Feeling old...

It's not just my knees or my gray hair. It's that THE GRADUATE is coming back to theaters for it's 50th anniversary. That's FIVE-OH, Beloved!

The most iconic movie for my generation is half-a-century old.

Lordy, Lordy.

Seeing Dustin close to age I was when I saw the movie and Ann looking much younger than she was and that seduction scene may make me remember my youth.

So, it's not all bad, I guess.

But "The Graduate" is 50? What a bummer....

No joy in Mudville

In case you're not familiar with "Casey at the bat" by Earnest Thayer, here it is.

The outlook wasn’t brilliant for the Mudville nine that day:
The score stood four to two, with but one inning more to play,
And then when Cooney died at first, and Barrows did the same,
A pall-like silence fell upon the patrons of the game.

A straggling few got up to go in deep despair. The rest
Clung to the hope which springs eternal in the human breast;
They thought, “If only Casey could but get a whack at that—
We’d put up even money now, with Casey at the bat.”

But Flynn preceded Casey, as did also Jimmy Blake,
And the former was a hoodoo, while the latter was a cake;
So upon that stricken multitude grim melancholy sat,
For there seemed but little chance of Casey getting to the bat.

But Flynn let drive a single, to the wonderment of all,
And Blake, the much despisèd, tore the cover off the ball;
And when the dust had lifted, and men saw what had occurred,
There was Jimmy safe at second and Flynn a-hugging third.

Then from five thousand throats and more there rose a lusty yell;
It rumbled through the valley, it rattled in the dell;
It pounded on the mountain and recoiled upon the flat,
For Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the bat.

There was ease in Casey’s manner as he stepped into his place;
There was pride in Casey’s bearing and a smile lit Casey’s face.
And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat,
No stranger in the crowd could doubt ‘twas Casey at the bat.

Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt;
Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his
     shirt;
Then while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip,
Defiance flashed in Casey’s eye, a sneer curled Casey’s lip.

And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the
     air,
And Casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.
Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped—
“That ain’t my style," said Casey. “Strike one!” the umpire said.

From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled
     roar,
Like the beating of the storm-waves on a stern and distant shore;
“Kill him! Kill the umpire!” shouted someone on the stand;
And it’s likely they’d have killed him had not Casey raised his
     hand.

With a smile of Christian charity great Casey’s visage shone;
He stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on;
He signaled to the pitcher, and once more the dun sphere flew;
But Casey still ignored it and the umpire said, “Strike two!”

“Fraud!” cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered
     “Fraud!”
But one scornful look from Casey and the audience was awed.
They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles
     strain,
And they knew that Casey wouldn’t let that ball go by again.

The sneer is gone from Casey’s lip, his teeth are clenched in hate,
He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate;
And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go,
And now the air is shattered by the force of Casey’s blow.

Oh, somewhere in this favoured land the sun is shining bright,
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light;
And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children
     shout,
But there is no joy in Mudville—mighty Casey has struck out.

I was reminded of that poem last night when Morgan Williams of Mississippi State

hit a field goal at the buzzer to defeat UConn's women's team after 111 straight

wins.

No joy in Mudville or the Nutmeg state.

I've been amazed in my over 30 years in Connecticut (The first 100 years are the

hardest if you move to New England from somewhere else!) at how devoted to the 

teams of the University of Connecticut almost everyone is. It's not unlike a 

religion, especially in the last decade with the Lady Husky basketball team.

St. Geno is their coach and all the players ascend to the stratosphere with folks

in CT.

Amazing devotion.

And last night upstarts from Mississippi State burst the bubble on UConn's path

to a fifth straight Women's National Championship.

No joy in Mudville today at all...

Spring can't read

Spring must be illiterate or else she would have read the calendar and known it was time to come, even to New England.

I walked my dog through sleet today about 3:30 p.m. It stuck in his fur. Though he loves snow, he's not enamored of sleet and rain.

And more 'wintery mix' tomorrow.

The day was so gray today there didn't seem to be any color anywhere.

I'm sure the little white flowers in our front yard are anxious for Spring to make her appearance.

Deep breaths and patience are called for.

I'm short on both.

Something from the past

I sometimes browse my own blog. I can't remember what I had for breakfast four days ago and certainly can't remember all the over 1800 blogs I've written.

Sometimes I come across a gem...or a lightening bug...of a post. So, I'll share it here again, which will make the third time it has appeared.

Yes, Virginia, there are lightening bugs in Connecticut

I've just been watching Lightening Bugs--fire flies--in our neighbor's yard. So I decided to reprise the fourth most viewed post of mine ever.

They are blinking, blinking, blinking.





They're out there tonight--the fireflies--in the mulberry tree just beyond our fence where the groundhogs come in the late summer to eat mulberries that have fermented and make them drunk. A drunk groundhog is a wonder to behold!

And the lightening bugs are in our yard as well. I sat and watched them blink for 20 minutes tonight.

My dear friend, Harriet, wrote me an email about lightening bugs after my blog about them. If I'm more adroit at technology than I think I am, I'm going to put that email here.

Jim, I just read your blog and have my own firefly story. Before we   went to Maine,
before 6/20, one of those nights of powerful   thunderstorms, I was awakened at 10PM
and then again at 2AM by flashes   of lightning followed by cracks of thunder - the
 kind that make me   shoot out of bed - and pounding rain. And then at 4:30AM there
was   just lightning, silent. The silence and light was profound. I kept   waiting
for sound. I couldn't quite believe in heat lightning in June,   so I got out of bed
and looked out the window. There I could see the   sky, filled with silent lightning
 bursts. And under it, our meadow,   filled with lightning bugs (as we call them) or
 fireflies, flashing in   response. I've never seen anything like it. I can't remember
 the last   time I saw a lightning bug. And then your blog. Is this, too, part of
 global warming? Are you and   I being transported back to the warmer climes of
 our youth, West   Virginia and Texas? Well, if it means lightning bugs, the future
 won't   be all bad.
I did do it, by gum....

So the lightening bugs are blinking, as we are, you and I.

Blinking and flashing and living. You and I.

Here's the thing, I've been thinking about a poem I wrote 4 years
ago or so. I used to leave St. John's and go visit folks in the hospital or nursing home or their own home
on my way to my home. Somehow the blinking of the fireflies has reminded me of that. So, I'll try, once more
to be more media savvy than I think I am and share it with you.
 

I DRIVE HOME

I drive home through pain, through suffering,

through death itself.

I drive home through Cat-scans and blood tests

and X-rays and Pet-scans (whatever they are)

and through consultations of surgeons and oncologists

and even more exotic flora with medical degrees.

I drive home through hospitals and houses

and the wondrous work of hospice nurses

and the confusion of dozens more educated than me.

Dressed in green scrubs and Transfiguration white coats,

they discuss the life or death of people I love.

And they hate, more than anything, to lose the hand

to the greatest Poker Player ever, the one with all the chips.

And, here’s the joke, they always lose in the end—

the River Card turns it all bad and Death wins.

So, while they consult and add artificial poison

to the Poison of Death—shots and pills and IV’s

of poison—I drive home and stop in vacant rooms

and wondrous houses full of memories

and dispense my meager, medieval medicine

of bread and wine and oil.

Sometimes I think…sometimes I think…

I should not drive home at all

since I stop in hospitals and houses to bring my pitiful offering

to those one step, one banana peel beneath their foot,

from meeting the Lover of Souls.

I do not hate Death. I hate dying, but not Death.

But it is often too much for me, stopping on the way home

to press the wafer into their quaking hands;

to lift the tiny, pewter cup of bad port wine to their trembling lips;

and to smear their foreheads with fragrant oil

while mumbling much rehearsed words and wishing them

whole and well and eternal.

I believe in God only around the edges.

But when I drive home, visiting the dying,

I’m the best they’ll get of all that.

And when they hold my hand with tears in their eyes

and thank me so profoundly, so solemnly, with such sweet terror

in their voices, then I know.

Driving home and stopping there is what I’m meant to do.

A little bread, a little wine and some sweet smelling oil

may be—if not enough—just what was missing.

I’m driving home, driving home, stopping to touch the hand of Death.

Perhaps that is all I can do.

I tell myself that, driving home, blinded by pain and tears,

having been with Holy Ones.

8/2007 jgb

Someone once told me, "We're all dying, you know. It's just a matter of timing...."

Fireflies, more the pity, live only a fraction of a second to the time that we humans live. They will be gone from the mulberry tree and my back yard in a few weeks, never to be seen again. But the years and years we live are, in a profound way, only a few blinks, a few flares, a few flashes in the economy of the universe. We should live them well and appreciate each moment. Really.

One of the unexpected blessings of having been a priest for so long is the moments, the flashes, I've gotten to spend with 'the holy ones', those about to pass on from this life.

Hey, if you woke up this morning you're ahead of a lot of folks. Don't waste the moment.

(I told Harriet and she agreed, that we would have been blessed beyond measure to have walked down in that meadow while the silent lightening lit the sky to be with the fire-flies, to have them hover around us, light on our arms, in our hair, on our clothes, be one with them....flashing, blinking, sharing their flares of light. Magic.)




{By the way, it's now the 9th most viewed blog of all time, though this will maybe boost it up a tad.)

visit to a sweet soul

I visited someone today who is ready, willing, wanting to die.

They just can't figure out why they can't will their own death.

A deeply spiritual soul. A body that has been ravaged. A longing to enter that mysterious door to whatever comes next.

I am convinced they aren't kidding about wanting to die and trying to will Death to come.

And with a clear mind, the person longs for leaving. But the train is still at the station.

Since I'll soon be 70 (have I told you that? I'm sure I have--it's on my mind quite a bit) I have some ponderings about death.

I used to think I wanted it to be sudden and unexpected before I lost any mental capacity or even physical ability.

But now, after my visit today, I want to be like that someone is--fully awake but ready to move on.

Something so moving and powerful about facing Death with willingness.

Much, much there to ponder.

I invite you to do just that: ponder how you want to enter that dark door.

On my wall

On my wall, beside my window where I sit writing this are several things.

An American Indian dream catcher my daughter gave to me years ago.  It's a circle of wood with a web of string and feathers with feathers hanging off it. She knew I was very interested in dreams so she thought I would love it. And I do. Very much.

There are also three plaques.

One says "SHALOM", which someone (I forget who) gave me because I sign all my letters and emails with 'Shalom, jim'. It is the Hebrew word English does little justice to because we translate it as 'peace'. Peace is the absence of conflict. Shalom is so much more than that. No single English word can capture it's meaning. It is like this: 'wholeness, completeness, everything with nothing left out and all of that in harmony'. A concept we need more of in this world. And in each of our lives.

A second plaque a dear friend gave me has a head poking out with fat cheeks and a big nose and huge smile. It says: "IN VINO VERITAS". That's Latin for "in wine, truth". Not a bad saying and rather true as I think on it. That friend and I have shared more than a little wine and even more truth. Bless her.

Finally, besides a high school picture of me and a college picture of Bern on the window, is the third plaque that says, Latin again: "VOCATUS ETQUE NON VOCATUS DEUS ADERIT". In English that is roughly, "Bidden or unbidden, God appears/arrives". Not a bad thing to ponder, after all, given that much of the time we don't bid God to come but God shows up in what Remitha Spurlock, a member of the first parish I served, said 'in mysterious ways'.

Those are the things I stare at sitting at my computer, wondering what to do next.

I could do much much worse. Not sure how I could do much better.....

Waiting for Godot

Lucky's speech in Beckett's classic has a refrain: "but time will tell...."

Health Care as a privilege, not a right; 'alternative facts'; the President admitting his policies will damage the people who elected him by saying, 'I know'; more Russians in the woodwork that raisins in Raisin Flakes; a Time Magazine cover story "Is Truth Dead?" (echoing the 1966 cover "Is God Dead?"); all this and so, so much more.

I feel like I'm waiting for Godot and repeating over and over Lucky's line, "but time will tell...."

Up is Sideways and Down is a circle.

I've never lived in times like these.

I keep thinking, 'time will tell....' And keep wondering what time will tell.

And waiting for Godot, who will never come (if I understand the play correctly).

Ah well, as the Chinese say, "may you live in interesting times."

That's the same Chinese who invented a hokes called 'climate change' by the way.

"Interesting times" and "time will tell...." So it goes.

God help us.

Godot is on his way....