12-14-12

My stomach is disfunctional, My tear ducts are in overdrive, My mind can't
dispel images it thinks it can see. I am profoundly saddened and yet...somewhere
in my inner core there is a dim light of hope in the midst of this overwhelming
darkness. Its light dims and still there is an effort - immense in its being - compelling
itself forward. Then it fades, only to reimerge and try again.

Deep within my being is a wish for healing - not so much for myself, but for those
at the center of the Newtown experience. I am only an observer from afar. I am
someone who has travelled through that landscape on the way to somewhere
else. The geography is in my soul. I once lived near when I was very young. So it
feels close in an unexpected way. Is it the horror or something more immediate?

Whatever occurred there, it is here with me where I live and experience my
being. I, with an unexpected reluctance, attended a holiday concert in which
my god daughter and her siblings participated. I was full of apprehension to
enter an auditorium for this performance. The image of horror from so many
mass shootings was too near. I feared for the children and those of us attending.
I had "nighmares" last night and almost did not attend.

Then I said to myself  - NO - I will not let our terrorists at home keep
me disengaged from being with those I love, trying to create a celebration
for the holidays that bring some much love and happyness to everyone.

Music could be my healer, well, one of them - it usually is. So I dared
myself forward into the night. Beauty gave its gift to me. A small step taken.

But I can not let go of my mind's images and the sadness I feel for all
those so traumaticly affected.

So I ponder, I am forced into prayer - hoping to give all I feel to God
and feel some comfort and a desire to move on with hope surrounded
by people whom I love and who love me.

Life is......oh well - perhaps I just need more time to sit in the muddle.



R

Frustration

We have survived a critical election. Why are we spawning attacks on people who have
 contirbuted so much to our well being as a nation?  Are we saying that pants before
country are more important? What of the years of commitment and loyalty? What are we
so willing to throw away and why? I am not too French, but I am willing to question the
why of it all.

What is co-opting our reality? What sense of morality interupts our ability to see beyond
the trees and experience the forest? And why do we feel it so easy to dispose of those
whose majority contributions have been significant to our movement as a nation to a
better and safer place.

I just don't get  it. What do we achieve in the in the swamps of self indulgent non critical
thinking?

I am awash.....

I look for the hope without feeling its possibilities.

I am in the mire.

Where are you?

R

"dying""

I've been thinking a lot about it lately. This morning as I lie awake
in the pre-dawn moments before the light begins to shed its glow into
my room, I had a newer realisation about dying.

My Mom is rapidly approaching her 98th birthday and I have become
aware of a change in her being. She is physically well and in a religious
way - spiritually all right, but her spirit of continuing is flagging. Something
is becoming different. And like most offspring, I am probably late in
noticing this apparent change. We see what we want to see only too often.
There is an ebbing of life and involvement in the present and certainly
the future that is quite different.

This is most likely very normal, but it is disarming to this care-giver and
son. The question arises - how do I work with this? And in recognizing this,
how do I find a newer way of being supporting that is different from that
which I am already doing? Letting go and letting just be is very difficult.
We seek to seem always in control, but we are never in control. It is an illusion
that makes it all seem somehow easier,

How much do we look way ahead to our own latter days and moments? And
how will we - if aware - contend with it all? And who will be at hand to
help and guide us through that uncontrollable time?

It is a paradox.....And one I am just beginning to acknowledge and seek
meaning and response.


R

Olympics Opening Ceremony

What is it about this gathering of nations every four years that captivates
us so?  Is it our inner hope that we can come together and celebrate a
oneness amidst our differences in the pureness of competition? So much
is put forward in the name of nationalism, but it seems to me that this is put
aside by the individual participants who see something greater in this
competition, Is there a message we choose not to see?

I am in awe of the parade of participants marching in such joy behind their
flag of nation. It is not about the hope of winning but only the chance of
participation and representing the homeland. So often we miss this in
the miasma of the expectation of national accomplishment. In this we
miss the reason for such games.

If we lose the promise and reason for gathering for this event, then we lose
the hope and wonder of this kind of gathering. Perhaps we need to  put aside
the winning and re-look at why we come together to do this in the first
place.

I will hold this in the center of my thoughts as I tune into the competitions.


R.

Der Ring - Some Thoughts

What is it about this 19 hour epic opera over four evenings that
holds us in such wonder and questioning? I find that hearing some tidbit
opens new thoughts, continues to challenge me and renews something
deep within my soul. Every new production finds something new to explore
and say - even when we disagree with the director's concept, It is indeed
very rich and like most great classic stage works, continually opens new
possibilities and new interpretations and ways to open new meaning.

My quick reference is to the yearly cycle of the church looking at
Holy Week and its events. We re-live them each year and often find
new and deeper meaning and also often just re-hear the story and find
unfulfilled wonder. So it is with the Ring.

It is because myth is so human and invites us to participate in the saga. Story
can be very powerful and redemption lies in our ability to be open and yet
again truly open. Story can transcend time and music more than assist us
in this endeavor.

And so I live into the characters' story. Their feelings are our feelings and the
true response in ourselves is what makes the universality of it allow our response
to be one  based in our own reality. I could discuss the things individually in the
saga that make me feel this way, but the road is one of personal discovery and all
I can ask is that you enter these possibilities for yourself and your own journey. It
is a road worth taking. Time is relative, so the choice is to begin now or perhaps
a little later. With great art, it is being present in the moment that that creates
the possibility.

Begin.

Experience.

And be open to new realizations and possibilities.

It is a lifelong journey without regret.


R

My Marsh Egrets

Funny how that which is beautiful and that we observe becomes a possession.
I live in an auspicious place. I am nestled on two sides by the salt water marsh
and the fresh water marsh. Wildlife abounds, especially the birds. I awake
to a symphony of sound filled with bird calls and chatter. My home affords
the view of the rising sun from my bedside. I take full advantage of this gift.

But the ownership of which I speak is of certain bird life which adorns my
marsh. My spiritual harbinger of spring lies in the arrival of ducks and most
especially of the white egrets. In another post I have spoken of the ducks and
their raising of their young - swimming lessons and survival awareness.

But the egrets hold a very special place in my heart and soul. I feel Godde is
present and beckoning to me when they are present. I love to watch them as
they feed, as they fly in and out, as they pose watchfully and observe all there
is to see. In this we share an unspoken affinity.

Today was somewhat different. Through the growing and ever masking
marsh grass, I spied a white presence. I rushed to my upper floor porch with
binoculars in hand and found one of "my" egrets on a feeding mission in
the still waters. Then my eye spotted something white in a tree several yards
from my feeding friend. To date I had never seen one of "my" egrets perched
in  tree, but today, one was perched on high preening itself in all its beautiful
glory. I could only sigh and watch.

My feeding egret was soon spooked and drawn to flight. Later I spotted it too,
in the same tree as the other egret. On the wall of my family room hangs
a wonderful watercolor painting by my dear sister-in-law of several
marsh egrets, some in the water, some on the sidelines and other in the
trees. So today's life imitated this artist's inspiration.

I felt a spirtual moment in which all came together in a newer way. It was
fleeting as most spiritual moments are, but deeply realized and in some
way present in a sustaining way.

As the seasons come and go - so do my egrets. It is as wonder filled as the
color changes of autumn, ever changing, ever new and ever cloaked in a
glory of wonder.

Ah...................


R

Spiritual Ruminations

Two of my dearest friends are on pilgrimage in Israel. My hope is that the depth
of experience I felt when I was there on pilgrimage in 1994 will be theirs as well.
It may well be more, but it is of an interior realization. The images and landscapes
are still a deeply felt part of my being - life long present and ever re-newing in
their personal journeying and awakening.

Funny that this would be part of a different journey here. I was invited to be a
part of another dear friend's granddaughter's Bat Mitzvah recently. The grounds
were similar. The roots of spiritual experience had common experience. I had
a personal draw of mutually experienced spiritual self knowledge.

Perhaps it was the beloved psalms all our traditions share and the beauty of hearing
them chanted along with prayer. I felt I was in a continuum of shared worship and
liturgical wonder, I belonged in both. The mutuality of it all was both a comfort
and also something new - something trying to define itself in the core of my very
being. It was the oneness I felt, both home and not at home.

Then the reason we were there to be witnesses, a young person was declaring their
citizenship in the temple, the taking on of the adult responsibilities to the community
of faith and the expression that their study and proclamation of faith demanded that
their presence and willingness to enter a higher responsibility be noticed and accepted.

Christian confirmation should do the same thing, but it does not. The community
of faith and tradition in the temple and the support it gives from both family and wider
community is, in a trite way of expression, almost overwhelming to the witness
of yours truly. The assumption and taking on of responsibility in the place of faith
realized is what this ceremony is about. And it is bigger than the casual observer
generally notices or comprehends.

So, true this is to the pilgrim, walking the ancient steps and digging deep to realize
their own place in the bigger picture.

My wonder blooms. My appreciation for rites and their possibilities grows. And
my faith journey tugs my soul into the realm of re-discovery.

R

The Quartet

I recently attending a very good friend's granddaughter's Bat Mitzvah in North
Carolina. It was a truly spiritual experience for me in many ways. But ultimately
it was the people who dominated the blessing I felt.

My dear friend and I could be a duet - endlessly and continually creating new
tunes, reprising old ones and always developing new themes and creating new
textures and melodies. Into this duet a trio reconstituted itself returning to beloved
music and favorite songs. But the trio was emboldened into a quartet with the presence
of the trio's third person's marriage partner who brought new depth and melody
to the music we created in our intertwined relationships. With four songs inter playing,
the possibilities seemed endless until the final denouement.

Others joined this basic quartet as the events unfolded in ceremony and celebration. And
a new symphony of delight and mutuality of expression made its presence known. Life
can be music when ears are opened and hearts freely express their true feelings.

And this is a mitzvah - a blessing - so deeply experienced that the core of one's
being is forever altered.


R

Marsh Sounds at Dawn

Those of us who live near the marshes are blessed by the delightful cacophony of sounds
in the early morning hours emanating from our natural surroundings. Often I have been on
the telly and my callers have asked - just where are you? I think of it as the Serengeti
experience. It is a symphony of sound that never becomes ordinary. It is a  multifaceted
and evolving series and clusters of beautiful sound.

Near six this morning, something quite different occurred. Of late I have had a pair of
ducks quacking and splashing in the tepid waters defining my fresh water marsh. And
their little ducklings have been seen taking their early morning swimming lessons. When
one sees these things, there is an ownership and unexpressed responsibility for their mere
presence.

However, this morning's breaking light was disturbed by the frantic quacking of the
mallard. When ducks fly in there is a certain sound to the splash. Today there was not
only wild splashing but terrified quacking. I arose from my slumber and looked out
from the security of my upper story porch to see what was the matter. Both the male and
the female were swimming erratically in circles, quacking in a disturbing manner
and the little ducklings were trying to stay near the mother. What was going on?

Then from the reeds emerged in a great series of splashes, a coyote on the hunt. I
felt I lived in a quiet, unassuming place where the struggle for existence of the
"lower" predators did not interface. Not so. I wanted to scream to save my newest
friends - the ducks - but could not raise a voice. And would that have been enough to
deter the coyote anyway? So, I took my binos to see what might be happening at
a closer range, only to discover that indeed it was a coyote and that the mallard male
was doing everything to lead the coyote away from his family, quacking to distract
the maneuver and flying off only to return to begin the distraction again and again.

The coyote arched his back to pounce and attain his prey, but seemingly failed.
The other birds chirped and flew in panic about the scene, commenting on the
danger to their fellow mates.  Then all seemed to quiet. Were my ducks safe and the
predator quelled? I know not. My deeper hope is that the morrow will come and I
will hear the playful splashes of my little duck family and that the coyote will
have moved on to more tempting and less allusive prey.

The possibility of this violence in my backyard was alarming, and my inability to
intervene left me feeling helpless. Yes, it is just nature doing its natural thing, but
the question comes to mind - if I were in a similar situation with my fellow humans -
would I have the courage to intervene? Would I be frozen in inaction? And if so......
what would that say about me? What about you?



R

Chasing Goblins

Families are tough. We think all is copacetic, but there are always
unexpressed undercurrents. What do we do about them and more
to the point, what can we do about them? The dysfunctionalality of
family relationships is ever present. And more often than not - totally
undealt with. No one is brave enough or hopeful enough to feel
that they might be effective  in bringing about restoration and
reconciliation. So we quietly, with great trepidation, move
delicately forward and in so doing - do not really move any where
at all. We are stuck.

This is not abnormal, and so - we tip toe onward, unable or more often
than not unwilling - fearfully - to attempt to face the hard work
of mutual understanding. And in so doing we become frozen in our
unwillingness to face the very things that bring us to dysfunction.

I don't know why this is on my mind just now - well actually I do,
but movement is not mine to make and so I feel  a deep degree
of frustration and disconnect.

When family parties can not face the deeply embedded issues
that haunt and cause separation because they can not acknowledge
or "remember" what the root causes are, where is one to begin to
offer a means of healing?

So we remain frozen in the inability to choose healing and change.
We are stuck with the choice of doing nothing and therefore denying
the possibility of new life.

The pointlessness of this choice leaves me in a place of maddening
frustration. It is cruel and not in any way what I believe is what we
are called to be. When we can not choose to effect change, we end up
choosing the status quo and that disallows any potential for reconciliation
or/and forgiveness.


R

What?

I come into some kind of consciousness. I find that I am not alone.
There is a beautiful body next to me. I do not know who it is. I am
unaware of where I am. I can not speak words. The world is not
in control.

I think I am in Boston - near the Common. I rise and enter the world with this
this person at my side. We wander out into a world that is totally empty.
Suddenly, a wind stirs and grows and out of nowhere people enter the
reality. I lose the person I am with.. I wander on.

I am alone and in an unknown world, but yet - in an odd way - still familiar.
Where do I go. Where is refuge? I seem to feel an old hotel is near. Do I have
the resources to stay there? Then, I can not find it. I am in an arcade of shops,
glassed in and very unfamiliar. I flee outside as it appears that it is closing
time and the electrics tell me it is time to move on.

Where do I go? Outside the warm clear day dissolves into bizarre clouds. And
dark clouds emerge from nowhere. Rain begins to sprinkle and I pull this strange
overcoat up over my head. Rain darkens and spreads over me with huge intensity.
I walk on and walk and walk and walk.

The rain turns into snow and I trudge onward. It is the only choice. Somehow,
I find a store front that is open and I enter. There are people there who are
welcoming folks from the reality outside. It is very unfamiliar. But I stay.

Who are these people and why am I here and what is to be? Names are
taken and an unexpressed invitation is present to stay the night for a very small fee.
Few words are spoken, but it seems safe. I stay under my first name only.

I am at risk, but options are few.

Then.......I wake. Was this only a dream? If so or if not I am shaken..............




R

Ministry in the Choir

Approximately 55 years ago I had my debut in the children's choir of
St. Paul's Episcopal Church in the very small town of Sidney, New York.
It was a short lived experience which began in Advent. Being liturgically
unschooled, I do not remember how long it lasted and whether confirmation
occurred before or after my voice changed, I only remember being totally
terrified of the minister. To this day I do not remember the reason for the
terror, but it was real to this shy child of so long ago.

After my voice changed my older and only brother said to me that
my voice was of a low grade "Broadway" style. After that I only
sang in the shower or when I was by myself! In high school I was
only once cast in a musical - and that was in a speaking role. I tended
to be cast in more dramatic roles with the "drama" club.  College brought
me opportunities in the chorus - summer stock also chorus plus some
bad boy roles in children's theatre. But I am digressing.

Fifty years later, I am now singing in the adult choir at St. John's
Episcopal Church in Gloucester, Mass. My boy soprano has become
a bass. My nickname to some is Basil. I am retired and work no
longer holds me back from singing in the choir. It has been a
journey in itself.

Here  are a few things I have noticed. When I sang as a member
of the congregation, I was loud on my good notes and down the
octave when it got "too high."  In the choir I have rediscovered
my falsetto and love to display my deep voice notes. But singing
in a choir means one must try to sing with others and be of one
voice. It is hard work and demands much concentration. The rewards
are the few times when you know that all has come together and the
many sing as one.

But the best of it all is the community one feels and the acceptance of
giving what one has to the whole. We are all imperfect and we all have
some gifts, but ego is set aside and the whole is always more important
than the part. It is a unique expression of the Christian community and
as Paul so aptly put it - we are all individually parts necessary for the
whole body to find its expression. Slight paraphrase.

There is a deep joy in the pursuit of music making. It takes faith and
the willingness to humbly offer what one has to the whole. And in that,
it is a microcosm and model of the true Christian community.

I remember a time in summer stock when the company was offering
"The King and I" when after "We Kiss in a Shadow"  the actors
portraying Tuptim and Lun Tha came off the stage and knew that
their singing was only a millimeter short of perfect. And that is what
our choir and anyone who sings dares to attain. It is the most rewarding
possibility to blend text and music so completely that the voice transcends
its limitations and soars joining spirit and expression to new heights.

It is  task that is both bewildering in its responsibility and a source of
wonderment when is coalesces into a wholeness that not only lifts
the singers to a new level - but arouses or awakens the spiritual in the
ears and hearts of the listeners.

And that is why it is ministry.




R

Palm Sunday/Passion Sunday

I am trying to be honest with my quest this particular Holy Week.
The double edged sword of today's liturgy always catches me up
a little short. The joy of the remembrance of Jesus' arrival in Jerusalem
verses the sudden turn acknowledging what comes after - death and
the hope of the resurrection. Disturbing, yet hope-filled, we look into
the dark parts of our journey and so - into our own lives.

Today, the weather being with us, we began our journey into this week
in the dazzling brightness of morning on Cape Ann before the great
red doors of our parish home. We were temporarily blinded by the light
as we entered into our worship space and too soon, looked deeply
inward at the week ahead. I read the Gospel story from Mark and as
so often before, was spent by the drama and the words that speak it.

From great joy to cavernous darkness in so short a space of time -
how do we try to comprehend all of this. How do we lift ourselves
up into the days ahead. Palm Sunday has always been a challenge
to me. This liturgy just bakes my senses and leaves me wanting
Easter's hope and light to rescue me. But also I realize that I need
the time of the entire week to watch, wait and ingest the story. No
matter how many times I experience it, I find I hunger to do it all
again, hoping to find something new, something to hang onto that
will enlighten me.

It is really tough stuff. And as of this night, I am still wondering how
this year's journey will pan out. So I helplessly wait for the clock to
tick and time slowly pass as I try to yet again to understand the power
of this story and where I stand in it.


R

The Eve of Holy Week

Once again - the anticipation of the journey into and through Holy Week.
It is quiet and slightly hushed in my home tonight. Inside it is in its usual
state of clutter. Outside the landscapers have completed the annual spring
clean-up.

Funny how it speaks to my personal sense of order and disorder. I appear
to be cleaned up and ready for life on the outside - just like the yard, but
inside my feelings and senses are in a slightly disordered state. I await the
journey of Holy Week, its daily countdown to remembrance of the
crucifixion and the dark time that follows until the Vigil and that journey
from darkness to light and the ecstasy of the pure light of Easter Morning.

Every year I watch and contemplate my own steps and the liturgical steps
that lead and challenge me. I want and need to enter the mystery and seek
some newer understanding of it all. I want and need to do this and I want and
need to open myself to new possibilities. The role of seeker seems easy
initially, but the work must be steady and focused. In my congregation
opportunities to serve, sing, read and just be present encroach on the
quietude of the week. But these are the tools that open me to a deeper
sense of it all.

I have chosen to take the book called "The Last Week" by Marcus Borg
and John Dominic Crossan with me. It will be my daily fellow journeyer
as I walk and remember.

Being a person of faith is work. And it offers one so much more if one
is attentive and open.  My prayer is to watch and in watching renew
my inner self in a different way - still honest to my own short-comings,
but ready to really journey.



R

Redemption - from the cinema

Strange - how sometimes as we click from one station to another,
we inadvertently select the most extraordinary film moment of a
beloved piece. Of course, I happened to do that very thing tonight.
Between the murder, mayhem and news of the day I came upon
the moment in the "Shawshank Redemption" that always puts me
over the moon. Could it have actually happened the way it was
presented? Most likely not. But it for me is the pivotal moment in
the entire film - everything is slightly different after this scene and
how wonder-filled my opportunity to click on just that incredible scene.

It is when the Tim Robbins character locks himself in the warden's office
and broadcasts over the prison public address system Mozart's sublime duet
between the Countess and Susanna in " Le Nozze di Figaro." It always
gives me particular pause when it is performed. But in this film the
entire prison population stops, listens, and time seems suspended by
this unexpected interruption of their daily life. The beauty of art transforms
the moment and unexpectedly brings hope and transcendence to those
under incarceration. It is timeless and more beautiful than anything nature
can evoke in us.

Morgan Freeman's character says he did not what what those two ladies
were singing about but the day was suddenly different and redemptive.
Art has such power when it is inserted into our lives and we stop and let
it flow freely into our souls.

In our current political unrest, we need to hope for and experience this kind
of interruption from Art. This kind of "break" is what will transform and
inform our lives and allow us to rebirth ourselves - if only for a much
needed moment.


R

"Doing" Lent...

Are you like me this far into Lent? Remember all the things you thought
you wanted to take on or "do" this Lent? Here I find myself well into this Lent
and all the things I had hoped to take on or "do" have been left to the side
of every day existence and the busyness we create in our daily lives.

I ask myself - why have I done this again? Is this a Lenten block I have
over zealously created? Do I, or maybe the question is, can/could/would I
"do" Lent in a way I think personal discipline and faith call me to do?
Or am I just unable or perhaps more truthfully, not willing to take it
full on. Oh, the reading I planned to do, the meditation time I wanted to
set aside, even a little prayer time I wanted to create and explore.

So here I am in mid-Lent just bumbling along and full of questions and
far removed from my planned disciplines, again. Perhaps I have an
unacknowledged fear of what I might find or even more to the point,
what I most likely would not find. I know I am not alone in this. And perhaps
I am more willing to admit this than others. That might be a piece of the
truth I am seeking. I don't feel guilty, I don't feel any sense of a failure;
I just feel unable to commit to a discipline that might engender new
awakenings and deeper commitments. Maybe.

I shall persevere. I look forward to all of Holy Week and the Great Vigil of
Easter and then the ice cream of Easter Morning. But the forty days
keep eluding me.

The big maybe is that perhaps next year.......maybe.


R

Not Satisfactory

I just returned home from a performance of "The Merchant of Venice" at
the Trinity Rep in Providence. I went with some very special friends who not
only live nearby but who also subscribe, and I may add without prejudice -
really dear and wonderful friends.

Usually, this company inspires, takes creative risks, challenges you as
an audience member, and can often shed new light on old as well as new
works. Once in a great while - they totally miss and tonight was one of
those times. Yes - this particular play is difficult to produce in our current
politically correct landscape, but this was a major miscalculation and not
a qualified risk.

 A great Portia, Shylock or Antonio can save any production, but one out
of three can not. This was a director's piece in this presentation and the
failure to execute the furrows and plantings of this text did not create
a reality that benefited this piece.

The clowns were over the top and distracted from the dark tragi-comedy.
They suspended any truth that might be told and just did not fit, a major
miscalculation from the director. I was left with more unanswered questions
about chatacter relationships and development. If the text is missing any
of this (which is not typical of Shakespeare) then the director must add this
in the visual representation. So much was missed this way that the tying of
loose ends of the plot at the end were left unexpressed.

Shylock did not break my heart, Jessica's issues were left unresolved, Portia
fell short in the trial scene, Lorenzo was underdefined, Bassanio just missed
the mark. In a work that demands a clear focus on each character and their
individual motivation and then the complicated interrelationships, the director
did not create the needed clarity. So we in the audience could only reach
for conclusions that were not expressed in the performance. It should not
be this way.

Thoughts just after midnight

It is late. I feel a certain responsibility to post. This begs the question - where
am I and what am I feeling just now?

I am thankful for the people who persevere with me and who choose to
accept me just as I am. As a person seeking to grow and bloom in new
unexplored ways, I greet those on my way with gratitude to endure with
me the pangs of personal growth.

My inter-relationships with friends are the map and pathway for my own growth
and perhaps theirs as well. There is a mutuality in this journey. I am so aware that
to do any of this, one must accept the reality that it can not be a solo attempt.
Nurture and growth come in the community of experience and sharing that
opens the portal of new being.

My road is open. I comtemplate new possibilities. I shudder with what might be.
Fractured by my own fear, I still have hope. I surge forth with promise. And
I await the next dawn of possibility.


R

Prop 8 California

I do not understand what some folks are afraid of.
How can committed and loving relationships be
something to fear? And if these same couples choose
to adopt unwanted and marginalized children and
give them a loving, nurturing home, where is the societal
error? Who will open their hearts and homes to these
children?

For those who proclaim the sanctity of life, where are they
after the birth? Who will take care of these children after
they are "saved" from the possibility of a termination of
pregnancy? These questions are not  addressed by the
pro-lifers. So my query is not addressed. If life for its own
sake is saved - who becomes the caretaker of that life? If
we as a society do not choose to fund the social network
to support the lives we hold sacred, what are we saving?

And if we hold fast to our religious calling to care for those
who can not care for themselves, what are we doing when
we turn our heads away from that responsibility?

How is this hooked to Prop 8 in California? I think the
answer is just too clear....

And  the question remains the same. What kind of
society do we choose to live into? And do we all share
mutually in its future? Or do we exclude from fear the
very folks who can bring us forward into that caring,
nurture-filled possibility of the better way?


R

"Old Friends"

In the last two weeks I have reconnected with three different sets of
friends from differing chapters in my life. And each was surrounded
by food and conversation for an extended time, not the grab and go we
so often call connection. Grateful sharing and attentive listening were
always present. This has become a rarity in our oft over busy lives, so
much so that when it does happen, it is like the clean, cold air that strikes
your face on a dry winter day. One knows at once that something different
is coming into your life, something too often lost.

Our lives are so hungry for this kind of communication and connection
with others. Being with old friends is like snuggling into you favorite chair.
You are at once totally comfortable and comforted. I am reminded of a concept
in the lines of T. S. Eliot's play "The Cocktail Party" - the true essence of
friendship is present when after a time apart old friends meet again and you
just pick up where you left off as if no time has passed at all.

That is precisely how I feel about these "old friends" with whom I have shared
more than a meal, more than a hurried moment. We have shared a Eucharistic
Moment, at one with one another. I am grateful for these moments.


R

Reflection - Mid Winter Day

Fading light on a mid winter's day on Cape Ann
Fifteen hours of rain, hardly north east winter
The light illuminates the golden marsh grass
The marsh waters reflect the color of the afternoon skies.

Inside
safe
warm
lost in thought
comfortable - yet - sensing loss
not definable

Nature's beauty lifts my spirit
The light is ever changing
Showing scenes most often - unseen
Evolving
Moving

In the midst of this
I can only feel
Comfort
A unique sense of at oneness.

And I am thankful
For this moment.


R

Mom's remembrance of a dinner party.

Mom and Dad were newly married and living in a small three
room apartment in Jackson Heights. She loved to have friends
over for a "fancy" dinner and use all the beautiful wedding gifts
and her sterling silver flatware. Her parents always had extra people
around the dinner table and of course her Father would carve the
roast and serve the main courses from the head of the table. And her
Mother would sit at the opposite end and trade retorts with her husband.

Mother had invited three couples to dinner. To accomodate eight at table,
they had to open the dining table into the living room and elbow into the
table. It was a small aparment. The table was set perfectly, and Mom had
all the food assembled in her high style, showing off those precious wedding
gifts. So the roast beef was placed at the head of the table by my Dad and
Mom said to Dad "Dick would you please carve and serve the beef." And
Dad nodded and obliged her.

Dad had grown up in Ohio. His Father had died when he was eight years old.
He was raised by his sister who had to abandon college after the death of her
Father and by his Mother who never relented on her anger at the early death
of her husband. Her children would support her and be with her always. She
played the long suffering widow until her death at age one hundred. She
represented all the duty centered behaivor of the Victorian Age.

Dad began to struggle with the roast. And Mom made several trips to the kitchen
for a "sharper" knife, Dad chased the roast all around the platter, trying to complete
his task. It soon became evident to all that he was a.) not an experienced carver and
b.) that if he continued butchering the cow in this manner there would not be
enough to go round the table. Dad seemed non plussed. The guests were trying to
control their anxiety. And Mom finally said, "Dick, I think I'll complete the carving
in the kitchen!" There was an unasperated sigh of relief among the guests.

Little known to Mom was that Dad had never carved a roast before. In his
frugally managed growing up, his Mother had prepared and doled out the
portions in the kitchen and presented the meager serving on plate directly to
her very thin children. Mom was unaware of this until the summer visits to
Ohio became part of our childhood.

At future dinner parties Mom decided to carve in the kitchen and let Dad do the
serving from the head of the table. And I remember growing up with a Dad
who never learned the craft of carving, but was always ready to try sometimes
with success, but not always.

When Art Transforms and Informs Life.....

Home from annual meeting at church - always too current and often forgetful of past
contributions from those who tirelessly worked before the current year to plan the
ease of today's protestations of success. I am not bitter or surprised,  and here's the but...

I arrived home to see that that which I thought I'd missed yesterday was actually today
and on line to see - the Bavarian Opera in Munich's simulcast of Verdi's great opera
"Don Carlos." Coming from annual meeting to enter Verdi's world at the scene of the
auto-da-fe was somewhat - how shall we say - unusual? But oh the grandeur and truth,
I stayed with the succeeding scenes and grew anew to the great depth and compassion
of this work. A superior cast of artists ignited this both human and grand offering, I was
moved and elevated to a newer plane of understanding and realization for the
complexities and wonder of this work.

And as we journey as believers, this is the text and music that can enable us to move in
our own time to deeper understanding and commitment. And is that not the work of great
art in our lives?

I feel blessed to see this and offer it to others. I wish that you may seek and see what
I see. Otherwise my words fall on deaf ears and my hope is to open those ears to bring
them to hear what I hear.

R

Chasing the Creative Spark

Trying to begin something new. Sometimes the process is like trying to
get a dampened match to ignite. Powers of concentration take flight and I
experience an Internet take over. Then a little quiet contemplation. Then...
I'm thinking about that match again. Perhaps I should take an enormous
deep breath and exhale slowly onto the head of the match, but I think I've
tried that in the past and it is like opening Pandora's box and seeing something
even more unorganized that my thoughts at present. Its a conundrum or in present
speak a "no win situation."

Oh, the muses are so flighty. Why is it that I can lie in bed semi-awake and the
creative juices flow and great text is present and in the morning the light is
bright and the thoughts are fading? Is it just a lack of concentration or aging
taking its effect on my dwindling gray matter?

Last evening, I participated in a public reading of a couple of my blog entries
along with some other more declared and experienced writers. I found it totally
unfrightening. And that is odd for someone who would rather just listen in the
back row and avoid public exposure and/or the failure it can often engender.
So risk can be both alluring and oddly intoxicating. This is new for me. I am
comfortable reading others words, but when it comes to my own - that is really
something I usually run from. Is my current willingness to risk growth or developmental?
I'm not sure yet, but taking the risk feels good just now,


R

Part the second - New Chapter?

Today - my first Social Security check arrived. I am feeling more fully
retired now, at least I feel I should feel this way. Funny - but last night
I was on line at linkedin and sent out over sixty invitations to join my
personal network. You know, its a way of being in touch with folks you might not friend on facebook because the relationship is a little different.
Wow - some people actually jumped in on the prospect of being on my and therefore expanding their networks. Is that a sign of the economic times or
something more? I don't know.

But a dear friend replied that she did not choose to join my network since
she believed I was retired and not offering myself to the employment market.
I replied that perhaps I just might want to be considered or might be
considering some part time work to add something to my coffers. I still don't have a personal answer to her query.

So, the question sits. And an old song title comes from my inner being...
"What are you doing for the rest of your life?" And the answer is -
How the hell do I know? I am just being, just now. And is that all so bad?

R

New Chapter?

This past week my first pension check arrived. Next week my first Social Security infusion arrives. That makes me retired, I guess. Since the phone isn't ringing and I'm not pursuing a new position - I am finally at leisure.
My job ended in early July, so until the present time I have just been either unemployed or practicing retirement. Perhaps the latter option is closer to reality.

But just what makes one retired? Who defines that? And what might be the
required criteria that one would choose to hear? Well, my ears are deaf to that! I'm just trudging forward as usual. There really is no actual, definable difference in my life except that I no longer have to commute too many miles, worry where to park the car and then labor in a position that is really not that rewarding.

Ah, there is a difference. I get to choose every minute of my future. I can waste or use time as I see fit (or fitless!) One might say I finally have
control of my options and therefore I get to write my next chapters.

Oh to be sure, there are the same financial worries, but some things just don't change. The BIGGIE is the "control" piece. And in that is all the difference!



R

The Interview

My God Daughter had an assignment to interview someone and write
a theme based on a subject that came up in the interview. Who to
do this with became the bigger decision. There were many adults
to choose from starting with her Mom since she was most readily
available. The subject was to be a witness acount of something that
actually happened that had meaning to the person. War and other
traumatic events always play well. But who to interview.

Her Gramma Charlotte got the call. Surprised she was and needed time
to think about it and call her back. That's when my phone rang with
the question - what can I talk with her about? She didn't want to
bring up things about the wars she had lived through and then something
from early childhood in Philadelphia came to mind. I assured her that
this was a good story and had legs of learning in it.

So, the story about her enrolling in a new school in the fifth grade
when the family had moved into a new neighborhood. Moving was a
normal thing in her growing up as her Dad was a travelling salesman
and his work lead to new markets and often many new jobs. Times were
tough too, and work was where it was - not necessarily in one's
backyard.

Her neighborhood school was not available as the few remaining spots
were being held for other possible pupils in this majority Jewish
neighborhood. Mom and her brother had to travel far from their
neighborhood to the next school with openings. It was an
african-american majority school and Mom was one of but a handfull
of white students. This lasted but one school year and then the
family moved again. The experience was not one of book learning but
survival. Mom knew the sin of discrimination first hand now and in
the opposite direction from what was the usual, more "accepted" way.
This was in the early to middle 1920's.

Revisiting this story has helped me understand more deeply some of
the scars my Mom carries and what the impact of such discrimination
can do to a child in their most vulnerable, formative years.

An interesting window. And now to wait and see what the God daughter
will bring of this to her theme.


R