Saturday, June 13, 2015

chess, poetry, and noticing

Click for OptionsIt is a lazy Saturday morning. We managed to make it to chess club with about sixty seconds to spare.  I have the ephemeral Jonsi & Alex piece, Boy 1904, on repeat as I soak this space in.  A curious combination of the smell of cheap pizza and kids playing chess.  Smiles on many of their faces, and my youngest daughter looking like she's contemplating a great unknown.  Three thoughts on this day, as has become customary:

1.  I finished Anne Lamott's small collection of essays this week, Small Victories.  The most memorable thing I took away was her recitation of the step which occurs before any change can happen in our messy lives.  It's not the first step.  She called it step zero.  Basically: I've had enough of my own pain.  I shared that little piece of wisdom with some like minded friends last night who all nodded and laughed, as I had, in recognition of it's piercing affect. 

Click for Options2.  I stumbled on some otherwise unheralded poetry this week, and I was reminded of Thomas Merton's observations to his novitiates.  Don't worry about whether art is recognized as the goods by the experts.  The only question is this: does it move you? 

3.  Social media and the deep desire to be noticed.  A battle to be remarkable in a sea of spectacular depictions of the grand ordinariness of common life.  It reminded me of a run I had maybe a year or so ago around the time that I'd been able to personally articulate the need to be noticed for perhaps the first time.  And out of the blue came the oddest looking character I'd ever seen.  An old man coming down a long stretch of dusk road on a beach cruiser, no shirt, sporting dark sunglasses and a white beard.  Maybe God himself.  And he looked directly at me and raised his right hand, the way that Indians did in the cheesy shows I watched as a kid, before they said "how."  And I took it as a sign that the only one we need to be noticed by is always paying close attention to us.

I'll leave you with a piece from a couple of weeks ago.

the expedition

a small trip
for bananas and chicken noodle soup

wandering the isles
considering what else I might buy

when upon a meeting I stumble
between a nervous father, young son
and grandparents, I suspect

a camping trip!
meat, paper towels, the dad says
"and we have chocolate," from a squeaky voice, confidence in his declaration

in the parking lot, as I sit
in my stinky old diesel truck
the truck that embarrasses Gracie
when I pick her up from school

I spy the father open the trunk
of an old Buick
and next to the bags of provisions
sits the box of a brand new camping tent

and they depart
for some place of great mystery

time that will constitute
soul mortar for this and somehow every
father and child

Sunday, May 10, 2015

composers, poets, and soul-scape

It has felt like I live in Florida again for the last several days, which has been a good thing.  I remember reading that the desert fathers, the early Christian monastics, valued light for spiritual reasons.  That they lived in a world of literal darkness unaided by billions of light bulbs and screens.  That the rising of the sun was the very real and fulfilled promise of a new day by the great force that holds the cosmos together. I hold that image dear.  Three thoughts on this Sunday afternoon, as has become customary.

1.  Over the last several days, I've taken in a remarkable interview of composer Mohammed Fairouz.  The interview opened with the haunting words of John F. Kennedy's 1963 speech at Amherst College, given in connection with the groundbreaking of the Robert Frost Library:

When power leads man towards arrogance, poetry reminds him of his limitations. When power narrows the areas of man's concern, poetry reminds him of the richness and diversity of his existence. When power corrupts, poetry cleanses. For art establishes the basic human truths which must serve as the touchstone of our judgment.

These words have come to me on the heels of immersion in Thomas Merton's commentary to novitiates at Gethsemane on the role of the poet in modern society.  He opined that the poet opens the door to the mystical, a role previously reserved in many ways for the monk. I wonder now, fifty years later, if the poet is heard?  Fairouz made the true statement that the artist opens up and grants us access to timeless sacred spaces.  Do we seek those spaces?

2.  I had the pleasure of the company of a good friend from Montgomery this weekend.  We were talking over all of the many things we've experienced together in the last twenty years.  I am ever aware that our soul mates allow us, require us, demand of us - that we move through the valleys and mountaintops with relentless love, enthusiasm, and proper orientation. What a grace that is.

3.  I've been thinking of the concept of the "soul-scape," the very real landscape of the soul.  What great maps the poet and the composer give us for these valleys and rivers.  Terrain completely open and unending. Even in the midst of the very ordinary.

Wednesday, April 29, 2015

sunshine and being

The sun continues to be evasive here in Pensacola.  But it is poking its face out and that is a welcome thing.  Enjoying a lecture by Thomas Merton regarding the relationship between asceticism and freedom. 

I'll leave you with a new piece:


deep within the mystery
in the midst of
bramble and relentless vines

crawling, prickly things
rain, and the soft mud rooting the bright lotus
and its many, many petals

is a space in kairos
witness to battles without beginning or end
the powerful and the powerless

a still place seen by none other
than this very now
and there finds home, a great beast of a lion
uncaged, unblunted, majestic

there are no bars
his supple stride is dignity
raw grace, if such a thing can exist

for he is not alone
as near him is the lamb
the soft underbelly, tender and vulnerable
exposed, prey to gleaming jaws and gluttonous shears

the lion and the lamb
an inextricable dance
delicate and mystical

yet know
the lamb needs the lion
no less than the lion requires this softness
of his mighty companion

power is without measure and cause
with no fold
tenderness is with no affect
without that which to cover

what could be utterly crushed
without the protection
and watchful guardian of the one

the softness of the other
invoking the great revelation

Monday, April 13, 2015

thunder, storytelling, and endurance

It is a very overcast morning here, the thunder was ominous last night and kept me company for some time.  I picked up Experiencing Spirituality (Ernest Kurtz and Katherine Ketcham), which has captured my attention.  I love the idea of the story singing that which dogma cannot.  I'd been thinking of and about the power of storytelling recently, it was a good thing to stumble upon this book.  One of my favorite stories so far:

I recently heard a story of someone asking a monk, "What is your life as a monk?"
The monk replied, "We walk, we fall down, someone helps us up.  We walk some more, someone else falls down.  We help them up.  That's pretty much what we do."

It seems to call to mind the elimination of destination as the end.  Rather, as the authors make note of (almost apologetically), it is the essence of "be-ing."  It also calls to mind the power of service to our fellows, and gives us permission to accept help when we need it.

I'll leave you with a short prayer that made its way out of the ether a few months ago.


grant me endurance
for the long road

so many days I feel a heaviness of heart
that I fear will overtake me

I desire to be of service
and cannot do so if I am dejected

I implore your endless energy
I insist upon a countenance that comes from you alone

I beg the knowing of your gaze
in gratitude I lift my eyes
to your horizon

in joy I seek you evermore
in confidence I find you

Thursday, April 2, 2015

rise, row, and write

It is a beautiful day here in Florida.  An early rise, rowing, meditation, and now work. 

I'll part with a piece of recent writing.


how do we take our wounds?

how did the world touch us
in a way that cuts deeply

opening a place in our flesh
that seemingly never draws closed
breaking open over and over again
resisting healing

we must go back to the fisher king
understand the wound
mourn for it
feel the pain of the world that caused it
release it, even in tears

it may be hidden
and yet soft prayerful awareness
finds it finally

cold words
fear of the unknown
fear of love
fear of fear
so many symptoms

physician, heal thyself!
it is said

indeed, it is the deep, sticky, soul work
the oars pulled by the lone rower
the poetry which flows out, unleashed
like blood
washing away the wounds

and announcing the arrival
of that deep healing
we pant for, as the deer at the brook
as the parched earth for rain

Divine Master
give us the strength to look deeply
to reach out in the dark night
in all our fear

to find ourselves
to find you