For last year's words belong to last year's language
And next year's words await another voice
___T.S. Eliot, Little Gidding, Four Quartets
Is it possible, that last year's language has left us,
that we are free / doomed / required to await another voice?
There is great danger in quoting poetry out of its complete context yet this happens to Eliot all the time. The passages from "Little Gidding," one of his Four Quartets are ripe for picking. So much to pull and ponder. His context was different than ours, so perhaps we do not fail our duty completely when we quote out of context, these smooth, prickly words. They sound lovely, they drip off the tongue. But what are we saying?
Last season's fruit is eaten
And the fulled beast shall kick the empty pail.
For last year's words belong to last year's language
And next year's words await another voice.
And again, pages later,
What we call the beginning is often the end
And to make an end is to make a beginning.
The end is where we start from.
Images to tease us forward into a new time, a new year,
new voices, new seasons, new understanding: self-understanding.
New understanding of place and patriotism, in his case, of England.
We appropriate the words at will to fill our own contexts with rich imagining and new inspiration. So we do. So we will. And why not?
Peace as you begin and end and start and await another voice.
(If you can, read the entire work. It is demanding of us, a new voice.)
Friday, December 31, 2010
Sunday, December 26, 2010
Now what?
Let's face it.
This time of year really sucks. The bright lights come down, the neighborhoods go dark again. Justin Bieber reclaims the airwaves. The dregs of wrapping paper show up in corners and all the good leftovers are gone.
The kids are on airplanes heading back to work and school. Party's over.
Already. It doesn't take long.
The pastors and church musicians are swimming upstream for the next two weeks, until Epiphany, trying to convince us that Christmas has only just begun. I've done it myself. But it's futile. Culture rules and culture tells us that it's over.
We're stuck with shelves and shelves filled with nothing but empty storage bins and a mess in the basememnt and movies we've already watched and noxious television stories of tax readiness and the inevitable resolutions. We have nothing to look forward to but the Super Bowl and, really, is that anything?
So. What do you do to avoid the January blah's? The ugly depression that sets in about now? The big let down, the bubble burst?
I want a strategy this year. I don't want to drift along with the outgoing tide. I want to keep the TV off, my saturated self out of stores, and find a way to avoid the post-partum depression, to live fully, on my own terms.
What do you do? How do you thrive in January? What works for you? Please, please, let us know.
This time of year really sucks. The bright lights come down, the neighborhoods go dark again. Justin Bieber reclaims the airwaves. The dregs of wrapping paper show up in corners and all the good leftovers are gone.
The kids are on airplanes heading back to work and school. Party's over.
Already. It doesn't take long.
The pastors and church musicians are swimming upstream for the next two weeks, until Epiphany, trying to convince us that Christmas has only just begun. I've done it myself. But it's futile. Culture rules and culture tells us that it's over.
We're stuck with shelves and shelves filled with nothing but empty storage bins and a mess in the basememnt and movies we've already watched and noxious television stories of tax readiness and the inevitable resolutions. We have nothing to look forward to but the Super Bowl and, really, is that anything?
So. What do you do to avoid the January blah's? The ugly depression that sets in about now? The big let down, the bubble burst?
I want a strategy this year. I don't want to drift along with the outgoing tide. I want to keep the TV off, my saturated self out of stores, and find a way to avoid the post-partum depression, to live fully, on my own terms.
What do you do? How do you thrive in January? What works for you? Please, please, let us know.
Thursday, December 23, 2010
Advance Copy! Epiphany Episodes
Epiphany Episodes 2010
Where did they go?
We had these two girls here just a minute ago. I swear. They were roller-blading and playing the piano and running out to basketball games and soccer practice and drama practice and choir rehearsal and they played Polly Pocket and Playmobil Circus and Beany Babies and Little People and Inch Worm. Where did they go?
New York. St. Paul.
Be careful what you wish for. And what you do. We prepared them for this and, by george, they did it. They left. These beautiful mountains! These fifteen feet of snow. They left!
They both graduated. Kaia graduated from Macalester College in St. Paul and Annika graduated from Arapahoe High School. One ceremony featured bagpipes and kilts, and the other one was blessed by the presence of the Chief of the Arapaho Peoples. One was mellow and laid back – Mac, living up to its longtime reputation, and the other, at Arapahoe, was rich with the rituals that have accrued over time, especially with respect to the school’s warm relationship with the Arapaho Nation. At Mac, we celebrated the strength and essential character of Kaia’s international education, her time in South Africa, and her specific engagement in service to the local community. Closer to home, Arapahoe and the Arapaho have an amazing, active, and heartwarming relationship that has deeply affected our sense of who we are as Americans.
It was great to celebrate both events with family, including Pearson’s and my brother, Jim, who made the trips to both. When over 187 people responded to the party invitation on Facebook we knew we needed more cake. I know that the impact of Macalester will live on as Kaia makes her commitments to service and a global perspective. But not with respect to kilts. Arapahoe continues to make itself felt through the impact of Annika’s leadership skills and her musical excellence.
But then. They moved on. Sure enough.
Kaia is one of those rare creatures: a college graduate with a job in her field. Biology and Pre-Med. She is working in the Twin Cities in a hospital Emergency Department with doctors who are teaching her to be expert in differential diagnoses and taking medical histories, survive all night on bad coffee and sleep standing up. She can spot a kidney stone a mile away and is, at this very moment, reading about intubation of crisis patients. She plans on med school in a year or two. Meanwhile, she’s skiing and coaching girls’ basketball, baking bread, enjoying other Mac alums, and glad for the wonderful presence of family (Pearson’s) nearby. She’s even claimed her true Nordic heritage by learning to love living in snow.
Annika has made herself completely at home in New York City, more specifically at New York University. She loves it. All of it. Subways, odors, strangeness, all of it. She lives right on Washington Square and knows all forty or so of the Liza’s (Minelli) who hang out there from time to time and the old men who play chess on the tables in the park’s corner. Student “rush” tickets make it possible for her to regularly enjoy the Ballet, Philharmonic, Broadway shows, the Guggenheim and the Met, and she is equally diligent about her studies, although she has maxxed out on Marx. She is still thinking of Politics or Philosophy. Greenwich Village is truly like a small town, a great learning and living environment! (I’m jealous. Yep, I am.)
And us, well, now that they’re gone, we got nothin’.
There’s really nothing new under our suns, no big news to report from here.
I’m still trying to arrange the letters of the alphabet into meaningful combinations and Dave is still finding people. We have fun with friends, mountains, tuba concerts, burro races, books, music and all of the rich variety that life provides. No big trips, just lots of little ones.
It is gut-wrenching to see the suffering of the world and we do what is ours to do to try to bring healing and peace. There is much we can do.
And we do have something: plane tickets. Skype, tweets, IM’s, text messages, email and even the phone. Snail mail eludes us. Except for now. Some traditions are well worth keeping and these Epiphany Episodes are one way of expressing that we treasure your friendship over the years, look forward to hearing your news, and wish for you the blessings that God wants for us all.
(You can catch my frequent reflections at
http://www.janerickson.blogspot.com Peace!)
Where did they go?
We had these two girls here just a minute ago. I swear. They were roller-blading and playing the piano and running out to basketball games and soccer practice and drama practice and choir rehearsal and they played Polly Pocket and Playmobil Circus and Beany Babies and Little People and Inch Worm. Where did they go?
New York. St. Paul.
Be careful what you wish for. And what you do. We prepared them for this and, by george, they did it. They left. These beautiful mountains! These fifteen feet of snow. They left!
They both graduated. Kaia graduated from Macalester College in St. Paul and Annika graduated from Arapahoe High School. One ceremony featured bagpipes and kilts, and the other one was blessed by the presence of the Chief of the Arapaho Peoples. One was mellow and laid back – Mac, living up to its longtime reputation, and the other, at Arapahoe, was rich with the rituals that have accrued over time, especially with respect to the school’s warm relationship with the Arapaho Nation. At Mac, we celebrated the strength and essential character of Kaia’s international education, her time in South Africa, and her specific engagement in service to the local community. Closer to home, Arapahoe and the Arapaho have an amazing, active, and heartwarming relationship that has deeply affected our sense of who we are as Americans.
It was great to celebrate both events with family, including Pearson’s and my brother, Jim, who made the trips to both. When over 187 people responded to the party invitation on Facebook we knew we needed more cake. I know that the impact of Macalester will live on as Kaia makes her commitments to service and a global perspective. But not with respect to kilts. Arapahoe continues to make itself felt through the impact of Annika’s leadership skills and her musical excellence.
But then. They moved on. Sure enough.
Kaia is one of those rare creatures: a college graduate with a job in her field. Biology and Pre-Med. She is working in the Twin Cities in a hospital Emergency Department with doctors who are teaching her to be expert in differential diagnoses and taking medical histories, survive all night on bad coffee and sleep standing up. She can spot a kidney stone a mile away and is, at this very moment, reading about intubation of crisis patients. She plans on med school in a year or two. Meanwhile, she’s skiing and coaching girls’ basketball, baking bread, enjoying other Mac alums, and glad for the wonderful presence of family (Pearson’s) nearby. She’s even claimed her true Nordic heritage by learning to love living in snow.
Annika has made herself completely at home in New York City, more specifically at New York University. She loves it. All of it. Subways, odors, strangeness, all of it. She lives right on Washington Square and knows all forty or so of the Liza’s (Minelli) who hang out there from time to time and the old men who play chess on the tables in the park’s corner. Student “rush” tickets make it possible for her to regularly enjoy the Ballet, Philharmonic, Broadway shows, the Guggenheim and the Met, and she is equally diligent about her studies, although she has maxxed out on Marx. She is still thinking of Politics or Philosophy. Greenwich Village is truly like a small town, a great learning and living environment! (I’m jealous. Yep, I am.)
And us, well, now that they’re gone, we got nothin’.
There’s really nothing new under our suns, no big news to report from here.
I’m still trying to arrange the letters of the alphabet into meaningful combinations and Dave is still finding people. We have fun with friends, mountains, tuba concerts, burro races, books, music and all of the rich variety that life provides. No big trips, just lots of little ones.
It is gut-wrenching to see the suffering of the world and we do what is ours to do to try to bring healing and peace. There is much we can do.
And we do have something: plane tickets. Skype, tweets, IM’s, text messages, email and even the phone. Snail mail eludes us. Except for now. Some traditions are well worth keeping and these Epiphany Episodes are one way of expressing that we treasure your friendship over the years, look forward to hearing your news, and wish for you the blessings that God wants for us all.
(You can catch my frequent reflections at
http://www.janerickson.blogspot.com Peace!)
Saturday, December 18, 2010
Election, Soviet Style
Four o'clock on Sunday afternoon.
The wallpaper was gold, a garish print. A tapestry hung on one wall behind the best easy chair in the room. The table was still heavy with platters of meat and bowls of potatoes with dill, pickles, sauces, breads, delicate glasses with wine, and the remains of a cake. Sunday dinner.
It could have been anywhere. My mom's house, any one of my college friends' homes where I'd often be invited on Sundays after church, or the Soderstrom's, maybe Rosie's, the Woods' in Plainfield, my inlaw's. A certain ritual prevailed no matter where, the passing of the plates, napkins unfolded, a prayer. The hostess took the first bite. And the next few hours were given over to the leisure of seconds and thirds, "please, have more," rich dessert, and lively conversation. We laughed at pompous professors and grumbled about cockroaches, inevitable in city apartments. We complained about the year's fashions and compared school work loads. We ate more. And again, more.
On this particular afternoon, the meal was in Moscow. The Russian Orthodox liturgy had taken several hours, so much so our kind host took us for coffee somewhere in the middle of it, I think because he didn't want to have to translate the sermon. Pavel had been one of the assisting priests. If I remember it right, we didn't tell him we'd taken a little break. But Alexei, one of our hosts, whose mother and aunt had prepared the feast we shared, was more fascinated with our lives, American and Canadian than with yet more liturgy.
At four o'clock there came a knock at the door. Alexei answered, we heard his impatience with the visitor, but not what he said. Then he came back, fully exasperated and embarrassed.
"It was the election committee. They know we have not been to vote. They said I should go now. Can you believe such a country? They keep track of who has voted and who has not. And they come to our flat to tell us to go vote. That's the Soviet Union," Alexei grumbled.
"Well," I responded, "did they offer you bread and eggs?"
He was indignant, "of course not. They don't bribe us to vote."
"Ah," I said, "I'm from Chicago and by afternoon the precinct captain comes around and offers us coupons for bread and eggs when we come and vote." True story. Got the coupons. Skipped getting the goods.
I put on a babushka (scarf) and went with Alexei across to the school where he marked his ballot, not really necessary given there was only the one name on it. He folded the white paper and walked to the table at the front of the room, with a big wooden ballot box with the slit in the top of it. Next to the table, a pedestal with a larger-than-life alabaster bust of Comrade Lenin. A friendly reminder of reality. Alexei slipped his folded ballot through the opening and we left. He got a thank you card for voting. It made me think of a Mass card.
But no coupons. No bribes. What a rip-off.
This Sunday, today, in Belarus, stuck, yes, stuck between Russia and Poland, an election is underway. Lukashenko will be elected. There will be knocks on doors in the afternoon. And one name on the ballot. And likely, still Lenin presiding. Nothing has changed.
What about Chicago?
The wallpaper was gold, a garish print. A tapestry hung on one wall behind the best easy chair in the room. The table was still heavy with platters of meat and bowls of potatoes with dill, pickles, sauces, breads, delicate glasses with wine, and the remains of a cake. Sunday dinner.
It could have been anywhere. My mom's house, any one of my college friends' homes where I'd often be invited on Sundays after church, or the Soderstrom's, maybe Rosie's, the Woods' in Plainfield, my inlaw's. A certain ritual prevailed no matter where, the passing of the plates, napkins unfolded, a prayer. The hostess took the first bite. And the next few hours were given over to the leisure of seconds and thirds, "please, have more," rich dessert, and lively conversation. We laughed at pompous professors and grumbled about cockroaches, inevitable in city apartments. We complained about the year's fashions and compared school work loads. We ate more. And again, more.
On this particular afternoon, the meal was in Moscow. The Russian Orthodox liturgy had taken several hours, so much so our kind host took us for coffee somewhere in the middle of it, I think because he didn't want to have to translate the sermon. Pavel had been one of the assisting priests. If I remember it right, we didn't tell him we'd taken a little break. But Alexei, one of our hosts, whose mother and aunt had prepared the feast we shared, was more fascinated with our lives, American and Canadian than with yet more liturgy.
At four o'clock there came a knock at the door. Alexei answered, we heard his impatience with the visitor, but not what he said. Then he came back, fully exasperated and embarrassed.
"It was the election committee. They know we have not been to vote. They said I should go now. Can you believe such a country? They keep track of who has voted and who has not. And they come to our flat to tell us to go vote. That's the Soviet Union," Alexei grumbled.
"Well," I responded, "did they offer you bread and eggs?"
He was indignant, "of course not. They don't bribe us to vote."
"Ah," I said, "I'm from Chicago and by afternoon the precinct captain comes around and offers us coupons for bread and eggs when we come and vote." True story. Got the coupons. Skipped getting the goods.
I put on a babushka (scarf) and went with Alexei across to the school where he marked his ballot, not really necessary given there was only the one name on it. He folded the white paper and walked to the table at the front of the room, with a big wooden ballot box with the slit in the top of it. Next to the table, a pedestal with a larger-than-life alabaster bust of Comrade Lenin. A friendly reminder of reality. Alexei slipped his folded ballot through the opening and we left. He got a thank you card for voting. It made me think of a Mass card.
But no coupons. No bribes. What a rip-off.
This Sunday, today, in Belarus, stuck, yes, stuck between Russia and Poland, an election is underway. Lukashenko will be elected. There will be knocks on doors in the afternoon. And one name on the ballot. And likely, still Lenin presiding. Nothing has changed.
What about Chicago?
Friday, December 17, 2010
There's nothing like a glorious Christmas concert!
Tonight was Ellie's first Christmas concert. Ellie is three, maybe four, a Pre-Kindergarten cherub who got to stand in the front row and wear a beautiful dress and shiny shoes and special curls in her hair and sing her happy Christmas song.
I have no idea how Ellie's night went but I can promise you that her grandmother was beside herself with excitement. Is there anything sweeter than children singing? Is there anything more treasured than our own child's singing?
True confessions: I miss those days. A lot. I miss the curling of the hair and the beautiful new dresses and the patent leather shoes that do reflect up and the angel in the front row who pulls her dress all the way up over her head at a critical moment in the delivery of the song's message. I miss the timid smiles that grow braver as the night goes on. The songs sung with confidence, the sincerity and conscientiousness with which my children delivered their melodies, their bright smiles when they spotted mommy and daddy and grandma and grandpa. Not to go on and on, but, seriously, what wonderful days.
Now we are likely to seek out the St. Martin's Chamber Choir, Cantorei, and our annual favorite, "Too Hot to Handel," the outta sight Gospel setting of Handel's Messiah performed by our Colorado Symphony and Chorus. It kills! Handel would have loved it.
Is there anything more glorious than a festive Christmas concert?
Yes. There is.
A desk. And a chair. Our holiday concert ticket money this year is going to an unlikely place, for an unusual purpose. School desks. For children in Malawi. $24 buys a desk for children in this poorest of the poor African nations, a desk and chair combo to replace their seven hours spent sitting on hard concrete. Learning. Can you imagine? Me either.
A desk, and a chair. That is even more glorious than the music for me this year.
Go to MSNBC and find Lawrence O'Donnell's KIND link, and put a kid's butt in a chair so she can learn. And become the next Nelson Mandela. Or Marie Curie. $24. Two tickets. Can do.
I have no idea how Ellie's night went but I can promise you that her grandmother was beside herself with excitement. Is there anything sweeter than children singing? Is there anything more treasured than our own child's singing?
True confessions: I miss those days. A lot. I miss the curling of the hair and the beautiful new dresses and the patent leather shoes that do reflect up and the angel in the front row who pulls her dress all the way up over her head at a critical moment in the delivery of the song's message. I miss the timid smiles that grow braver as the night goes on. The songs sung with confidence, the sincerity and conscientiousness with which my children delivered their melodies, their bright smiles when they spotted mommy and daddy and grandma and grandpa. Not to go on and on, but, seriously, what wonderful days.
Now we are likely to seek out the St. Martin's Chamber Choir, Cantorei, and our annual favorite, "Too Hot to Handel," the outta sight Gospel setting of Handel's Messiah performed by our Colorado Symphony and Chorus. It kills! Handel would have loved it.
Is there anything more glorious than a festive Christmas concert?
Yes. There is.
A desk. And a chair. Our holiday concert ticket money this year is going to an unlikely place, for an unusual purpose. School desks. For children in Malawi. $24 buys a desk for children in this poorest of the poor African nations, a desk and chair combo to replace their seven hours spent sitting on hard concrete. Learning. Can you imagine? Me either.
A desk, and a chair. That is even more glorious than the music for me this year.
Go to MSNBC and find Lawrence O'Donnell's KIND link, and put a kid's butt in a chair so she can learn. And become the next Nelson Mandela. Or Marie Curie. $24. Two tickets. Can do.
Thursday, December 16, 2010
Homage to my Book Club
Who knew I liked kale? And chutney sauce on ham?
For that matter, who knew I'd like Richard Russo, Jim Harrison, Junot Diaz?
Book clubs get a bad rap. Not always but often enough, they are dissed as gossip sessions with bad wine. (I just read that one.)
My book club (well, it's not mine, I was graciously invited to join years after the group of women who started it started it) is not like that at all. Not the slightest resemblance.
We drink excellent wine. And discuss killer books. We make it a point to read the Booker Prize winners, National Book Award winners, and spent the last several months reading female Nobel Prize winners, including a trip back to Willa Cather's early war novel. Wait. Or was it Pulitzer winners?
These retired teachers are the women I want to be in five, ten, fifteen years. They climb Mount Kilamanjaro (and even spell it correctly) and tutor homeless women and teach students suspended from their home schools.
But most of all, they think. They think hard. They think big, complex, perplexing, and difficult thoughts. They push themselves, they are still as eager to learn as one was at 18. They are funny, loving, witty, and strong. They rock my world.
We're going to read Let the Great World Spin by Colum McCann and the collected work of Fran (aka Dorothy Parker of the early 21st century) Leibowitz. And I lost track of the rest but they'll be good. That's a given.
How about you? Are you part of a book group? What are you reading? What is it like? What do you want to read next?
For that matter, who knew I'd like Richard Russo, Jim Harrison, Junot Diaz?
Book clubs get a bad rap. Not always but often enough, they are dissed as gossip sessions with bad wine. (I just read that one.)
My book club (well, it's not mine, I was graciously invited to join years after the group of women who started it started it) is not like that at all. Not the slightest resemblance.
We drink excellent wine. And discuss killer books. We make it a point to read the Booker Prize winners, National Book Award winners, and spent the last several months reading female Nobel Prize winners, including a trip back to Willa Cather's early war novel. Wait. Or was it Pulitzer winners?
These retired teachers are the women I want to be in five, ten, fifteen years. They climb Mount Kilamanjaro (and even spell it correctly) and tutor homeless women and teach students suspended from their home schools.
But most of all, they think. They think hard. They think big, complex, perplexing, and difficult thoughts. They push themselves, they are still as eager to learn as one was at 18. They are funny, loving, witty, and strong. They rock my world.
We're going to read Let the Great World Spin by Colum McCann and the collected work of Fran (aka Dorothy Parker of the early 21st century) Leibowitz. And I lost track of the rest but they'll be good. That's a given.
How about you? Are you part of a book group? What are you reading? What is it like? What do you want to read next?
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
My brain in a nutshell
hahaha!
That just came out. No pun intended. But now that it's out there, it is kind of cute. And apt.
The nutshell is cracked open. Yep. But this time it is on purpose. A healing purpose.
I have a new therapist. (Thank you insurance for that disruption in my life.) But, this is going to work out well, all to the good! We are soon going to begin a therapeutic process called Brain-Spotting. I don't understand it but I'm very excited that a wand is involved.
Like any surgery to remove disease and malignancy, the organ has to be cut open, exposed. Of course, normally, generous amounts of heavy anesthetics are involved. No such luck here.
Except rest. Brain rest. Which is just as well because it's not working anyway. At this most list-laden time of the year, when multi-taskers are basking in their olympian accomplishments (I remember, I was right in there with the best of them!), my brain is not working. Not like that. At all.
So. I shall hope to crank out a wise crack or tidbit of obvious wisdom every day or so. And meditate. Read when I can concentrate. And wait.
Which, after all, is what Advent is all about. It's not light yet. "The people who walked in darkness" still are. But that's okay.
Because we know how it goes. The oil will last. Enough will be enough.
I can wait.
That just came out. No pun intended. But now that it's out there, it is kind of cute. And apt.
The nutshell is cracked open. Yep. But this time it is on purpose. A healing purpose.
I have a new therapist. (Thank you insurance for that disruption in my life.) But, this is going to work out well, all to the good! We are soon going to begin a therapeutic process called Brain-Spotting. I don't understand it but I'm very excited that a wand is involved.
Like any surgery to remove disease and malignancy, the organ has to be cut open, exposed. Of course, normally, generous amounts of heavy anesthetics are involved. No such luck here.
Except rest. Brain rest. Which is just as well because it's not working anyway. At this most list-laden time of the year, when multi-taskers are basking in their olympian accomplishments (I remember, I was right in there with the best of them!), my brain is not working. Not like that. At all.
So. I shall hope to crank out a wise crack or tidbit of obvious wisdom every day or so. And meditate. Read when I can concentrate. And wait.
Which, after all, is what Advent is all about. It's not light yet. "The people who walked in darkness" still are. But that's okay.
Because we know how it goes. The oil will last. Enough will be enough.
I can wait.
Monday, December 13, 2010
The light in darkness: Lucy day
Brilliance breaking the dawn.
Power underwriting the promise of a new day.
Warmth finding the coldness of our hearts.
Energy stirring up the deadness of spirit.
Light needs darkness to make its point.
Light finds inertia and sparks its power.
Light finds the frigid and insinuates its heat.
Light looks out for the listless and stir up its flame.
Light changes all those things into what they are not.
Us too.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i2-Q_ObdE-4
Power underwriting the promise of a new day.
Warmth finding the coldness of our hearts.
Energy stirring up the deadness of spirit.
Light needs darkness to make its point.
Light finds inertia and sparks its power.
Light finds the frigid and insinuates its heat.
Light looks out for the listless and stir up its flame.
Light changes all those things into what they are not.
Us too.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i2-Q_ObdE-4
Thursday, December 9, 2010
The trouble with Hannukah
Okay. I'm wading in.
Deep water this. Make people mad. Oh well.
It's got to be said.
The problem with Hannukah is that it mixes up G-d and war. As in "G-d is on our side."
The glorious glow of candlelight last night softened the space I was in, both figuratively and literally. It's all about the lights, no? It's all about the miracle, right?
Only enough is enough. The oil lasted. Lovely lesson. Miracles happen. Good to be startled with that reminder.
But it's the happening in a war part that stops me up.
We humans have been dragging G-d into our wars since forever. "He's on our side." "She favors us." We have gods fighting each other. We jump in to defend ours. We fight with each other about G-d. Or about power and call it god. We kill for god. I don't think G-d is grateful for our efforts.
So, I need to say this. G-d is not on anybody's side.
G-d is on the side of: no war. The G-d of the Hebrew and Christian Scriptures, at any rate, says, "no war."
The lights were beautiful. The time feels a bit magical. I like the lesson.
But not the G-d part. Frankly, I like Hannukah better when we leave G-d out of it.
Deep water this. Make people mad. Oh well.
It's got to be said.
The problem with Hannukah is that it mixes up G-d and war. As in "G-d is on our side."
The glorious glow of candlelight last night softened the space I was in, both figuratively and literally. It's all about the lights, no? It's all about the miracle, right?
Only enough is enough. The oil lasted. Lovely lesson. Miracles happen. Good to be startled with that reminder.
But it's the happening in a war part that stops me up.
We humans have been dragging G-d into our wars since forever. "He's on our side." "She favors us." We have gods fighting each other. We jump in to defend ours. We fight with each other about G-d. Or about power and call it god. We kill for god. I don't think G-d is grateful for our efforts.
So, I need to say this. G-d is not on anybody's side.
G-d is on the side of: no war. The G-d of the Hebrew and Christian Scriptures, at any rate, says, "no war."
The lights were beautiful. The time feels a bit magical. I like the lesson.
But not the G-d part. Frankly, I like Hannukah better when we leave G-d out of it.
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
The Heart in Darkness
It's late. The Hannukah candles are burning against the dark sky beyond my window. I like to wait until it is pitch black out there so that the contrast is all the more striking.
Seven. Almost bright enough to read by. Barely enough.
Thirty years ago tonight I crossed the Soviet/Polish border for the second time. What I remember is the dark. As before, the euphemistically described guided tour of the train yard and shelter house were offered. There was no refusing. I walked maybe twenty minutes or so in the stultifying cold, hearing every crunch on packed snow, every footfall, On this night I had an idea of what was waiting and fell into a calm rhythm of walking, surefooted on the non-icy snowpack, looking up at the stars. Millions of stars. In a very dark sky.
They knew no boundary. Why should I?
Nonetheless, five-hundred-thousand Soviet soldiers, tanks, armored personnel carriers, trucks, vans, rocketry, and god knows what else were prepared to defend that boundary, to invade Poland, on that night. They were not even exactly out of sight. "Ivan," the lanky guy who had a hat too big so that it kept falling over his face, had his lunch pail. "Have a good day at the war, dear."
Those soldiers: they stayed on their own side. I went west without them.
The billions of stars, falling through this galaxy, lit up long ago, bits of light: the heart in darkness.
Seven. Almost bright enough to read by. Barely enough.
Thirty years ago tonight I crossed the Soviet/Polish border for the second time. What I remember is the dark. As before, the euphemistically described guided tour of the train yard and shelter house were offered. There was no refusing. I walked maybe twenty minutes or so in the stultifying cold, hearing every crunch on packed snow, every footfall, On this night I had an idea of what was waiting and fell into a calm rhythm of walking, surefooted on the non-icy snowpack, looking up at the stars. Millions of stars. In a very dark sky.
They knew no boundary. Why should I?
Nonetheless, five-hundred-thousand Soviet soldiers, tanks, armored personnel carriers, trucks, vans, rocketry, and god knows what else were prepared to defend that boundary, to invade Poland, on that night. They were not even exactly out of sight. "Ivan," the lanky guy who had a hat too big so that it kept falling over his face, had his lunch pail. "Have a good day at the war, dear."
Those soldiers: they stayed on their own side. I went west without them.
The billions of stars, falling through this galaxy, lit up long ago, bits of light: the heart in darkness.
Sunday, December 5, 2010
Three, four, five
"Nothing that is possible can save us.
We, who are about to die,
demand a miracle."
__W.H. Auden
Impasse. Intransigence. Impossibility.
We seem stuck, really stuck, more stuck than at any time I can remember. We are determined to not work together. Obstruction and obstinence are the order of the day. We're being pulled further apart. We're being broken.
Hannukah is about a miracle. The lights are only for celebrating the miracle but the real Hannukah story is the story of a miracle.
Put simply: not enough became enough.
That's it. There was not enough oil to burn for one day yet it burned for eight, until it was possible to press for olive oil to keep the lamp lit. Not enough became, by some miracle of grace, enough.
It turns out the lights of Hannukah, or Chanukah, are not themselves the point. They witness to the point: the miracle. And the candle lights of Chanukah are not to be used for illumination, per se. They are for our reflection. On the miracle. Of enough. Providing.
It's a good thing because three candles didn't do much for me. Couldn't read by that light. Nor four. And now, with barely five, it's getting better. I suppose. I'm not actually trying to use them.
The lights shine on the window sill in the dark night so the world around can see and marvel at the miracle: enough. There was enough.
So that I can see and marvel at the miracle: enough. There was enough.
We who are about to die, of poverty, war, greed, disease, hate, demand a miracle. Nothing that is possible --- our efforts, our failed attempts --- can save us.
I look at the five lights burning in the darkness tonight and think: miracle.
Hope. It can happen. Wisdom and light from on high. So be it.
Quickly.
We, who are about to die,
demand a miracle."
__W.H. Auden
Impasse. Intransigence. Impossibility.
We seem stuck, really stuck, more stuck than at any time I can remember. We are determined to not work together. Obstruction and obstinence are the order of the day. We're being pulled further apart. We're being broken.
Hannukah is about a miracle. The lights are only for celebrating the miracle but the real Hannukah story is the story of a miracle.
Put simply: not enough became enough.
That's it. There was not enough oil to burn for one day yet it burned for eight, until it was possible to press for olive oil to keep the lamp lit. Not enough became, by some miracle of grace, enough.
It turns out the lights of Hannukah, or Chanukah, are not themselves the point. They witness to the point: the miracle. And the candle lights of Chanukah are not to be used for illumination, per se. They are for our reflection. On the miracle. Of enough. Providing.
It's a good thing because three candles didn't do much for me. Couldn't read by that light. Nor four. And now, with barely five, it's getting better. I suppose. I'm not actually trying to use them.
The lights shine on the window sill in the dark night so the world around can see and marvel at the miracle: enough. There was enough.
So that I can see and marvel at the miracle: enough. There was enough.
We who are about to die, of poverty, war, greed, disease, hate, demand a miracle. Nothing that is possible --- our efforts, our failed attempts --- can save us.
I look at the five lights burning in the darkness tonight and think: miracle.
Hope. It can happen. Wisdom and light from on high. So be it.
Quickly.
Thursday, December 2, 2010
"Chanukah Annika"
And then there were two.
Two candles tonight.
Does it make a measurable difference in lighting the room? Hardly.
Does their light stand out? Barely.
Bathed in lamp light, the room bright and cheery on this winter night, the two little candles are insignificant. One has to make a point of noticing them.
But turn off the lamps. The two flickers stand out dramatically against the dark night beyond.
Without out their few lumens we would sit entirely surrounded by darkness.
They make all the difference right now. There is not nothing. There is something. Something essential. Light.
So it is. Even a little is essential. Sometimes even enough. We'd like more but for this night this little light has changed the atmosphere, even the sense of what is possible in here, what we could do.
So it is. And not just in this room.
Two candles tonight.
Does it make a measurable difference in lighting the room? Hardly.
Does their light stand out? Barely.
Bathed in lamp light, the room bright and cheery on this winter night, the two little candles are insignificant. One has to make a point of noticing them.
But turn off the lamps. The two flickers stand out dramatically against the dark night beyond.
Without out their few lumens we would sit entirely surrounded by darkness.
They make all the difference right now. There is not nothing. There is something. Something essential. Light.
So it is. Even a little is essential. Sometimes even enough. We'd like more but for this night this little light has changed the atmosphere, even the sense of what is possible in here, what we could do.
So it is. And not just in this room.
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
Tell me a story! World AIDS Day, 2010
The calls came from little towns. In no-name places. From cousins. And sisters. And brothers. And students. We heard about a cowboy in rural Oklahoma. And a son who struggled in high school. Two uncles in I forgot where who traveled the world before they came home to die.
Stories. "Tell us about them," the people you want to remember today and to name, your loved ones and friends who died of AIDS.
There are so many. So many names. And so many stories. The South American community has a beautiful way of lifting up the lives of those they wish to honor, "Presente!" And so these old friends were present today in my car and in cars across American, in living rooms and offices and at kitchen tables. "Presente!"
Whose story will you tell? Will you, please? Let's remember together.
I think that helps me, and perhaps you too, to gird up for the fight against the spread of HIV, and to care for those who lives with AIDS. The real people, the losses, the faces, the laughter and living we shared.
And let them be with us. I'm sure your loved ones are with you every day. Today might be a time for us to share them with each other.
(I'm sorry this is so late in the day. Thursday and days after can be days to tell the stories too.)
I told about Dan. Among so many young men whom I knew at the worst of the epidemic, who died, Dan was the loneliest. Closeted because of work, he was quiet, conscientious, faithful. And afraid. He hid his illness and himself until the very end. His story was the first one that came to my mind when invited today to tell a story. Dan. Whose name was not named then. But it is now. We miss you.
Stories. "Tell us about them," the people you want to remember today and to name, your loved ones and friends who died of AIDS.
There are so many. So many names. And so many stories. The South American community has a beautiful way of lifting up the lives of those they wish to honor, "Presente!" And so these old friends were present today in my car and in cars across American, in living rooms and offices and at kitchen tables. "Presente!"
Whose story will you tell? Will you, please? Let's remember together.
I think that helps me, and perhaps you too, to gird up for the fight against the spread of HIV, and to care for those who lives with AIDS. The real people, the losses, the faces, the laughter and living we shared.
And let them be with us. I'm sure your loved ones are with you every day. Today might be a time for us to share them with each other.
(I'm sorry this is so late in the day. Thursday and days after can be days to tell the stories too.)
I told about Dan. Among so many young men whom I knew at the worst of the epidemic, who died, Dan was the loneliest. Closeted because of work, he was quiet, conscientious, faithful. And afraid. He hid his illness and himself until the very end. His story was the first one that came to my mind when invited today to tell a story. Dan. Whose name was not named then. But it is now. We miss you.
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