Birmingham, Alabama
It is rather interesting to return to a city I lived in for many years, after a lapse of twenty years, not even visiting here in a decade. In the intervening epoch the city has changed radically. To the south, regions that were once pristine unbroken rural vistas have become victims of urban sprawl. Infected with the fungus of commercial blight with its attendant chaos of billboards, LED message boards, and unremitting traffic, memories of verdant countryside fade a bit further into obscurity. I see no evidence of working farms or ranches. Myriad little housing developments are excreted onto former pastureland.
While helping friends look for another house, I had reason to visit a lot of these little urban metastases. They were devoid of people and had a powerful sense of being shop-worn, despite being built in the time since I moved from here twenty years ago. Houses were open to the weather and rotting. Even high end developments feel empty and barren. I wonder what it is people are looking for in these places. It certainly doesn’t seem to be community. They all seem to be looking for something somewhere else. It’s all for sale. Garage doors were closed and no one was out walking in the afternoon or evening on cerulean spring days.
So very strange is the city itself. From the time I first moved to Birmingham in 1979, I was struck by how afraid people were of the downtown region, evidenced by a sense of desertion even on weekdays at lunch time. I was downtown on Sunday night and was appalled at the utter absence of people. It was as if the city had been evacuated, miles of it. Returning there on Monday at mid day on a brilliant spring day, the imagery was even more startling. There simply were no people out and about. No hot dog vendors, no guys dispensing therapy with their coffees, no sidewalk kiosks. Apparently, fear has only increased during the past decade. Imagery of vibrant European cities with their millions of pedestrians could not be further from this present reality.
While attending a rather splendid service in the Advent Cathedral it was unsettling that uniformed armed policemen were hovering around the church entrance and the worship hall for the whole of our time there. I have no recollection of previously being protected in a church by police, not even in Papa Doc’s Haiti or post-Sukarno Indonesia. The police officers were well known to those present and obviously this was regular duty for them. Happily, these men were well trained and most polite to all of us. But somehow having men wearing 9 mm Glocks and tazers does something to the equanimity of one’s worship experience.
On Saturday on one of those first glorious days of spring when winter’s frustration are relieved by flowering plants and trees in bountiful colorful fashion, we went to a vast state park fifteen minutes south of the city. Amazingly, it was essentially deserted. What are all of the million plus people living here doing on a glorious Saturday? A friend of mine here did not want to see me. She described sleeping through the entirety of a magnificent Saturday. Lots of people are on anti-depressants. The chicken and egg scenario comes to mind. Do urban dwellers stay inside because they are depressed or do they get depressed because they stay inside?
Perhaps it stems from living in a very small semi-rural context for twenty years, but there is a powerful absence of spatial focus to this place. All these small housing developments and commercial strip malls along country roads seem so visually and physically disconnected and unfocused. I am reminded of David Kunstler’s thought provoking Geography of Nowhere, a poignant look at American city life and the complete lack of scale and context in which to live meaningful connected lives with each other. Here in the city one can be completely anonymous without effort. I think of the context I am presently living in, how I can hardly go anywhere at all and not encounter countless people I know; many of them very dear, how even going for a morning bike ride at sunrise will often yield a fine companion. Where I exercise, worship, read, volunteer, learn, play, work, get entertained; all are walking distance from where I sleep. Perhaps it really is true – there is no place like home. Perhaps more of us need to think about what home really is. Suddenly, I wonder why I have embarked on this journey that is going to take me over eight time zones, perhaps a couple of credit limits, and a few months.
I am reminded of the inspiration motivational story called “Acres of Diamonds”, depicting an African diamond miner who spends decades rutting in the mud and rock of South Africa, hunting for those brilliant orbs that promise liberation from his misery. Exhausted, penniless, and without hope, he go backs to his little hut on the river, only to see a glint in the morning light. There he finds underfoot that which he had ranged far and wide to find.
Perhaps it is time to go home.
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
The Scrapping of America 4-4-10
Riverchase, Alabama
An important painting from the mid-nineteenth century is “The Gleaners” by Jean-Francois Millet, unveiled at the Salon in Paris in 1857. It depicts three peasant women gleaning grains of wheat from a harvested field. The women are shown picking up nearly invisible grains while sunlit mountains of wheat are in the background. The painting almost immediately came under derision by the middle and upper classes in France. “The bit dog hollers.” The upper classes did not want to be reminded of what happened in the French Revolution a decade earlier. That revolution was fueled in part by gross inequities of wealth distribution.
As one observer put it, “Having recently come out of the French Revolution of 1848, these prosperous classes saw the painting as glorifying the lower-class worker. To them, it was a reminder that French society was built upon the labor of the working masses, and landowners linked this working class with the growing movement of Socialism and the dangerous voices of Karl Marx and Émile Zola.”
The Old Testament Book of Ruth presents a profoundly emotive image of compassion and endearment with its image of gleaning. Boaz, a wealthy landholder instructed his field workers to deliberately leave an extra amount of grain for the homeless and stateless Ruth to glean. He also gave instruction that would insure her safety from restive young men working the fields. The story of Ruth and Boaz is the most endearing romance in all of Christian scripture.
Millet’s painting was considered a strong statement on the harsh realities of rural poverty in France rather than a new interpretation of the endearing image of the Moabite woman being taken under wing by Boaz. “The Gleaners” received little attention in Millet’s lifetime, having been sold by him for a pittance to an Englishmen who would not budge from his counter offer. Fourteen years after his death, the painting sold for nearly a king’s ransom, 300,000 francs. It eventually was given to the Louvre by Champagne heiress Jeanne-Alexandrine Pommery. I last saw it in the splendid Musee D’Orsay in Paris, where it presently hangs.
About three miles south of here in a long-neglected part of town is a scrap yard that looks akin to something out of Dante’s inferno. A lifeless barren landscape contains mountains of the rusting detritus of a consumer culture gone amok. Occasionally, in the distant past I went there and sold small accretions of metals that found their way into my life, never waiting to pull up to the scales and get paid for my small lode. A journey to the yard now can consume hours. On a typical day three hundred and fifty trucks show up at the yard to sell an avalanche of anything metallic. The small side street giving access to the yard becomes grid-locked daily.
Suddenly, a vivid image emerged of three hundred and fifty gleaners fanning out across our small county every day to ‘harvest’ anything that can be converted to cash. Complaints from contractor friends about air conditioners being stolen out of their new construction, of copper wiring being stripped out of walls, of bronze vases being torn off of grave markers brought stark clarity to our present cultural reality. Catalytic converters are being ripped out of cars for the platinum that sells for nearly $1,700 an ounce. Whole cars are now being sold by the pound for the scrap iron contained in them. A car sold new for $25,000 is fetching about $300 at this yard, about ten cents a pound.
We are in such desperate condition economic condition because of decades of unbounded consumption, much of it financed by unsustainable personal and public debt. Most observers agree that our national and personal financial crises were precipitated by spending and leveraging ourselves into unsustainable circumstances.
As a kid I went around town gleaning soft drink bottles from the roadside where they were tossed from passing cars. This provided a reliable source of funding for the glue, balsa wood, and paint I purchased to build models. It is a very different world we live in where hundreds of grown men are out gleaning along the roadside in order to buy snack food, gasoline, cable TV service, cell phone links, Internet access, cigarettes at $5 a pack, beer, and wine. Others are scrapping in order to buy crack cocaine, methamphetamine, heroine, Oxycotin, and tranquilizers to blunt the harsh realities of modern life.
Ruth was gleaning to feed herself. Millet’s peasants were gleaning to feed themselves and their families. Is the metallic gleaning going on all around me nothing more than consumers scrapping our nation’s future to pay for the addictions of the moment? Where but in America would it make any sense to destroy a new $6000 air compressor to glean its copper that will bring a mere $30 at the scrap yard? To keep the cable TV connected while one’s mother takes cold showers because the heat was shut off for non-payment?
Anthropologist Helena Norberg-Hodge in her profoundly moving account, Ancient Futures, describes the disintegration that occurs when a sustainable cashless culture is exposed to dynamics found in Western industrial consumer monoculture. She describes how in the span of twenty years the Ladakh people in the Himalayan Mountains of Northern Kashmir transitioned from being among the emotionally healthiest and happiest people on earth, to being severely stressed, filled with profound self-doubt; contemptuous of the traditional ways of living which provided an abiding sense of place, belonging and community to being. One now finds loneliness, depression, pollution, violence, and conflict in a place where such was virtually unknown for millennia.
As I watch hundreds of trucks filled with cars, washing machines, closet shelving, bicycles, anything metallic, being weighed, I can’t but wonder if we are not selling our very souls to satisfy some kind of craving that will only leave us wanting. Are we little more than addicts caught up in cravings that are destroying the foundations of our culture? Awash in cash, our culture teeters on the edge of bankruptcy.
Father, forgive them. They know not what they do.
An important painting from the mid-nineteenth century is “The Gleaners” by Jean-Francois Millet, unveiled at the Salon in Paris in 1857. It depicts three peasant women gleaning grains of wheat from a harvested field. The women are shown picking up nearly invisible grains while sunlit mountains of wheat are in the background. The painting almost immediately came under derision by the middle and upper classes in France. “The bit dog hollers.” The upper classes did not want to be reminded of what happened in the French Revolution a decade earlier. That revolution was fueled in part by gross inequities of wealth distribution.
As one observer put it, “Having recently come out of the French Revolution of 1848, these prosperous classes saw the painting as glorifying the lower-class worker. To them, it was a reminder that French society was built upon the labor of the working masses, and landowners linked this working class with the growing movement of Socialism and the dangerous voices of Karl Marx and Émile Zola.”
The Old Testament Book of Ruth presents a profoundly emotive image of compassion and endearment with its image of gleaning. Boaz, a wealthy landholder instructed his field workers to deliberately leave an extra amount of grain for the homeless and stateless Ruth to glean. He also gave instruction that would insure her safety from restive young men working the fields. The story of Ruth and Boaz is the most endearing romance in all of Christian scripture.
Millet’s painting was considered a strong statement on the harsh realities of rural poverty in France rather than a new interpretation of the endearing image of the Moabite woman being taken under wing by Boaz. “The Gleaners” received little attention in Millet’s lifetime, having been sold by him for a pittance to an Englishmen who would not budge from his counter offer. Fourteen years after his death, the painting sold for nearly a king’s ransom, 300,000 francs. It eventually was given to the Louvre by Champagne heiress Jeanne-Alexandrine Pommery. I last saw it in the splendid Musee D’Orsay in Paris, where it presently hangs.
About three miles south of here in a long-neglected part of town is a scrap yard that looks akin to something out of Dante’s inferno. A lifeless barren landscape contains mountains of the rusting detritus of a consumer culture gone amok. Occasionally, in the distant past I went there and sold small accretions of metals that found their way into my life, never waiting to pull up to the scales and get paid for my small lode. A journey to the yard now can consume hours. On a typical day three hundred and fifty trucks show up at the yard to sell an avalanche of anything metallic. The small side street giving access to the yard becomes grid-locked daily.
Suddenly, a vivid image emerged of three hundred and fifty gleaners fanning out across our small county every day to ‘harvest’ anything that can be converted to cash. Complaints from contractor friends about air conditioners being stolen out of their new construction, of copper wiring being stripped out of walls, of bronze vases being torn off of grave markers brought stark clarity to our present cultural reality. Catalytic converters are being ripped out of cars for the platinum that sells for nearly $1,700 an ounce. Whole cars are now being sold by the pound for the scrap iron contained in them. A car sold new for $25,000 is fetching about $300 at this yard, about ten cents a pound.
We are in such desperate condition economic condition because of decades of unbounded consumption, much of it financed by unsustainable personal and public debt. Most observers agree that our national and personal financial crises were precipitated by spending and leveraging ourselves into unsustainable circumstances.
As a kid I went around town gleaning soft drink bottles from the roadside where they were tossed from passing cars. This provided a reliable source of funding for the glue, balsa wood, and paint I purchased to build models. It is a very different world we live in where hundreds of grown men are out gleaning along the roadside in order to buy snack food, gasoline, cable TV service, cell phone links, Internet access, cigarettes at $5 a pack, beer, and wine. Others are scrapping in order to buy crack cocaine, methamphetamine, heroine, Oxycotin, and tranquilizers to blunt the harsh realities of modern life.
Ruth was gleaning to feed herself. Millet’s peasants were gleaning to feed themselves and their families. Is the metallic gleaning going on all around me nothing more than consumers scrapping our nation’s future to pay for the addictions of the moment? Where but in America would it make any sense to destroy a new $6000 air compressor to glean its copper that will bring a mere $30 at the scrap yard? To keep the cable TV connected while one’s mother takes cold showers because the heat was shut off for non-payment?
Anthropologist Helena Norberg-Hodge in her profoundly moving account, Ancient Futures, describes the disintegration that occurs when a sustainable cashless culture is exposed to dynamics found in Western industrial consumer monoculture. She describes how in the span of twenty years the Ladakh people in the Himalayan Mountains of Northern Kashmir transitioned from being among the emotionally healthiest and happiest people on earth, to being severely stressed, filled with profound self-doubt; contemptuous of the traditional ways of living which provided an abiding sense of place, belonging and community to being. One now finds loneliness, depression, pollution, violence, and conflict in a place where such was virtually unknown for millennia.
As I watch hundreds of trucks filled with cars, washing machines, closet shelving, bicycles, anything metallic, being weighed, I can’t but wonder if we are not selling our very souls to satisfy some kind of craving that will only leave us wanting. Are we little more than addicts caught up in cravings that are destroying the foundations of our culture? Awash in cash, our culture teeters on the edge of bankruptcy.
Father, forgive them. They know not what they do.
Saturday, April 3, 2010
Beauty – Victorious Over Death 4-3-10
Birmingham, Alabama
On journeys to Europe I’ve always been intrigued by magnificent gilded boxes found on high altars in great Gothic cathedrals. Studded with precious stones and images of Jesus, these reliquaries are reputed to contain fragments of the True Cross, bones of our Savior, or other relics of great ecclesiastical value. I have often wondered how large the True Cross must be if all the wood fragments attributed to it were authenticated. Often I have thought about the idea of a sinless being actually being put to death willingly on a couple of Roman beams, on my account.
In the 1950s, Hollywood produced spectacular films depicting sagas of Biblical times. The Ten Commandments, Quo Vadis, King of Kings, and The Robe were produced in an era when Americans had great thirst for epic visions of biblical events. Perhaps the most expansive of these was William Wyler’s 1959 rendition of Lew Wallace’s 1880 novel Ben Hur: A Tale of the Christ. The chariot race scene is one of the most dramatic pieces of cinematography of all time, contributing to the film’s record eleven academy awards.
In some respects another scene is more compelling. As torrential rains wash down upon Jesus on a splintery Roman cross, his blood is depicted running in crimson rivulets across the earth. Another concurrent scene change depicts Judah Ben Hur’s sister and mother being healed from the disfigurement of leprosy. The portrayal of Jesus’ death bringing immediate healing and beauty to Miriam and Tirzah is evocative in the extreme. Every time I’ve seen this film, this proves a riveting turning point for me.
The most glorious place on earth must be found in a botanical garden beneath a canopy of Yoshina cherry trees in full blossom. A gentle breeze creating a blizzard of pale petals beneath spring’s cerulean sky gives cause for near epiphany. Next best must be the wonder of perfectly manicured gardens containing a universe of every spectral marvel known to botany.
On Good Friday I was strolling in a magnificent Japanese garden, well appointed with a traditional torii gate, formal tea house, sculpted benches, raked meditation garden, several bridges, and reflection ponds filled with koi. In my wanderings an astounding small cherry tree on the far side of a reflection pool came to my attention.
Curious, climbing across rocks carefully to avoid falling in the water, getting close to the tree, my eyes told me I was seeing something impossible. This cherry tree was in radiant bloom, laden down with a canopy of brilliant crimson blooms. Closer inspection revealed its trunk to be completely hollow. Looking down through it gave clear view of the ground. Looking sideways through it gave clear view of the pond. Most of the tree was gone top to bottom. Visual observation revealed no cambium, heartwood, sapwood, or any other possible way for dry splinters of bark-free wood to be providing nutrients or vascular support to that canopy of glorious blooms.
I suddenly thought of Old Testament accounts of the miracle of Aaron’s rod that gave sprout. Here I was looking at the most glorious fragrant cloud of crimson petals around my head, newly bloomed from the driest of splinters. It made no sense to me. To convince myself I was seeing clearly, I carefully photographed the canopy and disintegrated trunk with two cameras. Later evaluation of the images indicated this tree should not be happening.
Is it possible that love and beauty are so powerful that they can erupt out of dry dead splinters? Could God’s love really erupt from a Roman Cross? Could life come forth from death? Was this single oddity of a crimson tree a metaphor for me? Was this scarlet beauty a reminder of the blood running in rivulets that could deliver women from the scourge of leprosy? Does blood running in rivulets from Roman splinters have power to clothe me in a redemption that makes me white as snow? Did a being without fault take upon Himself all death so we could be found without blemish, without fault, white as snow, as fragrant and pure as the cherry blossoms on dozens of trees all around me? To never be victimized by death?
The cherry tree defied death to tell me of another ancient tree, one perhaps enshrined in reliquaries, where death was embraced so that I don’t have to. Perhaps this tree cherry is proclaiming the wonder of the Easter message.
For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life.
Do not be afraid, for I know that you are looking for Jesus, who was crucified. He is not here; he has risen, just as he said. Come and see the place where he lay. Then go quickly and tell his disciples: 'He has risen from the dead and is going ahead of you into Galilee. There you will see him.’
On journeys to Europe I’ve always been intrigued by magnificent gilded boxes found on high altars in great Gothic cathedrals. Studded with precious stones and images of Jesus, these reliquaries are reputed to contain fragments of the True Cross, bones of our Savior, or other relics of great ecclesiastical value. I have often wondered how large the True Cross must be if all the wood fragments attributed to it were authenticated. Often I have thought about the idea of a sinless being actually being put to death willingly on a couple of Roman beams, on my account.
In the 1950s, Hollywood produced spectacular films depicting sagas of Biblical times. The Ten Commandments, Quo Vadis, King of Kings, and The Robe were produced in an era when Americans had great thirst for epic visions of biblical events. Perhaps the most expansive of these was William Wyler’s 1959 rendition of Lew Wallace’s 1880 novel Ben Hur: A Tale of the Christ. The chariot race scene is one of the most dramatic pieces of cinematography of all time, contributing to the film’s record eleven academy awards.
In some respects another scene is more compelling. As torrential rains wash down upon Jesus on a splintery Roman cross, his blood is depicted running in crimson rivulets across the earth. Another concurrent scene change depicts Judah Ben Hur’s sister and mother being healed from the disfigurement of leprosy. The portrayal of Jesus’ death bringing immediate healing and beauty to Miriam and Tirzah is evocative in the extreme. Every time I’ve seen this film, this proves a riveting turning point for me.
The most glorious place on earth must be found in a botanical garden beneath a canopy of Yoshina cherry trees in full blossom. A gentle breeze creating a blizzard of pale petals beneath spring’s cerulean sky gives cause for near epiphany. Next best must be the wonder of perfectly manicured gardens containing a universe of every spectral marvel known to botany.
On Good Friday I was strolling in a magnificent Japanese garden, well appointed with a traditional torii gate, formal tea house, sculpted benches, raked meditation garden, several bridges, and reflection ponds filled with koi. In my wanderings an astounding small cherry tree on the far side of a reflection pool came to my attention.
Curious, climbing across rocks carefully to avoid falling in the water, getting close to the tree, my eyes told me I was seeing something impossible. This cherry tree was in radiant bloom, laden down with a canopy of brilliant crimson blooms. Closer inspection revealed its trunk to be completely hollow. Looking down through it gave clear view of the ground. Looking sideways through it gave clear view of the pond. Most of the tree was gone top to bottom. Visual observation revealed no cambium, heartwood, sapwood, or any other possible way for dry splinters of bark-free wood to be providing nutrients or vascular support to that canopy of glorious blooms.
I suddenly thought of Old Testament accounts of the miracle of Aaron’s rod that gave sprout. Here I was looking at the most glorious fragrant cloud of crimson petals around my head, newly bloomed from the driest of splinters. It made no sense to me. To convince myself I was seeing clearly, I carefully photographed the canopy and disintegrated trunk with two cameras. Later evaluation of the images indicated this tree should not be happening.
Is it possible that love and beauty are so powerful that they can erupt out of dry dead splinters? Could God’s love really erupt from a Roman Cross? Could life come forth from death? Was this single oddity of a crimson tree a metaphor for me? Was this scarlet beauty a reminder of the blood running in rivulets that could deliver women from the scourge of leprosy? Does blood running in rivulets from Roman splinters have power to clothe me in a redemption that makes me white as snow? Did a being without fault take upon Himself all death so we could be found without blemish, without fault, white as snow, as fragrant and pure as the cherry blossoms on dozens of trees all around me? To never be victimized by death?
The cherry tree defied death to tell me of another ancient tree, one perhaps enshrined in reliquaries, where death was embraced so that I don’t have to. Perhaps this tree cherry is proclaiming the wonder of the Easter message.
For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life.
Do not be afraid, for I know that you are looking for Jesus, who was crucified. He is not here; he has risen, just as he said. Come and see the place where he lay. Then go quickly and tell his disciples: 'He has risen from the dead and is going ahead of you into Galilee. There you will see him.’
Input 4-1-10
Anderson, South Carolina
The films “Short Circuit” and “Short Circuit2” describe the playful antics of a highly intelligent robot that is addicted to input. Viewers are filled with laughter as they watch the urbane mechanical capers of this ferrous critter seeking input of all kinds. Alas, we space-age viewers are getting our lives filled with input that does not create happy gales of laughter; rather we are experiencing an angst of a type we have not seen before in human history. Throughout history people really did experience ignorance as bliss. Imagine if hapless villages in northern Europe had been given days and weeks of warning that their small peaceable worlds were about to be destroyed by marauding Goths or Vikings. Imagine if we knew, as Jesus did, the nature and timing of our deaths. The growing horror would be beyond comprehension. The element of surprise has the ability of deferring anxiety and dread, especially in the weak and powerless.
I recall being in the position years ago of having to tell a mother of the death of a child. I followed this happy mother in my car on the Interstate for about sixty miles, knowing that at the other end of our journey I was going to have to provide her a kind of input that would shatter her equanimity. It did. It was hideous to drive along behind her looking at the back of her head knowing that I was the one appointed to shatter her peace. Knowledge can be a horrible thing.
It is in the nature of my life to be on the Internet regularly as I now maintain my correspondence almost exclusively in this manner and manage my investments on-line. A dark side of the Internet is the ability to get more input than even our mechanized friend could have wanted. For the first time in human history we face a geo-political crisis with the ability to watch every development with a level of detail that would have been unthinkable five or ten years ago. The real time viewing of the destruction of the World Trade Centers made the horrors of the progressive structural collapse of those granite spires more than holographic. I have not been the same since. I was supposed to have been in those towers that fateful week. We were nearly real-time witnesses to the incineration of the Columbia as it fell from the heavens over Texas.
As is my usual practice, I logged on first thing today to check e-mail, hoping to find those touches from dear friends that thicken the veneer of civility just a bit in an ever more hostile world. Amidst birthday greetings I found many group forwards of crass jokes and a couple of spam from bankrupt airlines offering virtually free travel, desperate for any cash flow whatever. The airline industry is under siege of terrorism and much of it has filed for bankruptcy protection.
While connected to the planet I checked on financial markets in thirty countries, only to find that some world markets continue to experience progressive economic collapse, financial metaphors of what happened to the World Trade Center on that fateful Tuesday. I didn’t have the courage to check my own positions. On a daily basis I encounter people who are falling victim to the progressive failure of their life savings and retirements. A neighbor works the cash register at Wal-Mart and tells me she can see business slowing down. The owner of the local BP service station tells me he has seen a big drop off in his commercial accounts. More and more, bus boys and waiters in fast food establishments are silver-haired senior citizens. Japan has seen the complete loss of all the wealth generated in the past generation. Warren Buffet, the greatest investor of all time, once stated publicly that he believes derivatives trading will have the effect of being a weapon of economic mass destruction. It destroyed Orange County, the venerable Barings Bank, and nearly took out the US banking system and currency years ago. We had another bigger near miss in the melt-down of early 2009. One almost feels like he is dodging asteroids.
We live in an era when we have ability to see the six-pound hammer coming down in slow motion on our own personal financial lives and now we have the ability to see holographic images of the latest hi-tech hammers of the military. One is but three clicks away from viewing the wanton destruction of many of the world’s great cities and cultural treasures. The great Buddhas of Afghanistan are now but jpg files in my hard drive. This morning I saw a video clip of an actual blast perpetrated by a suicide bomber in Southern Russia which took out dozens of lives. How strange to be sitting in my basement sending out images of the most beautiful places to find myself receiving live images of annihilation.
For us mere mortals, input of this kind incinerates peace of mind and causes sleep to flee from us. We were never created to handle this kind of thing. We were created to live simple peaceable lives with those we love and care about, to simply enjoy a good meal and conversation within our communities. Less and less this is proving to be the daily reality for uncounted billions.
Quantum physicists have long since determined that time is not really as we think it to be: a straight linear flow. It can be circular, a point, a line, bi-directional, and all at the same time. We simply don’t have the sensory capacity to comprehend this non-Newtonian view of the universe. Fortunately, the One who created the universe does understand and comprehends perfectly the nature of not only the universe but also time/space and human behavior. Being outside the bounds of linear time He knew before we lived it out, that the history of humanity would be tortured and troubled. It is for this reason, that the Creator created the ultimate Input into His-story. It is the Input of the Christmas and Easter message that allows me to sleep at night while others celebrate dropping bombs and yet others wipe out economies with derivatives trading. It is that message that allows a mother to keep getting out of bed after the death of a child. It is that message that allows a dear friend with catastrophic disease to experience God’s grace as “being able to do the next thing.” It is that message that allows a mother to make some sort of sense of the world and to keep a faint flicker of hope alive when she finds out her boys are mentally handicapped and face radical brain surgery just to stay alive.
On that fateful Friday centuries ago the most profound Input of all time was nailed to a Roman cross and erased from the hard drive of humanity, or so the Romans and Jewish leaders thought. On Sunday morning a couple of women arose to find the Creator of it all had another plan – he had an un-erase program that gives little girls in new dresses a reason to celebrate the glory of Easter. The Input had been restored to our troubled world with a promise.
“They will hunger no longer, nor thirst anymore; nor will the sun beat down on them, nor any heat; for the Lamb in the center of the throne will be their shepherd, and will guide them to springs of the water of life; and God will wipe every tear from their eyes.”
Behold, the tabernacle of God is among men, and He will dwell among them, and they shall be His people, and God Himself will be among them, and He will wipe away every tear from their eyes; and there will no longer be any death; there will no longer be any mourning, or crying, or pain; the first things have passed away.”
The films “Short Circuit” and “Short Circuit2” describe the playful antics of a highly intelligent robot that is addicted to input. Viewers are filled with laughter as they watch the urbane mechanical capers of this ferrous critter seeking input of all kinds. Alas, we space-age viewers are getting our lives filled with input that does not create happy gales of laughter; rather we are experiencing an angst of a type we have not seen before in human history. Throughout history people really did experience ignorance as bliss. Imagine if hapless villages in northern Europe had been given days and weeks of warning that their small peaceable worlds were about to be destroyed by marauding Goths or Vikings. Imagine if we knew, as Jesus did, the nature and timing of our deaths. The growing horror would be beyond comprehension. The element of surprise has the ability of deferring anxiety and dread, especially in the weak and powerless.
I recall being in the position years ago of having to tell a mother of the death of a child. I followed this happy mother in my car on the Interstate for about sixty miles, knowing that at the other end of our journey I was going to have to provide her a kind of input that would shatter her equanimity. It did. It was hideous to drive along behind her looking at the back of her head knowing that I was the one appointed to shatter her peace. Knowledge can be a horrible thing.
It is in the nature of my life to be on the Internet regularly as I now maintain my correspondence almost exclusively in this manner and manage my investments on-line. A dark side of the Internet is the ability to get more input than even our mechanized friend could have wanted. For the first time in human history we face a geo-political crisis with the ability to watch every development with a level of detail that would have been unthinkable five or ten years ago. The real time viewing of the destruction of the World Trade Centers made the horrors of the progressive structural collapse of those granite spires more than holographic. I have not been the same since. I was supposed to have been in those towers that fateful week. We were nearly real-time witnesses to the incineration of the Columbia as it fell from the heavens over Texas.
As is my usual practice, I logged on first thing today to check e-mail, hoping to find those touches from dear friends that thicken the veneer of civility just a bit in an ever more hostile world. Amidst birthday greetings I found many group forwards of crass jokes and a couple of spam from bankrupt airlines offering virtually free travel, desperate for any cash flow whatever. The airline industry is under siege of terrorism and much of it has filed for bankruptcy protection.
While connected to the planet I checked on financial markets in thirty countries, only to find that some world markets continue to experience progressive economic collapse, financial metaphors of what happened to the World Trade Center on that fateful Tuesday. I didn’t have the courage to check my own positions. On a daily basis I encounter people who are falling victim to the progressive failure of their life savings and retirements. A neighbor works the cash register at Wal-Mart and tells me she can see business slowing down. The owner of the local BP service station tells me he has seen a big drop off in his commercial accounts. More and more, bus boys and waiters in fast food establishments are silver-haired senior citizens. Japan has seen the complete loss of all the wealth generated in the past generation. Warren Buffet, the greatest investor of all time, once stated publicly that he believes derivatives trading will have the effect of being a weapon of economic mass destruction. It destroyed Orange County, the venerable Barings Bank, and nearly took out the US banking system and currency years ago. We had another bigger near miss in the melt-down of early 2009. One almost feels like he is dodging asteroids.
We live in an era when we have ability to see the six-pound hammer coming down in slow motion on our own personal financial lives and now we have the ability to see holographic images of the latest hi-tech hammers of the military. One is but three clicks away from viewing the wanton destruction of many of the world’s great cities and cultural treasures. The great Buddhas of Afghanistan are now but jpg files in my hard drive. This morning I saw a video clip of an actual blast perpetrated by a suicide bomber in Southern Russia which took out dozens of lives. How strange to be sitting in my basement sending out images of the most beautiful places to find myself receiving live images of annihilation.
For us mere mortals, input of this kind incinerates peace of mind and causes sleep to flee from us. We were never created to handle this kind of thing. We were created to live simple peaceable lives with those we love and care about, to simply enjoy a good meal and conversation within our communities. Less and less this is proving to be the daily reality for uncounted billions.
Quantum physicists have long since determined that time is not really as we think it to be: a straight linear flow. It can be circular, a point, a line, bi-directional, and all at the same time. We simply don’t have the sensory capacity to comprehend this non-Newtonian view of the universe. Fortunately, the One who created the universe does understand and comprehends perfectly the nature of not only the universe but also time/space and human behavior. Being outside the bounds of linear time He knew before we lived it out, that the history of humanity would be tortured and troubled. It is for this reason, that the Creator created the ultimate Input into His-story. It is the Input of the Christmas and Easter message that allows me to sleep at night while others celebrate dropping bombs and yet others wipe out economies with derivatives trading. It is that message that allows a mother to keep getting out of bed after the death of a child. It is that message that allows a dear friend with catastrophic disease to experience God’s grace as “being able to do the next thing.” It is that message that allows a mother to make some sort of sense of the world and to keep a faint flicker of hope alive when she finds out her boys are mentally handicapped and face radical brain surgery just to stay alive.
On that fateful Friday centuries ago the most profound Input of all time was nailed to a Roman cross and erased from the hard drive of humanity, or so the Romans and Jewish leaders thought. On Sunday morning a couple of women arose to find the Creator of it all had another plan – he had an un-erase program that gives little girls in new dresses a reason to celebrate the glory of Easter. The Input had been restored to our troubled world with a promise.
“They will hunger no longer, nor thirst anymore; nor will the sun beat down on them, nor any heat; for the Lamb in the center of the throne will be their shepherd, and will guide them to springs of the water of life; and God will wipe every tear from their eyes.”
Behold, the tabernacle of God is among men, and He will dwell among them, and they shall be His people, and God Himself will be among them, and He will wipe away every tear from their eyes; and there will no longer be any death; there will no longer be any mourning, or crying, or pain; the first things have passed away.”
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Smiling Faces Beautiful Places 3-23-10
Anderson, South Carolina
The most recognized name in the art world is none other than Rembrandt Harmenszoon van Rijn, the Dutch master who lived and worked in the 17th century. He is generally considered one of the greatest artists in Europe and certainly the most important in Dutch history, painting and etching in a period historians call the Dutch Golden Age. His etchings and paintings were popular throughout his lifetime; for twenty years Rembrandt taught nearly every important Dutch painter. His greatest achievements are exemplified in portraits of his contemporaries, self-portraits, and illustrations of Biblical scenes.
The human figure, more specifically the face, is one of the greatest challenges for artists. Creating a true likeness of a subject, one that not only captures physical attributes, but also demeanor and personality, is a great technical challenge. In an era two centuries before the invention of photography, the ability to create accurate and emotive images of human figures and faces was of great commercial and artistic value. As one observer notes, “Because of his empathy for the human condition, he has been called ‘one of the great prophets of civilization’.’’
Rembrandt enjoyed spectacular commercial success as a portrait artist, receiving many important commissions. Despite acclaim few artists have ever known, his personal life was often marked by tragedy and moral failure. Spending far more than his substantial commission income, Rembrandt was forced into bankruptcy and lost most of his possessions and his house. Only because of accommodating creditors, was he able to continue with some aspects of his work. His work in print making was cut short by the forced sale of his printing press.
A compelling image in the Old Testament comes when Moses is about to see the Face of God while ensconced on Mount Sinai. Moses is warned that seeing God’s face unprotected would overwhelm him to the point of death. Moses is permitted to see God briefly from the back side. Even then Moses was reported to have descended the mountain with a numinous radiance ‘burned’ onto his face. Theologians and others have long speculated what phenomenon might have produced that radiance. We do know one’s face is the most important aspect of physical being. Eyes have often been referred to as windows to the soul.
When one is born with a catastrophic congenital defect of the face or suffers catastrophic disfigurement from physical trauma or disease, the consequences are life altering, and often precipitate decades of physical suffering, social isolation, and poverty. Children deprived of their faces are one of the most poignant examples of the frailty of the human condition.
There are individuals blessed with artistic expression in ways rivaling, even exceeding that of Rembrandt. Rather that working with oil and paint, or burin and plate, they use scalpels to sculpt living flesh into new forms, to create unprecedented opportunities to embrace life. Volunteer orthopedic and plastic surgeons generously give of their time and talents to reconstruct faces of children born without ears, lips, with eyes in the wrong places. Children burned to the third degree in cook fires are granted liberation from hideous life-robbing scarring and contractions. There is simply no image in all the annals of art history that comes even close to that which emerges from the hands of a good team of surgeons and their colleagues.
For forty years I’ve been blessed to have many grand images in my daily world, even images of Rembrandt’s clients. In 1971 it was possible to acquire a handful of original Rembrandt dry-point etchings of the human face, compelling ones of the Holy Family and of Jesus on the Cross. Ten years later in Vienna it was my good fortune to come into more than fifty additional images by Rembrandt, images of his clients and neighbors, recaptured by one of the greatest engravers of his time, Armand Durand. These have been central to a major art collection for decades.
A great joy in the art world is the opportunity to trade up, exchanging lesser works for more compelling ones. Being able to swap small works for life-size works of gripping quality, so real as to seem alive, is a rare event. This week the opportunity presented itself to make the ultimate trade.
Childspring International is an organization with the mission of creating opportunities for catastrophically injured, diseased, and congenitally challenged children to come to the United States for life changing surgery. As many as two hundred children each year come here for staged orthopedic and plastic surgery to correct a wide range of vast challenges, most often involving their faces. There is no work of Peter Paul Rubens, or Leonardo da Vinci, or even Rembrandt that comes close to the before and after surgical portrait pairs hanging in the Childspring Office in Atlanta. The sense of vision and life executed by our medical artisans has no equal. For our children, their work is simply priceless. For those of us involved in the mission and the art world, it is the ultimate trade.
Saturday night in Atlanta, I traded four Rembrandt faces on paper for a new face, one made out of living flesh, one full of animation, one smiling with possibilities for a full life. Years ago The Holy Family and Jesus on the Cross ended up in museums in the South East. This week four of Rembrandt’s clients ended up in the hands of collectors who also thought the ultimate trade up was for a living work by a living artist.
Melissa from Honduras received a new eye. Troy came from Jamaica to be freed from a massive tumor engulfing his face. Cachuska from Haiti received a mouth, lips, and palate. Herby received ear canals and external ears and dreams of rebuilding his family’s house in Port au Prince. From Moldova, Viorica is a current work in progress, having her face rebuilt, along with her spirit. These works of sculpture live in young lives and the hearts of collectors who know really good art when they see it.
In South Carolina where I live and auto license plates contain the phrase “Smiling Faces Beautiful Places,” the state tourism board has enjoyed grand success with its enlightened mottos and logos. In my many journeys the images I remember most are the radiant smiles of those I meet. In many of the most challenged places on earth, one find the grandest beautiful works of art, the radiant smile of a child. We can be thankful that gifted artisans are still following in the steps of the Master.
But when Jesus saw it, he was much displeased, and said unto them, Suffer the little children to come unto me, and forbid them not: for of such is the kingdom of God.
And whoso shall receive one such little child in my name receiveth me.
The most recognized name in the art world is none other than Rembrandt Harmenszoon van Rijn, the Dutch master who lived and worked in the 17th century. He is generally considered one of the greatest artists in Europe and certainly the most important in Dutch history, painting and etching in a period historians call the Dutch Golden Age. His etchings and paintings were popular throughout his lifetime; for twenty years Rembrandt taught nearly every important Dutch painter. His greatest achievements are exemplified in portraits of his contemporaries, self-portraits, and illustrations of Biblical scenes.
The human figure, more specifically the face, is one of the greatest challenges for artists. Creating a true likeness of a subject, one that not only captures physical attributes, but also demeanor and personality, is a great technical challenge. In an era two centuries before the invention of photography, the ability to create accurate and emotive images of human figures and faces was of great commercial and artistic value. As one observer notes, “Because of his empathy for the human condition, he has been called ‘one of the great prophets of civilization’.’’
Rembrandt enjoyed spectacular commercial success as a portrait artist, receiving many important commissions. Despite acclaim few artists have ever known, his personal life was often marked by tragedy and moral failure. Spending far more than his substantial commission income, Rembrandt was forced into bankruptcy and lost most of his possessions and his house. Only because of accommodating creditors, was he able to continue with some aspects of his work. His work in print making was cut short by the forced sale of his printing press.
A compelling image in the Old Testament comes when Moses is about to see the Face of God while ensconced on Mount Sinai. Moses is warned that seeing God’s face unprotected would overwhelm him to the point of death. Moses is permitted to see God briefly from the back side. Even then Moses was reported to have descended the mountain with a numinous radiance ‘burned’ onto his face. Theologians and others have long speculated what phenomenon might have produced that radiance. We do know one’s face is the most important aspect of physical being. Eyes have often been referred to as windows to the soul.
When one is born with a catastrophic congenital defect of the face or suffers catastrophic disfigurement from physical trauma or disease, the consequences are life altering, and often precipitate decades of physical suffering, social isolation, and poverty. Children deprived of their faces are one of the most poignant examples of the frailty of the human condition.
There are individuals blessed with artistic expression in ways rivaling, even exceeding that of Rembrandt. Rather that working with oil and paint, or burin and plate, they use scalpels to sculpt living flesh into new forms, to create unprecedented opportunities to embrace life. Volunteer orthopedic and plastic surgeons generously give of their time and talents to reconstruct faces of children born without ears, lips, with eyes in the wrong places. Children burned to the third degree in cook fires are granted liberation from hideous life-robbing scarring and contractions. There is simply no image in all the annals of art history that comes even close to that which emerges from the hands of a good team of surgeons and their colleagues.
For forty years I’ve been blessed to have many grand images in my daily world, even images of Rembrandt’s clients. In 1971 it was possible to acquire a handful of original Rembrandt dry-point etchings of the human face, compelling ones of the Holy Family and of Jesus on the Cross. Ten years later in Vienna it was my good fortune to come into more than fifty additional images by Rembrandt, images of his clients and neighbors, recaptured by one of the greatest engravers of his time, Armand Durand. These have been central to a major art collection for decades.
A great joy in the art world is the opportunity to trade up, exchanging lesser works for more compelling ones. Being able to swap small works for life-size works of gripping quality, so real as to seem alive, is a rare event. This week the opportunity presented itself to make the ultimate trade.
Childspring International is an organization with the mission of creating opportunities for catastrophically injured, diseased, and congenitally challenged children to come to the United States for life changing surgery. As many as two hundred children each year come here for staged orthopedic and plastic surgery to correct a wide range of vast challenges, most often involving their faces. There is no work of Peter Paul Rubens, or Leonardo da Vinci, or even Rembrandt that comes close to the before and after surgical portrait pairs hanging in the Childspring Office in Atlanta. The sense of vision and life executed by our medical artisans has no equal. For our children, their work is simply priceless. For those of us involved in the mission and the art world, it is the ultimate trade.
Saturday night in Atlanta, I traded four Rembrandt faces on paper for a new face, one made out of living flesh, one full of animation, one smiling with possibilities for a full life. Years ago The Holy Family and Jesus on the Cross ended up in museums in the South East. This week four of Rembrandt’s clients ended up in the hands of collectors who also thought the ultimate trade up was for a living work by a living artist.
Melissa from Honduras received a new eye. Troy came from Jamaica to be freed from a massive tumor engulfing his face. Cachuska from Haiti received a mouth, lips, and palate. Herby received ear canals and external ears and dreams of rebuilding his family’s house in Port au Prince. From Moldova, Viorica is a current work in progress, having her face rebuilt, along with her spirit. These works of sculpture live in young lives and the hearts of collectors who know really good art when they see it.
In South Carolina where I live and auto license plates contain the phrase “Smiling Faces Beautiful Places,” the state tourism board has enjoyed grand success with its enlightened mottos and logos. In my many journeys the images I remember most are the radiant smiles of those I meet. In many of the most challenged places on earth, one find the grandest beautiful works of art, the radiant smile of a child. We can be thankful that gifted artisans are still following in the steps of the Master.
But when Jesus saw it, he was much displeased, and said unto them, Suffer the little children to come unto me, and forbid them not: for of such is the kingdom of God.
And whoso shall receive one such little child in my name receiveth me.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Community - The Gift of Statecraft 3-16-10
Anderson, South Carolina
Each spring the university offers a course in foreign policy; providing a seminar format for perhaps a dozen of us to second guess American statecraft. Optimal foreign policy strategies for coping with regional and global conflicts are proffered by us armchair prognosticators. Our first week we discussed the virtues of executive appointment of special envoys; individuals who mediate resolution to problems refractory to conventional diplomatic solutions. In general, this strategy has not been especially effective. A brilliant exception to this was the quenching in early 2009 of extreme violence in Kenya following a corrupted national election. Countless thousands of lives were saved by the swift concerted action of a special envoy appointed by the President and that of representatives from adjacent African governments.
Since mid 2009 we have observed with keen interest as federal policy makers have made yet another attempt to come up with a national plan to provide affordable accessible health care. As with many other administrations, these attempts faltered and faded into the dusty pages of the Congressional Record. Finding workable solutions to exploding health care costs and issues of accessibility seems as difficult as finding the Holy Grail.
Like envoys and policy makers, finding solutions to our own personal problems is difficult, unless one adopts a form of grass roots statecraft that can deliver the Holy Grail. Recently a special envoy came to our attention, one who took it upon herself to improve the lives of hundreds of people by applying her craft to solving very real problems affecting millions - Alzheimer’s and associated forms of dementia.
Alzheimer’s is especially hard on those caring for loved ones with this scourge. It has been observed that patients with various forms of dementia are often agitated and especially fidgety. This agitation can be particularly taxing on caregivers. June Woodall noticed that patients who are given something to twiddle with or pick at experience much comfort from being able to do so. This tactile form of distraction proves soothing to these tortured souls. After exploring the availability of commercially made fidget pillows and table mats, June found them to be shockingly expensive. After all there is big money to be made in health care.
June took it upon herself to create cost-effective solutions to obvious therapeutic needs. Building an infrastructure of volunteers, she was able gain regular supplies of tassels, buttons, beads, fake fur, corduroy, and various textures that could be turned into stunning pillows and mats, looking almost like three-dimensional quilts. Quietly, behind the scenes, June made grand works of art for years and delivered them to seniors having a hard time holding onto serenity. Patients found it easy to hang onto June’s gifts and love them to death, picking away at the buttons, beads, zippers, fluffy fur, and other tactile decorations covering these.
We just had June’s funeral on Sunday afternoon. Hundreds of people came to say farewell to one who worked tirelessly to bring color, texture and peace to those literally losing their minds. Her husband, Earl, brought mountains of these pillows and mats to church. Family and friends were invited to take one and give it away to someone who would enjoy it. He wanted June’s ‘work’ to continue.
Suddenly I had a mission. Taking flowers and chocolates to nursing homes is one thing; taking magnificent three-dimensional quilts made into the form of crosses, hearts, and prisms is another matter altogether. To avoid being crass, I waited until most people had left the church and then proceeded to ask Earl if I could take pillows and mats to my ‘regulars,’ offering him a tiny bit of back story. I figured he didn’t want these collecting dust in the parish hall. He gave me permission. I couldn’t bag them fast enough.
There’s not a better thing in the world to have been doing last night than paying it forward with June’s art objects. We spent the evening in several nursing homes passing out fidget pillows to our regulars; a truly amazing experience. Everyone receiving one of these colorful pillows thought Ed McMahon had shown up with his camera crew. All were elated, even the guys. A couple of women were in tears, saying they’d never been given such a thing before. For sure, I hadn’t.
Being allowed to be a conduit for June’s love to those feeling exiled in their ancient bodies was exhilarating. Time with these dear ancient souls was nearly numinous. June would have been elated to see the radiant faces of those who received them. I was just as elated to pay it forward.
June long ago figured out solving problems requires first becoming a careful observer, not offering answers until the question is heard clearly. She then came up with a low-cost custom-made solution to a health challenge faced by her beneficiaries. As a successful envoy or diplomat knows, one must be able to speak into situations stakeholders find themselves in. June spoke into the lives of those tormented by unceasing restlessness. She loved them into blessed relief, at no cost to those trying to re-organize health care without first listening to the question.
It’s been said that for democracy to prosper it is not required for everyone to agree, but everyone must participate. For community to flourish it’s necessary for everyone of us with different gifts, values, talents, strengths and weaknesses to be woven together into three dimensional fabrics that can stand up to the challenges of our day. June certainly developed the state of her craft to a degree special envoys might want to make note of.
I think I will call Earl and see if I can get some more of June’s stock before it runs out. I think she’s now busy getting ready for a state dinner - The Marriage Supper of the Lamb.
And to her was granted that she should be arrayed in fine linen, clean and white: for the fine linen is the righteousness of saints. And he saith unto me, Write, Blessed are they which are called unto the marriage supper of the Lamb. And he saith unto me, These are the true sayings of God.
Each spring the university offers a course in foreign policy; providing a seminar format for perhaps a dozen of us to second guess American statecraft. Optimal foreign policy strategies for coping with regional and global conflicts are proffered by us armchair prognosticators. Our first week we discussed the virtues of executive appointment of special envoys; individuals who mediate resolution to problems refractory to conventional diplomatic solutions. In general, this strategy has not been especially effective. A brilliant exception to this was the quenching in early 2009 of extreme violence in Kenya following a corrupted national election. Countless thousands of lives were saved by the swift concerted action of a special envoy appointed by the President and that of representatives from adjacent African governments.
Since mid 2009 we have observed with keen interest as federal policy makers have made yet another attempt to come up with a national plan to provide affordable accessible health care. As with many other administrations, these attempts faltered and faded into the dusty pages of the Congressional Record. Finding workable solutions to exploding health care costs and issues of accessibility seems as difficult as finding the Holy Grail.
Like envoys and policy makers, finding solutions to our own personal problems is difficult, unless one adopts a form of grass roots statecraft that can deliver the Holy Grail. Recently a special envoy came to our attention, one who took it upon herself to improve the lives of hundreds of people by applying her craft to solving very real problems affecting millions - Alzheimer’s and associated forms of dementia.
Alzheimer’s is especially hard on those caring for loved ones with this scourge. It has been observed that patients with various forms of dementia are often agitated and especially fidgety. This agitation can be particularly taxing on caregivers. June Woodall noticed that patients who are given something to twiddle with or pick at experience much comfort from being able to do so. This tactile form of distraction proves soothing to these tortured souls. After exploring the availability of commercially made fidget pillows and table mats, June found them to be shockingly expensive. After all there is big money to be made in health care.
June took it upon herself to create cost-effective solutions to obvious therapeutic needs. Building an infrastructure of volunteers, she was able gain regular supplies of tassels, buttons, beads, fake fur, corduroy, and various textures that could be turned into stunning pillows and mats, looking almost like three-dimensional quilts. Quietly, behind the scenes, June made grand works of art for years and delivered them to seniors having a hard time holding onto serenity. Patients found it easy to hang onto June’s gifts and love them to death, picking away at the buttons, beads, zippers, fluffy fur, and other tactile decorations covering these.
We just had June’s funeral on Sunday afternoon. Hundreds of people came to say farewell to one who worked tirelessly to bring color, texture and peace to those literally losing their minds. Her husband, Earl, brought mountains of these pillows and mats to church. Family and friends were invited to take one and give it away to someone who would enjoy it. He wanted June’s ‘work’ to continue.
Suddenly I had a mission. Taking flowers and chocolates to nursing homes is one thing; taking magnificent three-dimensional quilts made into the form of crosses, hearts, and prisms is another matter altogether. To avoid being crass, I waited until most people had left the church and then proceeded to ask Earl if I could take pillows and mats to my ‘regulars,’ offering him a tiny bit of back story. I figured he didn’t want these collecting dust in the parish hall. He gave me permission. I couldn’t bag them fast enough.
There’s not a better thing in the world to have been doing last night than paying it forward with June’s art objects. We spent the evening in several nursing homes passing out fidget pillows to our regulars; a truly amazing experience. Everyone receiving one of these colorful pillows thought Ed McMahon had shown up with his camera crew. All were elated, even the guys. A couple of women were in tears, saying they’d never been given such a thing before. For sure, I hadn’t.
Being allowed to be a conduit for June’s love to those feeling exiled in their ancient bodies was exhilarating. Time with these dear ancient souls was nearly numinous. June would have been elated to see the radiant faces of those who received them. I was just as elated to pay it forward.
June long ago figured out solving problems requires first becoming a careful observer, not offering answers until the question is heard clearly. She then came up with a low-cost custom-made solution to a health challenge faced by her beneficiaries. As a successful envoy or diplomat knows, one must be able to speak into situations stakeholders find themselves in. June spoke into the lives of those tormented by unceasing restlessness. She loved them into blessed relief, at no cost to those trying to re-organize health care without first listening to the question.
It’s been said that for democracy to prosper it is not required for everyone to agree, but everyone must participate. For community to flourish it’s necessary for everyone of us with different gifts, values, talents, strengths and weaknesses to be woven together into three dimensional fabrics that can stand up to the challenges of our day. June certainly developed the state of her craft to a degree special envoys might want to make note of.
I think I will call Earl and see if I can get some more of June’s stock before it runs out. I think she’s now busy getting ready for a state dinner - The Marriage Supper of the Lamb.
And to her was granted that she should be arrayed in fine linen, clean and white: for the fine linen is the righteousness of saints. And he saith unto me, Write, Blessed are they which are called unto the marriage supper of the Lamb. And he saith unto me, These are the true sayings of God.
Community - From One Mother to Another 3-12-10
Anderson, South Carolina
As a kid, the most profound wondrous statement in my little insular world was “Free Inside.” When dragged by my troubled mother to The Pantry grocery store in the next block to get groceries, my brother and I immediately set a bearing for the cereal aisle. In the 1950s cereal was a good source of empty calories for those living within the gravitational boundaries of fiscal black holes. A great source of attraction for me in my tiny childhood was the possibility that I could get something really cool - for free.
Growing up in an alcoholic drug-ridden environment, one becomes an opportunist, grabbing at whatever one can to survive. My precarious psyche needed to occasionally find one of those magical little packages in the bottom of cereal boxes. Scanning the shelves, we looked for those two magic words, but they had to be on cereals that were semi-nutritious and reasonably priced, ones that a fear-driven alcoholic mother would allow us to pick out. Even in the 1950s some cereals were out of reach economically. Some days we were lucky. Those words of promise would show up on lower and middle class cereals. It must have been a very effective corporate strategy to habituate kids to cereal; occasionally putting toys and trinkets in the cheap boxes. To this day I would rather dine on a good bowl of cereal than steak any time.
Twenty years ago I was offered a grand job in another state, meaning I would be leaving a large universe of friends to move hundreds of miles east. Several creative individuals decided a farewell party was in order. Fine invitations were printed and sent out to about eighty people. Unusual was a request of the hostesses asking guests to bring a box of cereal as a token for admission. For a non-recovering non-repentant cerealholic, Nirvana manifested in my life experience. When the party was over, I was proud possessor of a mountain of some eighty boxes of cereal, including highly prized posh kid-vid cereals like Count Chocula, Cinnamon Toast Crunch, Fruit Loops, things I never saw in my alcoholic childhood.
A violist attending the party was creative and made a mixture of high end cereals, putting the whole of it in an empty Electrolux dishwasher soap bucket. Having wrapped the outside of the two-gallon bucket with masking tape, she wrote on the outside in black marker, “For a regular guy.” Amazingly, twenty years later, that bucket is still in my kitchen filled with an admixture of raw oats, nuts, wheat bran, raisins, and even some kid-vid for sweetness. Sugar can be a bit hard to give up. Alcoholic people know all about this. Eating cereal from that bucket most mornings reminds me of the sense of community I enjoyed in another state for many years. Melanie is still part of my world.
Yesterday was one of those lucky days, one of those magic ones when we experience God doing something really special, giving us a gift one cannot possibly buy, a “Free Inside.” One of the greatest highs for me comes from knowing God is working in my midst. In recovery we so often speak of seeking through prayer and meditation conscious contact with God as we understand him. We speak of “deep and effective spiritual experiences which have revolutionized our whole attitude toward life, toward our fellows and towards God’s universe. The central fact of our lives today is the absolute certainty that our Creator has entered into our hearts and lives in a way which is indeed miraculous. He has commenced to accomplish those things for us which we could never do by ourselves.” In the afternoon this grand promise of recovery manifested for me.
Circumstances were such that I had been asked to deliver a gift of great value. A dear friend of mine, Jane, a happily married mother with a special needs child of her own came to learn of a disabled single mother’s great challenge to raise several special needs children. I was asked to deliver this gift with the statement, “This is a reaffirmation to you that God loves you and your struggle, from one mother to another.” Being granted the privilege of acting as courier between two mothers who have never met was exactly that, exalted privilege. Contacting a retired minister, I was able to locate Danielle and her children and arrange a meeting.
So it was I found myself sitting on a couch in an ancient house in the part of town safety conscious people stay out of. In this small home I experienced a level of hospitality that was simply stunning, radiant, open, and unconditional. Silliness prevailed. We touched each others pain, gently. We hugged. I crawled in dog piles with these three kids, laughing in ways unknown to my own childhood. I thought of a magnet on my refrigerator stating, “It’s never too late to have a childhood.” Perhaps so.
At one point one of the twin boys, fifteen years old with the intellectual level of about four years, unprompted, went off into another room. He returned carrying a porcelain-coated steel bowl containing the freshest crispest Count Chocula swimming in what seemed like a quart of the coldest freshest milk in the world. How could Zachary possibly know that manifesting hospitality in this way would reach down into the deepest regions of my troubled childhood? I have often heard that very small children have an ability to hear God in ways quite lost in adulthood. Does Zachary retain some kind of innate knowledge of God?
My most astounding experience with this family was seeing the profound sense of safety this mother gives to her children. This mother and her normal daughter have seen and experienced the very worst this world has to dish out. Yet, somehow they have been gifted with an ability to provide structure, predictability, and love to severely challenged boys so that they know the true nature of the universe, that it really is friendly after all. The care-free laughter and frivolity of these boys suggests they haven’t a care in the world. Seeing them safely to sleep in their beds confirms this is so.
I pray my happily married friend has been able to teach another mother that the world is really friendly for Danielle also. It certainly is for me. For me it was a “Free Inside” day.
At that time Jesus answered and said, I thank thee, O Father, Lord of heaven and earth, because thou hast hid these things from the wise and prudent, and hast revealed them unto babes.
As a kid, the most profound wondrous statement in my little insular world was “Free Inside.” When dragged by my troubled mother to The Pantry grocery store in the next block to get groceries, my brother and I immediately set a bearing for the cereal aisle. In the 1950s cereal was a good source of empty calories for those living within the gravitational boundaries of fiscal black holes. A great source of attraction for me in my tiny childhood was the possibility that I could get something really cool - for free.
Growing up in an alcoholic drug-ridden environment, one becomes an opportunist, grabbing at whatever one can to survive. My precarious psyche needed to occasionally find one of those magical little packages in the bottom of cereal boxes. Scanning the shelves, we looked for those two magic words, but they had to be on cereals that were semi-nutritious and reasonably priced, ones that a fear-driven alcoholic mother would allow us to pick out. Even in the 1950s some cereals were out of reach economically. Some days we were lucky. Those words of promise would show up on lower and middle class cereals. It must have been a very effective corporate strategy to habituate kids to cereal; occasionally putting toys and trinkets in the cheap boxes. To this day I would rather dine on a good bowl of cereal than steak any time.
Twenty years ago I was offered a grand job in another state, meaning I would be leaving a large universe of friends to move hundreds of miles east. Several creative individuals decided a farewell party was in order. Fine invitations were printed and sent out to about eighty people. Unusual was a request of the hostesses asking guests to bring a box of cereal as a token for admission. For a non-recovering non-repentant cerealholic, Nirvana manifested in my life experience. When the party was over, I was proud possessor of a mountain of some eighty boxes of cereal, including highly prized posh kid-vid cereals like Count Chocula, Cinnamon Toast Crunch, Fruit Loops, things I never saw in my alcoholic childhood.
A violist attending the party was creative and made a mixture of high end cereals, putting the whole of it in an empty Electrolux dishwasher soap bucket. Having wrapped the outside of the two-gallon bucket with masking tape, she wrote on the outside in black marker, “For a regular guy.” Amazingly, twenty years later, that bucket is still in my kitchen filled with an admixture of raw oats, nuts, wheat bran, raisins, and even some kid-vid for sweetness. Sugar can be a bit hard to give up. Alcoholic people know all about this. Eating cereal from that bucket most mornings reminds me of the sense of community I enjoyed in another state for many years. Melanie is still part of my world.
Yesterday was one of those lucky days, one of those magic ones when we experience God doing something really special, giving us a gift one cannot possibly buy, a “Free Inside.” One of the greatest highs for me comes from knowing God is working in my midst. In recovery we so often speak of seeking through prayer and meditation conscious contact with God as we understand him. We speak of “deep and effective spiritual experiences which have revolutionized our whole attitude toward life, toward our fellows and towards God’s universe. The central fact of our lives today is the absolute certainty that our Creator has entered into our hearts and lives in a way which is indeed miraculous. He has commenced to accomplish those things for us which we could never do by ourselves.” In the afternoon this grand promise of recovery manifested for me.
Circumstances were such that I had been asked to deliver a gift of great value. A dear friend of mine, Jane, a happily married mother with a special needs child of her own came to learn of a disabled single mother’s great challenge to raise several special needs children. I was asked to deliver this gift with the statement, “This is a reaffirmation to you that God loves you and your struggle, from one mother to another.” Being granted the privilege of acting as courier between two mothers who have never met was exactly that, exalted privilege. Contacting a retired minister, I was able to locate Danielle and her children and arrange a meeting.
So it was I found myself sitting on a couch in an ancient house in the part of town safety conscious people stay out of. In this small home I experienced a level of hospitality that was simply stunning, radiant, open, and unconditional. Silliness prevailed. We touched each others pain, gently. We hugged. I crawled in dog piles with these three kids, laughing in ways unknown to my own childhood. I thought of a magnet on my refrigerator stating, “It’s never too late to have a childhood.” Perhaps so.
At one point one of the twin boys, fifteen years old with the intellectual level of about four years, unprompted, went off into another room. He returned carrying a porcelain-coated steel bowl containing the freshest crispest Count Chocula swimming in what seemed like a quart of the coldest freshest milk in the world. How could Zachary possibly know that manifesting hospitality in this way would reach down into the deepest regions of my troubled childhood? I have often heard that very small children have an ability to hear God in ways quite lost in adulthood. Does Zachary retain some kind of innate knowledge of God?
My most astounding experience with this family was seeing the profound sense of safety this mother gives to her children. This mother and her normal daughter have seen and experienced the very worst this world has to dish out. Yet, somehow they have been gifted with an ability to provide structure, predictability, and love to severely challenged boys so that they know the true nature of the universe, that it really is friendly after all. The care-free laughter and frivolity of these boys suggests they haven’t a care in the world. Seeing them safely to sleep in their beds confirms this is so.
I pray my happily married friend has been able to teach another mother that the world is really friendly for Danielle also. It certainly is for me. For me it was a “Free Inside” day.
At that time Jesus answered and said, I thank thee, O Father, Lord of heaven and earth, because thou hast hid these things from the wise and prudent, and hast revealed them unto babes.
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