Trust and Dancing

Recently, I admitted to someone that that I really wanted to learn how to dance.

While my well honed honky ability to get "jiggy with it" is infamous - I meant in the sense of classical ballroom dancing, swing dancing, salsa dancing, etc.

The truth is, I really want to be able to dance with someone else.  Not really any someone else, but to be able to dance with THE someone else (should I one day not be waiting for Godot).  But finding the right dance partner, this is a tricky proposition in and of itself.  It has led me to some thoughts on trust, some ideas that I think are well provoked.

When dancing, you need someone whom you can trust.  But trust has oh so many complex and interesting facets within its general milieu.  Is not the first part of trust, being able to say, "Ok, I know this person well enough that they will not deliberately stomp on my toes".

Relationships need to be able to say, "Ok, this person won't maliciously hurt me".

But that can't be where it stops.  Just because I don't mean to step on somebody's toes doesn't mean my two left feet, poor memory, lack of timing, and general short sighted stupidity won't lead me to tap dance impression on my poor partners tootsies.

How true is this?  So many of the grievous hurts come unintentionally by those we've let into our space, precisely because we knew them to be basically trustworthy.  For in the realm of human hurts, let us not ascribe to malice what can be more easily explained by stupidity.  Over and over again we forgive trying to keep in mind the intention of the person who, if unskilled, continues to step on us like we're asking for it.

We need not only have the right intention, but the ability, timing, and consideration not to step on the other's toes.

So even though we may know many who would WISH not to hurt our trust, how many are capable of not stepping on areas of our lives far more sensitive than feet?  In dancing, one begins with the basic steps, but as the complexity, intricacy, difficulty and intimacy escalates, soon the one being led has to trust their leading man not only to preserve their little piggies, but trust them not to drop them on their head.

While most of us would hope to say that we would NEVER drop someone on their head, (I can't say I've ever wished to give a girl a pile-driver) I must also think that the consequences of accidentally dropping someone on their head might leave little discernible difference.  In order to perform moves that require REAL vulnerability, we can't just trust the intention of the one holding us, but also their strength, steadfastness, and focus.

And so we are left in pursing various levels of trust.  Not only must we trust the person not to MEAN to hurt us, but to be able to carry us in dangerous positions without dropping us.  That doesn't require just being able to trust in someone's goodwill.  To keep us from falling as we spin and fall and trust in the other is a test of strength, focus, and character.  This is why those training together tend to increase the levels of risk progressively, allowing trust to grow and strength tested before a power-lift takes an unexpected turn into a power-bomb.

It seems that both trust and skill, in dancing and in life, might require the prudence of going one step at a time.  After all, life teaches us that it's not enough to know what you don't want to do, you also need to know what you're doing.

"Walking Cain"

"Walking Cain"

Sometimes canes can keep us crippled,

when temporary fix becomes character.

Strength does not come from the crutch,

but from the one who wields it.                                     

Let yourself then learn to limp,

and never have to crawl.

learn to hobble, and live hands free

without always losing use of the arm,

the one awkwardly clutching

the crutch and the mask.

"Selling Signs" a Poem and a Pilgrim's thoughts

"Selling Signs" 

Selling Signs, Selling Signs,

I knew a man who sold signs,

creating much confusion.

"Shirts TWO 4 ONE!" it said and yet,

the sign itself alone for sale, 

Alas for him who needed substance.

I looked and saw a vendor's cart

Postcards and pictures of Jubilant Jesus

Fair skinned, healthy thin, blue eyes and long hair.

Waiting heard a whisper within,

"don't sell signs when neighbor's naked"

"what is needed, always needed"

"isn't sold, only given,"

"sign and presence, sign and substance.

here we are, beneath the stars,

out in the cold, out in the cold.

don't be selling signs, selling signs,

it leaves your neighbor naked. 

According to the Catechism, a Sacrament is an outward sign instituted by Christ to give grace.  This goes along with the Christian idea of "incarnation", that the divine become manifest in the world, the Transcendent became imminent, and the Word became Flesh.  This is the Epiphany to the world.  But the idea of Incarnation, Sacrament, is both sign and substance, not an empty sign, sound and fury, signifying nothing.  

Today, Christianity is often sold, seldom practice.  And when it's sold, and not given, not a gift, we lose the very meaning and definition of grace.  This is the very point of Soren Kierkegaard when he said, "What the Philosophers say about Reality is often as disappointing as a sign in a shop window, which reads: "Pressing Done Here".  If you brought your clothes to be pressed, you would be fooled; for the sign is only for sale".  

This was Kierkegaard's indictment of modern Philosophy (seeking knowledge without seeking Wisdom) and modern Christianity (religious belief without a personal transformation or commitment).  Sign without substance is anti-sacrament par excellence, or more accurately said, anti-incarnation, anti-Christ.

"Tom Waits Amazing Grace", a poem and a Pilgrim's thoughts

“Tom Wait’s Amazing Grace”

Vienna Boys Choirs can't sing the blues,

    until cigarettes and whiskey give them character.

When Tom Waits sings amazing grace,

    he's still blind - blitzed by the bourbon.

And yet,

    I'm still more interested in him,

    singing ragged bout redemption,

    than salvation sung by 10 year-old virgins,

        who've never been to the distant country.

I'd rather have blasphemy washed in blood,

    than innocence stained with stale theology.

Cherub's chorus, unsullied vocal chords,

    cannot relate beyond the moment

      

        where life cracks,

and only hoarse wisdom relates,

 to the inner voice.

    that still sings soprano.

This poem remains one of my favorite compositions.  It was written for Jessamyn Luong as part of her present for her confirmation back in 2011.  Tom Waits, famous for a raspy voice (a shtick that began when he sang with Laryngitis) did a reading of Poet Charles Bukowski's "Nirvana" that once again helped me to fall in love with the poetry and the recitation of the written word.  That reading can be listen to here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HVVzCURucaA.

This poem however, talks about the truth about "second innocence, attaining a radical openness even after one has been wounded by the world.  Real understanding in the meeting of knowledge and experience, rather than just being pre-judged on ideological grounds.

Repost. The Way of a Pilgrim - Confession to Learn Humility

The 19th century Russian spiritual classic on prayer, "The Way of a Pilgrim," and its sequel, "The Pilgrim Continues His Way," have long fascinated those who have stumbled on this winsome tale of surprising simplicity and depth. It has often been called an excellent introduction into Orthodox Spirituality, a good first read for anyone later interested in reading deeper works like "The Philokalia" .

First published in Russian in 1884 under the title, "Candid Narratives of a Pilgrim to His Spiritual Father," this religious masterpiece recounts the adventures of an anonymous Russian pilgrim who roams the vast Siberian steppes reciting the Jesus Prayer in order to obey Christ's injunction to "pray without ceasing." Apparently a wise old monk collected for posterity the captivating accounts of the pilgrim's exploits and his increasing understanding of God's providence as he commits himself to a life of prayer.  In this famous passage, the Pilgrim is confronted with a priest who teaches him a direct path to humility.

The Pilgrim Continues His Way- The Confession

The next day, by God's help, I came to Kiev. The first and chief thing I wanted was to fast a while and to make my confession and communion in that holy town. So I stopped near the saints (a monastery with catacombs containing the uncorrupted bodies of many famous ancient saints), as that would be easier for getting to church. A good, old Cossack took me in, and as he lived alone in his hut, I found peace and quiet there. At the end of a week in which I had been getting ready for my confession, the thought came to me that I would make it as detailed as I could. So I began to recall and go over all my sins from youth onward very fully, and so as not to forget it all I wrote down everything I could remember in the utmost detail. I covered a large sheet of paper with it.

I heard that at Kitaevaya Pustina, about five miles from Kiev, there was a priest of ascetic life who was very wise and understanding. Whoever went to him for confession found an atmosphere of tender compassion and came away with teaching for his salvation and ease of spirit. I was very glad to hear of this, and I went to him at once. After I had asked his advice and we had talked awhile, I gave him my sheet of paper to see. He read it through and then said, "Dear friend, a lot of this that you have written is quite futile. Listen: First, don't bring into confession sins which you have already repented of and had forgiven. Don't go over them again, for that would be to doubt the power of the sacrament of penance. Next, don't call to mind other people who have been connected with your sins; judge yourself only. Thirdly, the holy Fathers forbid us to mention all the circumstances of the sins, and tell us to acknowledge them in general, so as to avoid temptation both for ourselves and for the priest. Fourthly, you have come to repent and you are not repenting of the fact that you can't repent- that is, your penitence is lukewarm and careless. Fifthly, you have gone over all these details, but the most important thing you have overlooked: you have not disclosed the gravest sins of all. You have not acknowledged, nor written down, that you do not love God, that you hate your neighbor, that you do not believe in God's Word, and that you are filled with pride and ambition. A whole mass of evil, and all our spiritual depravity is in these four sins. They are the chief roots out of which spring the shoots of all the sins into which we fall."

I was very much surprised to hear this, and I said, "Forgive me, reverend Father, but how is it possible not to love God our Creator and Preserver? What is there to believe in if not the Word of God, in which everything is true and holy? I wish well to all my neighbors, and why should I hate them? I have nothing to be proud of; besides having numberless sins, I have nothing at all which is fit to be praised, and what should I with my poverty and ill-health lust after? Of course, if I were an educated man, or rich, then no doubt I should be guilty of the things you spoke of."

"It's a pity, dear one, that you so little understood what I said. Look! It will teach you more quickly if I give you these notes. They are what I always use for my own confession. Read them through, and you will see clearly enough an exact proof of what I said to you just now."

He gave me the notes, and I began to read them, as follows:

A Confession Which Leads The Inward Man To Humility

--Turning my eyes carefully upon myself and watching the course of my inward state, I have verified by experience that I do not love God, that I have no love for my neighbors, that I have no religious belief, and that I am filled with pride and sensuality. All this I actually find in myself as a result of detailed examination of my feelings and conduct, thus:

1. I do not love God. For if I loved God I should be continually thinking about Him with heartfelt joy. Every thought of God would give me gladness and delight. On the contrary, I much more often and much more eagerly think about earthly things, and thinking about God is labor and dryness. If I loved God, then talking with Him in prayer would be my nourishment and delight and would draw me to unbroken communion with Him. But, on the contrary, I not only find no delight in prayer, but even find it an effort. I struggle with reluctance, I am enfeebled by sloth and am ready to occupy myself eagerly with any unimportant trifle, if only it shortens prayer and keeps me from it. My time slips away unnoticed in futile occupations, but when I am occupied with God, when I put myself into His presence, every hour seems like a year. If one person loves another, he thinks of him throughout the day without ceasing, he pictures him to himself, he cares for him, and in all circumstances his beloved friend is never out of his thoughts. But I, throughout the day, scarcely set aside even a single hour in which to sink deep down into meditation upon God, to inflame my heart with love of Him, while I eagerly give up 23 hours as fervent offerings to the idols of my passions. I am forward in talk about frivolous matters and things which degrade the spirit; that gives me pleasure. But in the consideration of God I am dry, bored, and lazy. Even if I am unwillingly drawn by others into spiritual conversation, I try to shift the subject quickly to one which pleases my desires. I am tirelessly curious about novelties, about civic affairs and political events; I eagerly seek the satisfaction of my love of knowledge in science and art, and ways of getting things I want to possess. But the study of the law of God, the knowledge of God and of religion, make little impression on me, and satisfy no hunger of my soul. I regard these things not only as a non-essential occupation for a Christian, but in a casual way as a sort of side-issue with which I should perhaps occupy my spare time, at odd moments. To put it shortly, if love for God is recognized by the keeping of His commandments ("If ye love Me, keep My commandments," says our Lord Jesus Christ), and I not only do not keep them, but even make little attempt to do so, then in absolute truth the conclusion follows that I do not love God. That is what Basil the Great says: "The proof that a man does not love God and His Christ lies in the fact that he does not keep His commandments."

2. I do not love my neighbor either. For not only am I unable to make up my mind to lay down my life for his sake (according to the gospel), but I do not even sacrifice my happiness, well-being, and peace for the good of my neighbor. If I did love him as myself, as the gospel bids, his misfortunes would distress me also, his happiness would bring delight to me too. But, on the contrary, I listen to curious, unhappy stories about my neighbor, and I am not distressed; I remain quite undisturbed or, what is still worse, I find a sort of pleasure in them. Bad conduct on the part of my brother I do not cover up with love, but proclaim abroad with censure. His well-being, honor, and happiness do not delight me as my own, and, as if they were something quite alien to me, give me no feeling of gladness. What is more, they subtly arouse in me feelings of envy or contempt.

3. I have no religious belief. Neither in immortality nor in the gospel. If I were firmly persuaded and believed without doubt that beyond the grave lies eternal life and recompense for the deeds of this life, I should be continually thinking of this. The very idea of immortality would terrify me and I should lead this life as a foreigner who gets ready to enter his native land. On the contrary, I do not even think about eternity, and I regard the end of this earthly life as the limit of my existence. The secret thought nestles within me: Who knows what happens at death? If I say I believe in immortality, then I am speaking about my mind only, and my heart is far removed from a firm conviction about it. That is openly witnessed to by my conduct and my constant care to satisfy the life of the senses. Were the holy gospel taken into my heart in faith, as the Word of God, I should be continually occupied with it, I should study it, find delight in it, and with deep devotion fix my attention upon it. Wisdom, mercy, and love are hidden in it; it would lead me to happiness, I should find gladness in the study of the law of God day and night. In it I should find nourishment like my daily bread, and my heart would be drawn to the keeping of its laws. Nothing on earth would be strong enough to turn me away from it. On the contrary, if now and again I read or hear the Word of God, yet even so it is only from necessity or from a general love of knowledge, and approaching it without any very close attention I find it dull and uninteresting. I usually come to the end of the reading without any profit, only too ready to change over to secular reading in which I take more pleasure and find new and interesting subjects.

4. I am full of pride and sensual self-love. All my actions confirm this. Seeing something good in myself, I want to bring it into view, or to pride myself upon it before other people or inwardly to admire myself for it. Although I display an outward humility, yet I ascribe it all to my own strength and regard myself as superior to others, or at least no worse than they. If I notice a fault in myself, I try to excuse it; I cover it up by saying, "I am made like that" or "I am not to blame". I get angry with those who do not treat me with respect and consider them unable to appreciate the value of people. I brag about my gifts: my failures in any undertaking I regard as a personal insult. I murmur, and I find pleasure in the unhappiness of my enemies. If I strive after anything good it is for the purpose of winning praise, or spiritual self-indulgence, or earthly consolation. In a word, I continually make an idol of myself and render it uninterrupted service, seeking in all things the pleasures of the senses and nourishment for my sensual passions and lusts.

--Going over all this I see myself as proud, adulterous, unbelieving, without love for God and hating my neighbor. What state could be more sinful? The condition of the spirits of darkness is better than mine. They, although they do not love God, hate men, and live upon pride, yet at least believe and tremble. But I? Can there be a doom more terrible than that which faces me, and what sentence of punishment will be more severe than that upon the careless and foolish life that I recognize in myself?

On reading through this form of confession which the priest gave me I was horrified, and I thought to myself, "Good heavens! What frightful sins there are hidden within me, and up to now I've never noticed them!" The desire to be cleansed from them made me beg this great spiritual father to teach me how to know the causes of all these evils and how to cure them. And he began to instruct me.

"You see, dear brother, the cause of not loving God is want of belief, want of belief is caused by lack of conviction, and the cause of that is failure to seek for holy and true knowledge, indifference to the light of the spirit. In a word, if you don't believe, you can't love; if you are not convinced, you can't believe, and in order to reach conviction you must get a full and exact knowledge of the matter before you. By meditation, by the study of God's Word, and by noting your experience, you must arouse in your soul a thirst and a longing- or, as some call it, 'wonder'- which brings you an insatiable desire to know things more closely and more fully, to go deeper into their nature.

"One spiritual writer speaks of it in this way: 'Love,' he says, 'usually grows with knowledge, and the greater the depth and extent of the knowledge the more love there will be, the more easily the heart will soften and lay itself open to the love of God, as it diligently gazes upon the very fullness and beauty of the divine nature and His unbounded love for men.'

Repost from a while ago: Depression, Beauty, Being

This is a repost of a blog I did on my friend Carlos blog, http://woundedbybeauty.wordpress.com/ , which I have to reccomend to everyone who is interested in talking about Beauty.



Hello Everyone.  Carlos has been trying to get me to write on his blog for a long time, so finally I have assented to the challenge.  I would appreciate it if you would please pray for me.  My general mood, due to winter, chemical imbalance, and lack of family living alone up north, has been growing darker.  As a teacher, my job is fairly exhausting, and while I love my students and I think my students like me, that is no substitute for mature friendship.

I know that rigorous exercise would help, but it’s hard to summon the energy to do so, especially when you feel low already.  Unfortunately, seasonal depression is a misty cloud over my mind and heart, an oblique obstruction to the sunlight reaching my soul.  Even exciting things become bland sensations, sound and fury that seem to signify nothing.  Tonight while on the phone with a friend, I noticed the beauty of this Icon of the Blessed Virgin on my wall, and I marveled at how beautiful it was, and wondered how I could have noticed it for so long and failed to notice the beauty. Still, the winters of life can teach some interesting philosophical lessons – even though they may seem like mere abstract intellectual exercise, sign without substance.  That truly is what depression is for me, anti-sacrament – a life of sign without substance, tangent without the tangible, the experience of empty sign in my state of being.

The general grayness and ugliness of my life (perceived through the filter of my mental illness) has confirmed in me my belief about the relationship between the classical Transcendentals (Truth, Goodness, Beauty) and Being itself.  The concrete connection between Beauty and Being becomes all too clear, (especially in darkness) since Beauty is the lifeblood of being, without which reality itself (in my concrete experience) begins to slowly slip into a hazy mirage of waking death, existence without life, order without design, fact without truth, reality without meaning.

Recently, I went to the wedding of someone very dear to me.  While there, I witnessed some very authentic innocence.  Not in the sense of clueless youth or naivete, I mean in the true sense of innocence, which means “radically open”.  This IS  a rare sight to see separated from childhood hope.  Joy flowed so naturally through these people, from these people, and I was able to have so much fun with people I had just met.  Just being able to be with them really brought reality back into focus, Beauty confronting me with Being.

There is a greeting people I know like to give to each other, “Namaste”.  I have heard it the few times I was brave enough to go to one of my friend Megan’s Hatha Yoga sessions. I don’t know why I was foolish enough to try to twist myself into a pretzel.  For me, trying to do “downward facing dog” was more like “upward facing whale”. Anyway, back on topic.  My friend Megan (the one who teaches the Yoga classes) has told me that Namaste means, “the light (form) within me greets the light (form) within you”.  I remembered that in the Meno and Phaedo, Plato made the assertion that our knowledge is actually all recollection, memory, (“Anamnesis” ἀνάμνησιν)  of the perfect forms our souls had experienced in a past life.  I don’t know about all that, but the theories lead me to a fascinating idea.

Plato assumes we only recognize some thing or idea that we have already experienced in our souls.  Some people when they meet and seem to already know each other believe in reincarnation or previous lives, sometimes in a Gnostic or Hindu sense, others believing in déjà-vu or some kind of fated destiny.  What if there is a simpler explanation with ample evidence in both Eastern and Western religious traditions?  What if the matter is simply thus: familiarity comes from the fact that the light in me, (Holy Spirit) recognizes the same light in you.  I wonder if this is the source of some of the unexplained familiarity in life, a familiar presence that wounds us, that tries to bring us back to the sense of what is real, calling to us through a beauty that brightens our world and also re-awakens us to our poverty.  Our poverty being the truth that we can't sustain ourselves without this Beauty, this companionship with Christ.  In a simple literal sense, one can't be a father unless he first has a father.  One cannot generate without being generated.  One cannot experience Being without first receiving it.

In the Gospels, Jesus, when he says, I am the True Vine, the True Bread, etc, is actually the Greek word Aletheia, which while translated as "true" is better translated as “Real”, in the sense of, “Hey, this is a REAL beer” (what a beer should be).  St. John seems to invoke (to his Greek audience) the Platonic idea of the Forms to say that Jesus is perfection incarnate, the manifestation of the origin and order of all things (Arche, Logos) .  In my depression, sometimes the world doesn’t seem real, like it doesn’t have any substance, reality, Being.  But then, when I see real Beauty again, the world again seems to take shape beyond the shadows of immediate perception.  It gives experience to knowledge (and therefore understanding) to the words of Christ, “You are the salt of the earth” / “You are the light of the World”.  So these are my poems relative to my experience.  They are dedicated to my friends Jake and Christina.  They are not that long, but as a poetic theologian, their explanation was always going to be longer and less interesting than the poems themselves.  But truly, it is only when I see Beauty that the world is renewed, and gets color to its cheeks, so to speak.  Beauty raises the heart and mind to God, gives rise to the sense of the extraordinary, and provides some meaning to the ordinary things.

....the original version of the poem was a Haiku.

That which is, must be.
So therefore, if beauty being.
Thou art that which is.

            …it evolved into the following poem.

"Awareness Stirs My Soul"

Cause and Effect, Life and breath
salt and sight and earth and light
Awareness stirs my soul.

 I think. . .

 That which is, must be.
And so it seems, if beauty being.
You are that which IS.
and that which is to be.

…the joy and beauty of the wedding inspired this one

“Inebriation at Cana”

Biblical Inspiration also from Luke Chapter 5:37-39:  "And no one puts new wine into old wineskins; or else the new wine will burst the wineskins and be spilled, and the wineskins will be ruined. "But new wine must be put into new wineskins, and both are preserved.”

Cheap Salvation
seeks bottled water grace.

New wine can't be watered down,
lest so-called sobriety
drown our joy.

            …one more poem, this one is dedicated to Jake, because he deserves one too.

"Clouded Sight in Need of Reflection in Light"

While daydreams delve the darkness deep,
when terror takes me to the streams
of waking waters, restless sleep,
where shadows sleek do smile and scheme.
to cloud the soul of all that seems.

Confusions Cannot touch the heart,
Beyond delusions kept within.
Illusions, shades must soon depart
Where truth and light may enter in.

Let colors, pigments paint the day.
Lest specters creep upon the dreams
Life’s luster more than shades of gray,
As sunlight bends upon the beams,
Amidst the clouds of all that seems.

Rapid Satisfaction and Multiplication of Desires

The world of instant gratification can very easily lead to the death of the soul.

From "The Exhortations of Fr. Zossima" from Dostoevsky's The Brother's Karamazov:

Look at the worldly and all who set themselves up above the people

of God; has not God's image and His truth been distorted in them? They

have science; but in science there is nothing but what is the object

of sense. The spiritual world, the higher part of man's being is

rejected altogether, dismissed with a sort of triumph, even with

hatred. The world has proclaimed the reign of freedom, especially of

late, but what do we see in this freedom of theirs? Nothing but

slavery and self-destruction! For the world says:

"You have desires and so satisfy them, for you have the same

rights as the most rich and powerful. Don't be afraid of satisfying

them and even multiply your desires." That is the modern doctrine of

the world. In that they see freedom. And what follows from this

right of multiplication of desires? In the rich, isolation and

spiritual suicide; in the poor, envy and murder; for they have been

given rights, but have not been shown the means of satisfying their

wants. They maintain that the world is getting more and more united,

(as families grow more distant from one another) more and more

bound together in brotherly community, as it overcomes

distance and sets thoughts flying through the air.

Alas, put no faith in such a bond of union. Interpreting freedom

as the multiplication and rapid satisfaction of desires, men distort

their own nature, for many senseless and foolish desires and habits

and ridiculous fancies are fostered in them. They live only for mutual

envy, for luxury and ostentation. To have dinners visits, carriages,

rank, and slaves to wait on one is looked upon as a necessity, for

which life, honor and human feeling are sacrificed, and men even

commit suicide if they are unable to satisfy it. We see the same thing

among those who are not rich, while the poor drown their unsatisfied

need and their envy in drunkenness. But soon they will drink blood

instead of wine, they are being led on to it. I ask you is such a

man free? I knew one "champion of freedom" who told me himself that,

when he was deprived of tobacco in prison, he was so wretched at the

privation that he almost went and betrayed his cause for the sake of

getting tobacco again! And such a man says, "I am fighting for the

cause of humanity."

How can such a one fight? What is he fit for? He is capable

perhaps of some action quickly over, but he cannot hold out long.

And it's no wonder that instead of gaining freedom they have sunk into

slavery, and instead of serving, the cause of brotherly love and the

union of humanity have fallen, on the contrary, into dissension and

isolation, as my mysterious visitor and teacher said to me in my

youth. And therefore the idea of the service of humanity, of brotherly

love and the solidarity of mankind, is more and more dying out in

the world, and indeed this idea is sometimes treated with derision.

For how can a man shake off his habits? What can become of him if he

is in such bondage to the habit of satisfying the innumerable

desires he has created for himself? He is isolated, and what concern

has he with the rest of humanity? They have succeeded in

accumulating a greater mass of objects, but the joy in the world has

grown less.

New Poems: "I want a girl who writes", "Bastard Pants", "Girl in a Library"

"I want a girl who writes"

(This poem is an omage to Mark Grist's I want a girl who reads.  His is the stronger poem, but as they say, imitation is a form of flattery.  Which usually I don't do, but recently I've been inspired to make an exception.)

I want a girl who writes. . . .

who has something to say,
in a way,
that’ s not afraid,
to take her time to stop and stay.

I want a girl who writes.

Whose poems bring a sudden smile,
all the while,
with sundry styles,
to awe bedazzle and beguile.

I want a girl who writes,

who dares to correspond,
to respond,
whose words go far beyond
the way most girls will just abscond
from being fond,
of any deeper meaning’s bond.

I want a girl who writes.

whose sudden spate of thoughts,
not for naught,
since in melancholy fought,
have a price with which they’re bought
charge of care with which they’re wrought
not just lost
in callous conversation’s cost
with whimsied winds of words unsought
from which no benefit is brought.

I want a girl who writes,

whose mindful meditation,
contemplation,
even prickly consternation
brings elation,
seize my breath and inhalation
words that pierce without pretension
leave a mark, the indication
of her sharpness of dictation,

I want a girl who writes,

whose words can strike me to the core,
through the floor,
make me laugh til sides are sore,
so conversation’s not a chore
not a snore
not a boorish bourgeois bore
not a veritable war,
and oh so much to answer for
with always more she has in store.

I want a girl who writes.

who has something to say,
in a way,
that’ s not afraid,
to take her time to stop and pray.
and much to wounded pride’s dismay,
is here to stay,
so come what may…

I want a girl who writes.


"Bastard Pants"

 Bastards think they “wear the pants”
they always have, they always do.
The rest of us just worker ants,
until their wish or whim is through.

Bastards cannot see the other,
Friend or child or spouse or mother.
Smug or stern but so entitled
with no tact with which it's bridled
Every question is a bother,
Every hug unwanted smother.

Bastards.

Bastards think they “where the pants”
they always have, they always do.
they look at others with askance,
for who are we to judge their view?

who can question their command
of everything, in which they stand
as experts in what they presume,
of buried “facts” without exhume
and thus the right of reprimand,
to all who dare not understand.

Bastards.

Bastards think they wear the pants.
They always have, they always do.
I only hope I have the chance
to cut their pantaloons askew.



"Girl in a Library"  (sequel to, "If Perfection Wore Glasses", which by the way, it does.)

Her soft eyes buried in a book
past hair and glasses, lovely face
the girl for whom I steal a look
allows my artist's heart to trace
and gain a fleeting glance of grace

Alas my heart, that shall grow cold
When memories image fails to serve
As passions pass ere youth grows old
Departs the path upon the curve.

Yet Smitten shall this instant be,
Though moment fades despite the chase
For we who doth have eyes to see
Though selfish be our sight debased
still gain a fleeting glance of grace.

Notes on Epiphany

"Notes on Epiphany"

They say that God takes care of old folks and fools, which in my case is only half true.  And yet, soon we celebrate the sign of God being ridiculously good, having appeared for both the wise and foolish alike.

Have you ever met anyone who is really into Horoscopes?  Like REALLY into Horoscopes?  Should the stars be enough to send someone on a journey?  The Wise Men point to the infant son of Mary and say to the world, "This is your sign".

Tomorrow, the Church will celebrate the Feast of the Epiphany, the coming of the Magi (wise men), the revelation that the Messiah has indeed come for the salvation of all men.

"In choosing to be born for us, God chose to be known by us."  - St. Peter Chrysologus.

He writes:

"Today the Magi find, crying in a manger, the one they have followed as he shone in the sky. Today the Magi see clearly, in swaddling clothes, the one they have long awaited as he lay hidden among the stars.  Today the Magi gaze in deep wonder at what they see: heaven on earth, earth in heaven, man in God, God in man, one whom the whole universe cannot contain now enclosed in a tiny body."

As I sit and think about these great words of the "golden-mouth" (Chrysologus) - I can't help but think. . . .

"How quickly God unveils to those who dare to dream among the stars!
 How has He (once thought so far) now come among us as we are!"

St. Paul writes to us in Ephesians tomorrow that "the Gentiles are coheirs, members of the same body, and co-partners in the promise in Christ Jesus through the gospel." (Eph 3)

The "Gentiles", that is to say, the whole world, bringing clarity to the angels proclaiming “Glory to God in the highest and on earth peace to those on whom his favor rests.” (Lk 2).

God reaches out in the desire to save the human race, no matter one's race or gender or creed, as St. Paul writes that "our Savior...wills everyone to be saved and to come to knowledge of the truth" (1 Tim 2).

This is indeed the revelation of Epiphany, the mystery of God's mercy to all peoples and nations, a revelation "not made known to people in other generations as it has now been revealed to his holy apostles and prophets by the Spirit" (Eph 3).  Christ has come for all.

As [the Magi] look, they believe and do not question, as their symbolic gifts bear witness: incense for God, gold for a king, myrrh for one who is to die. " (Peter Chrysolugus)

Isaiah had prophesied (Chapter 60) that the nations would bring Gold and Frankincense a testimony to God's Kingship and Glory - a revelation certainly not new.  But the myrrh of the wise men, an expensive perfume used for funeral preparation, appears as an unexpected gesture, an unveiling of a new mystery of mercy.  Just as the sign given in the stars appears as an unexpected gesture, also unexpected is this sign pointing to the heavens being opened for all the earth.

Jesus Christ.  Gold for the King.  Frankincense for Divinity.  Myrrh for the suffering servant, Savior of all and Sacrifice for sin.  I can't help but stop and marvel at all of these attributes of Christ, IF we could grant attributes to Being.

Though we must ever marvel at the Divinity of Christ, of the Word made flesh, I can't help but ponder a bit more on this idea of Christ as King. To what extent do I acknowledge Christ as the King of my life?  To what degree do I dare to live in the adventure of obedience?  For obedience does not tether us to stale or sterile earth, but invites us on a journey toward destiny, guided by the heavens.  Do I dare to risk the adventure of Christ being King, truly Sovereign, over the affairs of my life? Is Christ's gesture received, is His victory victorious in me? This question haunts me, particularly in the light of recent blessings and much undeserved grace.  Along with this comes all of those Apocalyptic readings of recent weeks.  Advent and Christmas are times to look in hope and expectation to the coming of the Kingdom of God, and in an honest fear of being inevitably taken to task.

A priest friend of mine likes to warn about those to be left outside of the Heavenly Jerusalem: "Outside are the dogs, the sorcerers, the unchaste, the murderers, the idol-worshipers, and all who love and practice deceit" (Rev 22).  These are the words of St. John, and in no way do I seek to challenge this assertion from his witness.  But I am reminded also of the title of this same Saint John, "The Beloved", who states these words not as a condemnation, but as a warning to the world from a suffering Christ who wishes that all men shall be saved.  For just as St. Peter writes (2 Pt 3).  

The Lord does not delay his promise, as some regard “delay,” but he is patient with you, not wishing that any should perish but that all should come to repentance.  

But the day of the Lord will come....and the earth and everything done on it will be found out.

We only warn whom we wish to save, we can only work for what we value, we can only labor for those we love. 

And the love of God, through Jesus, is revealed to all.

Christ appears today, for all mankind, for all history, foretold in the stars, coming among us as Theophany, as mercy, as the One who dies so we might live.

Let us marvel then, at the mercy of God, and the universal call to each and every human being.  

Life itself has been revealed in the heavens and in the flesh. What was promised was made manifest in the stars, and beneath the stars, in sign and substance, for both the wise and the foolish.

And this is very, very good news.

"Neither god nor worm"

Human beings are neither gods nor helpless animals.  Sometimes it's easy to say, "It's ALL my fault" and to carry the weight of the world on our shoulders.  Other times, it's easy to say, "NONE of it's my fault!  I'm the VICTIM of my upbringing/conditioning/circumstances."  Neither of these are true.  

"When men in fear take to extremes, the truth lay somewhere in between" - Micah-Joel Tuhy

“Neither god nor worm that man must be.”

As every man must face his fate

with sword, in shrift, or fierce debate

I must in earnest take a stand

to be no more than but a man.

Though Atlas bears titanic tons

and Heroes hoist the heaven’s high

I am mere mortal, and but one

contented with one death to die.

Though Heracles cleaves hydra’s heads

And Caesar conquers Roman Gaul

I, [] stand fat and sit well fed.

with no excuse, no, none at all.

Yet still I rise to disagree

renounce your claims of agony

rebuke your miscast misery

as something made or dealt by me.

Of many charges left to do,

Not among them has been You.

Your life, YOUR life, success or strife,

is yours, at ease or point of knife.

For thus my will is to be mine.

Just as your life is to be thine.

for in my time, the truth sublime

unveils itself before my mind

Your gifts are yours, from God was gave

so hold me not as Lord or slave.

I am but man as I began

Professing only this brief stand:

As I cannot command the morn

nor choose the place where I was born

I won’t be held responsible

for that which I’ve had no control.

This then is the work of man

and all that he can understand.

content thy work towards what will change

leave curses to those mad deranged

Do not blame fate or gods complain

Become the master of your pain.

Though we can’t choose to cease to bleed

the choice is ours to choose to see

beyond our wounds, beyond our blood

beyond the heavens, hells and mud.

Let mortals bear what mortals can,

and stand but proudly, yet as men.

"The Gift Without the Giver is Bare"

“THE GIFT WITHOUT THE GIVER IS BARE” 

inspiration:

The Holy Supper is kept, indeed,

In whatso we share with another's need;

Not what we give, but what we share,

For the gift without the giver is bare;

Who gives himself with his alms feeds three,

Himself, his hungering neighbor, and me.

-          James Russell Lowell, The Vision of Sir Launfal

Prelude:

                        I stand,

                          somewhere,

                            between Levite and Samaritan.

                        trying to help,

                           without getting too involved.

                        trying to not look away.

                           without getting caught in a gaze.

                        trying to clean,

                           without getting dirty.

                        and yet,

                           I feel tainted, sullied,

                                    unfinished.

                       

                        I.

                        A baby

                            not a half year old

                            propped in a carrier

                                on the table of Good Samaritan breakfast,

                            tiny arms hanging limp

                            waiting passively for the next morsel of syrup-soaked French toast

                                 from a teenage mother's fingers,

                            making no sound

                            while the mother sliced bites of her French toast

                                and ate in silence––

                                                                            no affectionate stroking

                                                                            just passive acceptance of another day

                                                                                 in an uncertain future.

                        II.

                        “Could you use this?” I asked

                            in the small, tidy Good Samaritan kitchen,

                        as I placed fruit, vegetables butter––all I could carry––

                            on the counter––

                        “Leftovers,” I said, “from a celebration dinner at church,”

                        III.

                        I signed the contribution book and walked out.

                            passing the breakfast table, lined with transients

                        shaken by stark, silent figures of hunger and displacement,

                        IV.

                                                                         and wondered what I'd do about it.