Radio Waves

"The radio works only when the lights are on." In the old days, we blamed it on communism. In the old days, we blamed everything on communism. My landlady in Warsaw explained the radio problem with a sigh, as if to say, "there is nothing to be done." I was struck by how quickly and completely resigned she was to the apparent inevitability of inconvenience. It was a response I remembered well from the days of communism, saying in effect, "who knows why this is? It's just another one of life's annoying and inexplicable mysteries, having music only when the overhead light is switched on." It's not that she's stupid. She simply assumes that some situations are beyond her control. The moment she walked out the door, I unplugged the radio from its socket and found an outlet that wasn't wired to the light switch. I'm an American; it's what I do. On the one hand, Poles are incredibly resourceful, doggedly persistent and downright militant in their determination never to ever give up. But, about some things, surprisingly, many Poles of a certain age are all too quick to shrug, sigh and give in with passive acceptance to inconvenience, frustrating circumstances, and even injustice. Their resignation in the face of arbitrary vexations is a sad side-effect of growing up in a system where logic was irrelevant and relevance was altogether illogical. I am still surprised, occasionally amused, and most often unsettled to see some of my old friends' unwillingness to push, to look around for solutions, and by their failure to be assertive in figuring out problems like radio power. Or government power. Conditioning. Too many people my age were imprinted too early and for too long with this devilish notion that nothing can be done. "Resistance is futile." Today's forty and fifty-somethings are too young to have caught their parents' and societies' fervor for rebuilding in the immediate post-War period. They came of age after the drama and activism of the late 1960's when, in 1968, student strikes and protests in Poland were the first to launch that tumultous year of student activism around the world, from Paris to Berkeley. They missed the moments of collective energy and the synergy for change. They tended not to be the leaders of Solidarity when it set Poland on 'tilt' and began unraveling the communist world. Many, in fact, left Poland during that period and emigrated to Australia, England, Sweden, Paris, and the United States. Not that one could ever blame them! I was surprised to return to Warsaw in 2007 for the first time in 20 years to discover that many of my old friends, once lively and resourceful, were feeling displaced and still at sea in the new world. Confused, resigned, and passive. Still living, in a way, in the old world where capricious, illogical, and dominating external powers thwarted and disabled their own capacities to make things happen. My landlady visited me once that summer and was shocked to see that I'd moved the radio, that it was on, even while the overhead lights were not. She was shocked when I explained how I solved the problem, and shook her head, as if to say (as Poles often do), "those crazy Americans!"

The Speed of Poland

I've said it before. I love to go fast. Roller coasters, planes surging toward take-off, speed boats, and yes, cars. I love the sensation of speed. I was first stopped for speeding late in my senior year of high school. Doing about 60 in a 30 mph zone on a narrow road between my home and the school. Ironically, I was in a hurry to get something to my mother. I was let off with a warning. Maybe that was a mistake. I am dutiful and careful in town, especially in neighborhoods and on city streets. But out on the road, an open road, it's easy to get into the left lane and just fly. It feels wonderful. I'm prudent, watchful and careful and have never done anything really dangerous, except for the fact that speed alone can create its own conditions, making it harder to react. I'm not aggressive or rude. I don't weave or (rarely) pass on the right. I don't sit on somebody's bumper and I signal when changing lanes. Driving from Denver to Aspen, or anyplace west on I-70 is a low-fly zone, with well-engineered highways that make it easy to go along at 80 mph and often even 90. The sensation of freedom and movement is one I've always craved. So, driving in Poland is an exercise in absolute frustration. Absolute. There are no good roads. I believe I've complained about this before. Interestingly, I just read an interview with a Polish emigre, now the director of The Macquarie Group, an Australian investment bank with assets of more than 340 billion dollars. Arthur Rakowski works from the London office and oversees infrastructure investments that include ownership of the London sewer system, airports, electricial grids, waterworks and roads. The Group also has the ownership stake in the container port at Gdansk, Poland. Rakowski, who left Poland in 1981, as martial law was declared, is the son of the late and last Communist Prime Minister of Poland and the long-time editor of the widely respected newspaper (now magazine) Polityka, Mieczyslaw F. Rakowski. He's been away from Poland for a long time and has few close ties there anymore but still has an interest in seeing his native country be successful, most certainly. In fact, The Macquarie Group tried to invest in the development of roads, of highway infrastructure in Poland for years. They worked at it for ten years. But never in those ten years were the policy makers able to overcome petty grievances and partisan grudges and make a deal, "who, how and with what to make them." Hence, there are still no good roads, no expressways, no autobahn in Poland. That does not, however, stop Polish drivers from trying to treat their two-lane, unimproved roads, where tractors and geese still cause accidents, as racetracks. And city driving is, well, not for the timid. Or the less than fleet-footed pedestrian. A week has passed since President Kaczynski's funeral. Two weeks have passed since the tragic plane crash near Katyn Forest. It's a respectable time to talk some difficult truths. "My view is that Poland is difficult to rule and the nature of the Poles is not conducive to the development of the country," Rakowski says. "The whole story shows how much we lost, we can not reach a compromise." This despite great intelligence, highly educated leaders, and a real sense of urgency to move forward. To be sure, Poland has the strongest economy of any of the former Communist countries and has made great strides in the 20 years since it accepted a "shock therapy" instant immersion into market capitalism. I have been known, myself, to go on and on and on about the marvels of Prada and Ikea and Cheetos and Nissans and Bose speakers, and everything one could hope for now available -- and almost affordable -- to Polish people. The private sector is moving along. Despite continuing bureaucratic obstacles to privatization of large enterprises, to say nothing of the bungled mess of simply trying to get a license to open a beauty salon, for example, or a car repair shop, Poles on their own have been remarkably resourceful, and successful. Resiliency at work. But. But but but. Politics. Government behavior (I don't know what else to call it) in Poland is still churlish, petty, petulant, and always always always obstructionist. Spinning their wheels. Refusing to compromise for the sake of a greater -- and attainable -- good. "They still talk about who said what in a bar on the corner 20 years ago." I danced around the matter in writing my initial posts after the tragic plane crash. It seemed a bit too crass too quick to say it out loud, to say what I said to my spouse the instant I learned the plane went down. Kaczynski didn't have to make that trip. It was churlish and, frankly, childish. And I'm the least of those who have said so. Roger Cohen in an excellent NYTimes article this week spoke directly. The President of Poland needed to make his own statement, to stand apart from any Russian overtures at reconciliation. Had he wanted, he could have been invited and taken part in the official ceremonies at the Katyn Forest memorial earlier that week, when Russian President Vladimir Putin and Polish Prime Minister shook hands and words were said that moved the relations between the two countries forward. But he would not. Politics is not "the art of the possible" for such persons. It is the act of obstinacy and vindictiveness, revanchism and vengefulness. In such a case, nothing positive can happen. And tragically, in this instance, it is fatal. So that's the reason, in a nutshell, why there are no good roads in Poland. And that's the reason why, in a nutshell, 97 people died in Smolensk. And that is the reason why some of the most brilliant people in the country, who still try to make it work, to contribute to its growth, tell me over and over, "I am irritable all the time I am in Poland." "Poland makes me all the time irritable." These are the true patriots. Not the man who was buried last Sunday in Krakow. Not his twin brother who will now try to exploit the tragedy and continue the behaviors of their political party. Whatever good they have accomplished, it is undermined by the short-sighted and tragic (there's that word again) and petty and even stupid behaviors that seek only to avenge, to obstruct, to punish their old foes. I remember a long ago speech by Australian physician, Dr. Helen Caldicott, and her warning, "If you don't like the other guy in your boat, you don't drill a hole in his end." Sadly, that's been going on in Poland ever since the country saw its Communist government wither away. Lots of drilling, lots of holes. And no roads. There are lessons in here for all of us, whether our ancient enemies are near or far, personal and private or public and political. There are lessons for Americans here, as we move toward increasingly strident and dangerous public behavior, and for us as individuals who have reason -- but perhaps not purpose -- in hanging on to our old anger, our desire for revenge. It doesn't go anywhere, fast.

Lenin For Sale

Lenin is going for practically nothing. Several volumes of Lenin's works were for sale on a sidewalk table in the university district of Warsaw recently. Just beyond the stairway of the church, where first you encounter the pulp trade -- boobs flashed on the covers of magazines and DVD's barely outside the church doors -- on Krakowskie Przedmiesce, down the street from the Presidential Palace, and across from elegant gates of the University of Warsaw, Lenin is for sale along with Winnie the Pooh. You can pick up a few of his volumes for little more than a quarter a piece. What do you do with old college textbooks? Some can be sold back to the university bookstore, or by notices on the campus bulletin board. Now we sell them online. Some we give away, others sit on a shelf, supposedly for future reference, and some we toss -- as far and as hard as possible. A popular option when I was in college was to sell them at the annual community garage sale, in the book stall. The only down side to this option was, well, the community aspect of the enterprise. Lois put out a box of her books with a sign that read, "25 cents each." She hovered close by as they disappeared a few at a time. Late in the day most of her books had been snatched up. Only a few lonely volumes languished, left in the box, rejected time after time, hour after hour. She was ready to give them away. In fact, she now rather wishes she had packed it in right then but she stood watch as a late browser wandered in. He pawed through several of the other boxes, from different donors, before turning his attention to Lois' box of leftovers. Now, let's say he was the author of one of those books. Let's say he was the president of the university. Let's say he sees his own book, the one he wrote, the one he used as a text for the one course he taught, in that box of rejects. And let's say that he wondered, "who would sell this?" He is curious. He opens the book and is about to check the inside front cover. He is thinking of the quip he will make to Lois, the joke he will make at the expense of whatever clod lacked the good sense to keep it, or, at the very least, to unload it someplace else, out of the neighborhood. "Ha, ha, is he or she in trouble now!" Lois stands frozen in place. Lois, now a junior level administrator at this very same university stands frozen in place, across a narrow table from her former professor, this man who is now her boss. She watches as he finds her name penned in ink inside that front cover. Disbelieving, he looks up at her, as if to ask, "how could you?" The blood drains from her face. She is mortified. Until. Until she recovers her wits and remembers that it was a stupid book and, anyway, shouldn't he be the more embarrassed? And so she gives him a look back, a shrug and a wry smile, as if to say, "hey, it's worth a quarter!" Lenin isn't even worth a quarter, at least not here in the market economy of post-Leninist Poland. A few days later I pass the table again and his books are still there. Winnie the Pooh is gone, a Polish edition of a Danielle Steele novel there in its place. But Lenin is stuck in the same spot, between the porn and the commonplace. Would he sell at any price? I imagine the encounter Lenin would have with the bookseller, a brawny man with a few days' beard and flannel shirt, looking, in fact, like he belongs in Brainerd, Minnesota, with Paul Bunyan. There are no plaintive looks, no pathetic gazes. No shrugs or wry smiles either. Lenin is furious. He might shoot the guy on the spot. The bookseller is adamant and dismissive. "You had your chance. It got corrupted. And it didn't work. You had your day. Now we're done. We've moved on." And so it is in Poland today. Except for me. I decided that two-bits of Lenin is a worthwhile souvenir.

Officially, There Is No.....

Problem. Officially, there is no reality, not one anyway that really happened. Officially, nothing happened. History was a problem. In 1940. 1956. 1968. 1970. So much happened. That didn't. Not officially. Officially. Everything must be official. Truth was not a matter of what really happened but only of What could be admitted. 1956. 1968. 1970. No memorials. No admissions. Why were workers shot in Gdanks? They weren't. And the Jewish intelligentsia kicked out? They weren't. The students silenced, arrested? Did that happen? I don't know, I don't think so. And Katyn. Who could say, not Agnieszka, not about her brother, not about him Who died in an open grave, shot in the back of the head by a Soviet NKVD Killer who was made up like a Nazi for forty years, impersonating a beast Of another tribe. Did it matter, anyway? Who killed him? Anyway, he was dead. Whispers, rumors, bold declarations. Prison sentences, harsh interrogations. No Grave markers told his story. Or Jozef's. Or Bronek's. Or Marcin's. It was not, officially, what it was. Their death was a lie. Created to create the myth of brotherhood. Only now, in recent years does the official and the real find a way to co-exist. And there is a great danger, emerging again, of a myth, a legend, an Official story arising to trump the real one. Lech Kaczynski was a good man, with strong ideals. He was so committed to his ideals and his mission of vanquishing once for all the old dictatorship of Communism that he betrayed those same values not infrequently in the service of his goal. He was petty and small as much as he was wise and good. He was, as one writer said, a patriot in the only way he knew how. Which is not to say, the most useful way for Poland. Only history will finally judge the damage and the success of his term in office. In death, once again in death it is the Poles find themselves caught up in the ancient act of mythologizing and ritualizing death, creating legend and official stories that become what's taught and told. How ironic. That Lech Kaczynski went to Katyn to undo the damage of decades of only official truth only to become in death the object of historical mythologizing of the same kind.

"Bringing Forgiveness"

Forgive. Forgive. "Do you want to wake up slowly or fast?" I was asked early Saturday mornnig. "Slow," I said, and the speculation began. What happened? I feared the worst, which for me would be a major terrorist attack (domestic or foreign) against our own President Obama. I decided Dave would have been crying had that been the case so my mind moved on. Nothing personal, there was no hint of that in his tone. He disappeared for a little while and after cranking open the creaky channels that flow within the frontal lobe, I picked up my iPhone, my usual source of immediate news each day. Click on mail. "Polish President killed in plane crash." News flashes from several sources. Shock. Details emerged. The mind (mine, anyway) becomes insatiable at such points. Details, facts. But lurking, always near, was interpretation. Or the temptation to interpret. To judge. And my interpretation, along with that of several dozens of Polish journalists and other leaders, as it turns out, went along these lines: churlish, pugnacious, stubborn, petulant President has to organize his own trip to Katyn, can't participate in the official one with Russians (horrors!) present. And so this happens. More or less, that's true. At a time when the theme of healing and reconciliation was being commemorated, on the 70th anniversary of the massacre of 22,000 Polish officers, professors, doctors, lawyers and other 'elite' leaders by the Soviet Secret Police, the Polish President would insist on his own terms, no compromise, no presence of the Russians who were at least moving toward owning up at last to this mass murder. The official celebration had been held days earlier. Polish Prime Minister Donald Tusk and Russian Prime Minister were together at Katyn, and Putin went further than ever before in acknowledging the crimes committed by Soviet NKVD. It should be noted that he stopped short of apologizing, a sore point, but this was progress, nonetheless. In April of 1940, less than a year after the start of World War II, some twenty-two thousand Polish leaders were shot in the back of the head, execution style, at the edge of trenches into which they then fell, their bodies covered immediately by huge land-moving machines. No word of their fate was ever officially offered. They had been taken prisoners by the Soviet (Red) Army shortly after the Soviets invaded Poland on the 17th of September, 1939. Their families heard from them for several months before all communications stopped. The prisoners then disappeared into the ether. Until 1943, when the German Army (Nazi's) held that ground, near Smolensk, and discovered the mass graves, from the ravaging of wolves within them. Word began to seep back into Poland, "Katyn," "Kharkov," and other sites, filled with bodies. I cannot even begin to get my head around a loss of that magnitude or that type. Accusations went back and forth between Nazi and Soviet forces. Who did it? When the Soviet Army finally prevailed and routed the Germans, their version of the story became official truth. And there would be no challenge. Any questioning of this account brought severe penalties, imprisonment, even death. And so it was until 1990. But everyone, quietly, everyone knew the truth. Even those who were rather sympathetic toward the USSR. I don't know anyone in Poland who did not have a father, grandfather, uncle, husband who perished in Katyn Forest. No one. I realize that says something about who my friends are, from what strata of the society, but still. It was a pervasive wound. Each friend told me their family's story in hushed tones, even within their own homes, and prevailed upon me not to disclose their 'secret knowledge,' that the Soviets perpetrated the crimes. Ironically, because of this new tragedy, more people will learn of Katyn that would have had the ceremonies gone on, unnoticed in the West. That is something good to be salvaged from this catastrophe. But this word, "forgive," presses itself on my spirit. I found myself thinking, "if only," and I wasn't alone. If only the Polish President had not been so churlish, unforgiving, had been willing to accede to the Russians' hospitality, and made the trip the few days earlier. This wouldn't have happened. The problem, of course, with that logic is that it isn't entirely logical. Fog settles in. Or not. Planes crash. Or land safely. Thankfully, no one taken seriously within Poland is suggesting that this is, in any way, the will of God. It is an accident. A tragedy. But one that could have been avoided. By a spirit of humility, of forgiving. Not of forgetting, no, the two are distinct and must never be confused or conflated. The homily prepared by a bishop who perished on the plane was printed in a Polish newspaper today. In it he gently encouraged the family members of those murdered, and the Polish people, "to be about forgiving." Citing Pope John Paul II's words to a delegation of Katyn Families at the Vatican several years ago, Bishop Ploski was going to remind those present, "what is your task, the task of Katyn Families. It seems that it is just bringing forgiveness. Yes, it is the storage in the memory of this national tragedy, personal and family, but it is also, through this memory, forgiveness." How ironic. The failure to enter into that spirit was the reason for the flight on Saturday morning. And now it is left to those who live on to pause, ponder and consider this word of mercy. All around us -- who are not Polish, who do not suffer necessarily the effects of hideous, brutal war crimes, who live more or less ordinary lives -- are reminders of how "we been done wrong." I certainly live with those daily thorns. Lesson One from this tragedy. Forgive. Let go the churlish and petulant behaviors that bespeak our hurt and resentment. Reconcile. Accept the hospitality of even the most repulsive former foe. Abandon the reckless and short-sighted reactions that lead to yet again a new cycle of suffering and tragedy. As humans, we are, of course, free to interpret and see things as we will. We don't need to draw conclusions of causality in this case, or any other, to be moved to reflection. I wondered in the early hours after this tragedy if I was alone, arrogant and inappropriate, with my first thoughts, these you read above. I read in today's Polish newspapers some very similar responses. These give me courage to offer then my own reflection. Stop the cycle. Be humble. Forgive, forgive. What is our task? "It is just bringing forgiveness."

"Miracle Fair"

The commonplace miracle: that so many common miracles take place. The usual miracle: invisible dogs barking in the dead of night. One of many miracles: a small and airy cloud is able to upstage the massive moon. Several miracles in one: an alder is reflected in the water and is reversed from left to right and grows from crown to root and never hits bottom though the water isn't deep. A run of the mill miracle: winds mild to moderate turning gusty into storms. A miracle in the first place: cows will be cows. Next but not least: just this cherry orchard from just this cherry pit. A miracle minus top-hat and tails: fluttering white doves. A miracle (what else can you call it): the sun rose today at three-fourteen a.m. and will set tonight at one past eight. A miracle that's lost on us: the hand actually has fewer than six fingers but it's still got more than four. A miracle: just take a look around: the inescapable earth. An extra miracle, extra and ordinary: the unthinkable can be thought. ___Wyslawa Szymborska, 2006 Nobel Laureate for Poetry, a Polish poet.

Mercy

Is Mercy. The first word, and ultimately the last, at a time like this is mercy. And for now, all between is silence.

Stand in the wind!

Get in the way of the wind! Yep, that is the way to go. And let it blow you forward. Soar! I shocked my husband a few years back when I told him, "I'm pissed at Jesus. He makes it look easy." This rising. Getting up out of the tomb. Rising. Rising up. Now, be patient, hear me out. No heresy, honest. But honesty, yes. Rising. I believe the story of rising, of new life after death, of a new, open future after closed broken despair is hard-wired into the DNA of the universe, as I believe Carl Jung has also proposed. And I believe that whether or not we are Christians -- and whether or not we are still folks who can handle being part of the church, with all its abuse and hypocrisy -- this story of dying and rising is archetypal and paradigmatic to our human really being. And so, with e.e. cummings, I can affirm this morning, "I who have died am alive this day." It is, as it always is, a new day, "the first day," as one preacher put it. For us. For the world. This spirit of life is moving us forward, up, out, on. But, not long ago, as I lay dying, as I lay in the pit, broken, in agony, betrayed, crushed, and, for all practical purposes (not exaggerating) dead, I confess to having a empty spirit. No hope. No stirring. Abuse and betrayal can do that to a person. They have done it to the thousands who are protesting today in Germany and around the Roman Catholic church and, as we know, the Lutheran and other Protestant churches and religious traditions have nothing to brag about either in that regard; it just doesn't get the coverage. Power is deadly when it is abused. We know. As have generations going back to the dawn of time. I was an empty shell, a spectral barren ghost of myself. And then Easter came. That first Easter afterward. Ha! Easter indeed! There was no Easter in me and none found me that year. I wanted it but it just wasn't coming. Except I see in retrospect, the smallest stirring of life, imperceptible at the time, and apparent only in its effect, and barely. I was pissed at Jesus for making it all look easy. The rising, that is. Yes. He died an outlaw, a dumped on, despised and pathetic broken man. An agonizing, prolonged, cruel way to die. Strung up. And, as the wonderful mythology of Holy Saturday goes, he struggled for a day, in hell, fought mightily against the devil, against the powers of evil. For a day. For a day! One flippin' day. And then he got up. Or was raised up. It looked too easy. And folks expect humans to recover that quick, as well. Doesn't happen. Now, several years later, I still find it annoying but, well, that's Jesus. And so be it. For me, for many of the folks I know and know about, it takes longer. In fact, it goes on day after day after day. We die, we rise. we fall, we get up. We lose, we win. We lay down our lives, we are given them back again. What an amazing story. What powerful images to impel us to keep going. But. This life Spirit, God, however you wish to describe or name it, the Spirit blows us along and moves us along, into ever new and newer life. We are called to let ourselves be lifted up by the drafts of spirit life, the Holy Spirit, if you will. So, I'm not Jesus. It goes differently for me. No angel, no rock magically rolled away, no earthquake. Just a life, struggling against the powers of evil. And asking for the grace to be lifted up, risen. It comes. Yes, it does, it comes. And one of the better ways to help this process along, is to get in the way of the wind. Let out the string, and fly! I have not done a great job of that lately. Time to go stand on a cliff. And let the drafts catch me up! That is where I'm headed, in fact, this very minute. Stand in the way of the wind! Soar! And much loving lively lovely new life to you all! Peace.