Back where I 'come from' the first thing you asked a stranger you'd just met is, exactly that, "where do you come from?"
Roots and geography and family tell us a lot more about a person than the question usually asked in New England upon meeting: "what do you do?"
The distinction is between 'doing' and 'being', between 'function' and 'ontology'.
I come down hard on the 'being' and 'ontology' side of the distinction.
Life, for most people, involves a desire to 'get to' something--the best job, the perfect portfolio, an ideal family...stuff like that.
I think the more productive, powerful and transforming thing is to 'Come From' somewhere.
"Getting to" what you long for is exhausting, never-ending and finally, a bit futile. So you get there, then what?
Entering life 'coming from' a commitment, a declaration, a way of being you involves almost no effort, creates 'what comes next' and is life-giving and affirming. 'Coming from' 'who you ARE' puts you in control instead of the circumstances of life.
I could say a lot more about all that, but I'd rather just invite you to ponder and consider the difference in a life that 'comes from' something and a life that is always seeking to 'get to' something.
Ponder that, please.
See where that leads you.
Friday, February 14, 2014
Thursday, February 13, 2014
The poop patch....
I'm not going to complain about the additional foot of snow we got last night and today, but it does make it difficult to walk a dog--Cornwall Avenue has two inches of snow on it and most people haven't been able to clear their sidewalks 'again' today.
This morning I took him through a few inches of snow down to the driveway to the Congregational Church parking lot. When I took him an hour later (when he usually goes with Bern to the Canal) there was no evidence of our footprints from an hour before.
With help from neighbors who share our driveway and the guy next door with his Cadillac-level snow blower, we were dug out by 4. But when I took him out at 5, all the sidewalks that were a few inches this morning were unwalkable.
But Bern went out in the back yard with a shovel and made a run for him. She called it a 'Poop Patch' and he used it for its purpose.
When we're out he keeps looking at me as if for an explanation for the snow.
One place we walk is a bank parking lot down toward Rt. 10. Banks get plowed regularly, by the way.
Every time we're there he goes into a frenzy of running in circles and jumping on me. It's almost like he's saying, "ok, this is crazy, all this snow, so I'm going to be crazy too!"
If you have a dog and live on the east coast, you might consider shoveling a poop patch of your own.
This morning I took him through a few inches of snow down to the driveway to the Congregational Church parking lot. When I took him an hour later (when he usually goes with Bern to the Canal) there was no evidence of our footprints from an hour before.
With help from neighbors who share our driveway and the guy next door with his Cadillac-level snow blower, we were dug out by 4. But when I took him out at 5, all the sidewalks that were a few inches this morning were unwalkable.
But Bern went out in the back yard with a shovel and made a run for him. She called it a 'Poop Patch' and he used it for its purpose.
When we're out he keeps looking at me as if for an explanation for the snow.
One place we walk is a bank parking lot down toward Rt. 10. Banks get plowed regularly, by the way.
Every time we're there he goes into a frenzy of running in circles and jumping on me. It's almost like he's saying, "ok, this is crazy, all this snow, so I'm going to be crazy too!"
If you have a dog and live on the east coast, you might consider shoveling a poop patch of your own.
Tuesday, February 11, 2014
The Moon was out early today
It was 4:30 p.m. or so,
I was walking the dog
and putting out the garbage
and recycling stuff,
and there, up in the sky
in the north-east
was the moon.
I don't know why the moon was out.
I should know such things,
being pretty smart--above average,
at least.
It's something I'm sure, about
the position of the earth
in regard to the sun
on a bitterly cold day
in February
in Connecticut,
that caused the moon to show up
so early when it was still
daylight.
But then, as I was pondering
the scientific reason
for the moon's early arrival,
I was caught up in the fantasy
that, because the moon is so cold,
showing up in the afternoon
of a cold, cold day
might have something
to do with it.
Being partial,
as I am,
to the moon
(and its waxing and waning)
I imagined for a while,
walking the dog
and putting out the garbage,
that maybe the moon,
cold as it is,
likes to visit Connecticut
early on cold, cold,
cold days.
Just to check in with us
and see how we're doing
in the chill.
That pondering gave me joy
(freezing cold as I was!)
to imagine the moon,
like your favorite aunt,
was just checking in
to see how we were managing
with so much snow
and cold.
Thank you, moon....
I was walking the dog
and putting out the garbage
and recycling stuff,
and there, up in the sky
in the north-east
was the moon.
I don't know why the moon was out.
I should know such things,
being pretty smart--above average,
at least.
It's something I'm sure, about
the position of the earth
in regard to the sun
on a bitterly cold day
in February
in Connecticut,
that caused the moon to show up
so early when it was still
daylight.
But then, as I was pondering
the scientific reason
for the moon's early arrival,
I was caught up in the fantasy
that, because the moon is so cold,
showing up in the afternoon
of a cold, cold day
might have something
to do with it.
Being partial,
as I am,
to the moon
(and its waxing and waning)
I imagined for a while,
walking the dog
and putting out the garbage,
that maybe the moon,
cold as it is,
likes to visit Connecticut
early on cold, cold,
cold days.
Just to check in with us
and see how we're doing
in the chill.
That pondering gave me joy
(freezing cold as I was!)
to imagine the moon,
like your favorite aunt,
was just checking in
to see how we were managing
with so much snow
and cold.
Thank you, moon....
Monday, February 10, 2014
A Place to be
I'd bet that everyone reading this has a favorite chair, a side of the bed they sleep on, somewhere they feel most comfortable. Things need to be 'just right' in the space we inhabit, in the place we 'be'.
The ante goes up when the space, the place is a holy place, a holy space--like a church.
I told two stories in my sermon on Sunday about holy places and holy spaces. I'll tell them to you as well.
First is M. In my first parish the baptismal font was in the back of the church. Back then I was much more into the rules and canons than I am now and I thought that since baptism was admission to communion rather than a requirement for entering the sanctuary that the font should be up front, near the altar. So, I moved it there.
Five years later, at my going away party at St. James, M. came up to me and told me, "I've forgiven you for moving the baptismal font." I almost said, "thanks for not worrying me about that for five years". Instead, being on my best behavior, I asked her why moving it was a problem for her. She told me that the font had been given by her parents in memorial to her grandparents and had always been at the back of the church.
At St. John's, where I was Rector for 21 years, K., who always sat in the second pew on the pulpit side suddenly stopped coming to church. She was an on-the-edge member, on disability with two teen age kids she was raising alone. I knew she sometimes came to the Soup Kitchen near the end of the month so I hung out until I saw her. I sat with her at her table and asked her why she'd disappeared.
"My pew got taken away," she told me. I was confused, but then I remembered that we had four baptismal Sundays a year with 8-12 baptisms and we'd just been through the Sunday after Easter (designed to have a good crowd on 'low Sunday') and Pentecost--both baptismal Sundays and the families of the children were spread over the first three rows of each side of the center aisle each time. So K's pew was 'taken away'.
She was a marginal person who thought many of the people at St. John's thought they were better than her. And, more damaging, she thought many of the people at St. John's were better than her. So to be displaced from her 'spot', her place, her space, was profoundly painful for her.
Of course, both of those stories--both M and K--were irrational.
But when we talk about our place to be, rationality is the last consideration.
Feelings about 'place' and 'space' are profoundly personal and emotional. And when that 'space' and 'place' is also considered 'holy', well, that just multiplies the feelings....
Ponder 'the space' you occupy for a bit and the 'place' you feel is holy.
Ponder and imagine what depths of the subconscious 'place' and 'space' occupies within your being.
I think you might be surprised by how important 'place' and 'space' are to you.
Human beings need to take up 'space' and need a 'place' to be. Just 'to be'.
The ante goes up when the space, the place is a holy place, a holy space--like a church.
I told two stories in my sermon on Sunday about holy places and holy spaces. I'll tell them to you as well.
First is M. In my first parish the baptismal font was in the back of the church. Back then I was much more into the rules and canons than I am now and I thought that since baptism was admission to communion rather than a requirement for entering the sanctuary that the font should be up front, near the altar. So, I moved it there.
Five years later, at my going away party at St. James, M. came up to me and told me, "I've forgiven you for moving the baptismal font." I almost said, "thanks for not worrying me about that for five years". Instead, being on my best behavior, I asked her why moving it was a problem for her. She told me that the font had been given by her parents in memorial to her grandparents and had always been at the back of the church.
At St. John's, where I was Rector for 21 years, K., who always sat in the second pew on the pulpit side suddenly stopped coming to church. She was an on-the-edge member, on disability with two teen age kids she was raising alone. I knew she sometimes came to the Soup Kitchen near the end of the month so I hung out until I saw her. I sat with her at her table and asked her why she'd disappeared.
"My pew got taken away," she told me. I was confused, but then I remembered that we had four baptismal Sundays a year with 8-12 baptisms and we'd just been through the Sunday after Easter (designed to have a good crowd on 'low Sunday') and Pentecost--both baptismal Sundays and the families of the children were spread over the first three rows of each side of the center aisle each time. So K's pew was 'taken away'.
She was a marginal person who thought many of the people at St. John's thought they were better than her. And, more damaging, she thought many of the people at St. John's were better than her. So to be displaced from her 'spot', her place, her space, was profoundly painful for her.
Of course, both of those stories--both M and K--were irrational.
But when we talk about our place to be, rationality is the last consideration.
Feelings about 'place' and 'space' are profoundly personal and emotional. And when that 'space' and 'place' is also considered 'holy', well, that just multiplies the feelings....
Ponder 'the space' you occupy for a bit and the 'place' you feel is holy.
Ponder and imagine what depths of the subconscious 'place' and 'space' occupies within your being.
I think you might be surprised by how important 'place' and 'space' are to you.
Human beings need to take up 'space' and need a 'place' to be. Just 'to be'.
Sunday, February 9, 2014
Something I've posted before but need to again
This poem about 'Finitude' has been here before. But I'm feeling close to all that a lot these days. I wrote a letter to Bern to be opened upon my death because I wanted to be in charge of my memorial service and to let her know all the details she'd have to deal with.
When I wrote this poem, I was much younger. There was irony and humor in it. But in the last few years (how the hell am I 66?) it races closer to the bone. So, here again is one of my favorite poems I've ever written.
When I wrote this poem, I was much younger. There was irony and humor in it. But in the last few years (how the hell am I 66?) it races closer to the bone. So, here again is one of my favorite poems I've ever written.
The
Trouble with Finitude
I try, from time to time,
usually late at night
after one too many glasses of wine,
to consider my mortality.
(I have been led to
believe
that such consideration
is valuable
in a spiritual way.
God knows where I got
that....
Well, of course, God
knows,
I'm just not sure.)
But try as I might, I'm
not adroit at such thoughts.
It seems to me that I
have always been alive.
I don't remember not
being alive.
Granted, I have no
personal recollections
of when most of North
America was covered by ice
or of the Bronze Age
or the French Revolution
or of the Black Sox
scandal.
But I do know about all
that through things I've read
and musicals I've seen
and the History Channel.
I know, intellectually,
that I've not always been alive,
but I don't know it,
as they say,
“in my gut”.
(What a strange phrase
that is,
since I am sure my 'gut'
is a totally dark part of
my body,
awash with digestive
fluids
and whatever remains of
the chicken and peas
I had for dinner and
strange compounds
moving inexorably—I
hope!--through my large
and small intestines.)
My problem is this:
I
have no emotional connection to finitude.
All I know and feel is
tangled up with being alive.
Dwelling on the certainty
of my own death
is beyond my ken, outside
my imagination,
much like trying to
imagine
the vast expanse of
Interstellar Space
while living in
Connecticut.
So, whenever someone
suggests that
I consider my mortality,
I screw up my face and
breathe deeply
pretending I am imagining
the world
without me alive in it.
What I'm actually doing
is remembering
things I seldom
remember--
my father's smell, an old
lover's face,
the feel of sand beneath
my feet,
the taste of watermelon,
the sound of thunder
rolling toward me
from miles away.
Perhaps when I come to
die
(Perish the thought!)
there will be a moment,
an instant,
some flash of knowledge
or a stunning
realization.
“Ah,” I will say to
myself,
just before Oblivion sets
in,
“this is
finitude....”
jgb
Whine and cheese
OK, now I'm going to whine about the weather. I know I wrote not so many days ago about how we New England folks shouldn't complain about the weather. But at this point, over a week into below freezing weather with a shit load of snow every where, I'm ready to speak out.
The snow has stuck around so long during below freezing but sunny days, that the sun, by virtue of being a star throwing off heat beyond imagining, has melted a bit of snow by it's own will each day which then freezes again and makes everything slicker.
Our walkways, dutifully shoveled down to as far as we could, are now like luge tracks and we take our lives in our hands just to leave the house. And driveways everywhere are now covered by 1/12 inch of ice and treacherous as all get out.
I was just out on the back porch and it is snowing at 8:06 pm on Sunday, February 9. With any luck, there will be a couple of inches of snow on top of the ice and make walking easier.
But when you look at the 10 day forecast and see the day temperature doesn't get above 34 or so and at night it goes down to 20 or single digits, the apocalypse can't be far away.
(But I have some fine Stilton and some creamy Bree to eat on rice crackers, so the End doesn't seem quite so near.....)
The snow has stuck around so long during below freezing but sunny days, that the sun, by virtue of being a star throwing off heat beyond imagining, has melted a bit of snow by it's own will each day which then freezes again and makes everything slicker.
Our walkways, dutifully shoveled down to as far as we could, are now like luge tracks and we take our lives in our hands just to leave the house. And driveways everywhere are now covered by 1/12 inch of ice and treacherous as all get out.
I was just out on the back porch and it is snowing at 8:06 pm on Sunday, February 9. With any luck, there will be a couple of inches of snow on top of the ice and make walking easier.
But when you look at the 10 day forecast and see the day temperature doesn't get above 34 or so and at night it goes down to 20 or single digits, the apocalypse can't be far away.
(But I have some fine Stilton and some creamy Bree to eat on rice crackers, so the End doesn't seem quite so near.....)
Saturday, February 8, 2014
Theatre for a change
I ponder movies and books here from time to time--but tonight I want to tell you about a play, Fairytale Lives of Russian Girls that is playing at the Yale Rep through Feb 22.
There are several things that make it special. First there is the 6 woman ensemble that performs it--they are all wonderful, some of them in multiple roles. Secondly is the script that takes rather dark images from Russian 'fairy tales'--which are more like horror movies, very Grimm-like, not the fairy infested, beautiful princesses, brave princes, happy endings of our scaled down versions of bloody tales, supposedly because they would be too brutal for children.
What a cop-out. Children know horrors we can only guess at as adults. In his remarkable 1973 book, If you meet the Buddha on the road, kill him, Sheldon Kopp gives an Eschatological Laundry List of a partial register of the 927 (or was it 928?) Eternal Truths.
Number 25 is this: Childhood is a nightmare.
"Fairytale Lives" brings childhood's nightmare to the stage through clever dialog, long, intense monologues, music by the actors (Bern tells me that 'actors' is an ok name for both men and women) via a take off of the Russian group 'Pussy Riot', and sound effects also done, in plain view to stage right, by the members of the cast.
The play is part bringing the dark stories of Russian lore (which begin not "once upon a time" but a much more direct "They lived. This happened") and part a political commentary on the Soviet Union today and their contempt for Americans. The main character (though this is an ensemble work) is an 20 year old Jewish woman born in Russia and raised in southern California as a religious refugee from the Soviet Union who goes back to Russia to take a class in 'Business Russian' (which turns out to be a class about Russian Fairy Tales) and to 'claim her heritage'.
No spoilers here, but the other thing is, the play is hilarious in many parts. But because it was so dark as well...and so innocent as well (what better combination for a fairy tale with a bear and a witch?) the audience was hesitant, I think, to laugh out loud until near the end.
Yale Rep is expensive (our seats were $78 each) but this play is more than worth it.
(Warning to tall people: I have a sore knee from sitting through the play {done without intermission which is another accomplishment of the work} from sitting almost sideways in my seat. And I'm still telling myself I'm almost 5'9 when I'm not anymore....Just me talkin'....)
There are several things that make it special. First there is the 6 woman ensemble that performs it--they are all wonderful, some of them in multiple roles. Secondly is the script that takes rather dark images from Russian 'fairy tales'--which are more like horror movies, very Grimm-like, not the fairy infested, beautiful princesses, brave princes, happy endings of our scaled down versions of bloody tales, supposedly because they would be too brutal for children.
What a cop-out. Children know horrors we can only guess at as adults. In his remarkable 1973 book, If you meet the Buddha on the road, kill him, Sheldon Kopp gives an Eschatological Laundry List of a partial register of the 927 (or was it 928?) Eternal Truths.
Number 25 is this: Childhood is a nightmare.
"Fairytale Lives" brings childhood's nightmare to the stage through clever dialog, long, intense monologues, music by the actors (Bern tells me that 'actors' is an ok name for both men and women) via a take off of the Russian group 'Pussy Riot', and sound effects also done, in plain view to stage right, by the members of the cast.
The play is part bringing the dark stories of Russian lore (which begin not "once upon a time" but a much more direct "They lived. This happened") and part a political commentary on the Soviet Union today and their contempt for Americans. The main character (though this is an ensemble work) is an 20 year old Jewish woman born in Russia and raised in southern California as a religious refugee from the Soviet Union who goes back to Russia to take a class in 'Business Russian' (which turns out to be a class about Russian Fairy Tales) and to 'claim her heritage'.
No spoilers here, but the other thing is, the play is hilarious in many parts. But because it was so dark as well...and so innocent as well (what better combination for a fairy tale with a bear and a witch?) the audience was hesitant, I think, to laugh out loud until near the end.
Yale Rep is expensive (our seats were $78 each) but this play is more than worth it.
(Warning to tall people: I have a sore knee from sitting through the play {done without intermission which is another accomplishment of the work} from sitting almost sideways in my seat. And I'm still telling myself I'm almost 5'9 when I'm not anymore....Just me talkin'....)
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