Thanatos and Eros
03.31.07 (8:31 am) [edit] |  |
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Thanatos and Eros
Funny how certain memories stand out, moments saved from the oblivion that the majorities are slated for. The reasons for them standing out are not always obvious. For instance I have one memory of fighting my mother over a baby bottle she was trying to give to me as an infant. It was a glass bottle, filled with apple juice and I simply did not want it. Why on earth would I remember that? Other memories are easy to understand why they make a mark in consciousness’ that will not go away. So let us together journey back, way back, the year 1954.
It was in the early spring, the reason I know this for a fact, is that the field outside the kitchen, behind the chicken coop, was yet to be planted, plowed, waiting to be seeded. It was a nice day, sunny, not too hot, late morning, perhaps about 11:00 or so. I was 6 years old, dressed in a white shirt and shorts of some dark color, but that is not important. What is important is what I did, or perhaps attempted to do. Something not thought out, but as if I was directed by some sort of inner irrational impulse, from my chaotic inner world.
I went into the kitchen; my mother’s back was to me, trying to get lunch ready. It was the weekend, so there were 7 of us to feed at that time, the others came later; 11 in all in the final tally, though one died at birth. I went to the knife drawer and took out what was to me at that time a very large knife and walked outside. I went into the field, toward the back corner, next to my favorite crab apple tree, my favorite fruit at that time. So I simply stood there, in the late morning sun, feeling the gentle breeze caress me, and did not really think about anything, I just stood there. I had the feeling that I should die, that I wanted to die. Nothing extreme, I was not in any great pain; just death was on my mine. Thanatos, the death instinct was in ascendance and demanded some sort of response from me I guess. So I looked at the knife, not sure what I was really supposed to do with it. Then I simply thought, this is really wrong, laughed, and went back inside the house, put the knife back in the drawer and went outside and played with my brothers. Eros won out, life and the desire for life, even if the response was not thought through, came out the victor. I am not sure I was even capable of rational thought at that time, it was like some kind of archetypal struggle went on within me, and lucky for me I did not do anything stupid. I suppose that was a defining moment in my life, though it did not feel like it. Though a choice for life was certainly made and has probably served me well in ways not yet fully known.
While how the above incident was played out might be unique, I doubt the actual experience was. The desire for life, for more often than supposed, covers the death instinct, the desire for simply not existing.
I remember one day while spending some time at my Dad’s gas station, in East St Louis, I noticed a bridge nearby. It seemed to my very young, inexperienced mind, to be covering over an abyss, and that the people and cars going over it had no idea how tenuous it was for them. If the bridge collapsed while they drove, or walked upon it, they would simply fall into a bottomless pit of nothingness. From this, I got the feeling, that perhaps that is how everything is. The world and all in it is simply waiting for something to happen, and then the eternal fall into oblivion. It is like when you tear up the floor boards, you find that there is nothing underneath, solidity is an illusion. Of course I am talking about an emotional experience, I am only using concepts now as an adult, reliving the experience, that I could not possible articulate at such a young age.
I think perhaps that within all of us there is the dance between Thanatos and Eros, life and death. For many, like me for a short time, Thanatos, seemed to have the upper hand, but the desire for life did come out the victor. Perhaps it is because at that young age I somehow intuited that a state of nothingness is not possible, since I believed in a transcendent realm, so death was not in anyway an escape. Perhaps what saves us, or in the end many of us, is this belief, that a relationship with the transcendent is more important than ego strength, for when that goes what is there to cling too, or to believe in. Life is good. For in life we can grow, yes fail, choose to get up and keep going, or to give up. We can feel joy and pain, love and hate, communion and isolation, yet in all of this perhaps we are not alone, at least I believe this. I feel pursued more than pursuing. I feel stalked by a loving presence that simply keeps coming and nothing I do seems to slow it down in any way. This experience comes from deep within, a presence that insists on being noticed, taken seriously, a response, even if that response is rejection.
The transcendent present’s it-self in the simplest events. A smile, from even a stranger, music, friends, movies, nature, all are doorways for the transcendent, humble in its presentation, yet powerful in its effects on my inner depths. I am wounded by this presence, at times when I least expect it, a healing touch, giving me hope of going on.
At times the illusion of some kind of eternal peace, or oblivion will assert itself, but I know it is an illusion. For some any kind of belief in an afterlife is the illusion, it is the other way around for me. The fact that I may exist after death is no more remarkable by the fact that I exist now, and hopefully will have more years here to continue to choose and grow. This life is important, and no matter how hard, how lonely it can be, it is worth it. For when it is over, it is over, we are here only once. As one of my charges told me a few years ago: “we are here for such a short time, we should hold on for as long as we can”; words of great wisdom, from a man who lived life to the full.
Life
03.30.07 (7:13 pm) [edit] | |
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Life
Life is a gift soon over,
At times this is a comfort
At others I am terrified,
Still other times I just don’t care,
Moods come and go,
I am not sure they really mean anything at all.
I know this,
Life should be enjoyed,
Others loved,
And also we should not be in a hurry to go.
We are here once;
Then it is as if we never existed,
Soon only a fading memory,
Then not even that.
I think in the end it is worth it.
Each has an impact not understood,
It is the seeds that endure,
Bearing fruit long after we are gone and forgotten.
The whys
03.29.07 (6:56 pm) [edit]
The whys
Every since I have begun writing about 6 years ago, the texture of my life has changed. I always disliked writing up until I was about 50, when I started to debate with others who had different beliefs than me, in certain yahoo clubs. Something by the way I am not very good at. I really do not like arguing or debating, though both certainly have their place; even if minds are seldom if ever changed. When younger, I used to from time to time sit down and write pages of ‘stuff’, but then simply not write another thing for perhaps months, or even years at a time. I am also the worst letter writer in the world, having written I guess less than 30 letters in my entire life and those for the most part very short and boring; I still hate writing letters. So I was surprised, and really still am, that I actually like writing, though it is in no way a compulsion, at least so far. At this time in my life I seem to need to write and send it out, not something always easy to do, especially to those who know me…..you know, “Oh my Gawd what will they think”, sort of thing. Usually I think they don’t think anything, something freeing to contemplate. It does seem to bring more balance into my life, writing, and this self-peeking, bringing up bits and pieces of myself and putting them on paper.
Another surprise for me is my writing of poetry. I also wrote a little when younger, and discovered that in poetry, something can be said in a few lines that would take perhaps pages when writing essay style. Also poetry allows for many different interpretations for those who read, none I feel or wrong, since poetry I think is like an ink blot test, we see something different reflected back to us when reading, that is different in varying degrees from others who read the same poem. Poetry seems to flow right from the heart, is more intuitive, and deals with slices of life, and it is hard not to be honest when writing it. I have been told that my poetry is somewhat dark, even pessimistic by some, and perhaps that may seem that way at times, yet it is dealing with slices of life after all and the whole picture can never be fully portrayed.
I guess the brevity of life has always been something impressed upon me….by what I don’t know, it has always been there. As I get older this of course becomes clearer and clearer, the years seem like months or even weeks now, I wonder if it will continue to speed up as I get older? For me life often has a dream like quality to it, and I am simply trying to wake up. Perhaps my needing to write poetry is one way of doing that, trying to shock myself awake. I also feel that I am not alone I this, the above is a common experience of life; it just takes up a lot of energy for me to deal with. I think we each have a piece of the puzzle to figure out, that is why reading is so important, life giving, and well simply fun also. The internet is a blessing in that regard, so much being written about, discussed, and the simple meeting of people that would have been impossible a few short years ago. I know there are many drawbacks to the internet, but it is also balanced by the good.
I probably think too much for my own good, or perhaps want to figure things out too much. We are all seekers, even if it is not consciously adverted to or known. To ask questions or to wonder is what sets us apart from the rest of creation, at least as far as is known today. The ‘why’s’ have most of us to one degree or another. Why anything at all instead of nothing, why am I not satisfied with anything, why is it as soon as I own something it loses its attraction, why do I feel homesick, for what, why do I feel I am being called by something either outside of myself, or something so deep that I must spend a life time searching, and yes finding but never completely? Why do I get a taste and then become hungrier more than ever? Why? Perhaps we are made for the infinite, and all the things we do, both good and bad are ways we seek, at times perhaps, the seeking is not in the best direction. When we stop asking and seeking, then perhaps we are already dead. I am not really sure there is anyone who has stopped, some may be more aware of it, or simply choose to not share there journey with others. We all have different ways of seeking, and perhaps what we find important may also vary, yet we are all on a journey…….to where? Well that is the question.
Our glory and our pain
03.28.07 (11:18 am) [edit]
The heart often feels empty
Though the seeking to fill the inner abyss
Eternally sought.
Moments filled with beautiful things,
Surrounded by witty intelligent people,
Yet,
It all seems so filled with nothingness,
A thin veil over a bottomless void
Eating everything up,
Youth,
Success,
Health,
Temporary states soon gone
As if they never were;
Then what is left to cling to?
There is nothing temporal to comfort us,
Only the infinite can embrace us,
Mortal creatures made for the Eternal,
Our glory and our pain.
Kidding myself
03.27.07 (9:13 am) [edit]
Kidding myself
I like to kid myself
That my heart is loving
Open to others.
I pray for all,
A least I think I do.
It is when rage comes
Another side of me wells up
That makes me cry out,
“Lord have mercy”.
Loving is not what anger brings,
Nor union,
Not understanding,
But a barrier
To compassion and empathy.
Oh Lord,
When will the time come,
When free my heart will be,
To love,
Forgive,
To fly from my blind egoism,
Easily offended taking affront,
At what others say or do,
Chaining me once again to a cycle of pain,
That only grace freely given will free me.
It is grace,
Your love in fact that leads gently
To that freedom,
Which allows forgiveness to flow,
Like a river, ever new, to sooth the heart,
Restless and self absorbed,
In a prison self created;
To find release and healing,
That leads to a fuller life.
Perhaps both the same?
03.26.07 (8:31 am) [edit]
Perhaps both the same?
Silence can be deafening,
Often feared,
Of what it will whisper of things true,
Expressing the depths,
The inner conflicts laid bare.
Truth hard to bear and without Mercy,
Or so it seems at times.
The prospect of new life,
The fruit of self knowledge is something feared,
Leaving what is known behind.
Birth is a painful ordeal,
So much like death,
Perhaps they are both the same?
New Beginnings
03.25.07 (8:20 am) [edit]
New Beginnings
Winter stills fights the coming of spring,
Cold nights opening up to very warm days,
Blossoms everywhere,
Wonderful,
The insects in such profusion after they awake,
Are not yet here,
Allowing unimpeded enjoyment of the reborn beauty
So powerfully making itself known,
This explosion of life and new beginnings.
Some trees still sleep,
Soon they to will awaken, exploding with green,
A color so common,
Yet whose refreshing beauty never tires the eye.
Sadness
03.24.07 (10:49 am) [edit] | |
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Sadness
Sadness lies deep within my soul,
Slowly rising,
Gently seeking to introduce itself,
Inexorable in its ebb and flow,
Seeking doorways,
Or windows for contact.
Like stones slowly raising the water level,
As one by one they drop;
So is sadness,
As one event after another,
This loss,
Another death,
Something so common in life,
Seeking a true open response.
To be heard and felt,
Something foreign to me,
Apart from the brief safe peeks I allow myself,
Music, often the safest way,
The deep inner experience over with its ending,
The veil thick protecting,
Like a burial shroud, as once again it covers the inner well
Of deep rich experience.
Safe boundaries,
Whose time has come I fear,
I can feel cracks forming,
Sadness now comes whenever it wills,
Though still in amounts safe,
Wishing only my attention,
So easy for some,
I envy them this ability,
So difficult for me.
Will I dissolve in tears,
Melt?
Their expression needed for sadness,
The healing flow salty,
My inner ocean,
I think we all have one,
How deep?
Will I drown?
The inner depth of each soul,
Each so alike,
Yet unique,
Is perhaps bottomless,
We are after all made in the Eternals image and likeness.
Wounding
03.23.07 (8:44 am) [edit]
Wounding
The heart shatters at times,
Rebuilds itself,
Each time changed;
No middle ground.
Either it opens more to life
Or closes evermore unto itself,
Careful how others are treated,
For in wounding others, we wound ourselves,
Christ also weeps,
It is our wounds he carries.
In an instant
03.22.07 (8:55 am) [edit] | |
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In a jar
03.19.07 (7:07 pm) [edit]
I sometimes think or perhaps feel deeply;
My soul trapped in a jar,
Beating the sides seeking release,
Refusing to look upward
The opening plain to see,
Unwilling to take flight.
Yet another human pursuit
03.18.07 (6:25 pm) [edit]
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Yet another human pursuit
The child was out playing one day,
His mother watching from the bench,
So beautiful and innocent the youngster,
His life peaceful with loving parents,
Extended family who loved and treasured him,
As young children are.
It happened so quickly, so sudden,
One moment all things were well,
When she looked away for a short time, then,
It was as if the earth opened up and swallowed him,
He was gone.
Frantic the mother ran looking for her beloved son,
Nowhere to be seen,
She cried and wailed to no avail ,gone,
As if he was never there.
There is so much evil, so much pain,
The sick and deranged among us seemed to be growing,
Lives ruined, marriages end,
Brothers and sisters, who remain, consumed with fear,
Also, with guilt over things done, or said, perhaps that very day.
How can we stand it?
The pain of the world that seems to grow everyday,
Where is God when it all goes down,
Is there any sense to it all,
Or is evil the final victor,
Death the consumer that engulfs all?
Children kidnapped, sold;
The sex trade growing,
What kind of person could do that?
Only pain to our questions,
Faith can seem hollow, empty, foolish,
Yet, I still believe in God,
Present in our pain unrelenting,
That is caused by the choices of men and women,
Somehow twisted beyond their humanity,
Themselves perhaps abused;
So the seeds take root,
Evil fruit the harvest.
Dont ask me for answers, I have none.
Those pious sayings of true believers,
True perhaps, but leaves the pain untouched,
Or the angry retorts of atheists,
Avail nothing,
Loud sounds made by empty drums,
Useless before the reality.
Numb with pain I live the mystery.
The crucified Christ
Carried all of our pain,
Our evil and sins,
Gut wrenching torture,
Sweat,
Blood,
His body torn and stretched on the cross,
When looked upon in reality,
Is the soul of each of us,
To look at the crucified is to see ourselves,
His death,
Our victory.
Foolish (?)
Perhaps;
Yet is atheism any better?
I think not,
Its answer to easy.
Life is a mystery to be lived
Not something understood;
At least for me that is true;
As I get older I know less.
But faith, not without doubt, continues to grow strong.
Sin is real,
Something hotly denied,
Its effects obvious.
Wars are started by us,
Rape and pillage is done by man,
Greed that lead to loss for others
Yet another human pursuit.
Lust,
Regulating another to a mere object for pleasure,
Then discarded,
Yes another human pass time,
Billons a day spent on war,
Yet we cannot take care of those in need.
Killing is so much easier,
So natural for us,
Making this world a hell on earth for millions.
Responsibility is ours though we often blame God.
Freedom however much we have,
Its extent hotly debated today,
If taken away will destroy our humanity,
Turning us into nothing more than herd animals,
Chewing our cud,
Without thought,
Intelligence or will.
Love lets us be, but does not abandon.
Perhaps this is our only hope,
God is faithful, even when faithlessness is common.
No protection
03.18.07 (11:34 am) [edit]
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No protection
The local emergency room, is a place I know well,
Many there remember me;
I often accompanied someone, or another there.
While there waiting,
Sometimes reading,
At others, perhaps praying,
Or gathering wool, in my already wool filled head,
The sounds of the ER almost never stop;
Background noise that I have never learned to tone out.
The cry of very young child,
Or perhaps screams would better serve,
Is an experience heart rending
Something I never get used too,
The pleading within the sound,
Of the why (?), the pain,
Parents seemingly just standing by,
No protection,
The little one not perceiving the greater pain
Its parents are experiencing,
Their willingness to take on the suffering
Of their child,
That parents so often feel,
If only they could,
But they can’t,
They do all they can.
The child,
Not hearing their vain attempts to comfort
So filled with fear and confusion,
Feels angry, bereft,
It screams fed by its almost cosmic rage;
Too much going on for the young inexperienced mind.
At other times,
Perhaps even more heart breaking,
Is the complete loss of control of an adult,
High pitched screams filling all spaces,
Like a soul in hell experiencing only pain,
Seemingly unending in duration.
Pain does that,
Stretches out each second as if it were an hour,
Exhausting,
Where does the strength for screaming come from?
Death to visits,
Families not comprehending what has just happened,
A loved one taken so quickly,
No time for goodbyes,
Just the almost infinite ache of loss,
Dream like, perhaps that is a mercy,
Yet overwhelming all the same.
An unending parade,
The lot of humanity played out.
It is not all dark,
For most are surrounded by loved ones,
Not alone in their journey.
For those alone,
There is more going on,
But that is in the realm of faith,
Each must decide the depth of what is hidden,
Or perhaps for some there is nothing else,
Just the pain, suffering and death.
Gentle haunting
03.17.07 (8:31 am) [edit]
Gentle Haunting
In the gentle increasing coolness
Of the early Spring evening,
Accompanied by the whisperings
Of a cool refreshing breeze,
I slowly walk around the small pond,
So serene,
It’s water like glass,
Reflecting the deep lightsome beauty of clouds
Ever gently flowing high above, over its smooth surface.
Haunted by happy memories,
Of events long past,
Laughter,
Boating,
Swimming with the ease of youth,
Now gone these many years,
Happily so, for life is better now.
I walk to the east side,
Where cement slabs protect its earthen boundaries,
Awaiting in silence my company.
Spotted a name written on one cement surface,
“Willie 1/5/91”
A man I knew,
Now dead for more than a few years,
Someone I miss when thoughts of him arise,
Another haunting memory,
Bitter sweet, for he was a kind, gentle, man.
I sit facing East,
The calm water disturbed by fish feeding,
Gentle ripples,
Beautiful,
Soon lost on the peace surface,
Fading slowly into oneness.
Clouds with pink alight from the sitting Sun,
Soon fad into dark grey
As the evenings darkness takes its turn,
In the endless cycle of nights and days.
As the darkness increases the silence changes,
Soon the geese start their talking
Sounding like the end of a long cocktail party,
Each sounding off but none listening,
Joined in with the bull frogs now seeking a mate,
Surrounded with natures busy, loud, exuberance,
Only adding to the sense of rightness of it all.
A small pond,
Yet powerful in its healing,
I am happy in the moment with my memories,
Yes in their gentle, bitter sweet haunting.
So now
03.14.07 (6:17 pm) [edit] | |
So now
Blessed be all who read this,
Without exception all are welcome.
No matter what you believe
Or the evils you have done,
Your wounds however deep,
Or the pain you yourself have sown,
At this moment it does not matter.
The Eternal knows you,
Your depths,
The why’s and the why not of your life.
Neither despair,
Rage,
Hatred, or anger,
Is no obstacle,
The ocean of infinite love is bottomless,
Without beginning or end,
Who can comprehend it this reality.
Mercy poured out this very moment,
God’s moment,
Sustaining your soul with love stronger than death.
Nothing can stop it,
So now,
This moment,
The fulfillment of all moments,
Allow yourself to be loved,
Letting mercy lift up all,
Your poverty your sacrifice,
So as to become rich in love,
Becoming a channel to all you meet
Of the mercy and love you have received.
It is the least,
The broken,
Those you perhaps hate and despise
Where God speaks.
Love without need,
To love because the other is God’s beloved.
The more miserable,
The deeper the misery,
The greater one knowledge of what is lacking,
God draws ever closer to Himself.
Fear is useless,
What is needed is trust.
The very mercy you receive is given to all,
Do not judge,
Love,
Forgive and above all pray for all.
In prayer we are all one before the Father of lights.
Some for better, others for worse
03.13.07 (12:31 pm) [edit] 
Some for better, others for worse
When people come and go in our lives,
The meeting is like birth,
Their presence, in greater or lesser degree,
Change our lives.
Some for better,
Others for worse,
Then those not at all.
The ending is like death,
Those who impact the greatest
Their absence felt the most,
A cold emptiness that was once filled.
Others simply missed,
The loss felt less, yet there nonetheless.
Some not missed at all, perhaps relief they are gone,
Yet for all a death of sorts.
Life is changed and equation once there, now gone.
Some never forgotten,
Others not given a second thought.
A fool’s errand
03.12.07 (9:07 am) [edit]
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A fool’s errand
Here I sit,
Quiet and alone,
In the presence of the Eternal,
My soul naked before the gaze.
The truth,
Pretense stripped away,
Nothing hidden,
All laid bare,
Exposed
Transparency not an option.
All is known,
The gaze deeper than my own,
Truth unrelenting
Filled with infinite love’s understanding.
Running,
Hiding an illusion,
A fool’s errand,
Best to be still.
A different kind of dream
03.10.07 (8:09 am) [edit] 
A different kind of dream
The world
03.09.07 (8:50 am) [edit]
Pain is everywhere Lord,
All seem burdened with their past,
The wounds inflicted on them,
Children are the victims,
Ignored, beaten, abused in many ways,
The abusers once victims themselves,
Those that survive,
Becoming part of the growth,
That increases from generation to generation,
Predators, beaters, ignorers,
Those incapable of love walk our streets,
Seeking someone to share their pain,
Experienced as
Rage,
Lust,
Mixed with a deep unfeeling coldness,
The rights of others not considered,
As theirs were when small and vulnerable.
Others not predators
Become the walking wounded,
Afraid,
Fearful and alone,
Some seeking help,
Others not.
Sin is a deep affliction
Whose binding chains none are free from,
In need of healing and forgiveness.
Lord Jesus,
All this is before your eyes,
In your heart your experience with us our shame,
Degradation,
Understanding everything,
Loving those that no one else can,
Seeking to heal.
Your own earthly life snuffed out,
In the presence of those who saw and mocked;
Your overcame,
Forgiving those who killed and betrayed you,
We do not know our right hand from our left.
In the midst of darkness and despair,
In the pit of pain overwhelming,
When it is the darkest,
There you are,
Loving, calling, healing,
In ways neither seen nor understood.
Oh Lord
Have mercy on all,
Heal us,
For only your infinite love can stop the cycle
Of pain and death.
Our hope is strong though understanding slight,
In the midst of doubt
Faith sees beyond what the mind can perceive,
Or understand.
The way is dark, lit with the light of faith.
The world
03.09.07 (8:38 am) [edit]
The world
Pain is everywhere Lord,
All seem burdened with their past,
The wounds inflicted on them,
Children are the victims,
Ignored, beaten, abused in many ways,
The abusers once victims themselves,
Those that survive,
Becoming part of the growth,
That increases from generation to generation,
Predators, beaters, ignorers,
Those incapable of love walk our streets,
Seeking someone to share their pain,
Experienced as
Rage,
Lust,
Mixed with a deep unfeeling coldness,
The rights of others not considered,
As theirs were when small and vulnerable.
Others not predators
Become the walking wounded,
Afraid,
Fearful and alone,
Some seeking help,
Others not.
Sin is a deep affliction
Whose binding chains none are free from,
In need of healing and forgiveness.
Lord Jesus,
All this is before your eyes,
In your heart your experience with us our shame,
Degradation,
Understanding everything,
Loving those that no one else can,
Seeking to heal.
Your own earthly life snuffed out,
In the presence of those who saw and mocked;
You overcame,
Forgiving those who killed and betrayed you,
We do not know our right hand from our left.
In the midst of darkness and despair,
In the pit of pain overwhelming,
When it is the darkest,
There you are,
Loving, calling, healing,
In ways neither seen nor understood.
Oh Lord
Have mercy on all,
Heal us,
For only your infinite love can stop the cycle
Of pain and death.
Our hope is strong though understanding slight,
In the midst of doubt
Faith sees beyond what the mind can perceive,
Or understand,
The way is dark, lit with the light of faith
With only myself to blame
03.07.07 (7:07 pm) [edit] 
Thoughts my prison walls create,
Sealed with the mortar of my emotions,
Locked doors and barred windows,
My feelings and interpretations,
My own guard and warden in my imprisonment,
With only myself to blame.
My mom
03.06.07 (8:23 am) [edit]
My Mom
My mother was a beautiful woman,
Dark hair,
Eyes of blue,
With very light skin.
She was married once before she met my father,
To a man who was abusive, a drunk,
Which did not last long at all.
She was a person of strength
Who soon kicked her first husband to the curb,
I think he hit her once, that was it, she was gone,
Good for her.
She often told me that no one could hurt her feelings,
This alerted me to the fact that she was very sensitive,
So she found ways to protect herself,
Perhaps this was good, I have no way of knowing.
She was not overly emotional,
I never saw her cry
Not sure I could have taken it if I did.
However she was caring and accepting of everyone.
Our home was often full of guests of all kinds,
They were comfortable there,
Both adults and children.
She also found an orphanage that was in neglect,
That was soon taken care of, at least for awhile,
Getting many involved in taking care of the needs of the children.
My mom was from the country,
Her family not rich,
Yet as she told me, she never went without,
Never knew she was poor.
She worked in Parkmore,
A chain of restaurants in St Louis in the 40’s,
That is were my Dad first saw her,
And began to show interest.
Mom did not want much to do with him,
He was from a well to do family until the depression,
So he grew up in plenty,
Had a reputation as a ladies man,
At least from the often funny stories I heard from his family,
So he needed some help in getting my mom’s attention.
A friend of the family (another story)
Spoke up for my dad,
They dated,
Married,
And as my mother told me,
“Mark, all your dad had to do was look at me
And bam I was pregnant”;
She always laughed when she told me that.
She did have after all 11 children,
All survived except one who died soon after birth.
Whom I seem to miss more and more as time goes on,
I don’t really understand that, since I never held or saw him.
While dad was a strong man,
Like most large families it was a matriarchy,
She called the shots for the most part,
Dad was always working anyway.
We were a handful,
Which only got bigger as the years went by,
Until 1961 when the last one was born into the world.
She was a home body for the most part,
Loved to read, think, and discuss the beliefs of others.
She often challenged me in my faith,
So I used to go to the library to study,
Which deepened my understanding of my beliefs.
Like my dad, she was of a liberal bent,
I am sort of that way myself.
She did struggle with depression,
Liked to wear black,
Grey her favorite color,
Perhaps mine also.
She loved the night, a time of reading, and contemplation.
A woman of great depth who could not express herself well,
She had the picture but could not break it down,
Which caused me a great deal of frustration,
Communication often difficult in my late teens and early adulthood.
I later understood this as fear,
She seemed trapped in her world,
Unable to communicate on a verbal level,
My fear was I was like her in her inner perceptions,
Which is true,
So I did not want to be trapped like that,
She had so much to share, and did,
However her limitations were severe.
She so wanted me to believe the way she did,
I fought her,
Struggled to be myself,
At times said angry things to put up boundaries.
I hated this,
An adult still being a child with my mother whom I loved,
Respected,
Admired.
In 82 when she was 62 she told me that she had a year to live,
Heavy smoker,
Emphysema taking its toll,
She knew she could not quit,
Therefore had the year to work on our relationship,
I did not want any regrets about how I treated her.
So I just listened,
Grateful for all that she communicated to me.
Her wisdom was deep, her faith strong.
So for the next year I did not argue,
Just listened to her on the phone,
I called her once or twice a week.
We laughed and still disagreed,
Different however,
Looming death changes things for sure,
But as time went on the old wounds healed.
When the day came that changed the texture of the world,
I received the news in a state of numbness,
Then sorrow,
Though not extreme, since I mourned much the year before.
We all got together that very day,
All 10 of us, scattered across the country.
Some flying,
Others driving, but we all made it.
The youngest having dad wrapped around her finger
Took care of him,
The rest of the time we simply got together,
Laughed, talked, and felt at a loss.
The matriarch has died.
My mom had a hard life,
However she told me that she would do it all over again,
Such was her love for her children,
Each precious to her, though she at times had trouble expressing it,
I think she was better with the boys than with the girls,
Perhaps that is normal.
In any case she did the best she could,
Now she is at rest,
She never feared death,
Nor the thoughts of others,
Which seems to be a sort of death for some.
One of her favorite sayings,
When my dad would worry about the neighbors,
“ O for petessake who gives a shit what the neighbors think”…..
I liked that mom,
Thanks for teaching me that lesson.
I don’t know how my brothers and sisters experienced you,
Each has a story,
But you, like dad, were loved and cherished.
So at 63 you left us bereft,
Yet we still had Dad,
Now that he is gone we have each other,
Hopefully as the years fly by we will deepen our love for one another,
Not taking each other for granted,
That as one by one we also pass on,
Regrets will not be severe,
Not letting the things of life,
The hurts and misunderstandings get in the way of what is important,
That in spite of it all, we do love one another.
Are Americans Ignorant About Religion?
03.05.07 (8:11 am) [edit]
 MSNBC.com |
Are Americans Ignorant About Religion?
March 12, 2007 issue - Steve Prothero is the kind of professor who makes you want to go back to college. During an hour lecture of his Boston University course "Death and Immortality," 200 students sat rapt last week as his train of thought led him from the Docetics (early Christians who believed that Jesus was all-God, not flesh), to reincarnation, to Disney World, to Hindu cremation rituals, to Plato's account of Socrates' trial (the day's assigned reading), to "Beauty and the Beast," to a hypothetical suicidal bunny, to a discussion of the merits of exile versus death for a man such as Socrates. To describe Prothero as "quick-witted" or his interests as "interdisciplinary&q uot; wouldn't quite do him justice. Prothero is a world-religions scholar with the soul of a late-night television comic.
This month, HarperSanFrancisco will publish Prothero's new book "Religious Literacy," a work whose message is far more sober than its author's affect. In spite of the fact that more than 90 percent of Americans say they believe in God, only a tiny portion of them knows a thing about religion. When he began teaching college 17 years ago, Prothero writes, he discovered that few of his students could name the authors of the Christian Gospels. Fewer could name a single Hindu Scripture. Almost no one could name the first five books of the Hebrew Bible. Prothero, who went to Yale in the early 1980s and speaks of his all-night bull sessions on politics and religion with reverence, realized that to re-create that climate in his classroom, his students first had to know something. And so he made it his job to (1) figure out what they didn't know and (2) teach it to them. He began giving religious literacy quizzes to his students, and, subsequently, to everyone he knew. Almost everybody failed.
His motivation is more than pedagogical. In a world where nearly every political conflict has a religious underpinning, Prothero writes that Americans are selling themselves short by remaining ignorant about basic religious history and texts, by not knowing the difference between a Sunni and a Shiite or the name of Mormonism's holy book. "Given a political environment where religion is increasingly important, it's increasingly important to know something about religion," he says. "The payoff is a more involved [political] conversation."
The book proposes a solution that is at once controversial and familiar: teach religion in public schools. Prothero believes that before graduation from high school, every American should take a Bible course and a world-religions course—dispassionat e humanities courses whose purpose is not to catechize or evangelize but to educate. In colleges, he argues, we have science requirements, so why not religion? When Harvard decided recently not to make religion part of its core curriculum, "it missed an opportunity," he says.
The professor is not an advocate for any faith, though he's a great admirer of the faithful. He grew up on Cape Cod, Mass.; at 16, he was on the vestry of St. Peter's Episcopal Church, in Osterville, Mass. In college, he was "born again," but not for long. "The imperative of really believing your friends were wrong, and trying to convert them never made sense to me," he says. Post-college, he flirted with law school, politics and Buddhism until he found himself in graduate school at Harvard in religious history. There, he came to the crushing realization that as an American Christian he could never be a proper Buddhist, and so he returned to the mainline church. Today he defines himself as a "confused Christian."
The book is repetitive in spots and, perhaps as an indication of how fast the religion conversation in America is moving, can feel outdated. "The hard-core atheist," Prothero writes, "once a stock figure in American life, has gone the way of the freak show." Well, except for Sam Harris, Richard Dawkins and Daniel Dennett, whose books on atheism have topped the best-seller lists for two years. In Prothero's utopian world, Americans would have enough religious knowledge to debate ethics positions using holy texts, to understand Biblical references in political speeches, to question their own beliefs about God—and to encourage others to question theirs. Only then will we enjoy one of the greatest privileges of the educated, which is to change our minds.
My dad
03.04.07 (9:56 am) [edit] 
My dad
I can’t say I ever really got to know my father,
Of course, do we ever really get to know anyone,
Each unique in their depth and complexity,
Creating a puzzle and mystery too deep to fathom.
It was at the time of my mother’s death
That it hit me very hard,
As I watched my dad,
His reactions,
His tears,
That I did not know him at all,
In many ways a stranger, his inner self unknown,
We never met, our inner selves,
Never really talked;
How many father and sons ever really do?
Until that moment of revelation, not a concern,
He being unknown to me.
That day my world changed.
The remaining years I worked very hard to know him,
Wishing time to slow down,
Never enough time to delve as deep as I would have liked.
Over the years I just spent time with him,
Learned to like watching golf on TV,
Watched every western ever made,
Three times at least.
Once he wanted to watch something I liked,
I said, no Dad you would not like it;
He insisted so I complied.
Got a good Sci-fi flick and we watched it together,
All during the movie he said not a word,
When it was over, he looked at me for a moment,
Then said,
“How can you watch that shit!”
I laughed and said I told you so.
A good funny memory, that still brings a smile.
When not visiting
Called him every week,
Told him of my love and respect for him,
Thanking him for what he had done as our father.
He was not perfect,
At home could be overly critical of everything,
This flowed from his tendency to worry over much,
Wanting us to be safe, and have everything good for us.
He treated everyone the same outside the home,
Kind, thoughtful, making friends easily with all he met.
Those who worked under him loved and respected what he was,
When he retired mom told me there was not a dry eye there.
I remember when very young watching him, how he treated others,
Met them,
Talked with them, made others feel seen I think,
Something good he has passed on to his many children.
Generous in helping others,
Sometimes giving his last bit of money to someone in greater need,
Yet we always had all that we needed.
On that last Saturday of his life,
I called,
We talked of nothing important,
Then I said “I love you dad”,
He replied in kind and hung up.
Later that day Craig called letting me know that Dad was dying,
He had a cerebral hemorrhage,
On a respirator and would be soon taken off.
So quick,
So soon a life over,
One well lived I think, besides his many weaknesses,
He was just a man,
A good one,
My father.
The day I arrived we all checked in a motel.
He gave his body to science,
No funeral,
Just a mass of remembrance,
Mixed feelings about that,
No body to say bye to,
Yet I understood his decision.
The next morning, my non-smoking room
Was filled with cigarette smoke,
Its odor filled the room,
I said “hi dad, glad you stopped by”,
Then it was gone.
Here’s to you pop,
I am glad you had me,
Had us all,
That you worked hard,
That is how you showed your love.
I get more like you every year,
Something I am proud of,
I also worry,
Get grouchy and cranky like you,
Sound at times just like you,
Also like you it passes, my inner crank,
My dad myself,
As the saying goes.
Soon gone
03.02.07 (5:56 pm) [edit]
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Sometimes present and aware, at others not,
Often thinking those we love are forever.
So we often becoming immune to their presence,
Taken for granted like furniture,
Always there, needing little attention or care,
Often careless in what is said,
Communication of any depth not sought or desired,
Don’t we have infinite tomorrow’s?
Then the hole appears,
Cold,
Dark,
Where once warmth and light resided,
Gone forever who can prepare,
The pain of loss beyond all telling,
Regrets over opportunities lost,
Haunted my memories of smiles,
Tears,
Perhaps cutting words said, not taken back,
Only voids were fullness unheeded once resided.
The lesson often not learned,
Forgotten,
Knowing in such a way too naked
To see those we love as temporary,
In the end,
Closer to the morrow, the bone,
The “I” is passing,
Soon gone,
Not even the faintest whisper remaining.
So we gather our losses one by one,
The emptiness growing with each year,
First this one,
Then another, piling up over the years,
Sometimes at peace about it,
At others filled with rage and terror,
Like the weather the inner weather changes
Unstable in focus,
That only faith deep within can heal,
Even if the dark and unknown remain.
Dreams
03.01.07 (8:06 am) [edit]
Dreams
I had a dream about my dad last night. I am not sure how many I have had of him, perhaps only a few over the years. It was different from any other dream I have ever had of him and I don’t know what to make of it. I was with him in a large room, and I think it was some sort of family reunion, in any case, I felt that I was not with strangers and that both my dad and I fit in, belonged to the group that was with us. It was some sort of banquet. Someone got up to speak, and I also stood up, not too speak, I just stood up; am not sure if anyone else did. I think it was a show of respect, but no real emotion involved with it. As I sat down, my dad looked at me, and cried a little and said;
“You were like that before”. It was like he was speaking directly to me. Even though I have no idea what he meant by the above statement, I was touched by the dream in way I don’t understand.
I don’t write down my dreams, but over the years dreams have played an important role in my life, it just something that is. Every once in awhile a dream will come along, and BAM my life is changed, usually for the better, giving me an insight that I needed at the time, brought about by the way I either thought, or felt, about a particular matter. I usually have this experience when on the conscious level a change is not thought about, I am just going about life. It seems that the mind has many levels that are constantly at work, processing data. Perhaps dreams are the only way for these deeper levels to communicate.
Before I was ten nightmares were my most common dream. They always started off like some bad “B” movie. There was music, green clammy fog, and I would suddenly find myself in the depths of some forest, fearful, knowing someone, or something, was after me. I would also know I was dreaming and could feel my eyelids trying to open so I would wake up. I guess they were lucid dreams, but it was not until I was a teenager that that I learned that I could control them. Well the dream was archetypical for a child. I would try to run but my legs would feel very heavy, and in some dreams ‘old people’ would be coming for me, slowly coming to get me and I was by myself with no one to help me. When I finally got to my home, no one there would help; they would just laugh at me. I would usually wake up then, I was never caught. I suppose having dreams like that every night led me to be aware of my dreams for the rest of my life. When the family left for Panama in 1958, when I was just turned 10, the nightmares simply stopped, and to this day I have very few nightmares. Hopefully that trend will last for the rest of my life. I think the dreams stopped because I felt safer in Panama than I did in the states. I think I know what the reason is, but will not get into it here. Lets just say that I was glad that the dreams stopped.
There is a beautiful anima figure that will at times come to me in my dreams. I have seen her only a few times over the years, once in awhile she will speak to me, and soon after that some sort of breakthrough will happen for me. The message is often simple and too the point, something unusual in dreams. I also have another aspect of the anima figure who also comes at times. She is older, dark hair, and when she appears the dreams can be unpleasant or even painful, she also appears seldom. I suppose in Jungian terms they are simple aspects of my personality that come forth when I am being slower than usual in getting some point or another. You would think they would make an appearance more often, I can be little slow on the draw at times.
The colors in some dreams are very deep, deeper than in my waking hours. Very rich and colorful blues, reds, gold’s, and greens; very beautiful, sure to help me remember when I wake up in the morning. People ascribe all kinds of significance to colors, but I am not sure they mean anything at all, just something beautiful to remember. At times I also visit surreal landscapes, most of them pleasant but on occasion others not so much so.
There are many theories about dreams, but in the end each person who dreams a lot will have to come up with their own theories about them. For myself I find Jungian thought helpful at times. Not all people dream as much as I do, and again there are many who do in fact dream more, and who also write them down. I don’t think it is all that important to remember ones dreams, but it certainly makes the night more interesting. Some nights, all I am missing is some popcorn.