will he not much more clothe you, O you of little faith? 31So do not worry, saying, 'What shall we eat?' or 'What shall we drink?' or 'What shall we wear?' 32For the pagans run after all these things, and your heavenly Father knows that you need them. 33But seek first his kingdom and his righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well. 34Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own.

(a) Matthew 6:27 Or single cubit to his height

*
Psalm 78

A maskil of Asaph. [a]
1 O my people, hear my teaching;
listen to the words of my mouth.

2 I will open my mouth in parables,
I will utter hidden things, things from of old-

3 what we have heard and known,
what our fathers have told us.

Psalm 78:1(a) Title: Probably a literary or musical term

*

Patty, Shalin and I went to Ebenezer Baptist -- I loved the singing, the energy, the seamless way that the choir and the preacher and the ushers move the service. How the congregation know their parts, how they understand and participate in the theology. God is moving through history, God is present in our histories both personal and societal. God is moving us right now, at this moment. The theology never loses sight of the fact that each individual has his contribution within the community, but it is the story of the community that we are celebrating as our life within God's hand.


The opening chant /song (after the Battle Hymn of the Republic) was

"The Lord is still Good --
After all I've been through --
The Lord is still Good."

The metaphors within these traditional hymns seem different within each setting. What is the battle ? Who is fighting a battle and what is it for? Is it really a battle , or does it just feel like one? Is the battle internal or external ? The feeling of the hymn is colored by the community that sings it.


Then there was a chant which expressed the sentiment :


"Forget about yourself -- come and worship God, Forget about yourself, come and be with the people of your community and think about the needs of the people."

This seemed to be a gentle reminder. Remember . Remember who you are, why you're here, remember who God is, who you are. Whose son or daughter are you ? Where have you been? It isn't just you, or , you are more than you think you are. There is an aspect of you that can only come into being as part of a or this community.


Then the minister basically preached about Obama and about "Lift Every Voice and Sing"

[From Wikipedia:]


"Lift Every Voice and Sing" — often called "The Negro National Hymn" or "The Negro National Anthem" — was written as a poem by James Weldon Johnson (1871–1938) and then set to music by his brother John Rosamond Johnson (1873–1944) in 1900.


"Lift Every Voice and Sing" (now also known as "Lift Ev'ry Voice and Sing") was publicly performed first as a poem as part of a celebration of Lincoln's Birthday on February 12, 1900 by 500 schoolchildren at the segregated Stanton School. Its principal, James Weldon Johnson, wrote the words to introduce its honored guest Booker T. Washington.

The poem was later set to music by Mr. Johnson's brother, John, in 1905. Singing this song quickly became a way for African Americans to demonstrate their patriotism and hope for the future. In calling for earth and heaven to "ring with the harmonies of Liberty," they could speak out subtly against racism and Jim Crow laws—and especially the huge number of lynchings accompanying the rise of the Ku Klux Klan at the turn of the century. In 1919, the NAACP adopted the song as "The black National Anthem." By the 1920s, copies of "Lift Every Voice and Sing" could be found in black churches across the country, often pasted into the hymnals.

In 1939, Augusta Savage received a commission from the World's Fair[1] and created a 16 foot tall plaster sculpture called Lift Ev'ry Voice and Sing. Savage did not have any funds for a bronze cast, or even to move and store it, and it was destroyed by bulldozers at the close of the fair.


During and after the American Civil Rights Movement, the song experienced a rebirth, and by the 1970s was often sung immediately after "The Star Spangled Banner" at public events and performances across the United States where the event had a significant African-American population.

In Maya Angelou's 1969 autobiography, I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings, the song is sung by the audience and students at Maya's eighth grade graduation, after a white school official dashes the educational aspirations of her class.[2]**

Bear den, Rom are and Henderson, Harry. A History of African-American Artists (From 1792 to the Present), pp. 168-180, Pantheon Books (Random House), 1993, ISBN 0-394-57016-2
^ Angelou, Maya (1969). I know why the caged bird sings. New York, New York: Random House, 169-184. ISBN 0-375-50789-2.**


The first verse is the one most commonly heard.

Lift every voice and sing,'
Til earth and heaven ring,
Ring with the harmonies of Liberty;
Let our rejoicing rise
High as the listening skies,
Let it resound loud as the rolling sea.
Sing a song full of the faith that the dark past has taught us,
Sing a song full of the hope that the present has brought us;
Facing the rising sun of our new day begun,
Let us march on 'til victory is won.

Stony the road we trod,
Bitter the chast'ning rod,
Felt in the days when hope unborn had died;
Yet with a steady beat,
Have not our weary feet
Come to the place for which our fathers sighed?
We have come over a way that with tears has been watered,
We have come, treading our path through the blood of the slaughtered,
Out from the gloomy past,'
Til now we stand at last
Where the white gleam of our bright star is cast.

God of our weary years,
God of our silent tears,
Thou who has brought us thus far on the way;
Thou who has by Thy might
Led us into the light,
Keep us forever in the path, we pray.
Lest our feet stray from the places, our God, where we met Thee,
Lest, our hearts drunk with the wine of the world, we forget Thee;
Shadowed beneath Thy hand,
May we forever stand,
True to our God,
True to our native land.**


Our sermon was the "God of Our Weary Years" -- Despite our fears, or loss of hope , we remember that Faith and Memory are inextricably connected. When we recite and recount what God has already done, we recall also the sacrifices made and the pain suffered. We recognize ourselves in the stories about people brought through history to a particular time and place. In we see the themes in Psalms 105, 106 135 and 136, we have songs like "Lift Every Voice" that recall for a later generation what has been done. We remember because it helps us to ''envision God's bright future.''

We rejoice because we remember. We aren't remembering so as to settle scores or be bitter. Every person here, even Barack Obama didn't get here all alone. Where Obama stands today -- you stand. He didn't get there by himself, and no one else did either. We recite and recount what God has done, what our ancestors went through. We tell the stories so that we stand in a common knowledge of where we come from, and where we seem to be headed. We remind each other of our stories so that we don't lose heart or lose faith.

When we shout in the present, we look in the rear view mirror at the past -- [the objects are always closer than they appear.] When we see a turtle on a fence post, we know that someone put him there. No turtle gets up on a fence post all by itself. We are all these turtles on fence posts. We are all walking the fine line between crazy and prophetic. We are acting walking singing and saying because of those who came before us , and fought the battles that they fought. We stand on their shoulders, and need to remember that.

We believe that God is moving across History -- moving everywhere, in and amidst and in spite of "the wine of the world." The world is a place of forgetting, a place of getting lost. We need one another to recall.

We rejoice because we remember.

Then we sang , held hands, lifted up hands, greeted, thanked and prayed with each other. It was a huge energetic transaction -- the voices, singing, gesturing, spontaneous response, the songs with big hand and body gestures.

In my church, we never reference politics except in the most general sense. In the past, there has been a lot of conflict and contention about political and cultural matters. Which I don't think is a bad thing. What is unfortunate is that the past conflict has seemed to lead to our present conflict adverse situation. It creates a stuck energy that is keeping us from really "listening to what the spirit is telling the churches." I just know that , if God is truly the God who moves and speaks through history, there is something in the wind. That I wanted to be with people who were going to celebrate Obama's victory. It seemed too big to let it pass unremarked in my community. It transcends a 'personal' celebration -- the fact that it happened at all seems to validate the theology that goes "no man is an island, complete unto himself alone." That says that our religion speaks of a people , not just of personal acts of observance and piety.


So Patty and Shalin and I headed downtown to the King center, and gave thanks to God and to the larger community , a community which gives assent to the covenant and remembers and is faithful to:


God of our weary years,
God of our silent tears,
Thou who has brought us thus far on the way;
Thou who has by Thy might
Led us into the light,
Keep us forever in the path, we pray.
Lest our feet stray from the places, our God, where we met Thee,
Lest, our hearts drunk with the wine of the world, we forget Thee.*



*

A Bird and A Tree Say To Him: Friend


















The Human Condition

Thomas Keating

Where are you? This is one of the great questions of all time. It is the focus of the first half of the spiritual journey.

It is the question God asked when Adam and Eve had taken off for the underbrush after their disobedience.... The same question is addressed to every generation, time and person. At every moment of our lives, God is asking us, "Where are you? Why are you hiding?"

**

Substantially United

By Julian of Norwich

God showed me something small, no bigger than a hazelnut, lying in the palm of my hand, as it seemed to me, and it was as round as a ball. I looked at it with the eye of my understanding and thought: What can this be? I was amazed that it could last, for I thought that because of its littleness it would suddenly have fallen into nothing. And I was answered in my understanding: It lasts and always will, because God loves it: and thus everything has being through the love of God.

In this little thing I saw three properties. The first is that God made it, the second is that God loves it, the third is that God preserves it. But what did I see in it? It is that God is the Creator and the protector and the lover. For until I am substantially united to God, I can never have perfect rest or true happiness, until, that is, I am so attached to God that there can be no created thing between my God and me.

Revelations of Divine Love

*

Poem: "Prego" by Ingrid Wendt from Surgeonfish. © WordTech Editions. Reprinted with permission.

Prego

Ask for something, Per
favore, please, the answer is
Prego. Please.

Thank you, Grazie, thank you,
you say. Instead of you're welcome?
Prego. The answer is please.

Prego, listen, here in Italy, every
time you think you're polite, this lift
of the verbal eyebrow, this rise

and fall of the voice like a hand
on its way to your shoulder, insistent
lifeline picking you up,

letting you go
again. No problem! Prego
pulls up the covers and tucks you in.

Cape of Saint Martin. Communion
wafer on each Italian tongue. Prego.
Please, Prego, I pray to you,

Prego, don't
worry. Let me
do something for you.

**

Love

Love means to learn to look at yourself
The way one looks at distant things
For you are only one thing among many.
And whoever sees that way heals his heart
Without knowing it, from various ills--
A bird and a tree say to him: Friend.

Then he wants to use himself and things
So that they stand in the glow of ripeness.
It doesn't matter whether he knows what he serves:
Who serves best doesn't always understand.

Czeslaw Milosz: New and Collected Poems

**


Friday, November 07, 2008

The Step You Don't Want To Take



















"The truth is that unreality is simply unsustainable. Maintaining one's belief in an unreal and untrue theory takes too much work. The vigilant rejection of reality has to be, on some level, exhausting."

--Slacktivist

Cartographies of Silence
Adrienne Rich


1.

A conversation begins
with a lie. and each

speaker of the so-called common language feels
the ice-floe split, the drift apart

as if powerless, as if up against
a force of nature

A poem can being
with a lie. And be torn up.

A conversation has other laws
recharges itself with its own

false energy, Cannot be torn
up. Infiltrates our blood. Repeats itself.

Inscribes with its unreturning stylus
the isolation it denies.


2.

The classical music station
playing hour upon hour in the apartment

the picking up and picking up
and again picking up the telephone

The syllables uttering
the old script over and over

The loneliness of the liar
living in the formal network of the lie

twisting the dials to drown the terror
beneath the unsaid word


3.

The technology of silence
The rituals, etiquette

the blurring of terms
silence not absence

of words or music or even
raw sounds

Silence can be a plan
rigorously executed

the blueprint of a life

It is a presence
it has a history a form

Do not confuse it
with any kind of absence


4.

How calm, how inoffensive these words
begin to seem to me

though begun in grief and anger
Can I break through this film of the abstract

without wounding myself or you
there is enough pain here

This is why the classical of the jazz music station plays?
to give a ground of meaning to our pain?


5.

The silence strips bare:
In Dreyer's Passion of Joan

Falconetti's face, hair shorn, a great geography
mutely surveyed by the camera

If there were a poetry where this could happen
not as blank space or as words

stretched like skin over meaningsof a night through which two people
have talked till dawn.


6.

The scream
of an illegitimate voice

It has ceased to hear itself, therefore
it asks itself

How do I exist?

This was the silence I wanted to break in you
I had questions but you would not answer

I had answers but you could not use them
The is useless to you and perhaps to others


7.

It was an old theme even for me:
Language cannot do everything-

chalk it on the walls where the dead poets
lie in their mausoleums

If at the will of the poet the poem
could turn into a thing

a granite flank laid bare, a lifted head
alight with dew

If it could simply look you in the face
with naked eyeballs, not letting you turn

till you, and I who long to make this thing,
were finally clarified together in its stare


8.

No. Let me have this dust,
these pale clouds dourly lingering, these words

moving with ferocious accuracy
like the blind child's fingers

or the newborn infant's mouth
violent with hunger

No one can give me, I have long ago
taken this method

whether of bran pouring from the loose-woven sack
or of the bunsen-flame turned low and blue

If from time to time I envy
the pure annunciation to the eye

the visio beatifica
if from time to time I long to turn

like the Eleusinian hierophant
holding up a single ear of grain

for the return to the concrete and everlasting world
what in fact I keep choosing

are these words, these whispers, conversations
from which time after time the truth breaks moist and green.

Adrienne Rich

*
Fred / Slacktivist

Shine a light

Racism, bigotry and xenophobia are immoral, of course, but they are also, just as fundamentally, They are untrue.unreal. They provide a theory and a framework for living in the world that cannot be reconciled with the reality of this world. The person who chooses to accept that unreal framework is thus constantly forced to choose between unreality and reality, between the theory and the facts. To hold onto the unreal framework, they must continuously reject reality. And every time they do that, they get a little bit dumber.**

**
The truth is that unreality is simply unsustainable. Maintaining one's belief in an unreal and untrue theory takes too much work. The vigilant rejection of reality has to be, on some level, exhausting. Even the elaborate support structures provided by Fox News and AM radio cannot wholly shield one from the constant intrusions of the world that is. Denying the existence of that world requires more help than even the voluminous right-wing echo chamber can provide.

This, I think, is part of why we're seeing such desperate vehemence at the Palin rallies. The crowd realizes that the unreality it has chosen cannot long survive if the majority of their fellow citizens and neighbors refuse to play along. As long as the entire crowd is choosing to "see" the emperor's splendid new clothes, then it's relatively easy to go along with that choice. But once the crowd reaches a tipping point, once the majority are choosing reality and the truth, then the emperor's nakedness become impossible to deny. For those who have chosen bigotry, racism and xenophobia, this election represents just such a tipping point. They're watching unreality slip through their fingers and they're trying, desperately, to grasp it even tighter.

After this election, part of our task -- yours, mine and our new president's -- will be to find a way to gently invite and welcome these folks back into the real world. My suspicion, or at least my hope, is that eventually, once they are unburdened by the need to constantly choose unreality and therefore stupidity, they will find this a great relief.

- - - - - - - - - - - -

* I'm not here discussing more structural or institutional forms of racism, nor am I talking here about the more general self-justifying mythologies that every privileged people repeats to itself as an apologetic. Set aside here the question of whether or not bigotry is a pervasive, endemic reality in American culture. For the sake of this discussion, let us recalibrate our tools to discount for whatever pre-existing base level of bigotry there may be so that we can here focus on the exceptional bigot -- the sort of person who stands out as more bigoted than the surrounding/underlying culture as a whole.

** At this point you may be suspecting that this post is little more than an elaborate attempt to repackage the argument of the book of 1 John in non-sectarian terms. Well, yeah. Did it work?


"...There's no one to fret, no one to condemn, no one to bless me for being a good girl, no one to punish me for being wicked. Heaven was empty. I didn't know whether God had died, or whether there had never been a God at all. Either way I felt free and I didn't know whether I was happy or unhappy, but something very strange had happened. And all that huge change came about as I had the marzipan in my mouth, before I even swallowed it. A taste--a memory--a landslide . . ."

"In one way it was hard to leave the Church . . . but in another way it was easy, because it made sense. For the first time ever I felt I was doing something with all my nature and not only a part of it."

--Philip Pullman, *The Amber Spyglass*, pp. 398-399

**

saying no to lesser gods

Learning to say no is how we clear space for a few carefully planted yeses to grow. Saying no to lesser gods is part of saying yes to God...

Barbara Brown Taylor, author of Leaving Church

**

START CLOSE IN

Start close in,
don't take the second step
or the third,
start with the first
thing
close in,
the step you don't want to take.


Start with
the ground
you know,
the pale ground
beneath your feet,
your own
way of starting
the conversation.

Start with your own
question,
give up on other
people's questions,
don't let them
smother something
simple.

To find
another's voice
follow
your own voice,
wait until
that voice
becomes a
private ear
listening
to another.

Start right now
take a small step
you can call your own
don't follow
someone else's
heroics, be humble
and focused,
start close in,
don't mistake
that other
for your own.

Start close in,
don't take the second step
or the third,
start with the first
thing
close in,
the step you don't want to take.



~ David Whyte ~

*


A Future That Looks Much Brighter Today














A lovely reflection from American Street:

I Woke Up With The Future

I didn’t make it for the “official” announcement last night, or the speeches. Once Ohio was called, my wife and I split a bottle of champagne and I was ready for bed.

I needed to get some sleep, see. I had a date with the future today. I had to get my daughters up and ready for the new day and I had my four year old grandson to enjoy. He’s mine today, and on the most beautiful November morning I ever remember, this little boy and I went to the park.

YouTube has the speeches, the papers captured all the stats. I’ll catch up later. I had something more important to do than diving into the hows and whats and to renew the fight against the deniers on the right, those incapable of introspection or self-respect.

We caught some of the radio talkers this morning as we drove, but walking along the shore of a lake was more important. Obama’s victory is nothing short of revolutionary, something that might only be compared to the 1964 election, something that happened when I was about my grandson’s age. We were much more interested in chasing a bunny through the evergreens, walking up to a flight of Canadian geese grazing, spotting a duck, spying some seagulls soaring like they were a kite on a breeze, and throwing driftwood sticks back in the water.

I’ve have a keen awareness of the transformational nature of last night’s events and what it will mean for my grandson’s future; a future that looks much more bright today. And I know how important the election of 1964 was, how transformational the Civil Rights Bill was as today we witness its fruits, but I didn’t when it happened. I was just a little boy. My grandson will come to learn what a difference today makes too, someday.

But today, holding hands with Grandpa as we shuffled through piles of crunchy, colorful leaves, kicking them as high as we could — that was the most important thing of all.

By MarkAdams

*
I live in Georgia. My neighborhood is (mostly) McCain country. At my church at a meeting this a.m., no one discussed 'the election' because they didn't want to start a fight.

Well hell with that. I want to celebrate. A friend just called, and we're off to Ebenezer Baptist Church this Sunday a.m. I want to go somewhere where people are exuberant an rightly so ! This was my youngest son's first time to vote, and he proudly cast his vote for Obama. I hope that this is a new day for this country.

*
cross posted to Life Goes On ?!

Thursday, November 06, 2008

Power Of Love So Strong ....























"Recognizing the power of our minds means that even as unfortunate or terrible things happen to us, we can receive them in a more spacious and ultimately more enlightened way. The Buddha taught his students to develop a power of love so strong that the mind becomes like space that cannot be tainted. If someone throws paint, it is not the air that will change color. Space will not hold the paint; it will not grasp it in any way. Only the walls, the barriers to space, can be affected by the paint. The Buddha taught his students to develop a power of love so strong that their minds become like a pure, flowing river that cannot be burned. No matter what kind of material is thrown into it, it will not burn. Many experiences - good, bad, and indifferent - are thrown into the flowing river of our lives, but we are not burned, owing to the power of the love in our hearts."

~ Sharon Salzberg, in Lovingkindness
via Sayuri

*
An Open Letter to Barack Obama
By
Alice Walker

Dear Brother Obama,

You have no idea, really, of how profound this moment is for us. Us being the black people of the Southern United States. You think you know, because you are thoughtful, and you have studied our history. But seeing you deliver the torch so many others before you carried, year after year, decade after decade, century after century, only to be struck down before igniting the flame of justice and of law, is almost more than the heart can bear.

And yet, this observation is not intended to burden you, for you are of a different time, and, indeed, because of all the relay runners before you, North America is a different place. It is really only to say: Well done. We knew, through all the generations, that you were with us, in us, the best of the spirit of Africa and of the Americas. Knowing this, that you would actually appear, someday, was part of our strength. Seeing you take your rightful place, based solely on your wisdom, stamina and character, is a balm for the weary warriors of hope, previously only sung about.

I would advise you to remember that you did not create the disaster that the world is experiencing, and you alone are not responsible for bringing the world back to balance. A primary responsibility that you do have, however, is to cultivate happiness in your own life. To make a schedule that permits sufficient time of rest and play with your gorgeous wife and lovely daughters. And so on. One gathers that your family is large. We are used to seeing men in the White House soon become juiceless and as white-haired as the building; we notice their wives and children looking strained and stressed. They soon have smiles so lacking in joy that they remind us of scissors. This is no way to lead. Nor does your family deserve this fate.

One way of thinking about all this is: It is so bad now that there is no excuse not to relax. From your happy, relaxed state, you can model real success, which is all that so many people in the world really want. They may buy endless cars and houses and furs and gobble up all the attention and space they can manage, or barely manage, but this is because it is not yet clear to them that success is truly an inside job. That it is within the reach of almost everyone.

I would further advise you not to take on other people’s enemies. Most damage that others do to us is out of fear, humiliation and pain. Those feelings occur in all of us, not just in those of us who profess a certain religious or racial devotion. We must learn actually not to have enemies, but only confused adversaries who are ourselves in disguise. It is understood by all that you are commander-in-chief of the United States and are sworn to protect our beloved country; this we understand, completely. However, as my mother used to say, quoting a Bible with which I often fought, “hate the sin, but love the sinner.”

There must be no more crushing of whole communities, no more torture, no more dehumanizing as a means of ruling a people’s spirit. This has already happened to people of color, poor people, women, children. We see where this leads, where it has led.

A good model of how to “work with the enemy” internally is presented by the Dalai Lama, in his endless care-taking of his soul as he confronts the Chinese government that invaded Tibet. Because, finally, it is the soul that must be preserved, if one is to remain a credible leader. All else might be lost; but when the soul dies, the connection to earth, to peoples, to animals, to rivers, to mountain ranges, purple and majestic, also dies. And your smile, with which we watch you do gracious battle with unjust characterizations, distortions and lies, is that expression of healthy self-worth, spirit and soul, that, kept happy and free and relaxed, can find an answering smile in all of us, lighting our way, and brightening the world.

We are the ones we have been waiting for.

In Peace and Joy,

Alice Walker

**


For My Young Friends Who Are Afraid

There is a country to cross you will
find in the corner of your eye, in
the quick slip of your foot—air far
down, a snap that might have caught.
And maybe for you, for me, a high, passing

voice that finds its way by being
afraid. That country is there, for us,
carried as it is crossed. What you fear
will not go away: it will take you into
yourself and bless you and keep you.

That's the world, and we all live there.

—William Stafford

**

Via Sayuri

President-elect Barack Obama has launched a new website change.gov, where one can find news about the transition and inauguration and information about his agenda. The site also has a place for people to share their ideas for government and their stories about the campaign

**
The best spiritual writing, it seems to me, is like good poetry in that it is not about success or failure but allows us to find value in what seems meaningless or dull, or even filthy. It does not offer answers but hints at possibilities for transcendence. It does not transport us magically to a realm of light “above” the ordinary, beyond the capacities of more common people, but instead offers us insight into living through the contradictory and often painful processes of life and death that are at work in us all.

- Kathleen Norris

**

The Dream Of A Country ...


















San Andreas Fault


Tony Woodlief

On what happens next

What begins now is a fussy period of building up and tearing down. The people in power will work to solidify their gains, reward their friends, and punish their enemies. Those rightfully tossed out the door will begin nipping at the heels of their vanquishers. All of them will fall to the game — albeit with different job titles — of snarling over scraps of wealth that none of them had a hand in creating. These people will always be with us, living out their natures.

My prayer is that the rest of will switch off our talk radio and our cable opinion shows and turn to the real business that has always been before fallen man, which is the reconciliation of his troubled spirit to something greater than himself. Polls show that a great many Americans believe something is not right, that the nation is off kilter, not what it should be. A great many of us yesterday voted for change. Pray that instead of speaking that outward, we whisper it back to ourselves.

**

I look forward confidently to the day when all who work for a living will be one with no thought to their separateness as Negroes, Jews, Italians or any other distinctions. This will be the day when we bring into full realization the American dream -- a dream yet unfulfilled. A dream of equality of opportunity, of privilege and property widely distributed; a dream of a land where men will not take necessities from the many to give luxuries to the few; a dream of a land where men will not argue that the color of a man's skin determines the content of his character; a dream of a nation where all our gifts and resources are held not for ourselves alone, but as instruments of service for the rest of humanity; the dream of a country where every man will respect the dignity and worth of the human personality.

-- Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

**

fafblog.

Fafblog Election Day Special! Know Your Swing States

IRAQ
Population: 29 million
Big issues: gas prices, the economy, explosion reform
Major swing demographics: Joe the insurgent, Joe the government-employed death squad member, Joe the sad bandaged child with one remaining limb
Electoral votes: 0
Leaning? maybe Nader

[read the entire piece. Hilarious and devastating]

*

Equality’s Winding Path

*

Bring on the Puppy and the Rookie

... "His somber speech in the dark Chicago night was stark and simple and showed that he sees what he’s up against. There was a heaviness in his demeanor, as if he already had taken on the isolation and “splendid misery,” as Jefferson called it, of the office he’d won only moments before. Americans all over the place were jumping for joy, including the block I had been on in front of the White House, where they were singing: “Na, na, na, na. Hey, hey, hey. Goodbye.”

In the midst of such a phenomenal, fizzy victory overcoming so many doubts and crazy attacks and even his own middle name, Obama stood alone.

He rejected the Democratic kumbaya moment of having your broad coalition on stage with you, as he talked about how everyone would have to pull together and “resist the temptation to fall back on the same partisanship and pettiness and immaturity that has poisoned our politics for so long.”

**

The Obama Dividend

Barack Obama’s election may be a political milestone, ending an era in which Republicans succeeded at winning votes from the working poor to cut taxes for billionaires.

*

God's Love Is Pervasive


















Berlin Wall

Comment by The Rt. Rev. Marc Andrus, Bishop of the Episcopal Diocese of California
google news comment
A Change in Consciousness - Nov 4, 2008

The people who were born after the Apollo pictures of the Earth seen from space represent the first people who will fully inhabit a new consciousness. Those of us, like myself, who took this amazing picture in as someone already living on the Earth, had to learn this consciousness; for those born after me it is their birthright.

The recognition of the civil rights of lesbian, gay, transgendered and bisexual people is part of the broad shift in consciousness towards which we are moving. Same-sex marriage in California is an important vehicle in the on-going work of making sure all American citizens enjoy the same rights in civil society.

This shift in consciousness, including same-sex marriage, is a move towards the good. I affirm this from a spiritual, religious point of view. As a Christian, I view the trajectory of history as moving us towards global reconciliation and global justice. The Gospels tell us that Jesus said that God's love is pervasive. He used the idea of rain and sunshine, both of which fall on all the world, irrespective of people's prejudices about who is deserving or who is not.

If Proposition 8 passes, which I hope it does not, those of us committed to civil rights for all will simply continue to hope, and continue to work. Perseverance, knowing that God continues to travel with those who are disenfranchised, is a path we know. I trust, however, that the great Californians with whom I live will continue their tradition of forging ahead towards what lies before our whole great country.

We Are Ideas Clothed In the Mind Of God
























Evening Land

A good poem for vespers:


It is in the evening that one breaks up,
at sunset.
Then it is that one abandons everything.

Mind takes down its tents of spider web,
and heart forgets why it felt anxious.
The desert wanderer abandons his campsite,
which will soon be obliterated by sand,
and continues on his journey in the stillness of night,
guided by mysterious stars.

-from Evening Land, Par Lagerkvist

*
bits and pieces from a newsletter named Le Penseur Reflechit



Instead, I very much believe that there are two interrelated reasons why business is thriving for me in spite of no real advertising. The first and lesser (and which I did not overtly have in mind when I replied to her) is that timeless bit of advice: “If you do what you want to do, where your talents and interests take you, and if you learn to do it well, practicing and perfecting it, spending hours of time and care upon it, you will never lack. You may at times have to sleep on the floor, there may be times in which money will be tight and in which luxuries will have to be passed by for the essentials of living, but if you follow your dreams, happiness and a relatively high level of prosperity will follow: you will have everything you need and some to spare. But if you follow money alone, a bit like seeking first after earth and caring nothing at all about heaven . . . well, that is a bitter rabbit trail best not pursued.” But the actual answer I gave her (which to some degree is part of the same) is that God takes good care of me. Even if we were to give greater credence to the lesser reason, we could still profitably ask ourselves from whence our skills originate: where does anything come from? Our very lives, to say nothing of our talents, are gifts.

**

What I realized in that moment .... is that my Father is very, very good to me. I have no crown on my head, the clothes on my back are rarely the newest or latest. But I feast at the King’s table. I go in and out of my Father’s house, in my better moments even slamming the doors carelessly behind me, self-forgetful. The universe is my playground. I have no want or care. I am free like no one has ever been free. That is the reality: it truly is the reality. There are no strings on my hands and feet; I am eternally free. That is reality. But it is the reality I so rarely live in because I so quickly forget.

***

Contrasted against much of our contemporary world and its tiresome ways—or perhaps seen in relief and in response—we find in the beatitudes certain states in which God and His kingdom may be found. I take these rather literally: I see God saying: “Where these conditions are, there I am also. It is a constant of my universe and of my nature. Like the Tao my Eastern philosophers have proposed, it is my very property to flow into the empty spaces and to fill that which is lacking.”

Standing upon the mountain steep
How low the valley seems!
And yet, because it lies so deep,
It gathers all the streams.

The valley-spirit cannot fall
Because it lies so low;
And yet it is the base of all,
And to it all things flow.

(Charles A. Mackintosh’s poetic translation of sections 16 and 17, according to the older numbering, of The Tao Teh Ching of Lao Tsze.)

Pride and self-sufficiency were a great obstacle to the audiences that heard the beatitudes of Christ. In our cocoons of steel and concrete, the same can be said of us. Once we lived closer to the earth and we recognized not only our dependence upon it, our kindredness with it, but also something of living in harmony with it and our neighbors and thus our common Creator. We still live on the earth, and just as we—men and women suited in bodies of dirt—do not very much resemble the soil from which we share common compounds and elements (perhaps particularly carbon), so too our “artificial, manmade” world does not very much resemble the trees, plants, and foliage of the earth from which it grew. Yet it is as the classic joke would have it: when God and the scientist engaged in a man-making contest, the scientist confidently scooped up a handful of earth, well knowing how to fashion a man. But he grew startled when God tapped him on the shoulder and said, “Not so fast, pal. Go get your own dirt.” The scientist could make a man out of the earth, but he could not make the earth it took to make the man.

***
....no matter how hopelessly mangled my body might become, no matter what debilitating illnesses, no matter if I meet my death by being blasted to bits, I still exist whole in the mind of God, to which my friend said, “Yes, even before we were formed He knew us.” If from God all things originate, if He is the creative energy that brings all things to bear, if he is eternally living and all-powerful, my body and being can never be lost no matter what happens to the particular constitution of material elements that forms me at any given moment.

........... And then I told him of the Anglican philosopher Berkeley who disagreed with Locke (Alfred North Whitehead argues that according to the insights of Einstein and modern physics, Berkeley told the truer tale) and his claim that we are
ideas clothed in the mind of God, the material world around us His thoughts, we ourselves His thoughts, His dream, in Him whom we live, and breathe, and have our being, forming the very dendrites and axons of His mind, as it were. Put another way, he believed that world was not material but spiritual substance; similarly, modern physics suggests that matter is merely slowed-down energy. You can see how even on this highest and most fundamental level I have nothing whatsoever to fear: if I can never be lost because I exist always in the mind of God, what have I to fear of death? And though he slay me, as Job says, yet will I trust Him: if I cease to exist, it will only be because He has blotted me out of His mind. I am a child in His house; what have I to fear of anything: my life, my bread, my needs, my cares, my concerns—my very existence as Eric?

****
You can subscribe to this newsletter at the webpage of "Mr. Renaissance"

**

To Live in the Mercy of God

by Denise Levertov

To lie back under the tallest
oldest trees. How far the stems
rise, rise
before ribs of shelter
open!

To live in the mercy of God. The complete
sentence too adequate, has no give.
Awe, not comfort. Stone, elbows of
stony wood beneath lenient
moss bed.

And awe suddenly
passing beyond itself. Becomes
a form of comfort.
Becomes the steady
air you glide on, arms
stretched like the wings of flying foxes.
To hear the multiple silence
of trees, the rainy
forest depths of their listening.

To float, upheld,
as salt water
would hold you,
once you dared.
.

To live in the mercy of God.

To feel vibrate the enraptured

waterfall flinging itself
unabating down and down
to clenched fists of rock.
Swiftness of plunge,
hour after year after century,
O or Ah
uninterrupted, voice
many-stranded.
To breathe
spray. The smoke of it.
Arcs
of steelwhite foam, glissades
of fugitive jade barely perceptible. Such passion—
rage or joy?
Thus, not mild, not temperate,
God’s love for the world. Vast
flood of mercy
flung on resistance.


Denise Levertov, “To Live in the Mercy of God” from Sands from the Well. Copyright © 1996 by Denise Levertov.

Sands from the Well (1996).

The Freeing of the Dust (1975).


Wednesday, November 05, 2008

It's One Vision























Elizabeth --

I'm about to head to Grant Park to talk to everyone gathered there, but I wanted to write to you first.

We just made history.

And I don't want you to forget how we did it.

You made history every single day during this campaign -- every day you knocked on doors, made a donation, or talked to your family, friends, and neighbors about why you believe it's time for change.

I want to thank all of you who gave your time, talent, and passion to this campaign.

We have a lot of work to do to get our country back on track, and I'll be in touch soon about what comes next.

But I want to be very clear about one thing...

All of this happened because of you.

Thank you,

Barack

**
ONE VISION

Day and night, no difference.
The sun *is* the moon: an amalgam.
Their gold and silver melt together.

This is the season when
the dead branch and the green branch
are the same branch.

Nightmares fill with light like a holiday.
Humans and angels speak one language.
The elusive ones finally meet.

Good and evil, dead and alive,
everything blooms
from one natural stem.

You know this already, I'll stop.
Any direction you turn
it's one vision.

-Rumi
as translated and rendered by Coleman Barks and David Ulansey


Tuesday, November 04, 2008

Change Is Gonna Come .....



What a song!


***

Monday, November 03, 2008

Not As It Is But As We Are












"We see things not as they are but as we are." John Milton

“The eye is the lamp of the body; so then if your eye is clear, your whole body will be full of light. But if your eye is bad, your whole body will be full of darkness. If then the light that is in you is darkness, how great is the darkness!”

—Matthew 6:22–23

As we mentioned in the May 19, 2004, issue Samurai and Mustard Seeds: Fealty’s Link to Faith, “We tend to become like the thing upon which we focus: if we lead a lie, our whole self becomes a little bit more lie-like; if we feed paranoia, the world becomes one giant conspiracy.”

To very large degree, we create the world in our own image. This realization now leaves a very interesting question: if then, we wish to see the world as we ought to see it, as the honest and sincere quest after truth, beauty, and goodness would dictate, both as it is and as it yet can and shall be, how then can we have any hope—much less certainty—of seeing it clearly? On the forum recently, Sara posted about the Quakers, or the Society of Friends as they are also known, and their central tenet of “the Inner Light.” According to this principle, we, as God’s creations, have within us “that of God in everyone” which on a very basic level gives us not only life but discerns between good and evil. It reveals the presence of both in human beings, and through its guidance, offers the alternative of choice. ... [T]he Inner Light [also] opens the unity of all human beings to our consciousness. Friends believe that the potential for good, as well as evil, are latent in everyone. (Why Do We Close Our Eyes...)

In sum, this “seed of Christ” in all persons is just that: a seed. And like all seeds, it must be watered if it is to grow: it must be “activated.” This tiny mustard seed is the basis by which we first stretch forth uncertain fingers toward the kingdom of heaven; it is the basis by which we answer the gentle yet persistent knocking on the door of our hearts to open up and allow the indwelling presence of God to enter in and fill us. The emphasis, as with all true spiritual pilgrims, is placed on the relational and experiential: “first-hand knowledge of God is only possible through that which is experienced or inwardly revealed to the individual human being through the working of God’s quickening Spirit.” The answer as to how we can have any hope of seeing the world as we ought to see it is found in whether or not we nourish and water the inner knowledge that we already have. If we know we are leading a lie, we cannot very well expect to have our vision undiluted: our vision, like our life, will become increasingly lie-like. Heaven does not stock spiritual fruit, as Samurai and Mustard Seeds reminds us, but rather spiritual seeds, and we are not yet who we were created to be: we are ever becoming and the spiritual life is progressive and teleological.

The reason my spiritual vision cleared on the morning I describe, is because I longed with every ounce of my being to “see clearly.” There have been times I have asked and not received, primarily because I did not ask with my whole heart and my whole being. One has to want the good gifts of God. It seems to be almost a cosmic law that we cannot receive any more than we are willing—on the deepest level—to receive. A half-hearted request lets in a little light, because a half-hearted request does at least have some beginnings of a seedling or a sprout. A half-hearted request, however, must itself be nurtured if it is to become throaty and full-hearted. A half-hearted request is a seed, and if we are of only half a heart, then let us nourish the half that is good, and, while we cannot exactly throw the other half away, we can let it bask in the blood of its better half until it is wholly won over. Further, a whole-hearted request is always painfully aware of its baser half, hence the basis of the request. Pride, by contrast, is a spiritual killer: when we think ourselves in no danger of falling and in no need of daily nourishment, we are then far, far from seeing clearly and are liable to the grossest distortions, all the while feeling inordinately pleased with ourselves, reveling in our blindness and calling the darkness light.

So then, I was lying in bed thinking I was thinking about Gandhi, but in reality thinking about Covey, and not about Covey, but about what Covey said, “We see the world not as it is, but as we are.” And suddenly, as if in retrospect, the words of Christ as recounted in the gospels sprang to mind: “The eye is the lamp of the body; so then if your eye is clear, your whole body will be full of light. But if your eye is bad, your whole body will be full of darkness. If then the light that is in you is darkness, how great is the darkness!” (Matthew 6:22–23) or, the last sentence stated in the positive in Luke 11:36: “If therefore your whole body is full of light, with no dark part in it, it will be wholly illumined, as when the lamp [of the body] illumines you with its rays.”

[from Mr. Renaissance]


**
Summons

What would it look like?

To spread out love like a cloak over a puddle
Love offered like a lit cigarette
A warm hand
An antidote to poison,
Like a snake-bite kit
Like a last chance to drink before entering a dry country

Love the most breakable of objects
If it could be an object --
Tiny.
Fragile.
Or it’s a mustard seed
Existing in potential.
A maybe -- A maybe-not
Tossed off as as afterthought.
Not the end-all be-all at all.

But to see it as it really is
In its own light , not light reflected -
It shines;
A diamond
with no flaws or contradictions.
Without a seasonal emphasis.
With a way instead
Of saying --
'I never want to go away from you'

Even as the sea recedes.

If we think of ourselves out of nature --
Us in a window
Us under glass --
We miss that
what we see ‘out there’
Is also most intimately ‘in here.’
The weddedness of self to body
self to breath, to cell, to pulse
to the great pituitary watchtower.

Do I have enough peace in me to absorb peace?
Containing enough of the nature of peacefulness
inside me ?
Could my own essence
not have the sentinels of immunity destroy it?

Is there enough wisdom in me to attract wisdom?
Ample love, loving, loveliness
to harvest love from this world?

(June 2006)

**

"There are, then, two ways to confront or criticize another human being : with instinctive and spontaneous certainty that one is right, or with a belief that one is probably right arrived at through scrupulous self-doubting and self-examination. The first is the way of arrogance; it is the most common way of parents, spouses, teachers, and people generally in their day-to-day affairs; it is usually unsuccessful, producing more resentment than growth, and other effects that were not intended. The second is the way of humility; it is not common, requiring as it does a genuine extension of oneself; it is more likely to be successful, and it is never, in my experience, destructive."

- M. Scott Peck, *The Road Less Traveled* (Touchstone, 1978), p.152




Gratitude is An Ascending Reflection of a Descending Grace


















This is a picture of a friend who is 98 years old.


**

The following poem/prayer is by Deena Metzger, and is from the book Prayers for a Thousand Years, edited by Elizabeth Roberts and Elias Amidon:

God, in Your form of Beauty, be with us.

May our hearts be broken. May our prayers be sufficient to feel the heartbreak of God.

We want to be God in all the ways that are not the ways of God, in what we hope is indestructible or unmoving. But God is the most fragile, a bare smear of pollen, that scatter of yellow dust from the tree that tumbled over in a storm of grief and planted itself again. God is the death agony of a frog that cannot find a water in time of the drought of our creation. God is the scream of the rabbit caught in the fires we set. God is the One whose eyes never close and who hears everything.

Even if nothing can be fixed, let the vision reconstitute us through a pinhole in time and space - a vision of the lonely God carrying the burden of universal sorrow. Let us take Her in our arms. Let us stroke His temples.

These are our tasks. Let us learn the secret language of light again. Also the letters of the dark. Learn the flight patterns of birds, the syllables of wolf howl and bird song, the moving pantomime of branch and leaf, valleys and peaks of whale calls, the long sentences of ants moving in unison, the combinations and recombinations of clouds, the codices of stars. Let us, thus, reconstitute the world, sign by sign and melody by melody.

Let us sing the world back into the very Heart of the Holy Name of God.

--Deena Metzger in Prayers for a Thousand Years, edited by Elizabeth Roberts and Elias Amidon

*
Gratitude
is an
Ascending
Reflection
of a
Descending
Grace.

Beverly Novak
*
"You are called and you answer automatically. Something in you responds, but at the same time you hate it. You refuse your orders. You say, "no, I can't do it. I'm not worthy. I'm too busy. I don't have the capacity. I'm too old, too lazy, too fat, too thin, too timid, and, besides, I think you have the wrong person." But there's no choice and no excuse. So, you go forth with great reluctance, and things turn out badly. Yes, there are moments of great insight, and narrow escapes, and heroic turns, but, basically, you wander around in circles back in the desert for forty years, fighting with your family and friends, until you finally come close to the goal, but you die before you get there. This sounds like my life. Maybe yours too. Maybe this is everyone's life.

Buddha spoke of suffering; his whole teaching comes down to suffering, the end of suffering, and the path to the end of suffering. But, if you think about Buddha's teaching very carefully, you can understand that Buddha was not saying that suffering is to be eliminated, removed like you would remove a growth by surgery. He was saying that suffering, when it is appreciated and really understood, and fully, radically, accepted as it really is - as empty of any real nature of suffering - as the shape of life itself, then suffering is transformed. There is freedom, not from suffering, but within it."

- Norman Fischer
Everyday Zen

**
No one imagines that a symphony is supposed to improve in quality as it goes along, or that the whole object of playing it is to reach the finale. The point of music is discovered in every moment of playing and listening to it. It is the same, I feel, with the greater part of our lives, and if we are unduly absorbed in improving them we may forget altogether to live them,"

- Alan Watts, English mystic, writer, and lecturer

*
I've known my friend, pictured above, since I was a teenager. The thing that I've always admired about her, the thing that always seemed so extraordinary about her, is her gift of being able to be in present time. All the current and past 'Be Here Now' gurus have nothing on her. I've never met anyone who could enjoy just about anything as much as she does. She seems to dwell little on the past. It's always seemed more to me to be a gift, not something that she was 'working on' or trying to achieve.

This is just a brief and inarticulate expression of gratitude for her presence in this world.
May we all aspire to be that for someone.

**

But We Were Never Children


















Known-Unknowns


Aaron Kheriaty contemplates God and the unconscious:

Just as the psychiatrist can never discover all that is contained within the patient, so the patient himself can never express all that he is. This is, in fact, a sign of his creaturehood—of his lack of complete (Godlike) self-possession. Aristotle’s Unmoved Mover, in his infinite self-possession, could eternally and fully contemplate his own depths and perfections. According to Trinitarian theology, God the Father not only completely knows himself, but also in this knowing expresses all that he is in his Word, his Son. But he can do this precisely because he is God—because his essence is identical with his existence and operations. The human person’s expressions and self-explorations are, by contrast, like our nature itself, always limited and incomplete. If, with God’s assistance, we do come to deeper self-knowledge that transcends our natural capacities, we do so through “sighs too deep for words”—with groans that gesture beyond what can be expressed.



**
ANCIENT STAIRWAY

Footsteps like water hollow
the broad curves of stone
ascending, descending
century by century.
Who can say if the last
to climb these stairs
will be journeying
downward or upward?

Denise Levertov
This Great Unknowing

*
The Children

The children are hiding among the raspberry canes.
They look big to one another, the garden small.
Already in their mouths this soft fruit
That lasts so briefly in the supermarket
Tastes like the past. The gritty wall,
Behind the veil of leaves, is hollow.
There are yellow wasps inside it. The children know.
They know the wall is hard, although it hums.
They know a lot and will not forget it soon.

When did we forget? But we were never
Children, never found where they were hiding
And hid with them, never followed
The wasp down into its nest
With a fingertip that still tingles.
We lie in bed at night, thinking about
The future, always the future, always forgetting
That it will be the past, hard and hollow,
Veiled and humming, soon enough.

Mark Jarman
The Black Riviera

*

Sunday, November 02, 2008

To Be Sane In A Mad Time



















More Wendell Berry

Laugh.
Laughter is immeasurable. Be joyful
though you have considered all the facts.

  • As soon as the generals and the politicos
    can predict the motions of your mind,
    lose it. Leave it as a sign
    to mark the false trail, the way
    you didn't go.

    Be like the fox
    who makes more tracks than necessary,
    some in the wrong direction.
    Practice resurrection.

  • To be sane in a mad time
    is bad for the brain, worse
    for the heart."
    • "The Mad Farmer Manifesto: The First Amendment" in The Country of Marriage, 1973
    **
  • So, friends, every day do something
    that won't compute. Love the Lord.
    Love the world. Work for nothing.
    Take all that you have and be poor.
    Love someone who does not deserve it.
    Denounce the government and embrace
    the flag. Hope to live in that free
    republic for which it stands.
    Give your approval to all you cannot
    understand. Praise ignorance, for what man
    has not encountered he has not destroyed.
  • "Manifesto: The Mad Farmer Liberation Front" in Farming: A Hand Book, 1970
**
Do not think me gentle
because I speak in praise
of gentleness, or elegant
because I honor the grace
that keeps this world. I am
a man crude as any,
gross of speech, intolerant,
stubborn, angry, full
of fits and furies. That I
may have spoken well
at times, is not natural.
A wonder is what it is.
  • A Warning To My Readers
**

Sabbaths 2001

  • Ask the world to reveal its quietude—
    not the silence of machines when they are still,
    but the true quiet by which birdsongs,
    trees, bellworts, snails, clouds, storms
    become what they are, and are nothing else.
*
The Failure of War

It is useless to try to adjudicate a long-standing animosity by asking who started it or who is the most wrong. The only sufficient answer is to give up the animosity and try forgiveness, to try to love our enemies and to talk to them and (if we pray) to pray for them. If we can't do any of that, then we must begin again by trying to imagine our enemies' children who, like our children, are in mortal danger because of enmity that they did not cause.

*

A teacher's major contribution may pop out anonymously in the life of some ex-student's grandchild. A teacher, finally, has nothing to go on but faith, a student nothing to offer in return but testimony.
*
A community is the mental and spiritual condition of knowing that the place is shared, and that the people who share the place define and limit the possibilities of each other's lives. It is the knowledge that people have of each other, their concern for each other, their trust in each other, the freedom with which they come and go among themselves.
  • "The Loss of the Future

A Penchant For the Gothic















All Saints' Day and All Souls

On November 1st and 2nd, virtually the entire country will decamp to cemeteries across Poland. Day and night, candles and flowers will be laid on the graves of the departed. This may sound like a pretty heavy scenario, and not the kind of thing that foreigners might want to investigate. But if you're new to Poland, this is a moment that's not to be missed. There is a morose side to All Souls and All Saints, but there is also a strong element of magic. Foregoing All Saints would be like travelling to Seville and skipping the famed Easter processions.

As it happens, Cracow is one of the most evocative places in Poland on All Souls. The former Royal Capital has many beautiful old cemeteries, and these come into their own in the first week of November.

Step through the Gothic gateway of Rakowicki Cemetery as night falls and you'll find yourself in a parallel world. Thousands of candles in transparent, coloured vases gather on graves and at the foot of memorials. Priests singing psalms wander the paths, clouds of incense wafting over their shoulders. Fresh flowers adorn every corner. It feels like you're walking through a sort of lagoon of glowing colours. All about, there's a hushed, respectful atmosphere - it's an incredibly dignified tribute to the departed.

Rakowicki makes an especially powerful impact, as the majority of the graves stand up as works of art in their own right. Like Paris's Pere Lachaise, this nineteenth century necropolis holds the tombs of many great historical figures. Mausoleums of illustrious families stand side by side with the tombs of artists, soldiers, philosophers and men of the cloth. Memorials to some of the major dramas in Poland's history - uprisings during the nineteenth century occupation, the 20th century wars, the communist persecution campaigns - have rivers of candles flowing from them by November 2nd.

If you're in Cracow, an inspiring alternative to Rakowicki is the hillside graveyard at Salwator. Again, this beautiful cemetery houses the tombs of many distinguished Poles, and it has a fantastic view over the surrounding valley. To get there, take tram no 1 to Salwator - the last stop on the line - and walk up the hillside road of ul. Sw. Bronislawy. It's actually walking distance from the Market Square if you enjoy a good stroll. Likewise Rakowicki. Take tram number 2 north to the end of the line and follow the crowds - you won't be alone even if you walk there at three in the morning. Families wander the illuminated paths late into the night, and if you spot an owl or a raven, you can be sure that you've encountered one of the departed souls... Suffice it to say that Poles love Gothic melancholy.

Visitors may well be curious as to where this tradition actually came from. As it goes, the custom of All Saints is now firmly intertwined with the Catholic Church, but it has its roots in pagan traditions. In the historic lands of Eastern Poland there was a custom called 'Dziady' (Forefathers) that fell at this time of year. Poland's most cherished poet, Adam Mickiewicz (1798-1855), made this the key feature of his play of the same name. As was the norm with the Church, the Pope endeavoured to absorb the tradition into the Catholic calendar. All Saints and All Souls fall one after the other.

For those with a penchant for the Gothic, don't worry if you're not arriving in Cracow until the following weekend - you haven't entirely missed the boat. The candles burn on for many days after the holiday has passed, so there's still a chance to savour the magic.

*
whiskey river


All Hallow's Eve
In the great silence of my favorite month,
October (the red of maples, the bronze of oaks,
A clear-yellow leaf here and there on birches),
I celebrated the standstill of time.

The vast country of the dead had its beginning everywhere:
At the turn of a tree-lined alley, across park lawns.
But I did not have to enter, I was not called yet.

Motorboats pulled up on the river bank, paths in pine needles.
It was getting dark early, no lights on the other side.

I was going to attend the ball of ghosts and witches.
A delegation would appear there in masks and wigs,
And dance, unrecognized, in the chorus of the living.

- Czeslaw Milosz



All Souls

















"Let us help and commemorate them. If Job's sons were purified by their father's sacrifice, why would we doubt that our offerings for the dead bring them some consolation? Let us not hesitate to help those who have died and to offer our prayers for them." [Saint John Chrysostom - 4th century]

*

***

Eternal Rest

Eternal rest grant unto them, O Lord,
and let perpetual light shine upon them.
May they rest in peace. Amen.

Requiem Æternam

Réquiem ætérnam dona eis, Dómine,
et lux perpétua lúceat eis.
Requiéscant in pace. Amen.

*

Today I Like Life Much Less…
I like life enormously,

but, of course,
with my dear death and my coffee
and seeing the leafy chestnut trees of Paris
and saying:
It’s an eye, this, that one; a forehead, this, that one…and repeating:
So much life and never does the tune fail me!
So many years and forever, ever, ever!

...(more)


Cesar Vallejo

Octopus Magazine #10

*
from East Coker
No. 2 of Four Quartets
by T.S. Eliot

V

So here I am, in the middle way, having had twenty years—
Twenty years largely wasted, the years of l'entre deux guerres
Trying to use words, and every attempt
Is a wholly new start, and a different kind of failure
Because one has only learnt to get the better of words
For the thing one no longer has to say, or the way in which
One is no longer disposed to say it. And so each venture
Is a new beginning, a raid on the inarticulate
With shabby equipment always deteriorating
In the general mess of imprecision of feeling,
Undisciplined squads of emotion. And what there is to conquer
By strength and submission, has already been discovered
Once or twice, or several times, by men whom one cannot hope
To emulate—but there is no competition—
There is only the fight to recover what has been lost
And found and lost again and again: and now, under conditions
That seem unpropitious. But perhaps neither gain nor loss.
For us, there is only the trying. The rest is not our business.

Home is where one starts from. As we grow older
The world becomes stranger, the pattern more complicated
Of dead and living. Not the intense moment
Isolated, with no before and after,
But a lifetime burning in every moment
And not the lifetime of one man only
But of old stones that cannot be deciphered.
There is a time for the evening under starlight,
A time for the evening under lamplight
(The evening with the photograph album).
Love is most nearly itself
When here and now cease to matter.
Old men ought to be explorers
Here or there does not matter
We must be still and still moving
Into another intensity
For a further union, a deeper communion
Through the dark cold and the empty desolation,
The wave cry, the wind cry, the vast waters
Of the petrel and the porpoise. In my end is my beginning.

*

ALL SAINTS-ALL SOULS

Halloween is full moon New York.
This fall,
fashion dictates cold wind,
and war.
The clouds dark, the stars spinning wide arcs.
I think a lot of angry thoughts,
and push back tears that are always on the verge.

I think about my mother and
wish she were still in her house this side of the grave
waiting for my call - whether I called or not.
I wish that her living unblinking eye were focused on me,
[my memory of her selfishly about me]
Well that's a daughter, hoping the mother will
order me to live with more bravery and courtesy
without shame despite my appalling need.
She slipped silently from this world,
Nothing more, apparently, to say - her work complete.

She bequeathed me an aching hunger for the work of her hands.
God’s hand fashioning the moon - or whatever parent forms it -
shows me pieces of

all that’s left behind.
Missing her leaves me lonely on the shore
I saw so late how she
inhabited my heart as if it was her own.


My tribe washes hands
Our mother laid to rest,
Blessed.
We seek the words to inquire about the dead and missing.
We hope our hearts might adequately translate
The random
The chaotic as we wait by the door that opens into light.
Today or tomorrow.
Stay or go.
For no reason as if thought were necessary
I must kneel as if I knew how to thank God for my life
such as it is with no if-only without regret or bargain.
Somewhere, if a place at all,
We all rest perilously inside God’s mind.

--B.S.

Yet If You Should Forget Me For A While ...



















One Year

When I got to his marker, I sat on it,
like sitting on the edge of someone's bed
and I rubbed the smooth, speckled granite.
I took some tears from my jaw and neck
and started to wash a corner of his stone.
Then a black and amber ant
ran out onto the granite, and off it,
and another ant hauled a dead
ant onto the stone, leaving it, and not coming back.
Ants ran down into the grooves of his name
and dates, down into the oval track of the
first name's O, middle name's O,
the short O of his last name,
and down into the hyphen between
his birth and death--little trough of his life.
Soft bugs appeared on my shoes,
like grains of pollen, I let them move on me,
I rinsed a dark fleck of mica,
and down inside the engraved letters
the first dots of lichen were appearing
like stars in early evening.
I saw the speedwell on the ground with its horns,
the coiled ferns, copper-beech blossoms, each
petal like that disc of matter which
swayed, on the last day, on his tongue.
Tamarack, Western hemlock,
manzanita, water birch
with its scored bark,
I put my arms around a trunk and squeezed it,
then I lay down on my father's grave.
The sun shone down on me, the powerful
ants walked on me. When I woke,
my cheek was crumbly, yellowish
with a mustard plaster of earth. Only
at the last minute did I think of his body
actually under me, the can of
bone, ash, soft as a goosedown
pillow that bursts in bed with the lovers.
When I kissed his stone it was not enough,
when I licked it my tongue went dry a moment, I
ate his dust, I tasted my dirt host.


Sharon Olds

**

Day of the Dead

The Day of the Dead (Día de los Muertos in Spanish) is a holiday celebrated mainly in Mexico and by people of Mexican heritage (and others) living in the United States and Canada. The holiday focuses on gatherings of family and friends to pray for and remember friends and relatives who have died. The celebration occurs on the 1st and 2nd of November, in connection with the Catholic holy days of All Saints' Day and All Souls' Day which take place on those days. Traditions include building private altars honoring the deceased, using sugar skulls, marigolds, and the favorite foods and beverages of the departed, and visiting graves with these as gifts.

Scholars trace the origins of the modern holiday to indigenous observances dating back thousands of years, and to an Aztec festival dedicated to a goddess called Mictecacihuatl (known in English as "The Lady of the Dead").

Similar holidays are celebrated in many parts of the world; for example, it is a public holiday in Brazil, where many Brazilians celebrate by visiting cemeteries and churches. In Spain, there are festivals and parades, and at the end of the day, people gather at cemeteries and pray to their loved ones who have died. Similar observances occur elsewhere in Europe and in the Philippines, and similarly-themed celebrations appear in many Asian and African cultures.

**
Remember

REMEMBER me when I am gone away,
Gone far away into the silent land;
When you can no more hold me by the hand,
Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay.
Remember me when no more day by day
You tell me of our future that you plann'd:
Only remember me; you understand
It will be late to counsel then or pray.
Yet if you should forget me for a while
And afterwards remember, do not grieve:
For if the darkness and corruption leave
A vestige of the thoughts that once I had,
Better by far you should forget and smile
Than that you should remember and be sad.

Christina Rossetti

Saturday, November 01, 2008

Recklessness Not Reason
















Friday prayers in Bagdhad

*
Around and around the house
the leaves fall thick,
but never fast,
for they come circling down
with a dead lightness
that is sombre and slow.
- Charles Dickens

*
Matthew 25 Network launches pro-Obama ads on Christian radio

The name of the Matthew 25 Project comes from the 25th chapter of the Biblical book of Matthew, quoting Jesus: “For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in, I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit.

*
Someone says "I can't help feeding my family.
I have to work so hard to earn a living."
He can do without God, but not without food;
he can do without Religion,
but not without idols.
What is one who'll say,
"If I eat bread without awareness of God,
I will choke."

Rumi, Mathnawi, II, 3071-79

*
At one point in my journey, my teacher's teacher, an eighty-year old man, had been in a serious car accident that had brought him near death. For months the master's condition was uncertain, causing all those who loved him to become acutely aware of what his living flesh-and-blood friendship meant to them. Eventually he would recover and live many more years. When he was well enough to barely walk, he phoned my teacher to tell him that he would have a special lesson if he could come to his apartment on a certain night. Since this was the first opportunity for the two of them to be together in months, my teacher was full of expectation. They took a walk that evening, so slow and deliberate that it emphasized the attention required for each painful step. They walked as far as one of the most elegant drinking establishments of that great city. My teacher's teacher opened the door of that tavern and they entered. It was as if they were perfectly invisible, while the patrons, the most fashionable men and women, continued in their loud, intoxicated conversations. "See?" he simply said.

*
In our ordinary state of being, both the outer demands of life and the inner processes of thinking and feeling alternatively monopolize our attention to such an extent that we cannot sustain true consciousness. By consciousness I mean not just perception or awareness which corresponds to the sensitive energy described earlier, but a field of awareness that includes both the contents of an experience and the one who experiences.

Spiritual work involves maintaining some balance between the demands of outer life and a conscious presence. We wish to enter freely into the life of the world and still know presence, the dimension of consciousness and freedom. We can live through the essence, which is the light behind the personality, rather than through the limited, superficial personality, which is identified with each passing thought and feeling.

The personality is our superficial identity, our learned behavior and attitudes; it is tied to the conditions of outer life, to disapproval and approval, like and dislike, praise and blame. We are working so that this essence, which can truly say "I am," may come forward in the midst of life.

The personality, which is absorbed in the external world and forgetful of the possibility of an inner life, is governed by that world. All its inner events are tied to outer events and things. The personality exists first of all in relation to other people and things and wants to have its way with them. it feels its own existence through what it achieves and what it possesses. Conversely, each disappointment, each rejection, and each failure is experienced as a challenge and threat to its own existence.

Are we consumed by the experiences of life? Or do we consciously experience life with mindfulness and trust? Is our inner life dependent on outer conditions, or is it becoming free of them?

The transformation with which inner work is concerned allows the "I" to exist more independently as a pure presence or witness. The slavery to like and dislike is diminished to the extent that our feeling of "I" is grounded in pure Being and not in things. The need to achieve our own specialness, for instance, or to receive attention from others, is experienced as less important as a stable inner presence develops. This inner presence is satisfying in itself; it enables nonattachment, equanimity, and greater objectivity.

Presence guides us to a healthy sense of self-restraint and self-sacrifice, enabling us to play with our attachments, to confront our own prison. We may learn to slip out of the stranglehold of egoism, which is based in desire and in the thoughts generated by desire. In being present to the play of desire we can diminish the ego's power over our inner being.

**
We are knee deep in a river, searching for water. We are part of an invisible river, but we are so distracted by outer things and what we imagine they could mean to us that we lost contact with the source of our own Being. When we are caught in desire, in form, in externals, we are pulled out of ourselves into a fantasy world, a desire world. We lost touch with the invisible river, the waters of life, through our identification with unconscious inner processes and with outer demands.

There is an energy of attention that we at first have in only limited amounts. The loss of this energy has been described by the great thirteenth-century Sufi poet and saint Jelaluddin Rumi:

You have scattered your awareness in all directions,
and your vanities are not worth a bit of cabbage.
The root of every thorn
draws the water of your attention toward itself.
How will the water of your attention reach the fruit?
Cut through the evil roots, cut them away,
Direct the bounty of God to spirit and to insight,
not to the knotted and broken world outside.

Mathnawi, V, 1084-86

There is an energy of attention that must be conserved. Can we see ourselves throwing it away? Can we see ourselves wasting it on outer desire and satisfactions, intoxicated with the random demands of the ego, responding to all the needs of outer approval and validation? Our dependence on outer satisfactions and requirements leads us to envy, resentment, pride, guilt, and anger. Isn't this the contemporary idolatry?

Whoever makes all cares into a single care, the care for simply being present, will be relieved of all care by that Presence, which is the creative power. We can take a step back from the world of attraction, comparison, and dependence on externals, remember this vitality within us, and connect with it. Perhaps then we can be liberated from our compulsions and can learn to act through Spirit, rather than through our limited egos.

If remembering Presence becomes our single care, then we will waste less of our inner energy.

--From
LIVING PRESENCE -- A Sufi Way to Mindfulness & the Essential Self
Kabir Edmund Helminski


*

"Love is recklessness not reason"

Helminski from LIVING PRESENCE


*

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Don't set sail!/Tomorrow the wind will have dropped;/And then you can go,/And I won't trouble about you. -from "The History of Love" Nicole Krauss
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