"Guilt", someone once told me, "goes away."
And it does, if you think about it. Unless you were raised Roman Catholic in parochial schools or Orthodox Jewish, you might feel bad about something you did/said/didn't do/didn't say for a while, but then you get tired of feeling guilty and just stop. The human brain can, in most cases, only sustain guilt for a while.
Stupid, on the other hand, endures and endures.
I read an article the other day about David Bartman, who is described as a 'former Evangelical pastor' and a 'conservative activist'. In a May 9 sermon (what's a 'former' pastor doing preaching?) said that a Christian couldn't drink Starbucks coffee and be Biblically faithful since Starbucks, as a company, supports gay marriage.
Well, I shouldn't be so fast to judge. I have avoided Denny's since some racial stuff about that restaurant chain and Home Depot because they are anti-gay in some way. It's ok, in my mind, to avoid certain retailers out of a political position. But when you bring the Bible into it and say "Christians can't do thus and so" it changes it all for me.
I'm just getting really tired of stupid.
Since there are few, if any, Native Americans in the U.S. Congress, it seems obvious that all of them, somewhere in their families' past, came from somewhere else. And yet the hysteria over an Immigration Policy giving those without papers and without a criminal record a path to citizenship would make you think most Republicans are Cherokee or Apache. Decent, hardworking people who left their country of origin to come here for a better life, deserve a chance at it, just like my ancestors had.
And the irrational hatred of President Obama and most anything he supports must, if seems to me, be motivated by some sort of racism (conscious or unconscious).
And the shit about guns...give me a break! "Guns don't kill people, people kill people," is the lamest and among the most stupid things I've ever heard. Let's accept it on face value. Which would you like to come face-to-face with: a person who wants to kill you with a gun or a person who wants to kill you with a #2 Dixon Ticonderoga pencil?
'Nuff said about stupid when it comes to guns.
An Oxford Neuroscientist named Kathleen Taylor, has recently opined that religious fundamentalism could be treated as a mental illness.
Well, I'm glad someone besides me thinks that. It's obvious to me that strapping an explosive device to yourself and blowing up innocent people is crazy. So is an irrational hatred of people different from you. So is an inflexible adherence to doctrine and dogma someone centuries ago made up out of smoke and mirrors.
Maybe there should be a special ward in every mental hospital for folks suffering from Tea Party Stress Syndrome.
(I'll feel bad for a while about being so harsh on these people I consider stupid. Who put me in charge of deciding who is stupid, after all? But guilt, as I've been told, goes away.
Stupid endures.)
Tuesday, June 4, 2013
Friday, May 31, 2013
Not so fast, you atheists...
OK, so last week in a homily (all of which he gives without notes) Pope Francis (who I really like, much to my surprise and amazement) said that even Atheists who do good works are redeemed by Christ and will meet the Christians "there". Whether 'there' meant heaven or not left the door open for the Vatican to 'clarify' what the pontiff meant.
All people are 'redeemed' the theologians in Rome (who are going to have a lot of work on their hands if Francis continues down the road I hope he will) but to be 'saved' and, like go to heaven (whatever that means) you have to accept your redemption and accept Jesus as your Savior.
Which reminds me of a wonderful joke:
Q. Do you know the difference between a terrorist and a theologian?
A. You can negotiate with a terrorist....
The Vatican's 'clarification' about the Pope's misstatement about the salvation of atheists made two groups very happy. Conservative, dogmatic Christians and atheists!
The last thing, I imagine, an atheist wants to hear is that the God they don't believe in is going to save them despite their unbelief. Imagine how frustrating that would be: here you are, not even believing in a God, much less a God who is going to 'save' you, and the Pope, the most visible Christian in the world, tells you the God you don't believe in is going to 'save' you whether you want to be 'saved' or not. What a quandary!
Now you have to not believe in a God that, according to the Pope, believes in you! Wasn't that a line from "Hair"? Or am I misremembering (to quote George W. Bush)?
When I was a student at Virginia Theological Seminary in Alexandria, the largest Episcopal seminary and the one with the most money, Dr. Richard Reid was interrupted in the midst of a lecture on the theology of the New Testament by a very conservative student who asked, "Dean Reid, what you're saying sounds a lot like 'universalism' to me."
Dick paused for nearly a minute. Then he answered, "I would describe my theology as 'Hopeful Universalism'."
The student got up and left the room in disgust.
I guess I've never gotten the whole thing about Christianity that says if you're not a Christian, you can't be saved. Some of the most Christ-like people I've known have been Jews and Muslims and Buddhists and non-believers. I have no problem at all imagining sharing the Realm of God with them. Lots of Christians, it seems to me, aren't satisfied that God will save them, they need God to 'not save' all the others.
Was it Mark Twain that said, "it is not enough that I should succeed, my friends must fail...."?
To be flip, that doesn't sound very 'Christian' does it?
Religious people of all ilks, over the endless centuries, have killed each other for not believing as they did. And when that failed, they turned on their own and burned the heretics.
I'm not an atheist. But I am a heretic. Bishop Jim Curry even gave me a lapel button that says "HERETIC". I wear it with pride.
I just think religious folk should 'get over themselves' and accept the goodness in those unlike them as the goodness of God.
But then, that's just me talkin'.....
All people are 'redeemed' the theologians in Rome (who are going to have a lot of work on their hands if Francis continues down the road I hope he will) but to be 'saved' and, like go to heaven (whatever that means) you have to accept your redemption and accept Jesus as your Savior.
Which reminds me of a wonderful joke:
Q. Do you know the difference between a terrorist and a theologian?
A. You can negotiate with a terrorist....
The Vatican's 'clarification' about the Pope's misstatement about the salvation of atheists made two groups very happy. Conservative, dogmatic Christians and atheists!
The last thing, I imagine, an atheist wants to hear is that the God they don't believe in is going to save them despite their unbelief. Imagine how frustrating that would be: here you are, not even believing in a God, much less a God who is going to 'save' you, and the Pope, the most visible Christian in the world, tells you the God you don't believe in is going to 'save' you whether you want to be 'saved' or not. What a quandary!
Now you have to not believe in a God that, according to the Pope, believes in you! Wasn't that a line from "Hair"? Or am I misremembering (to quote George W. Bush)?
When I was a student at Virginia Theological Seminary in Alexandria, the largest Episcopal seminary and the one with the most money, Dr. Richard Reid was interrupted in the midst of a lecture on the theology of the New Testament by a very conservative student who asked, "Dean Reid, what you're saying sounds a lot like 'universalism' to me."
Dick paused for nearly a minute. Then he answered, "I would describe my theology as 'Hopeful Universalism'."
The student got up and left the room in disgust.
I guess I've never gotten the whole thing about Christianity that says if you're not a Christian, you can't be saved. Some of the most Christ-like people I've known have been Jews and Muslims and Buddhists and non-believers. I have no problem at all imagining sharing the Realm of God with them. Lots of Christians, it seems to me, aren't satisfied that God will save them, they need God to 'not save' all the others.
Was it Mark Twain that said, "it is not enough that I should succeed, my friends must fail...."?
To be flip, that doesn't sound very 'Christian' does it?
Religious people of all ilks, over the endless centuries, have killed each other for not believing as they did. And when that failed, they turned on their own and burned the heretics.
I'm not an atheist. But I am a heretic. Bishop Jim Curry even gave me a lapel button that says "HERETIC". I wear it with pride.
I just think religious folk should 'get over themselves' and accept the goodness in those unlike them as the goodness of God.
But then, that's just me talkin'.....
Thursday, May 30, 2013
Abundance
LUSH (though that word feels so rich in my mouth, so wondrous, so full, so complete) doesn't do the plants in our yards justice this year.
We have six or seven rhododendron bushes in our yards--two in front of our front porch, one to the east in the front and 3 around our back deck. Rhododendron is the state flower of West Virginia, by the way, though some minority of folks back home call it mountain laurel. It is wild and profuse along the mountain roads where I come from, deep pink in its glory. And our rhododendron this year are more blossom than leaves, huge blossoms, some as big as my head (and I have a big head--7 and 5/8, thank you very much). I've never seen anything like it. When you sit on our back deck, the blossoms hang down around you from a ten foot high bush. And the bees are busy indeed, but they won't bother you because, they too, realize the abundance of this year's growth.
And our snowball tree (I don't know the real name for it--the blossoms are round and white and usually the size of a tennis ball) but this year they are the size of softballs and are nearly weighing down the branches to the ground.
And our two broom bushes (again, I know no other name) one in the front yard and one in the back, have not simply recovered from the damage of the winter's snow--they are luxuriating in their yellow flowers, tinted with red in the middle.
The ground cover purple flowers and the many ferns are way ahead of where they should be, considering what a cool spring it has been.
The now gone tulips and jonquils were astonishing as well. Even the 80 foot horse chestnut tree in our front yard that I thought was dead ten years ago is full and flowering, dropping worm looking things all over the yard.
Have any of you noticed in your yard, or driving around Connecticut, how lush and abundant this year is turning out?
The deep purple (almost black) irises in the front yard, beside the drive-way, are about to pop. They seem taller and sturdier than I ever remember.
Everything seems full of life and abundant.
I don't know if you'd pondered what all this floral abundance is about. I know Bern and I have, wondering over it, comparing theories.
My theory is this: the odd hot spell two months ago and all the rain lately.
Her's has more to do with the way the winter went.
Who knows?
But, for whatever reason, our yards are chock-a-block full of Abundance.
There is a poem by Anne Sexton that ends like this:
"...Then the well spoke to me.
It said: Abundance is scooped from abundance,
yet abundance remains."
That's how I feel, wherever I go these days, about the lush, abundance all around me.
Maybe it's just more than the plants. Maybe Abundance is just showing up....
Who knows? Something to ponder as the heat sets in this day....
We have six or seven rhododendron bushes in our yards--two in front of our front porch, one to the east in the front and 3 around our back deck. Rhododendron is the state flower of West Virginia, by the way, though some minority of folks back home call it mountain laurel. It is wild and profuse along the mountain roads where I come from, deep pink in its glory. And our rhododendron this year are more blossom than leaves, huge blossoms, some as big as my head (and I have a big head--7 and 5/8, thank you very much). I've never seen anything like it. When you sit on our back deck, the blossoms hang down around you from a ten foot high bush. And the bees are busy indeed, but they won't bother you because, they too, realize the abundance of this year's growth.
And our snowball tree (I don't know the real name for it--the blossoms are round and white and usually the size of a tennis ball) but this year they are the size of softballs and are nearly weighing down the branches to the ground.
And our two broom bushes (again, I know no other name) one in the front yard and one in the back, have not simply recovered from the damage of the winter's snow--they are luxuriating in their yellow flowers, tinted with red in the middle.
The ground cover purple flowers and the many ferns are way ahead of where they should be, considering what a cool spring it has been.
The now gone tulips and jonquils were astonishing as well. Even the 80 foot horse chestnut tree in our front yard that I thought was dead ten years ago is full and flowering, dropping worm looking things all over the yard.
Have any of you noticed in your yard, or driving around Connecticut, how lush and abundant this year is turning out?
The deep purple (almost black) irises in the front yard, beside the drive-way, are about to pop. They seem taller and sturdier than I ever remember.
Everything seems full of life and abundant.
I don't know if you'd pondered what all this floral abundance is about. I know Bern and I have, wondering over it, comparing theories.
My theory is this: the odd hot spell two months ago and all the rain lately.
Her's has more to do with the way the winter went.
Who knows?
But, for whatever reason, our yards are chock-a-block full of Abundance.
There is a poem by Anne Sexton that ends like this:
"...Then the well spoke to me.
It said: Abundance is scooped from abundance,
yet abundance remains."
That's how I feel, wherever I go these days, about the lush, abundance all around me.
Maybe it's just more than the plants. Maybe Abundance is just showing up....
Who knows? Something to ponder as the heat sets in this day....
Wednesday, May 29, 2013
Back porch ponderings
Out on the back porch tonight,
watching the distant heat lightening,
illuminate the dark clouds,
drinking a glass of wine:
I started wondering
if a hundred years from now
anyone will remember that,
for a brief time, I lived upon
this huge, stormy marble
lost in the infinitude
of mostly empty space?
Will anyone remind another
that I actually was, or,
will I be obliterated from
all human memory?
I sometimes speak of people long dead
who I never really knew.
Like great-uncle Hovie,
a bachelor farmer,
who died in his rocking chair
and wasn't found for two days.
How they tied him down
in my great-grandmothers living room
for his wake and
how at two or three in the morning,
everyone sleepy and some
a little drunk,
the rope slipped and Hovie sat up,
ending forever the practice
of wakes
in the Bradley family.
Like my great grandfather
who came over from Ireland
with two brothers
during bad times.
How they got into such a fight
on the boat that
when they arrived
at Ellis Island
they gave false names
so they could never find each other
in this broad, new land and
how to add insult to injury,
my great-grandfather
changed his name from O'Connor
to "Jones"--a Welsh name--
to prove forever the DNA deep
resentments of the Irish.
Like my uncle Leon,
my mother's brother,
who died at 12
from what must have been
a brain tumor.
How he suffered so greatly
and with such courage and
how every member of my my mother's
family kept a haunting picture
of him in their living rooms,
his face made old by suffering and
how I studied that picture
over and again
pondering what it must be like
to die young
and to be so loved.
A century from now,
will anyone know any stories
about my life?
Will my grandchildren
tell their grandchildren
something of me--
some memory of theirs
that will pass on through
my blood to theirs?
Some little thing would be enough:
like how I let them brush
and put barrettes
in my hair
or I bought them gelato
from the little store
in Baltimore
or just how much I loved them....
Or will, as I fear,
texting replace family stories
and Face Book
be the length of our memories,
while the lore of those who share your genes,
long dead, dies as well?
jgb
watching the distant heat lightening,
illuminate the dark clouds,
drinking a glass of wine:
I started wondering
if a hundred years from now
anyone will remember that,
for a brief time, I lived upon
this huge, stormy marble
lost in the infinitude
of mostly empty space?
Will anyone remind another
that I actually was, or,
will I be obliterated from
all human memory?
I sometimes speak of people long dead
who I never really knew.
Like great-uncle Hovie,
a bachelor farmer,
who died in his rocking chair
and wasn't found for two days.
How they tied him down
in my great-grandmothers living room
for his wake and
how at two or three in the morning,
everyone sleepy and some
a little drunk,
the rope slipped and Hovie sat up,
ending forever the practice
of wakes
in the Bradley family.
Like my great grandfather
who came over from Ireland
with two brothers
during bad times.
How they got into such a fight
on the boat that
when they arrived
at Ellis Island
they gave false names
so they could never find each other
in this broad, new land and
how to add insult to injury,
my great-grandfather
changed his name from O'Connor
to "Jones"--a Welsh name--
to prove forever the DNA deep
resentments of the Irish.
Like my uncle Leon,
my mother's brother,
who died at 12
from what must have been
a brain tumor.
How he suffered so greatly
and with such courage and
how every member of my my mother's
family kept a haunting picture
of him in their living rooms,
his face made old by suffering and
how I studied that picture
over and again
pondering what it must be like
to die young
and to be so loved.
A century from now,
will anyone know any stories
about my life?
Will my grandchildren
tell their grandchildren
something of me--
some memory of theirs
that will pass on through
my blood to theirs?
Some little thing would be enough:
like how I let them brush
and put barrettes
in my hair
or I bought them gelato
from the little store
in Baltimore
or just how much I loved them....
Or will, as I fear,
texting replace family stories
and Face Book
be the length of our memories,
while the lore of those who share your genes,
long dead, dies as well?
jgb
Tuesday, May 28, 2013
Toasted ham and cheese is a real breakthrough
I haven't blogged since Friday night. There is a reason.
(Anyone with tender sensibilities should stop reading now--I'll give you some blank lines to go somewhere else online....)
(OK, don't say I didn't warn you....)
Saturday night we when to dinner for Jack's birthday. It was a great time. But I think I got some bad shrimp. I blame it on the shrimp (which was in a fish stew of sorts) because I was the only one who had shrimp in any form and others had calamari and clams--the other two things in my stew--and no one else got sick.
I went on a website that diagnoses your abdominal distress by asking you questions about your symptoms. WHAT ISN'T ON LINE THESE DAYS? What I had might have been a stomach virus (but I didn't have a fever, which most viruses give you) or food poisoning. Food poisoning was a complete match for my symptoms (which I won't share even though since you're still reading you have claimed to have rock-hard sensibilities. No one needs a description of what food poisoning does to you.
I ate nothing all day Sunday and warned the people at Emmanuel that I might bolt for the bathroom with no warning so they should carry on without me....
I could drink liquids (a sip or so at a time) to keep hydrated.
I ate some grits and a soft-boiled egg and an Italian ice on Monday.
Just to show you what a 'hail fellow, well met' I am--if you don't already know--I grilled tuna, corn on the cob and red and yellow peppers on Memorial day for Bern, Mimi and our friend, John...and did it, they said, to perfection though I couldn't take a bite. Mimi eats tuna as rare as it would be if you ran it over a candle for a while, but even she said I got hers right.
So, the toasted ham and cheese for Tuesday lunch was a real break-through. I ate it before I drove Mimi to Fairfield for a dentist appointment. Since she was coming to CT she came to us on Monday.
What joy to have her around. She's extremely comfortable to be with--very low maintenance--but engaging and charming in spurts.
We got to see her engagement ring up close rather than on the Internet and it is gorgeous. Young Tim has real taste.
It's the first Memorial Day in my memory when I didn't eat and drink too much. I was just glad I lived through it....
(I did have left-over tuna and corn for dinner tonight, so things are definitely on the mend....)
I must say this: food poisoning makes you face your frailty and mortality....even long to discover your mortality, like NOW!
(Anyone with tender sensibilities should stop reading now--I'll give you some blank lines to go somewhere else online....)
(OK, don't say I didn't warn you....)
Saturday night we when to dinner for Jack's birthday. It was a great time. But I think I got some bad shrimp. I blame it on the shrimp (which was in a fish stew of sorts) because I was the only one who had shrimp in any form and others had calamari and clams--the other two things in my stew--and no one else got sick.
I went on a website that diagnoses your abdominal distress by asking you questions about your symptoms. WHAT ISN'T ON LINE THESE DAYS? What I had might have been a stomach virus (but I didn't have a fever, which most viruses give you) or food poisoning. Food poisoning was a complete match for my symptoms (which I won't share even though since you're still reading you have claimed to have rock-hard sensibilities. No one needs a description of what food poisoning does to you.
I ate nothing all day Sunday and warned the people at Emmanuel that I might bolt for the bathroom with no warning so they should carry on without me....
I could drink liquids (a sip or so at a time) to keep hydrated.
I ate some grits and a soft-boiled egg and an Italian ice on Monday.
Just to show you what a 'hail fellow, well met' I am--if you don't already know--I grilled tuna, corn on the cob and red and yellow peppers on Memorial day for Bern, Mimi and our friend, John...and did it, they said, to perfection though I couldn't take a bite. Mimi eats tuna as rare as it would be if you ran it over a candle for a while, but even she said I got hers right.
So, the toasted ham and cheese for Tuesday lunch was a real break-through. I ate it before I drove Mimi to Fairfield for a dentist appointment. Since she was coming to CT she came to us on Monday.
What joy to have her around. She's extremely comfortable to be with--very low maintenance--but engaging and charming in spurts.
We got to see her engagement ring up close rather than on the Internet and it is gorgeous. Young Tim has real taste.
It's the first Memorial Day in my memory when I didn't eat and drink too much. I was just glad I lived through it....
(I did have left-over tuna and corn for dinner tonight, so things are definitely on the mend....)
I must say this: food poisoning makes you face your frailty and mortality....even long to discover your mortality, like NOW!
Friday, May 24, 2013
Bern is painting, I am going to movies....
Bern is painting our living room. I did look at paint samples and even went to Home Depot--a place that unnerves me more that Dracula's Castle would--to help her buy all the stuff...or at least help her carry it all out to her truck.
I am banned from painting because I don't paint up to Bern's standards. (Just as I'm banned from yard work and house cleaning for the same reason--I just can't do it to satisfy her.)
So she's going to be painting for quite a while now--I have a vague idea of which rooms she is painting but wouldn't trust myself to be accurate about it. A couple of bedrooms for sure and maybe the dining room, though I hope not since it is this funky yellow-orange with a gold ceiling that I really like. But we'll see how extensive this painting will be. All I know for sure is that I am banned from taking part.
(Just a note to the wise and lazy: if you prove yourself incompetent at stuff around the house, you will be banned and can go to movies while the other person in your household does those things. Not a bad deal, I'd say.)
I went to see the new Star Trek movie, which was amazing visually and in making 'what happens next' even more dangerous and exciting that 'what just happened'. I'm a sucker for Star Trek stuff, no matter what generation of the show it is. Problem is, these recent movies are supposed to be Kirk and Spock and Bones and Ohura and Sulu and Scotty as younger versions of the people--Leonard Nemoy and William Schatner (et al)--who were in the original TV series when I was much younger than I am now. And if you'd watch an episode of the original after seeing this you'd think it was when people drove star cruisers that were Model T's to the Lexus models of the new movies. It's jarring to realize that what Spock and Kirk had to work with in the beginning was like light years away from the special effects and computer generated stuff their younger selves had....
One of the amusing things is that the Starship Enterprise crew come upon some folks who were cryoginically frozen several centuries before and they don't understand the technology, as one of the characters says 'it's too ancient' since there was no need for cryogenics any more!
The whole thing gives the lie to 'progress' since Spock and Kirk have such wondrously more advanced technology as young men in the present as they did as older men in the past.
Time, in Star Trek, at any rate, seems remarkably relative.
For all the strum and drang of the newer incarnation of Star Trek, I wouldn't trade it all for "The Trouble with Tribbles" episode of the originals. Since it won't spoil anything if you go see "Into Darkness", there is a dead Tribble in the movie that is the key to a resurrection worthy of the New Testament....
So, if you aren't competent to paint--you might go see it....
I am banned from painting because I don't paint up to Bern's standards. (Just as I'm banned from yard work and house cleaning for the same reason--I just can't do it to satisfy her.)
So she's going to be painting for quite a while now--I have a vague idea of which rooms she is painting but wouldn't trust myself to be accurate about it. A couple of bedrooms for sure and maybe the dining room, though I hope not since it is this funky yellow-orange with a gold ceiling that I really like. But we'll see how extensive this painting will be. All I know for sure is that I am banned from taking part.
(Just a note to the wise and lazy: if you prove yourself incompetent at stuff around the house, you will be banned and can go to movies while the other person in your household does those things. Not a bad deal, I'd say.)
I went to see the new Star Trek movie, which was amazing visually and in making 'what happens next' even more dangerous and exciting that 'what just happened'. I'm a sucker for Star Trek stuff, no matter what generation of the show it is. Problem is, these recent movies are supposed to be Kirk and Spock and Bones and Ohura and Sulu and Scotty as younger versions of the people--Leonard Nemoy and William Schatner (et al)--who were in the original TV series when I was much younger than I am now. And if you'd watch an episode of the original after seeing this you'd think it was when people drove star cruisers that were Model T's to the Lexus models of the new movies. It's jarring to realize that what Spock and Kirk had to work with in the beginning was like light years away from the special effects and computer generated stuff their younger selves had....
One of the amusing things is that the Starship Enterprise crew come upon some folks who were cryoginically frozen several centuries before and they don't understand the technology, as one of the characters says 'it's too ancient' since there was no need for cryogenics any more!
The whole thing gives the lie to 'progress' since Spock and Kirk have such wondrously more advanced technology as young men in the present as they did as older men in the past.
Time, in Star Trek, at any rate, seems remarkably relative.
For all the strum and drang of the newer incarnation of Star Trek, I wouldn't trade it all for "The Trouble with Tribbles" episode of the originals. Since it won't spoil anything if you go see "Into Darkness", there is a dead Tribble in the movie that is the key to a resurrection worthy of the New Testament....
So, if you aren't competent to paint--you might go see it....
Thursday, May 23, 2013
Thinking your pets are like humans is always a bad idea....
Often, when I'm sitting at my computer typing (as I am now) Luke, our Maine Coon Cat is laying on the table where all my junk is--folders, calendar, books, papers, note books, Jack Parker's black leather prayer book, files, a tennis ball (for some reason), CD;s, my mother's butter dish (for some reason), one of those dolls with smaller dolls in it of Hedici Matsui, paper clips--you get the idea: junk.
Lukie has a tail that may be longer than his body (I've never measured but will and let you know) and fluffier than a raccoon tail. He has that odd 'm' on his forehead and huge (I mean huge!) yellow eyes. He watches me and rolls over to get my attention and I think, "Luke loves me". That is anthropomorphising a cat--which is never a good idea. What he is actually thinking, I believe when I'm not attributing human emotions to him, is something like "do you have a pork chop or chicken thigh on you? Or some of those duck treats I like so much?"
I talk to my dog, Bela, a lot. I keep waiting for him to talk back, which, rationally, I know will never in a million years, happen. But I keep waiting anyway. He looks like he would like to answer me, tilting his head to one side and trying to see me through the hair over his eyes. When I'm honest, I know he's just waiting for me to say one of the English words he recognizes: 'go out', he knows; 'bowl', 'breakfast' and 'dinner' are in the same category, 'treat' he knows for sure; 'upstairs' and 'big bed' he responses to, running upstairs to jump on the big bed for the night.
Does Bela 'love' me? Bern tells me he does. Often when I'm gone, she says he lays on the 'big bed' and watches for me. Or sometimes lays on the floor at one of the 6 foot floor windows in the front of our house and watches for me. (The other day, when she knew I was coming back soon, she laid on the floor with him to see at what point he saw me and ran to the front door. But I'm not sure we should use the word 'love' for what animals feel for us.)
I think he probably thinks of me as one of his 'flock' since he's a Hungarian sheep dog and when I leave he feels he's failed at keeping the flock together and is happy when I come back because now he has me to guard. I don't know, all this seems silly to ponder.
Maybe I should just give you a poem I wrote about Bela.
If I've posted this before, I apologize, but it just occurred to me and if I try to find it I'm afraid I'll lose what I've written so far. So, for the first or second time:
Puli Dreams
So, I'm standing on my porch,
deep in a January night--
19 degrees Fahrenheit, partly cloudy, full moon--
smoking one of the cigarettes almost everyone I know
warns me not to smoke.
Then I notice the dog--less than ten months old,
a Hungarian sheepdog--black as anthracite coal
and at least that stubborn--
lying on the deck in the snow
with his snout and one front paw
through the gate
that used to keep young children (how long gone?)
from falling down the stairs.
Cleverly, I put the gate on the deck
to keep the Puli from running away.
I realize, still smoking, that he would run away
in a heartbeat if the gate weren't there.
To what? I wonder.
To a place where he'd be fed better?
Playing with more?
Adored greater?
There is no place like that.
So maybe he's just dreaming of running away
to the place he dreams of running away to:
that place we'd all run away to,
happy as we are,
if no gates stopped us.
jgb--1/17/06
Lukie has a tail that may be longer than his body (I've never measured but will and let you know) and fluffier than a raccoon tail. He has that odd 'm' on his forehead and huge (I mean huge!) yellow eyes. He watches me and rolls over to get my attention and I think, "Luke loves me". That is anthropomorphising a cat--which is never a good idea. What he is actually thinking, I believe when I'm not attributing human emotions to him, is something like "do you have a pork chop or chicken thigh on you? Or some of those duck treats I like so much?"
I talk to my dog, Bela, a lot. I keep waiting for him to talk back, which, rationally, I know will never in a million years, happen. But I keep waiting anyway. He looks like he would like to answer me, tilting his head to one side and trying to see me through the hair over his eyes. When I'm honest, I know he's just waiting for me to say one of the English words he recognizes: 'go out', he knows; 'bowl', 'breakfast' and 'dinner' are in the same category, 'treat' he knows for sure; 'upstairs' and 'big bed' he responses to, running upstairs to jump on the big bed for the night.
Does Bela 'love' me? Bern tells me he does. Often when I'm gone, she says he lays on the 'big bed' and watches for me. Or sometimes lays on the floor at one of the 6 foot floor windows in the front of our house and watches for me. (The other day, when she knew I was coming back soon, she laid on the floor with him to see at what point he saw me and ran to the front door. But I'm not sure we should use the word 'love' for what animals feel for us.)
I think he probably thinks of me as one of his 'flock' since he's a Hungarian sheep dog and when I leave he feels he's failed at keeping the flock together and is happy when I come back because now he has me to guard. I don't know, all this seems silly to ponder.
Maybe I should just give you a poem I wrote about Bela.
If I've posted this before, I apologize, but it just occurred to me and if I try to find it I'm afraid I'll lose what I've written so far. So, for the first or second time:
Puli Dreams
So, I'm standing on my porch,
deep in a January night--
19 degrees Fahrenheit, partly cloudy, full moon--
smoking one of the cigarettes almost everyone I know
warns me not to smoke.
Then I notice the dog--less than ten months old,
a Hungarian sheepdog--black as anthracite coal
and at least that stubborn--
lying on the deck in the snow
with his snout and one front paw
through the gate
that used to keep young children (how long gone?)
from falling down the stairs.
Cleverly, I put the gate on the deck
to keep the Puli from running away.
I realize, still smoking, that he would run away
in a heartbeat if the gate weren't there.
To what? I wonder.
To a place where he'd be fed better?
Playing with more?
Adored greater?
There is no place like that.
So maybe he's just dreaming of running away
to the place he dreams of running away to:
that place we'd all run away to,
happy as we are,
if no gates stopped us.
jgb--1/17/06
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