A MATTER OF TIME

He had given away every last penny of an enormous inheritance. He was homeless now, but it didn’t matter, only he missed being able to help others. I found this out when a stranger called me and told me Kenny had given him fifteen-hundred dollars to see me for as many therapy sessions as that amount would cover. Inheriting a fortune is everyone’s ultimate fantasy, but Kenny just handed his out like cupcakes at a birthday party.

So, Kenny must have gotten a windfall from his Aunt Molly who, as I remember, had no other family. I met her when we stayed at her place on Martha’s Vineyard. And what a place it was. I guess he gave that away too.

“Wait, now let me get this straight,” I said to the caller. “Kenny is broke and homeless, and you are using his last fifteen hundred dollars to get help from me?”

“Oh, well, yeah … I guess … I mean, he said you’d be able ta help me. I wasn’t sleepin' nights since my dad died and all, and a lota other things happened too—lost my job, that kinda thing. Kenny said you’d help me, and I believe ‘im. He gave me the money before he was homeless though.”

“Well, that makes all the difference,” I said, trying not to laugh, or cry. I felt bad, being sarcastic like that, but I don’t think he noticed. “Let’s see what I’ve got here," looking at my calendar. “Next Tuesday at 2:00 p.m., is that good for you?”

“Sure thing, Doc, see ya then.”

I jotted down his contact info. “Okay, see you next week then.”

Kenny, homeless? That was hard to take. I was sorry I hadn’t asked some of the questions I was formulating in those few minutes on the phone—some I had since I’d last seen Kenny. I knew it would be wrong, asking my questions of a new client in a first session. He was the one looking for answers, but I figured I would get at least some answers over time—that is, if he even showed up.

Not that I didn’t want to help the caller; Sam was his name. It’s what I do. I‘m a therapist, and a pretty good one at that, but I already resented him in a way for taking Kenny’s last dime. I was looking forward to finding out what had happened to my lost lover—lost in every way it seemed. We hadn’t seen each other in a few years, and didn’t part on good terms. It all got too bizarre—too complicated—even for me.

I told him he needed therapy, but I wasn’t going to be the one to help him sort out his life. That’s when he said, in a tone of voice I’d never heard before, “There’s nothing to sort out, so fuck off!”

I never saw Kenny again. I left in a huff never wanting to see him again. When things had simmered down though, I tried to get in touch with him over the next few months—texting, calling, emailing, and even writing a good old-fashioned letter. No response. I finally got up the nerve to go see him; I really wanted to see him, but I found he had moved and couldn’t be found. The city is a big place, but it is incredible that a person can’t be found—even if he doesn’t want to be found. He obviously did not want to be found.

So, Sam did show up; we shook hands, and I invited him into my inner sanctum—a quiet room with big cozy chairs, muted colors, diffused light from the windows in the day, and warm, soft lighting at night. I had created a place where my clients would feel comfortable and safe (I despise those words, “comfortable” and “safe.”), so they would tell me their life stories, or at least the part of the story before the turning point, or after it—as the case might be.

“Hey, Sam, before you tell me about yourself, I’d like to ask something about Kenny. Do you mind?”

“No, Doc, no, I don’t mind at all. Whadaya wanna know?”

“Well, you said Kenny gave you money before he was homeless, but how do you know he is homeless?”

“Well, I saw ‘im a few days after that night I was at his place … the night he gave me the money. Boy, was I surprised when he did that, but I wasn’t surprised ta see ‘im on the streets.”

“Oh, why was that?”

“Well, 'cause I didn’t even know he had any money.”

“No, I wanted to know why you weren’t surprised to see Kenny homeless. I mean … you were friends, right?”

“No, we weren’t what I’d call good friends or anythin’ like that. He hung out with us at the shelter downtown, so we all knew ‘im; he was always so nice ta us. But when I saw his place that night, it was a mess, and I kinda felt I was in better shape than him, and he didn’t look too good either."

“So, you are homeless too, Sam?”

“Oh, no, no, but … kinda down on my luck these days. I have a place, but went ta the shelter for meals sometimes… after I lost my job, ya know. That’s where I met Kenny. He talked ta us … never seemed like he belonged there. I didn’t mean ta, but I kinda whined about my sob story one night, and that’s when he brought me back ta ‘is place … probably on the worst night a my life, and gave me the money, and your number … said you’d help me. I went back ta thank ‘im again a couple a days later. I knocked. No answer, so I was ready ta leave, when this guy across the hall comes out and tells me Kenny don’t live there no more. I saw ‘im on the street later, and that’s when he told me he was homeless.”

“Oh, I see … but … ”

“I lied to ya, Doc,” Sam interrupted,“ ‘cause Kenny… he really gave me two thousand cash, but I used five hundred for my rent. When I saw ‘im on the street, I told ‘im, I says ta ‘im, I says, ‘You take the resta the money back, cause looks like ya need it more than me,’ but he wouldn’t. That’s when he told me he inherited some money and was givin it all away. He said he only wished he had more ta give … said he didn’t need it. Jeez, can ya believe that?”

“Why didn’t you just keep the money and not come here?” I asked, sort of wondering out loud.

With child-like innocence, Sam said, “Well, Kenny told me ta come see ya; that’s why he gave me the money, ya know,  in the first place. He said you’d help me.”

“I will certainly do my best," and we began our first session.

It felt strange taking Kenny’s money for my services. I offered to charge only half the amount for the sessions, so Sam could go beyond the fifteen weeks it would cover at my regular rate, but he wouldn't hear of it. As the weeks went by, I didn’t learn much more about Kenny, but I learned a whole lot about Sam. He was a simple soul and honorable. I would keep him on when his money ran out. I hoped he would agree if he felt he needed more time. He was making progress though. He had found a job to keep him afloat, so he didn’t have to go to the shelter for meals, but he said he stops by once in a while to see the old gang. No sign of Kenny; apparently, no one else had seen him either.

“He just disappeared,” Sam said.

“And how do you feel about that?” I asked, but was  thinking, Yeah, I get it. That’s what he did with me too—just disappeared.

Kenny and I met when we were at Columbia, finishing up our degrees—his in philosophy and mine in clinical psychology. It was love at first sight you could say. I was amazed to realize there really was such a thing—that unexplainable kind of attraction. He was intriguing, quirky, quiet mostly—not the small-talk type, but I liked that. I thought later, if I had wanted “normal,” I would have looked for normal. No such thing anyway, I know that for a fact.

His hair was dark and wild, and his eyes were kind--a soft, misty brown. His skin was clear and smooth, like a boy's, and his hands were perfection. I had the impression they were the kind a monk might have had—made for writing on parchment with a feather pen dipped into a pale blue glass inkwell. Later, I saw that his handwriting did have a grace and elegance about it, reminiscent of those Medieval illuminated manuscripts, and he did most of his writing by hand.

He wrote on various, obscure, abstract subjects—scholarly critiques on philosophy, theology and the lives of saints. He was intrigued with hagiography. He would tell me about the insights and revelations he had through his research and study. I loved how he looked when he spoke of his work, and how he expressed ideas in such beautiful images, precise analogies, lofty metaphors and clear logic.

Who cared if our attraction was hormones or pheromones, and not destiny? I don’t know how he would have described me, or what part of my body he may have thought was perfection, if any, but the feeling was mutual, passionate, intense—and ultimately doomed. There must have been a genetic code for disaster in the nature of our relationship. We were too different, and he gradually ascended, or descended, depending on how you look at it, into an unreachable place, intent it seemed, on becoming a saint himself.

It wasn’t going to work. His mind was like a black hole—sucking everything into it. Nothing escaped—ideas. facts, implications, probabilities and possibilities. Mine was more like a sieve, holding only what I needed to get through each day—the rest sifted through. Anyway, it’s how I came to think of “us” as opposites.

Despite the chemistry, or maybe because of it, it had to come crashing down.

“You know what your trouble is, Kenny?” I said during one of our increasingly heated “conversations.” “Despite your knowledge of philosophy and religion and all, you don’t really believe in anything, do you?”

We were sitting on his bed in the little room he was  renting in the city, piled high with books, strewn with empty wine bottles, half-written papers on his desk, and ashtrays crammed with cigarette butts. He got up, bare-legged in his white boxer shorts. I was already sorry I said anything, and wished we were still in the bed together, so I could put my fingers through his matted hair and wrap my legs around his. He put his hands on his hips, made a half turn away, then back again, glaring at me with those eyes, always shining with an unearthly—maybe even heavenly gaze.

Almost in a whisper, as if to himself, and with a look on his face like he was having another revelation he said, “It’s not that I don’t believe in anything. I believe in everything!”

It was hard to have a saint for a lover, and it must have been even harder for him with me, a materialist and born therapist, analyzing him in a way no therapist would if she wanted to keep her client. But I wasn’t his therapist; I was his lover and his anchor—I believed that. I had this weird thought. I was him trying to get in, and he was me trying to get out. I needed his ability to soar above it all—to what he might have called the “world of ideas,” which transcended creation—the only reality to speak of, according to Saint Kenny.

If he needed me at all, maybe it was for my ability to focus on one thing at a time, to plan and to follow through. Kenny said we complimented each other. He said I thought inductively—from the specific to the general, and he thought deductively—from the general to the specific. Boy, was he deep, which I figured made me shallow—in my ambition to own my own practice; to make a good living; shallow in my wish to own a piece of real estate in some remarkable location, and in my need to take long weekends and vacations when I could get away. My desire for and my pleasure in material things, and all the rest of it, was in direct opposition to what Kenny stood for.

Like I said, we were doomed.

That started to become clear after a few days we spent at his Aunt Molly’s. To me it was paradise: the island in the sea, the blue sky above, brilliant sun pouring through a dream house. I made a big fuss about it, and told Kenny I could see us living our lives there. I was like a mystic in ecstasy, but not the kind Kenny read about in his Medieval texts. I knew he could have been just as happy in one of those remote, monastic beehive huts on Skellig Michael, off the coast of Ireland—happiest most likely.

I snuggled up to him on our first night there. The ocean breeze was cool, the full moon over the ocean—visible from our bed. The fragrance of beach roses and hedge, our bodies warm together, I put my head on his chest—which was also pretty perfect.

“What do you say, Ken? Let’s live here. I’ll set up a practice. You could work on your studies, maybe finish a book in the quiet of this place—that book you’ve been working on.”

“It isn’t a book; it’s my theories and my musings.”

“You’ve just been musing all this time, really? Didn’t you ever think of sharing what you’ve learned, what you know?” I’d been wondering about where he was going with his writing for a while, along with a lot of other things I never dared mention.

“No, I haven’t thought of it. I’m happy doing what I’m doing, and I don’t want to leave the city. I like the noise and the grit of it and the people—the movement of them coming and going, even the ones who have nowhere to go or nobody to be. I’ve been thinking about doing something else too, instead of living for myself. There is so much need out there.”

“You mean like I do—live for myself?” I thought I knew where this was going—and me ruining the moment—again.

“No, I didn't mean that; you do help people, and that’s a good thing. I want to do that too.”

“I didn’t know you thought of me as helping anyone. I mean … I certainly try.” I was touched by his comment, suggesting out loud that my work was worthy after all. “I don’t think I’m the greatest example of good tough, that’s for sure.” I reminded him, “You’ve read, and know so well, the best of the best for inspiration on that score: Plato, St. Augustine, Aquinas, the saints … I mean … ”

“Well, … I’ve read about their ideas and experience, yes, but I need to do something with them.”

I silently agreed.

When we got back to the city, at first he continued to live in his dark room, thinking and writing. He still did some part time work in a library, barely earning enough to subsist—subsidized by me, which I didn’t mind. I still admired his ideals, and I loved him—meaning I made sure we could both live the life I wanted—dinners, plays, trips, none of which seemed to matter much to Kenny.

Soon after, he began walking the streets at night encountering those who could use something good in their lives. When he started bringing back lost souls, disheveled and sometimes incoherent ones with wild eyes, I began to question his judgement, and wondered if there was room for me in his future. I know how that sounds, but I was shaken by it all, and not only for my own well being. I also questioned Kenny on a finer point.

"You may be giving these souls something to eat or a coat to wear, but are you effecting any real change in their lives?" I had to ask.

“It doesn't matter if their lives change,” he almost shouted. “That’s your goal, not mine. I’m happy to help in small ways … in immediate need. You manipulate people and want them to live as you do.”

“Now … wait a minute,” I shouted back, feeling blindsided. “You said before that I did good, and I thought you meant it. Why are you being so hostile now?“ There were other words spoken … or shouted back and forth, and that’s when I screamed that he needed a therapist.

It was the last thing I ever said to him.

We parted ways, and that, as they say, was that. I came to accept it was for the best. Kenny was right; I had wanted him to live as I did. I didn't want to, and couldn’t  live as he did.

On the fifteenth week with Sam, he reminded me that it was our intended last session, “Well, this is it, Doc, the grand finoulie.” It sort of took me by surprise, though I had to agree he was in a good place.

“Well, you let me know, Sam, if you need to come in again, and remember what I said—no charge, okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, sure thing, and thanks, Doc,” he said in his usual matter-of-fact way.

I had looked forward to our sessions. I liked Sam. He has a natural kind of wisdom, and it didn’t take much to get him to think about things in another way, so he was able to make some positive changes because of it. He was in a rut, but was easily budged out of it. I would miss him; having him around made me feel close to Kenny—strange as that sounds.

“Okay, Sam, you take care, now."

Sam hesitated, then he pulled an envelope out of his pocket and handed it to me. 

“What’s this?”

“I dunno, but Kenny said ta give it ta ya after we had our last meetin, so here it is, Doc.”

Looking back, I don’t remember Sam’s even leaving the office. I just stared down at the envelope in my trembling hand. I don’t know how long it was before I fell into one of those cozy chairs to open it. So much time had passed, but no love lost on my side. Was it a suicide note? I found myself thinking crazy things the moment before I opened it, desperately hoping it was the impossible—an invitation to meet him somewhere, anywhere. I wanted to look into those eyes once more. Those old feelings, memories and desire had been rushing in over the past  weeks—flooding in and swirling around in my head and in my heart.

That was two years ago. I am still grieving. The letter Sam brought from the law firm was a shocker. Kenny willed Aunt Molly’s house to me! When I went to see the attorney, she told me she had met with Kenny only once, and didn’t know that much about him, except that he had been ill, even before the inheritance from his aunt. That explains his giving a fortune away, but why will the house to me, after all this time?

I’m settled into my new practice on Martha’s Vineyard, but I may never know, and I have been hoping to find clues among his things left in this room overlooking the sea, the one we stayed in that night. The desk piled with his writings, shelves of books,  overflowing boxes if papers for me to live with—alone.

Today, I found that letter I wrote to Kenny years ago. When I unfolded it, a piece of parchment fell out. On it, in his beautiful script, were these lines:

I cannot live with you—

It would be life—

And life is over there—

Behind the shelf—

So We must meet apart—

  You there—I—here—

  With just the Door ajar

  Oceans are—and Prayer—

  And that White Sustenance—

  Despair—

Isn’t that the truth? Not exactly a clue, though—more of a confirmation of what I already knew. But now I can’t get them out of my head.

*I cannot live with you/…” from “In Vain” by Emily Dickinson in Poems by Emily Dickinson, First & Second Series, edited by Mabel Loomis Todd and T. W. Higginson.

MOSS ON STONE - An Excerpt

from an historical novella based on the diary of 

Susannah Norwood Torrey (1826 ~ 1908)

Prologue

To have a dream is to remain hopeful—a vision of some future time when all will be well and worry ceases. I have found that when dreams fade, there are other ways, if not to cherish thoughts of the future, or to reflect upon regrets of the past, then to sustain us day to day with a small measure of light—mine were things of beauty—moss on stone.

Now, from this distance of space and time, indeed, the absence of those illusions that do not exist here, I linger, preparing to return to life anew. What did I leave behind? A portrait for others to look upon, a scrapbook of moss designs, a diary, and a stone cottage by the sea. I review my life as one would a colorful tableau, and find that mine was a life worth living. I will tell you something of that life—of dreams,, and dreams fading; of time passing; of dear family and friends, loved and lost; and of people and places changed. 

    Through it all, there were the immutable gifts of nature to renew my soul with unequaled joy, asking nothing in return.

Between the thicket and the wood, lay the sought for valley covered with rocks piled one about another….and these rocks were covered with the most beautiful mosses that I ever saw. 

(Oct. 17, 1849)

www.mossonstoneauthor.blogspot.com

VULNERABILITY

Vulnerability is not a weakness, a passing indisposition, or something we can arrange to do without, vulnerability is not a choice. Vulnerability is the underlying, ever present and abiding undercurrent of our natural state…. To run from vulnerability is to run from the essence of our nature; the attempt to be invulnerable is the vain attempt to become something we are not. (David Whyte, Poet/Philosopher)

I agree with these thoughts by poet, David Whyte, but must must remind myself often that vulnerability is part of being fully human. Like other bits of widsom, it is not easy to live, as we are vulnerable in so many ways. While it may be a natural part of being human, so is our tendency to protect ourselves from physically, as well as emotionally. And while we can reasonably do so--attending to our health and well being in many ways, we also may try to remain invulnerable in other ways that prevent us from taking risks or engaging in life that would connect us to others by opening ourselves up to possibilities despite the perceived risks. 

We are vulnerable in relationships of love, friendship and community and to ourselves when we hold ourselves accountable for our highest ideals. We may avoid, sharing our thoughts and feelings, as well as our abilities and creations for fear of pain, rejection and loss. In doing so we also close ourselves off from the possibility of deepening our capacity for compassion,empathy and joy, as well as being accepted and acknolwedged by others who would value us and deem of worthy,

David Whyte suggests that vulnerability is our natural state, because no one of us is in control. We all must face the “slings and arrows of outrageous fortune.” So, it would seem we must change our tendency to remain invulnerable and choose to fulfill our potential to become fully human and live in full scope of our being, as we are the only part of creation able to choose to BECOME.

Does the biblical reference to being in the image of God imply that ww are also creators with capacity to contribute to and participate consciously in Creation--even by working on ourselves to become what we envison. I believe so.

The rest of creation becomes what it is meant to be without choice or consciousness: a seed becomes a flower; a larvae becomes a butterfly. All other entities on earth fulfill their nature by necessity. Humans have the capacity and opportunities to choose in small and large ways throughout a lifetime: to be different, to be better, to be more than we are, to be more balanced toward wholeness, to be more true to what we imagine is our higher self.

We are capable, first through our uniqueness and individuality to bring the new into life: thoughts, deeds and physical manifestations of our creations. We also have the capacity to shape our "selves" through reflecting on and evolving with life's challenges, sorrows, joys which awaken our consciousness and conscience to transcend and transform. 

All of the above involves willingness to be vulnerable and rebound when we are blindsided to face situations with courage and hope when we are faced with life on its own terms.  

Can you, will you, must you begin to trust that everything is as it is and will be and allow yourself to, "go to the limits of your longing?"  

God speaks to each of us as he makes us,

then walks with us silently out of the night.

These are the words we dimly hear:

You, sent out beyond your recall,

go to the limits of your longing.

Embody me.

Flare up like a flame

and make big shadows I can move in.

Let everything happen to you: beauty and terror.

Just keep going. No feeling is final.

Don’t let yourself lose me.

Nearby is the country they call life.

You will know it by its seriousness.

Give me your hand. ~ Rilke, Book of Hours, I 59

JE SUIS HAMLET

Hamlet pertains to everything--everything in life that is most essential, if we are willing to look beyond our ordinary existence into the "extraordinary." Hamlet is only one of many tragic heroes in the history of drama, but unique in so many ways, not the least of which is that he speaks anew to each generation. Both the nature of his mind and dilemma are contemporary and universal. 

      In all other tragedies before Hamlet, each tragic hero has a clearly identifiable "flaw" or “hubris,” which Aristotle, first literary critic, in his Poetics notes contributes to a downfall—a feature of all tragedies since the birth of Greek drama. Macbeth’s flaw is ambition; Othello’s is jealousy, King Lear’s is pride, and so it goes—until Hamlet. We might imagine that other tragic heroes before the figure of Hamlet could have changed their fates by reflecting on their situations and themselves, thereby acquiring a bit of self-knowledge, with which they may have been better equipped to make different choices and thus avoid tragedy. The tragic heroes’ hubris is their inability to even imagine they have any flaws, and thus their fate is sealed.   

      Not so with Hamlet!

      Hamlet exhibits a great deal of self-knowledge, as he thoughtfully examines both himself and his situation. He finds he has only two choices, revealed in probably the most well-known of soliloquies in all of drama. His fate evolves, not because of ego, subconscious motivations or hubris. His fate is dictated to him from beyond the grave by the ghost of his father, King Hamlet, who comes to seek revenge for his “murder most foul.” King Hamlet reveals that he was killed by his own brother, Claudius, who lusted for crown and queen. 
      And so Hamlet questions: “To be or not to be." Is he to ignore his father's command to avenge the murder and “suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,” or is he to “take arms against a sea of troubles and by opposing end them”? He will, of course, choose the latter, which means he will also die. The murder of his uncle, a sitting king, is treason, and who will believe a ghost told him to do it? 

      Hamlet is presented cruelly and unexpectedly with this “outrageous fortune”: a development not of his own making, not due to a flaw or a wrong action. The task of revenge is thrust upon him, and so he agonizes, “Oh, cursed spite, that ever I was born to set it right.”

      Some literary critics, feeling compelled to find Hamlet's flaw (since Aristotle said it must exist) have determined that Hamlet "thinks too much," which prevents him from action. While it is true that Hamlet also believes his thinking is preventing him from action, he has much to think about, doesn't he? He is grieving over his father’s recent death and his mother’s “o’er hasty marriage” to his murderous uncle; in confusion at the appearance of his father's ghost, in dread of fulfilling the command to avenge his father's murder; and in sorrow at the rejection of his lover, Ophelia. He must contemplate, digest all to sort it out. Yet, he thinks logically and determines that, before he kills Claudius, he must have proof “more relative” than a ghost’s appearance, which may be the devil’s trick.  

      All of this thinking takes time, is necessary, and is not, in this writer's humble opinion, a flaw at all. 

      Although we may never be in such clear and present danger as is Hamlet, we too, at some point (and maybe at many points) in our lives, face a seemingly irresolvable dilemma not necessarily of our own making. We too must either bear a crisis in silence, or “take arms against" it. These are typically our choices for life's problems--large or small. At first, however, we may wish we could somehow, in some way, escape our fate, just disappear, as does Hamlet and many other souls who sometimes follow through with a final exit. 

      Oh, that this too, too solid flesh would melt

      Thaw, and resolve itself into a dew,

      Or that the Everlasting had not fixed

      His canon 'gainst self-slaughter!

      We too must struggle to understand what is at stake, and to make decisions which could have grave and lasting implications for us and others. For Hamlet, it becomes foremost to find the truth--admirable!  He thoughtfully and creatively arranges a visiting troop of actors to put on a play, The Mousetrap which will enact the scenario his father has described to him--the poisoning of a king who has seduced the queen—in the same manner described to Hamlet by the ghost--ingenious!               

      Hamlet observes the king during the performance for evidence of his guilt as the bloody deed is reenacted before him. The play will be “the thing to catch the conscience of the king.”

      Throughout Hamlet, there is a motif of many-layered observation. The guards observe Hamlet when the ghost appears. Rosencrantz and Gildenstern, his university friends, observe Hamlet to discover the source of his “antic disposition.” Polonius and the King observe Hamlet and Ophelia. Polonius spies behind the curtain in the queen’s chamber, and Hamlet observes the king watching the "play within the play." Also, Hamlet begins and ends with keeping the watch. In the first scene, the palace guards stand watch on the battlements. Then, In the last scene of the play, after Hamlet’s death, Prince Fortinbras (the next ruler of Denmark and foil to Hamlet) gives orders to, “Bear Hamlet, like a soldier, to the stage,” where he can be viewed and honored.

      The character of Hamlet in Shakespeare's time was unconventional, to say the least, which is only one of the features of the play that accounts for its universality and continuing relevance. It can be argued that Shakespeare speaks more fully of the human condition in this play than in any other.  Hamlet is the existential "everyman" in an absurd situation—LIFE, which often is experienced as both “a rock and a hard place.” Hamlet is representative of humanity, and Denmark is a microcosm of the world in which we daily observe, “carnal, bloody, and unnatural acts…accidental judgments, casual slaughters…deaths put on by cunning and forced causes…and purposes mistook.” Sounds like the evening news! 

      In all dramatic works, as in life itself, there comes a turning point. Hamlet clearly states his pivotal moment (although not often mentioned by critics as such) when he accepts life and death on their own terms: “If it be now, ’tis not to come. If it be not to come, it will be now. If it be not now, yet it will come—the readiness is all.” He does, of course, accomplish his mission impossible, kills the king, and is himself slain, but not before he asks his friend Horatio, the only person who can bear witness, to tell his story aright to the world.

      Here, we may recall James Baldwin’s insight: “…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.”

     The play, and specifically this play, IS the thing that catches our conscience, challenging us to find in the characters and situations in LIFE writ large, magnified through drama’s  ritual and pageantry so that we may observe and recognize our own reflections.

I am Hamlet. You are Hamlet.

FORWARD, NOT BACK

FORWARD NOT BACK

August 2016:  Presidential candidate Donald Trump recently said, "I could stand in the middle of Fifth Avenue and shoot somebody, okay, and I wouldn't lose any voters, okay?" He was telling us who he is, and that he feels he has total and ongoing immunity for his behavior and utterances, and that most of his followers have the twisted mentality to sanction random murder to see him as president. These are the makings of a dictator/tyrant: ignoring such implications in blind devotion is prerequisite for tyrants to rise to and to stay in power. Of course, it is uncertain at present whether he really would have such immunity and the current level of devotion in such a situation or that he would be a dictator. He does, however, say what some people want to hear in a way that has previously been off the table, with no sense of decorum, dignity and/or common sense. This way of reaching his followers not only further confirms his arrogance and disregard for common decency and his perceived entitlemtnt to  immunity, but also exploits and encourages some of his followers worst tendencies. There is something amiss here in the apparent intention to be divisive and in the refusal of his supporters to see the danger of his coming to power. Some will say his most extreme utterances are, "just a joke," not really a big deal. Maybe for now, but, at the very least, it says a great deal about his lack of judgement, his authoritarian tendencies and his constant humiliation and mocking of others. I susupect that is who he will be if elected president, to the detriment of America and its becoming a much "less perfect union."

Donald Trump, an arrogant, immature and egotistical celebrity, has been able to influence and attract many potential voters who must confuse bravado and the privilege of power and wealth with the capacities required for presidential leadership. Pundits note that people are drawn to him for his "honesty," but the "birther lie" the foundation of his campaign is an untruth and unwarranted attack on the current sitting president--honest? I think not. They say he is “genuine," says what he means and means what he says. He doesn't care what anyone thinks, apparently another characteristic able to stir the masses. He is charismatic in an anti-hero kind of way, with an ability to articulate for his followers their deep-seated resentment toward the present administration and all others who seem to be scapegoats for their discontent, which is all understandable, and maybe inevitable, for a certain American imagination--that of the attraction to the cult of personality and a zero sum mentality.

And he has captured that imagination, at least at this early date, with his independence, endless self-reference as opposed to self-reliance. The American Dream was characterized by Ralph Waldo Emerson whose thoughtful essay describes true self-reliance which has more to do with inner strength, self-knowledge and character rather than with appearance (which is bravado). Appearance is what celebrity is all about. There are more than a few reasons to believe that a Trump presidency would perhaps be a point of no return for America

Currently, there are many who believe his approach would be a successful one, (if they have thought that far ahead). Others question: Would he ever be willing or able to work with his own cabinet, let alone the Pentagon, congress, states and other nations with any amount of tact, diplomacy, effectiveness or respect over the long haul? The Donald (a moniker which may be an indication of...something!) doesn't come off as interested, or even able, to build consensus, cooperate or compromise (that being a liberal quality, or flaw, depending on what so-called "side of the aisle" you sit on). It seems he'd rather build walls (and not just ones to keep immigrants out). So far, he has not significantly addressed specific issues, or laid out substantial, workable policies and strategies. Apparently, then, people are not enamored with or seem to care, not only about the content of his character, but also about a platform (if, in fact, he has one, other than tearing down what already exists). There is more interest in his tweets, defending himself at the slightest criticism (thin-skinned is not a recommended trait for a president, or any position of leadership for that matter).

Donald has not only lowered the bar for national civility and decorum, he has done away with it altogether. His "bluster-effect" and permanent facial expressions of disdain, smugness and anger have further revealed America's under-belly, with its juvenile, vindictive opposition, sarcasm, name-calling and mocking--the norm now on many social media posts, not to mention misinformation and debunked conspiracy theories. He has insulted whole groups--Mexicans, as well as individuals--Senator McCain, Rosie O’Donnell, and, recently, Fox News's Megyn Kelly, with his off-the-wall, vulgar critique of her question about his frequent (documented) crude and lewd references to women. Ironically, his comment about Kelly confirms the validity of her question. Irony is always lost on non-thinkers, and there seems to also be a shortage of outrage. Yet, his followers see him as eminently fit to represent America--to be our face to the world? Are we to believe he is a “patriot,” (a neo-con catch word), and will be “phenomenal to women", as he has stated (like he apparently was to his wives and those who "just let him do it". He recently suggested he would support abortion becoming a crime. In everything he says and does realted to, with and about women and about women is patriarchal, controlling and entitled, and is sadly welcomed and even encouraged by many women as well as men.  It seems there are those who stand in awe of his hutzpah, while others cringe at his hubris.

Observing the "bread and circus" of his candidacy calls to mind the aphorism: "You can fool some of the people all of the time, and all of the people some of the time, but you can't fool all of the people all of the time," especially those who rely on critical thinking, objectivity and facts to make judgements, which is certainly less than one would have thought. The opposite of critical thinking has raised Donald to popularity--emotionalism and fear of "the other." Logical fallacies, which abound in all political campaigns, but in Trump's they reign supreme, as well as half-truths and outright misinformation and lies.

His opinions may sound like facts. They may feel good to those who have the same ones in private, but have been discouraged from revealing them out loud public (because someone might call them on it, or be offended). Now, however, offending people is entertainment, and serves as a cathartic for many. Donald's delighted followers can say, along with Donald, “If you don't like it, too bad!" Demeaning and randomly diminishing anyone and everyone is what he does to the great approval and even delight many of our fellow Americans. Where this would lead, should he come into office, is terrifying to the other half of Americans.

It has been said, and not only by conservatives, that political correctness is now taken to an extreme, as it seems to pander to "overly-sensitive" minorities, and prevents us from "telling it like it is," not to mention throwing a wet blanket on our sense of humor. But the origins and purpose behind political correctness came about in first place because “telling it like it is” (or like people think it is) is mostly rooted in stereotypical perceptions which do not take individuals' or group experience into consideration. At its core, political correctness is common sense and common decency, with emphasis on the "common" good. And, yes, it has sometimes tended to the extreme and deteriorated to focus on "micro-aggressions" Essentially political correctness can be understood as consideration for others and respect for an individual's or group's situation and experience. It also seems based on a certain decorum in use of polite references, awareness and thoughtfulness of our words and deeds? 

These attributes are the tools for and the means to peaceful interactions across the board, the creation of good will, and can even reflect kindness and compassion, or in another catch word “values" (and even virtues). Some people do think/believe that a particular group (religious, ethnic, racial, etc.) can be defined by a few traits. Is this another reason Donald has endeared himself to many? Ignoring the nuances of another's experience riles up simple minds and encourages scapegoating for...well, everything! Trump, unfortuanately, takes takes every opportunity to mock (the developmentally diabled, imatiating ethnic accents), blames, name calls or whatever comes to mind at the moment about a person or a topic, which is not the same as "telling it like it is." Then he may change his mind the next minute or day. It's all true, or none of it's true--keep 'em guessing. He is describing the world according to Donald--but not the world most of us live in or want to live in.

We have heard his promise of "going back." I would like to suggest that we might at least want to go back to a time when a presidential candidate--say, Thomas Jefferson, would not have called Martha Washington (or any other person) a “fat pig,” or a president--say, Abraham Lincoln, would not have (for the fun of it) diminished the legacy of a captured Union or Confederate soldier. It's a given that there are many problems to be solved, issues to be worked on, legitimate challenges to the current administration's achievements and/or failures, and we may need alternatives and possible reforms explained in a cogent, positive and strategic ways. Yet, he just doesn't seem to speak to any of those ways or in a way that is inspiring or encouraging for our democracy. It seems there is a promise to tear down, rather than build up, to paint a bleak picture of America in general, lambasting about its many social, economic and civil rights issues, yet with no mentions of solution to alliviate the problems, only blame and mocking.

Mostly what we've heard from Donald are shallow, adolescent responses and off-handed remarks which play to his audience, like a side-show carnival act, portraying everything in the world as a "disaster, that only he can fix single handedly. We don't have to worry about the "details." He knows more than Isis, the generals, experienced civil servants, diplomats and certainly much more than you and I do. He will take care of everything--trust him! What other president has ever done all that he has promised, even if he intended or tried to, but no other leader, except for tyrants have claimed to know everything and be able take care of everything if we just trust them. And what person in his right mind would tell others or listen to someone who tell them to not trust their own eyes and ears, and to not only ignore current institutions and established precedents, including the free press, but to see them as dark enemies of the people--again "tyrant talk" in my estimation. Just "trust me" (until we can't any longer).

Heads up, folks!

Presidents do not have and should not have the power to do anything they wish, but can certainly change the conversation and direction of the dialogue nationally and internationally to our benefit or our detriment. In Trump's case, it seems to be going in the direction of an irreversible, uncivil and dangerous divisiveness of the American people and our common values, instead of suggesting unifying America against the greatest threats to our democracy, which is always fragile (read history and psychology about what has happened and tends to happen under certain circumstances). It seems as if Donald admires and trusts strong men, such as Putin and others (some call monsters) which is another red flag folks.

They would like to "go back" to the days when everyone wasn't so "sensitive," a time when they could "call a spade a spade," which, by the way, was also a time when all manner of discrimination and racial, sexist and ethnic slurs were the norm, which inevitably leads, on the part of some (and may again), to acts of violence. Certainly, those who abhor political correctness are not okay when ignoring it targets them. With the tables turned, they are quick to protest that they are being "persecuted," (e.g. angry, white males or "evangelical bigots" and would attribute it political motivations).

Donald’s tone, language, demeanor and intent can not be taken for other than mean-spiritedness by those who are his targets. His attacks are approved of and applauded by some who may see themselves as victims, some who undoubtedly get a great deal of their "news" from narrow main-stream media, (all other sources are seen as corrupt). Ranting radio talk show hosts or publications' vitriol creates divisiveness, resentment and conjures up or spews conspiracies, takes extreme positions, ignores facts in favor of fiction and false claims. Unfortunately even some Republicans are and may be willing to stand by him, no matter what--then we are really deep trouble.

“Let's take our country back.” Does that mean back to how wonderful it was when George W. Bush left office? or back to the pre-civil rights era in the early 60’s, when the Confederate flag was first hung at the state house in North Carolina as a protest against those liberal, bleeding-heart “crazies” who dared to support the newly instated law of the land: civil and human rights. Yet there is the pretense that it stands for nobles oblige, the so-called "heritage" of the South that sought to divide America. What "side" that has ever lost a war gets to hang their flag of treason?

Some conservatives speak of a lack of values in America today (and it appears to be true in many respects), but is most often referenced in response to the granting of human/civil rights, as if certain people understand and employ values rightly. Is respect, compassion, understanding and even truth in some cases, among these values? I don't see Donald's followers talking much about those values. The truth is some individuals and factions (not limited to party or religious affiliations) are selective about values--about how they behave toward and speak about others not like themselves. Unfortunately, this behavior and language is also based on stereotyping, judgement and may include angry responses, unfair accusations, sarcasm, insults, threats and sometimes worse. These are apparently some of the "values" embraced by Donald Trump and his followers, which are at least portentous of future challenges as a nation

If we could think of national context as analogous to our smallest common contexts: that of our closest relationships and associations of all kinds--people with whom we live and work--we might have a different perspective. The approach that has been shown to be most effective and successful within these contexts involves: acknowledgement and/or inclusion of all members, effective and civil communication and compromise for problem solving and mutual respect and appreciation, as well as support and help. One person imposing his or her will on everyone and everything else; blaming, shaming and name-calling does not work for a any reslationshop. They on intmidate and isolate through power, control, and fear of retribution. Getting things done requires an awareness of how our words, behavior and decisions may affect the situation and/or be effective toward change and smooth operation. A climate of mutual cooperation; concern and care for all members--kindness and generosity of spirit can go far. As members of a family, or any group, we value and deserve recognition/acknowledgement of our abilities and contributions to support and to strengthen whatever weakness exists and a plan to address difficulties that arise. We also need to look to ourselves when things are not working to see what part we are playing in the difficulty.

Of course, there are instances when firm decisions and actions must be taken by a person in the group for the good of group, which may hurt, offend and/or cause resentment. However, these actions, hard choices and decisions have to be well thought out, dispassionate for the right reasons, and certainly would not involve red-faced scowls, angry shouting, vulgarity, hurled insults, blame and defensiveness ala "The Donald." This approach results in more conflict, escalation and divisiveness--whether within a family, workplace or nation. Critiques and complaints, without suggestions for alternatives to problems are counter productive (and deconstructive). If this approach does not work in our everyday lives and situations, how could it be effective in politics and global situations?

While politics has always polarized people, used mud-slinging rhetoric and negative strategies to win or win over, to divide and conquer, there is something a bit different in Trump's approach. There has, at least until recently, been a certain stature to the office of the presidency and a respect given to the process and to the ideal of democracy, despite party affiliation. In a president, I had we have expected a demeanor of thoughtfulness not impulsivity (with the help of competent advisors; maturity, not adolescent whining and ranting; global awareness, not isolationism; cooperation and compromise, not unilateral actions; consideration for ALL rather than only the base of voters. The best predictor of the future is the past, and under Trump, I fear there will be consideration for only the ONE: himself, as he has already shown us that is him main objective long before and now.

Some hope Donald will "take our country back." What kind of country do they wish to have back--with only certain kinds of Americans, races, religions and liberties? If we could go back to at least civility and respect in public discourse; if we could go back the general aspiration to decorum, speak with some thought and integrity. if we could go back to adults (especially in leadership roles) being role models for our children every administration. If only we could go back to thoughtful, logical debate, and discourse of ideas and ideals; to when we did not see people who disagree (or don't live/think as we do) as enemies and demons, and embrace the founders fathers' vision of continuing to create a more "perfect union" rather than heading toward the brink again of another kind of civil war. How about treating others as we would want to be treated (Golden Rule) then, by all means, LET'S GO BACK!

I would rather hear Donald, and every other presidential candidate say, "Let’s take our country forward.” Let’s look to the future, not the past. Let's go forward with human rights, civility, aspiration, dignity, courage and a little touch of humility. Let’s go forward with those needed attributes we would ideally use within our own families, in our work places and in our places of worship. Let’s go forward toward realizing the potential envisioned by our founding fathers (and believe) that we are all created equal, with the right to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.

ROCKPORT MORNING

Doves call

Summer breeze

Rustling leaves

Distant bell over sleepy town

Lobster boat chugs the harbor round

Beyond grassy meadows

Immense sea glistens early light

Birds take flight

For Suzanne

Friend, Suzanne Miller, passed away suddenly - March 2015
When we first moved to Cape Ann, she and her husband came to visit and she brought gifts, then invited me to an evening beach picnic over labor day.

There you were with gifts

Basket filled 

loaf of bread, candle and wine

a feast for friends

The real treasures?

the sustenance of your smile, your warmth, your joy

I see you on the beach that night

moon rising over the incoming tide

lighting the tin lanterns against the wind

when all the while

it was you who were

light and warmth in the dark and cold

Worry Doll

Finn took the one-inch square, rainbow-striped bag from his shelf, pulled open the drawstring and turned it over. Six painted wooden matchstick figures fell into his small hand. I watched him delicately pick up one at a time to look at. 

 “What are those?” I asked, reaching for the little scroll that fell out with them. 

“They’re worry dolls, Nonna!” Finn said in a tone suggesting that I should have known exactly what they were. I read out loud from the paper scroll. "According to legend, Guatemalan children tell their worries to the dolls, place them under their pillows at night, and all worries are gone by morning."

Give me a few dozen, I thought, but said only, “I didn’t know that. Shall we put some under our pillows tonight?

“Of course we should!”

When it was time for bed, Finn picked out three of the tiny figures for himself and gave me the other three. Grandmother and grandchild each whispered our worries to the dolls and placed them under our pillows. Then I opened the evening story book and read until Finn’s eyes began to close.

I should have been tired enough to sleep too. But, as was my habit before sleep (if sleep comes at all) all the things there were to worry about crowded my mind: my husband’s progressing disease; my dear friend’s terminal illness; my regrets about all the things I might have done, or done differently, or not done at all! I started to think about the random violence, pain and suffering that was happening right then all over the world--in war zones, in cities and towns-- while I lay in a warm, safe and comfortable bed. As if that weren’t enough to keep me awake I began to think about aging and inevitability of my own death.

Why do I do this? What were the three worries I had whispered to the dolls? I didn’t remember, but I wondered if more people than I might imagine were also worrying at that moment, or did I alone have such a negative state of mind by nature?

The senses of the body and sharpness of mind beginning to dull, and with more life behind me than in front, I tried to come to terms with the loss. Where was my youthful motivation for looking ahead and welcoming each challenge with the kind of strength and enthusiasm I once had. With all that, and the progression of my husband’s Parkinson’s quickly diminishing his health and former self, there was the sadness at everything slowing down, except time. I now take more time to do things that had once been done with facility and not a thought. Also, my forgetting a word here, a name there, left me hoping these are not the first symptoms of the dreaded “A” word disease.

I recalled how my father used to go out with his shirt inside out (I did that the other day), and how he once got into his car to drive to the donut shop and found himself sitting instead in the back seat. About that same time I noticed how slowly my mother was walking, with an obvious sense of caution and uncertainty, and her admirable attempts to “keep up.” Now they both are gone, and oh! the many regrets and things left unsaid and undone.

Although I myself continue to do all the things I have always done, it is with increasing effort, not only to accomplish them, but also to appear as though nothing is different. I, for instance, try now, as my mother once did when walking, to keep up with younger people. Is it better if my family notices and asks if I need help with things, or if no one notices?

In a recurring dream I am standing at the top of a long stairway I must descend. It is open on both sides, no rails and each individual stair impossibly steep, like an Alice in Wonderland scene--no way down or back.

When I get to the point where my thoughts twist themselves into self-perpetuating loops, I prompt myself to initiate another evening ritual: counting my blessings. It is a noble effort to displace the worries with all the things to be grateful for, which are very many. After 45 years of marriage, ("shear madness" we sometimes call it), my husband and I remain together, support and love one other. We laugh a lot (about eating and drinking ourselves to death in retirement), and live comfortably within our modest means. Both of our sons have found creative work (without our having had to pay for college educations--their choice). They love their work, and make a living at it. I still have my dear friend whose enthusiasm for life, even as she prepares for death, is a shining inspiration. I am grateful that I write, and still at least interested in planning and projects which keep me from from boredom and despair. 

And there are our joy-filled grandchildren, Finn and Sula, beautiful, bright, happy, healthy--the most cherished blessings.

I look forward to and love being with my family. When I visit, I am welcomed, feel useful and valued for the love and warmth, both given and received. Worries are pushed, at those times, to the periphery. Finn’s joy and interest in everything lifts life above the ordinary into another realm, and he is pleased to have me near him. “I love you, Nonna,” he says, sometimes with his eyes closed, ready to drift off into that angelic state of sleep so visible on a child’s face.

At bedtime the night after we placed our worry dolls under our pillows, Fiinn called to me, “Oh, Nonna, look! The worry dolls--we forgot." He reached under the pillows to gather them. Then, with wide eyes, “Hey, but I still have my worries; they didn’t go away." He told me of his fears--having bad dreams and of his house burning down. I felt that twinge of compassion one feels for children when they begin to realize that there is no magic to escape the possible real dangers we fear. 

Then, remarkably, he observed, “Well, the scroll did say it was a legend, didn’t it Nonna?”

“Yes, yes it did,” I agreed, with the sense that I was more child and he more adult, “so we may not be able to wish a worry away, but we also have to remember that what we worry about may never ever happen." 

Finn and I, nevertheless, decided that we would again tell the dolls our worries and try again. “Nonna, I am afraid to go to sleep and have those bad dreams. "Dreams, dreams go away.” Finn said earnestly with his eyes tightly closed.

“Well, we know what to do for that?”

“Go to the other side of day, right Nonna?”

After stories and songs, if Finn still feels uneasy, we sit up on the bed and I start an incantation. Finn and I get into the cross-legged position, our hands, open and turned upward on our knees. “Close your eyes and let your body melt, like a stick of butter in a pan. Now, let’s go to the other side of day. Take three deep breaths--slowly, in and out, in and out, in and out." Then I chant a Latin prayer learned in childhood, “Agnus dei, qui tollis peccata mundi,” * to lend an air of mystery and magic. The words are accompanied by hand gestures that Finn imitates, pushing day away in the seven directions, ending with our hands crossed over our hearts.

“I feel better, Nonna.”

I looked at him, and felt tears welling, “Nonna has to leave tomorrow, and I’m very sad. I won’t see you for a while, and I’ll miss you so terribly.”

“You’re leaving tomorrow, Nonna?”

“Yes, sweetie.”

With his innocent, wide and wise blue eyes, he looked straight into mine, “Well, Nonna, it’s not tomorrow now!

I felt my heart would stop.

Then we lay down holding hands and listened to the quiet. After a few minutes, Finn was asleep. It’s not tomorrow now, indeed. Why did I place my worry and sadness on him, as though he were my own little worry doll? Yet, instead of his taking on my worry, he nullified it with the wisdom, clarity and truth of innocence.

No, it’s not tomorrow now, and it's not yesterday. There is only "the present where time touches eternity," and that is heaven on earth. I fell asleep whispering the rest of the Latin prayer: dona nobis pacem.**

* Lamb of God who takes away the sins of the world
** Grant us peace.