THE POPE'S HAT AND OTHER DISGUISES

I have always thought that the opulent, lavish displays of pagenty by royalty and religions are superfluous and absurdly outdated. In the Catholic church they are meant to symbolize the loftiness and sublimity of the  transcendent, God, celbrate holy days or events related to the canonical year.

     Unfortuantely, we often also assign these attributes to the representatives wearing said garments and particiating in the pagenty with all its accompanying "paraphenalia." Repsentatives are also associated with the all powerful omnicience of the Diety.  

    Of course, there can be respect for those representing religions and governments, although it has been difficult to distinguish among the good (but silent ones) and the evil doers. At this stage in humanity's evolution (which I may mistakenly feel is much further along than we actually are) are we not capable of "getting it" without the pomp and circumstance? Not to mention the expense of it all? ( I just did.) 

    If we believe in transcendent reality and spirutal values and virturees to live by, we "shouldn't" need such materialistic terms, which detract from the essential meanining intended. Shouldn't we be able to make the connection in more pure and simple ways. But such simplicity would be detrimental to the power and control of the church and its representatives. 

    Most people I have spoken to about these "vestiges" and vestments of Medievalism, do not agree with me, although my meager poll is not an official sampling, and perhaps a majority would agree that the extravagence--whether religious or royalty-related is absurd.

    I do not understand why, for example, at the time of this writing the pope wears Prada shoes. Wouldn't less trendy/high-end footwear (say, simple sandals) suffice and be far more symbolic? Let's talk reality here: the pope's silly hat and the Bristish royals' crowns (with "borrowed" gems) are ludicrously absurd. I had to laugh out loud (without accompanying lightning bolt) when I recently saw Pope Benedict, with much ado surrounding his appearance (bowing and ring-kissing). The spectacle was obviously inconsistent with the image of the humble carpentar entering Jerulalem on the lowly donkey.

    While it is true, on the one hand, that the shape of the Pope's hat, the fabric, the gold threads, the jewels, the colors of and the symbols on the assorted, opulent vestment and the entourages, are all meant, in part, to reflect the grandeur of God, and to distinguish among the rituals being celebrated around the church calendar, it is also true and intentional that the material  display of wealth and power is meant to leverage the authority (and immunity) to exploit and maintain power and control. 

    The medieval, outdated nature of it all still exists in the 21st century, swaying faithful adherents away from what is meant to be honored and revered, the example of the life and teachings of Christ. The spiritual is belied by sheer materialism, and by the shameful history of the Church's secrecy, perversion, corruption and scandals throughout the ages (Thank you, Dante Alighieri, et al), such as the ongoing child abuse and cover ups worldwide.

The symbol has becomes the thing in itself. The medium is the message, or the "massage"?

I suppose that none of it is going away any time soon, but I would like to see (and long for) those representative human beings in such high and visible positions of power and control not to perpetuate and engage in these displays and consider what more truly represents teachings, values and virtues that are at the very heart of the religous and governmental institutions.  

    It's not going to happen, and mainly due to the power still wielded over the vulneralbe, gullible and/or good souls who should be able to believe that their church leasders can be trusted. The symbols, power and identification with the opulence of wealth and "shiny things" unfortunately may continue until....well the conversion of the Jews.

    

Never! Therefore, let us "awake for pity's sake." 

I recently re-read a Rilke poem accurately reflecting my sentiments, and was the inspiration for my thoughts on the pope's hat and other disguises.

God's True Cloak

We must not portray you in king's robes,
you drifting mist that brought forth the morning.

Once again from the old paintboxes
we take the same gold for scepter and crown
that has disguised you through the ages.

Piously we produce our images of you
till they stand around you like a thousand walls.
And when our hearts would simply open,
our fervent hands hide you. 

(Eric Maria Rilke, Book of Hours)

Yes, we can have a direct, authentic experience of that which is holy, not with our eyes alone, but through our hearts--open to seeing the sacred, not in symbols, but in each other and in creation--which are one and the same with the divine--not a new thought, but one worth reconsideration, in what Rudolf Steiner, a teacher of mine, has called the age of the "consciousness soul."

CRUEL SUNSET

Over the hills the sunset is cruel—a dull glow through low clouds—not the perfect ending to this day. If it were perfect, the sun would be flaming orange, a haughty disc, descending nobility above the crowd of tree tops struck golden with its rays. The sky would be a cloudless blue and brilliant, like the light-filled thoughts that had crystallized for her not long ago. Still, she feels perfect contentment, the lush spring grass at her feet, crammed with violets.

“I have always loved you.”

Was it only this morning she quit her job, left her lover, grew wings? It seems ages ago now, with remembrance of herself then—another being, in another universe, chanting a mock litany walking to her car after work each day: “unholy ones, speakers of lies, self-deceivers, clueless children of darkness.” She had never believed it was in her nature to have such thoughts, to assign derisive names to others, or to just walk away—as she had today.

She no longer lives in that universe. It began falling in on itself the night the rains came, transforming her world, unraveling it into wider and wider spirals, outward to infinite nothingness, or whatever universes do when they expand then collapse. It was an image she had placed before her as a way to understand it all.

When she left her father not more than a month ago, he was breathing heavily, his eyes closed, his hands restless, his fingers moving rhythmically in strange gestures. Those movements and murmurings were as if from some arcane ritual. She sang to him, read to him, recited poetry, though she knew he couldn’t hear her, at least not in the usual way. When she spoke the line, “I will arise and go now,” he moaned and lifted his head.

The next day, after some hours of quiet struggle, he died. She had not been able to bring herself to hold his hand, or rest her head on his shoulder, as did her sister. Instead, she remained at the foot of his bed all the while, not fully present in the solemnity of death, with dullness of mind and numbness of soul. As his breathing got quieter, her father’s face paled and went grey like a sad sky. Then his eyes opened wide and gazed up to the right, as if looking at whomever he had been communicating with the night before—his mother, his wife, his son—all gone before him.

She didn’t believe, though she wanted to, that in an afterlife souls reunite with loved ones gone before. Did she even want to be with anyone she had known in this life, after she herself crossed over to another world, if there is another? It wasn’t that she hadn’t cared about her family, yet she had resentment, remorse, regret, and there was love, too—all mixed together.

Still, she sometimes wondered if, in a dream-like state, souls recognize each other’s higher self—the one they may have only sensed or glimpsed in life. Do they agree to come back together over many lifetimes in various constellations of relationship to live out the karma they themselves create—little universes coming into being  and dissolving over and over until all manner of things are well?

She was only sixteen when it was arranged for  her child to be given up. She thought she had accepted the why and wherefore of it. What else could she do, her life ahead of her, and having brought shame upon herself and her family? Back then, it had not occurred to her that there was only blame, no comfort offered, no empathy expressed, no emotional preparation to cope with the thing she had to do. How could she have known what it would mean to live in the silence of sorrow and bitter shame ever after, to have the memory of going into labor, not knowing what to expect?

She had asked her father, “Do you still love me?”

“Let’s just get this thing over with,” his response.

    How could have known what it would mean to be anesthetized at the sacred moment of birth, so she would not remember it; what it would mean to relive the burning memory of having looked into the eyes of forever as she handed over a tiny being to a stranger—to she knew not what? And the reverberating in her heart of a silent goodbye to flesh of her flesh—a green and tender limb torn from a living tree.

Time passes; life goes on, doesn’t it? The father of her child went off to college, and they drifted apart. And so she was alone in the evening to weep into her pillow so as  not to be heard—a cruel and unusual punishment to have been a young girl grieving, with small hands pressing on her heart in the dark, until they pressed in so far, she couldn’t feel anything.

Until the rains came.


Then all through the nights she listens for what could have been heard, hears what should have been said, and all that could have been forgiven—or not. She recalls the hours before her father’s death—how her sister closed the dead man’s eyes, the pain of a lost child, and the years of silent grief. Day and night her mind wide open, overflows and drifts in worlds of love and loss—her futile wish to be cherished by her lover—enough to leave his wife—a promise made so many times. The sound of rain pounding through the cold silence from long ago found a home in her heart, a feeling in the blood of each beat, awakening with clarity all that had been, and all that had not.

Out of death-piercing loss and yearning, she opens to everything rising before her in the dark, breaking the silence, formulating the questions, speaking them out loud, penetrating through to the hard-shelled seed in her, heart, with no way to sprout or blossom.

During the weeks of the rain, she is changing, how she doesn’t know, into another truer form of herself. Without sinking to the depths, how can one rise to the surface? A cold heart is warming; the hard shell watered with tears is opening. A bud is forming, burgeoning to blossom into the balm of compassion—for the love that remains, which can never be given to the lost child, but only felt, and for the young girl she had been, and the woman she has become.

Then, one morning she awakens to quiet, in the golden light of a May sunrise. She feels clean and bright—her senses cleared—a hard-won knowledge grasped in an awareness of all that was, and all that wasn’t, the irreconcilable past separated from what is possible and awaiting. She thinks of the wisdom she had heard so often, but never understood how to live it:
To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven …. A time to be born, and a time to die …. a time to break down, and a time to build up ….  A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn and a time to dance …. A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together … a time to keep silence, and a time to speak.

She knows what she has to do to redeem her former self to emerge into what has yet to be created.

No one notices when she comes into work late, or that she is a different being from the one they think they know. No one except her boss, her lover, who meets the newly-hatched being without feathers who will no longer remain in a dead-end job and relationship, who will live more in freedom than bondage, more in joy than sorrow, who now flies into his office to tell him she will not see him this Wednesday, or any other Wednesday, not ever again, and please pick up your things on the front walk of the apartment. Today!”

She takes pleasure in the thought of his taking away the few things he had given her over the years, along with the an unkept promise. Let him take them back to that house she had so often driven past on the other nights of the week to gaze at the warm light shining through the windows, imaging the lives lived within—apart from hers.

She tells him that she knows that he knows she had kept his company from going under time and again. Was that the reason he granted me one night a week—as recompense instead of a raise, or a kept promise?

“I will no longer be here to cover your inadequacies and inabilities, financial and otherwise,” her last words to a story she could not have dreamed a short time ago would end with satisfaction instead of with sorrow.

On this new day, she returns home, makes French toast and coffee, goes into town to buy a new white coverlet and two bright printed pillows for her bed, walks on a wooded path, picks purple and white wild flowers, has dinner at her favorite restaurant, content to be alone and free.

Walking home on a trail by the river, she sees geese gathering on the still water and watches as they wheel up into the grey sky in clamorous farewell. And there, on the horizon, she observes the imperfect sunset.

It comes to her that the litany of names she used to assign to others were really names she might have called herself—the self she used to be—light years ago, before she told the violets she loved them.

Now she imagines herself a deity preparing to assign true names to all things in her new universe.

*“I will arise and go now” from “The Lake Isle at Innisfree” by W. B. Yeats.

* “To every thing there is a season…” from Ecclesiastes 3:1-7 The Bible, King James Version.

Common Sense

What is common sense, other than the title of Thomas Paine's historic pamphlet "Commn Sense" that was pure genius, making the case for the American revolution? Although my little contribution here does not compare to Paine's efforts and impact, I still hope hope that an awakening of some kine would make common sense more common! Not holding my breath.
     I wonder if common sense can be learned or taught, or is it something that just comes naturally to some people? IF we could think about it, consider how important it is to our lives, and begin to look for it around (or realize it is missing), maybe, just maybe, we would be persuaded, as the Colonists were, to "do something" with what we have learned and begin to acquire it ourselves to our benefit and to the benefit of others.
    Although in leadership and decisions of import we also must consider the facts, research, data many other factors, common sense may appear first, and ususally in a simplified, straightforward approach, without the need for elaborate reasoning, statistics or facts, though there is always a logic in it. It is more of an immediate, "gut" response than something thought through in the moment. 

    Children often display a remarkable capacity for common sense. Everyone who has been around children probably has a story about a child coming up with a solutions, making wise observation, or reacting to situations with more common sense than most adults. Could common sense be a capacity with which we are born, but over time are "taught" or conditioned not to use, especially through formal education and the media?  

    Formal education does not seem to foster common sense approaches or responses. Education often has all of the answers or the right questions to ask.  Did you ever read or have to respond to those dumb questions at the end of chapters in text books or novels? I prefer to formulate my own questions and encouraged students to do the same. There is also a lack of common sense in standardized testing, which has been the main gauge of students' abilities for college application, though this may be changing. 

In fact, possible common sense “answers” from creative, more imaginative students (ones who don't think in straight lines) may also be valid, but considered “incorrect.” Students have to be trained to take certain tests and to use certain strategies which help them score better. In other words, children have to learn how to take tests to be more likley to give the only correct answers. Such practices diminish the capacity for common sense and essentially teach what to think, not how to think.Hopefully there is othere opportunity in the classrooms for encouragement to use different kind of thinking, perspectives or solutions to a problem. 

    One might also consider the media's and social medias' roles in deleting common sense forever from our menu of options. The daily and relentless news tips regarding medicine, food, diets, and lifestyles create a complex, confusing and contradictory landscape of possible panaceas, or disasters waiting to befall us. In addition, the so- called reality shows have had people wading in sewage, eating maggots, vying for romatic hook ups and, maybe soon, selling their children, if it means "winning"--all of which makes us less likely to believe that people have the sense they were born with. Then there are the video “games” giving us the opportunity to participate as grand theft auto felons, hikers to nowhere, shooters and other actions that make the case that life indeed imitates art.

    Radio and television talk show hosts rant and rave in narrow rhetoric, espousing extreme positions and all manner of unfounded conspiracies to gullible followers. Common sense suggests that these "gurus" can't be right all of the time (and the"other side" wrong) and would also reveal that such hyperbolic hosts (e.g. the infamous, dytopian, but influential Steve Bannon and Alex Jones) are essentially entertainers, provokateurs and moral midgets (raking in the cash) not journalists or fact-finding fellows. Common sense would also tell us that the pros and cons of other opinions, beliefs and perspectives need to considered to see the whole picture of people, places, events and are to be logically considered, debated, and understood in order make judgements, decisions and solve problems. But forget that approach in the current zietgiest fraught with division and bizarre conspiracy theories held on to with religious fervor. 

    Social media, like it or not has become a source (maybe the only one for many) of news and views which also should be tested, expanded upon, in some cases held suspect until proven otherwise, yet again, currently, is not the case, even if what is given out is proven bogus, false with no evidence or proof. Being exposed to all of this nonsense can make us despair that common sense may never be valued as not only a desirable, but also a vital and necessary human capacity. How are we to foster and develop common sense so that we are not at the mercy of an education system with often inane procedures and policies in effect discouraging common sense, or the fears of censors who indiscriminatly and ignorantly ban all manner of historic and/or classic literture (e.g. Cather in the Rye, To Kill a Mockingbird, The Diary of Anne Frank) that would/could challenge readers to learn about the human condition, and think for themselves. These kinds of fear-driven decisions not only suggest that there is no faith in common sense, but such efforts prevent others from acquiring a broad and deep cultural literacy and developing the resources to make assessments and decisions a variety of subjects.
    Even though things may seem hopeless in many areas these days, common sense is probably not something that can be totally annililated, despite the lack of it all around us. If children are not getting what they need to think or have common sense experiences in their classrooms, parents can consider home schooling to that end. Unfortunatley, sometimes home schooling is thought of as a way to protect children from what is feared most "free thinking' so they trade what they think is one kind of indoctrination to the indoctrination of their choice. 

    Ideally, home IS a place for discussion, debate and oppotunities to explore various ideas and perspectives. Parents have a crucial and necessary role in identifying, encouraging and affirming common sense. They can praise when they hear or see common sense displayed or spoken. Parents and teachers can make reading and visual materials available that encourage thinking rather than preventing it, and they can also be examples of common sense themselves and/or point out examples of it in history, literature, films, social situations, etc. If we look we will see practical situations and solutions as examples aboundng in history, science, inventions, research and in every day life. Parents can also discuss with their children examples of lack of common sense when the opportunity arises. 

    Not to put all the responsibility on parents, all the above can also be and sometimes is done by caring and thoughtful teachers, family, neighbors and friends, who also may have a role in limiting TV, screen and computer time, which may allow children to tap into and use their own imagination, hear their own voice, their own questions, formulate or seek out their own "answers," play inventively and creatively, rather sources replete with banal and watered down versions of life with stock characters spouting sentimental and/or sarcastic language in tone and meaning.

    Let’s all try to revive and affirm common sense whenever and wherever we can, encourage it and hope that is not gone forever. 

    And here ends my little blog "pamphlet" contribution to the need for Common Sense and ways we may at least begin to think about looking for it, identifying it, fostering it and using it. 

Gleaning the Meaning

I am sitting in an austere classroom, devoid of pictures, color and warmth in a cold, red brick school house at the top of a narrow cobblestone street. There is a high, black iron fence around it with a recess yard in the back, paved over--no greenery, inside or or out. The children can, however, look to the the blue sky and clouds above and feel the breeze as they pay tag unitl the a bell rings out, calling the children in from recess into the dark halls. 

     Then up they go up the creaky wooden steps into rooms where stern nuns stands at the front of the classroom to continue the lessons, which often turn into the topic of sin or and admonishment to or humiliation of one or another of the students or the class as a whole. 

     Yet, there is one shining lesson which rays out—I suppose my first memory of being transported in an instant away from the ordinary. A small book was given out with cream-colored, newsprint pages filled with poetry and reproductions of paintings in sepia tones. This must have been a rare event; maybe happening only that once. Even though the book itself was plain, without color, I remember taking it into my hands with reverence and anticipation. Looking through that book was nourishment for a hungry soul, strength for a growing child, fresh air in the close room, light and warmth in the midst of the cold. Such are the gifts of beauty.

     In this book were paintings and poems: Van Gogh's painting a man with hand over he face, which I somehow recognized as a gesture of sorrow. There was The Gleaners by Millet figures bent over scythes working in a field with was softness in the strength of the workers’ bodies, purpose in their efforts, and a beauty in curvature of those lines. 

These images and the poems awakened something in me. One of the poems was lovely, and I had the first stanza by heart the moment I read it.

     Hope is a thing with feathers
     That perches in the soul
     And sings the tune without the words
     And never stops at all. (Emily Dickinson)

These images and words were speaking to me from a place I could enter and through them transporting away fdeadening to the spirit environment--inside and out . 

     I found then, and since then, that the arts are rain and sun surrounding and penetrating the shell that threatens to form around the seed of soul…a seed that is meant to sprout, leaf, bud and bloom. It seems that so much in life would have the shell harden and become impenetrable. That potential blossoming, however, becomes more probable and possible through natural beauty and through the arts and literature, which are expressions of  of what we see, experience, intuit, remember, anticipate, aspire to, and all that can be felt imagined and dreamed--filling the world with all forms and color, with movement, light, music introducing us to gleaning the meaning of human experience, collectively and individually. 

HOW DO I LOVE THEE?

     Dante sees Beatrice for the first time

         How do I love thee, Florence?  Let me count the ways.

Reminiscing about a long-ago stay in Florence, Italy, I experience the memories as gifts to open at any moment--treasures filling my heart, mind and senses with impressions of that "Jewel of the Renaissance."
Many years ago, my husband Robert and I went to live in Florence for one year. As often happens, things did not go as we had planned, and we left discouraged after only a few months. Our money was running out. I could not find a source of income to sustain our stay, and Robert's plan to work with another artist fell through. When I look back, however, it is not the failed plan I remember most, it is the 'Being" of Florence and the infinite impressions that remain with me.
    As young people, just married a little over a year, we had our lives ahead of us, We had sold or stored whatever we had in our little apartment and left for Italy. We found a small, but lovely place with a little fireplace on via di San Giuseppe, across from a side entrance to the Basilica of Santa Croce, with its green and white checkered limestone facade. From our window, we had a view of the statue of Dante Alighieri. How tragic it must have been for him to be exiled, but now he stands watch in the busy sunlit piazza, reclaimed by his beloved city.
    When we first entered the Santa Croce, I was in awe of the exquisite architecture and embellishments—the columns, statuary, stenciling, gold leaf, paintings, sculptures, and the ornate marble tombs of Michelangelo, Galileo and Machiavelli, the three masters of art, astronomy and politics. Exploration of the art and history associated with this one Florentine basilica alone could occupy a lifetime.
    Florence is a feast for the senses: aromas of espresso; roasting delicacies in wood-fired ovens; displays of dreamy, creamy pastries; la lingua italiana heard from passersby and in the open markets; the reverberating church bells all over the city at the canonical hours. There is a special kind of light in Florence too—a golden shower falling on red tile roofs, filtering down on ancient stone and marble, and above the city the azure hills of cypress, olive orchards and vineyards.
    There in a niche at Orsanmichele, a scuplture by Verrocchio; here a garden or fountain; the grandeur of Santa Maria del Fiore and Baptistry with doors of bronze await in the magnificent piazza del Durmo. In a stroll over the Ponte Trinita, one can imagine Dante's eyes first falling upon his immortalized Beatrice, where he first saw her. And, oh! just down that street Robert and Elizabeth Barrett Browning lived, loved and wrote.

Santa Maria de Fiore

i porti bronzi by Gilberti

    These experiences, if only of a very brief part of my life, are treasures I can bring to mind, opening a world alive with color, light, sound, warmth, movement and meaning—and beauty that can never be described, although I have tried to count the ways. No, only to be remember Florence in all ways -- and always!

PILGRIMS ALL

Pause for Reflection at Montes de Oca

Pilgrims All - From Wilderness to Promised Land

Traditionally, a pilgrimage is an intentional journey to a destination considered sacred or significnt in some way, associated with a person, place or event. Many are the worldwide sites to which pilgrims have travelled over the ages: Mecca, Lourdes, Varanasi on the Ganges, The Wailing Wall, Deer Park, Rome, Jerusalem, Canterbury and Santiago de Compostela, as well as others not so well known.

     Setting out on a pilgrimage involves both physical and psychological experiences. There is uncertainty, with the realization there may be risks or unexpected encounters along the way, but also great anticipation of the adventure. And so, pilgrims set out with a commitment and will to reach their destination. Such an experience has often been said by pilgrims to have been transformational toward a heightened consciousness and greater self-knowledge.

     Expanding on the idea of "pilgrimage," we may imagine, or have experienced, that some of life's journeys are unplanned "pilgrimages," sometimes thrust upon us by necessity or chance, taking us to distant landscapes, sometimes inner ones! Any story worth telling involves a pilgrimage of sorts, and we have examples of such pilgrimages in film, plays, myth and literature.

     The film, The Miracle Club comes to mind. Another is Shakespeare’s play, King Lear. In it, the king finds himself on an unintentional pilgrimage, both inner and outer when, through his pride, he seeks affirmation from his three daughters of their love for him, saying "Which of you shall we say doth love me the most?" and that he will give up his rule and his entire kingdom to whomever expresses adoration for him.

     His youngest daughter. Cordelia refuses to honor Lear’s selfish and foolish demand and, therefore, is disinherited by him. While his other daughters, Goneril and Regan, speak words of love crafted for their own self-gain. However, once they receive what he promised, they exile him, forcing him out of the kingdom to wander on an unexpected pilgrimage into the wilderness, with all lost to him: position, power and wealth.

     Most devastating to him is his daughters' betrayal, as he endures the outer elements of a raging storm, and the inner ones of anguish, despair, and madness—not knowing where he is or who he is, until Cordelia comes to his rescue--true proof of her love. He is transformed then from inner wilderness to  the "promised land" of forgiveness, acceptance and unconditional love, that which he had been seeking all along.

     Ultimately, are we not all pilgrims—for our faith, for an adventure, or, as Lear, for unconditional love and acceptance? Whichever it be, we must submit to the challenges and be grateful for the blessings of our journeys, intentional or not, having taken  us to the ends of the earth, or to the "limits of our longing."

     One thing is certain, we will not end up where we started. If we are fortunate, like King Lear, we can emerge from Wilderness to Promised Land.

It's Not Tomorrow Now

I visit my son's family as often as I am able on work days off, vacation time and holidays. They also visit us, but have busy lives with a young son, Finn, and visiting them allows me to be part of their lives for a time--and even lend some support with school, chores and dinner. When I visit, I always hate to leave and start looking forward to the next visit. I tell Finn when I am leaving and that I will be back soon.

On my last visit, I told him, "Nonna will be leaving tomorrow and I feel sad." 

Finn immediately said, “It’s not tomorrow now," a stunning realization for me, and, of course, he was right in his perception--"out of the mouth of babes." How foolish of me to jump ahead, and not remain in the present, not worrying about yesterdays and tomorrows. For him there was only the now.  

It’s never tomorrow now, nor is it yesterday or tomorrow now, but it is always and only NOW! 

Children are intuitive and so much wiser than we in that regard—of living in the present, and I am convinced that my grandson is unusually remarkable in his ability, not only to immediately sense that I was no in the "now" with him, but also to articulate that “deep insight,” even though it is a simple,  matter of fact reality we forget to live by. 

He was reminding me, "You and I are here together right now, so let’s enjoy our time and not think for even one second about a time when we will not be together—for that takes away from the time we do have.

I love you, Finn, for a lesson I may need to recall again and again--that in love and the best parts of life we do not live in time. 

There is only the present where "time touches eternity," and that is heaven on earth!

The Show Must Go On?

I am familiar with the night
Its dark, silent stage
Then scenes open
In a floodlight of memory

I re-enact my life
the desires, the illusions
The cold prompter, Fear, in the wings,
I have the role for life

The Director?
An invisible, temperamental critic,
encouraging me to perform.

Oh! I’ve convinced myself

That I modify my part from time to time
A subtle gesture here
An improvisation there

The truth is I have perfected the role 

into ritual, but, no one notices
Except  the dcritic 

Accompanied by the beat of my heart
Acknowledging and reminding me
That only I can draw the curtain

Retire the part
Change the play

My critic says: “I’ll put you in touch with my son,
A fabulous agent, a miracle worker, I tell you.
He’ll show you how to reinvent yourself.
In fact, he specializes in Rebirth.”

JAMES BALDWIN SAID:

Life is tragic simply because the earth turns and the sun inexorably rises and sets, and one day, for each of us, the sun will go down for the last. Perhaps the whole root of our trouble, the human trouble, is that we will sacrifice all the beauty of our lives, will imprison ourselves in totems, taboos, crosses, blood sacrifices, steeples, mosques, races, armies, flags, nations, in order to deny the fact of death, which is the only fact we have.

For while the tale of how we suffer, and how we are delighted and how we may triumph is never new, it always must be heard. There isn’t any other tale to tell. It’s the only light we’ve got in all this darkness. (James Baldwin)

No One Has Heard

No one can truly hear another's song
we cannot even hear our own
in words--only tones
rising to the rough surface
then sinking down into
the mystery of dreams

Songs of memory

songs of longing

songs of dread

Beyond this plane we have met

before birth, before earth

will meet again
all soul songs moving, mingling
quiet as grief

No one can hear
though our life's work--
to listen and sing--
a choir in the blue air
among the stars