Wednesday, June 29, 2016

summer, movies, and murder trials

Summer is in full swing!  

A quick excerpt from the writing project which is occupying most of my pen time.  Grace & Peace!
There are occasions when I don’t have the energy to allow a poem or prose to reach me.  But a good movie can almost move me in ways that other art sometimes can’t.  Call it spiritual spoon-feeding, but The Shawshank Redemption taught me powerful lessons on beauty and endurance.  Casablanca taught me that we can release people and ideas when we are ready and that fresh starts often come in completely inexplicable forms.  The lovely French film, Intouchables, taught me that subtitles are worth it sometimes.  And the Italian masterpiece, Great Beauty, taught me that one doesn’t have to wait until the age of sixty-five to stop doing things one doesn’t really want to do.
Several of the most memorable movie scenes from my youth come from the Rocky franchise.  Each film is anchored by a pinnacle fight in which Rocky is matched against some beast who by all appearances can’t be beaten.  I would cover my eyes when the coach would lean over Rocky’s bloodied face and give him water, dry his brow, and maybe cut his eye to relieve the traumatic swelling.  I resented the coach.  Why wouldn’t he just grab Rocky by the shoulders and say, “Come on kid, we’re getting out of here!”  Why would anyone stand by and let such brutality go forward when they had the power to stop it?
Life can feel an awful lot like that ring.  Always moving your feet, dodging, hustling.  Trying to stay in the fight and endure for another round.  Oftentimes a terrifying opponent is giving you a run for your money.  But if you’re lucky enough, you’ve got a team of people around you to help steer you in the right direction and maybe even a good coach to encourage you when the odds feel completely overwhelming. 
 And truth be told, I’m usually out there in the ring fighting myself than anyone else. But I’ve come to see that like Rocky’s coach, God always has an eye on me in the ring.  But that doesn’t mean that I am magically going to get pulled out of the fight.  A few bloody noses helped this finally sink in.  It might be the same reason that I couldn’t appreciate tragic literature or the Psalter until I’d lived a little.  Your heart has to have been stomped on before the blues make much sense.
My childhood faith experience is probably typical.  Lukewarm at best, to the fault of none other than perhaps being too materially comfortable.  I grew up in a military family.  My stepfather raised me like I was his own.  My mother taught me how to have a conversation and really listen.  She was also an untreated alcoholic for many years.  I was blessed with a mostly stable home life and consistent Republican theology, all while the Cold War loomed as an ominous backdrop in the formation of my sense of justice and grace.  Pull the electric chair switch quickly, don’t make them suffer for God’s sake.  Ronald Reagan held a place second perhaps only to St. Paul.      
My dad laid a green flight suit just about every night alongside black leather flight boots.  Lumbering strategic bombers gliding overhead were a thing of comfort.  We moved every few years and I learned good manners and how to fit in quickly. One of the great things about growing up on base housing is that young military couples efficiently produce children.  There were always kids to play with and I organically related to military culture.
The Cold War did not officially end until I was a middle schooler.  Up to that point, it was understood that Lucifer himself had birthed the communist Russian people.  Mind you, I never even met a Russian until I was an adult.  And it is also probably noteworthy to mention that my dad chastised me more than once for frequently insisting that I be the commanding general in our neighborhood play battles.  A boy on a military base knows what it means to be a sergeant or a general.  But I also remember being drawn to God at a very young age and praying fervently to whatever it is that holds the cosmos together.  I regularly edged myself to the corners of my bed as I fell asleep to make room for angels. How does a kid like that end up as a lawyer?
            One significant turn occurred in my living room in the early 1990s.  The Air Force had relocated us to a small Illinois town not far from St. Louis. One concession was that I would be starting high school as a new student just like everyone else. Not showing up in the middle of the school year was a small grace.  And Belleville was big enough for a new Walmart.  My freckled face was glued to the television screen as a white Bronco dodged traffic on a distant California highway.  And while I couldn’t tell you the difference between a cornerback and a smokestack, everyone knew who OJ Simpson was.  The famous football player was by all appearances responsible for the gruesome murder of his beautiful ex-wife and Ronald Goldman.    
             The Simpson trial was all the rage and seemed to consume the entire school year. Nearly everyone was drawn into the legal battle playing out in the national media.  There were detailed descriptions of defense strategies and the judge's influence in the case. Simpson huddled with a small army of intense lawyers.  The once powerful athlete exuded a mix of confidence and angst.  That case singularly introduced me to the law.  At least, what I thought the law was.  It seemed obvious that only a crazy person would take on a big case without a lawyer. 
Nearly twenty years since then, I’ve practiced law for a while and I’ve seen a few things.  I remember not understanding why old people always seemed so exasperated when they said things like, “twenty years ago I did so and so; I cannot believe that much time has passed."  I understand now.  Furthermore, my opinion on what constitutes being old has changed. 

Thursday, April 14, 2016


aloof magisterials
or merely stilted listlessness?

fear and pain, etched on theses faces

a woman, congenitally defective
hands and feet
gnarled, open toed shoes
asks for help, painfully

a chirping child
in a long line over my left shoulder

tapping feet
hushed conversations
crisp shirts
dirty blue jeans

and I was wonder
what has brought me to this place of suffering?

a smile or a nod
gratefully received

what if this same awareness
and stillness were carried into the day

what might happen?
and then

"all rise" 

Tuesday, March 8, 2016

spring, actors, and eugenics

It's been a wonderful space of time in Pensacola.  New beginnings, spring is approaching, and its just warm enough to drop the boat in the water with a sweater or jacket.  A couple of thoughts on this cool March morning, as has become customary.

1.  I spent several days in Sarasota with friends a couple of weeks ago.  Among the things we did, I was able to observe an acting class at the Venice Theatre. I was expecting a largely technical experience, i.e., inflect your voice this way, and stand that way.  Move your body in such and such a way.  It was just about anything but this.  Some of the most well known trial advocacy experts, Gerry Spence among them, pound into the heads of lawyers the need to connect emotionally with juries.  I was intrigued by the similarities in the manner in which the acting students were told they had to connect with audiences.  I never expected to hear the class being instructed on trust.  The most fascinating exercise involved having students face each other and repeat the following phrase, "I could be hurt by you."  I was overwhelmed with the recognition that this is so often what we are too guarded to really say to one another.  How often is it that lovers, family members, social factions, find it nearly impossible to articulate what they'd say if they could; "I am afraid," or "I could be hurt by you."  We are perhaps most authentic when we can let our guard down and say what is below the surface of polite conversation. 

All of this has been in the backdrop of working through Along the Way, by Martin Sheen and Emilio Estevez.  Among a variety of discussions, the book masterfully depicts the role of emotional intelligence in interpersonal relations and the curious and unique vocation of acting.  It's been a well timed exploration for me.

2.  I listened to an eyeopening podcast this morning on the American eugenics experience, which largely focused on the incredible U.S. Supreme Court case of Buck vs. Bell.  Though I was familiar with the case, I was stunned to learn that it had been cited by the Eighth Circuit Court of Appeals as binding authority on sterilization due process as recently as 2001.

Accomplished jurists bear no immunity to the fear of the "other."  It seems evident that the present battle cry of certain conservative pockets ("us vs. them") is reminiscent of the same forces behind the American eugenics movement.  Most shameful perhaps being our recent collective knee jerk reflex in this country to Syrian refugees, which certainly seems to resemble our dismal response to Jews seeking to flee Europe around the time of the Second World War.

3.    I'll leave you with some fitting words from Robert Frost.

An ant on the tablecloth
Ran into a dormant moth
Of many times his size.
He showed not the least surprise.
His business wasn't with such.
He gave it scarcely a touch,
And was off on his duty run.
Yet if he encountered one
Of the hive's enquiry squad
Whose work is to find out God
And the nature of time and space,
He would put him onto the case.
Ants are a curious race;
One crossing with hurried tread
The body of one of their dead
Isn't given a moment's arrest-
Seems not even impressed.
But he no doubt reports to any
With whom he crosses antennae,
And they no doubt report
To the higher-up at court.
Then word goes forth in Formic:
"Death's come to Jerry McCormic,
Our selfless forager Jerry.
Will the special Janizary
Whose office it is to bury
The dead of the commissary
Go bring him home to his people.
Lay him in state on a sepal.
Wrap him for shroud in a petal.
Embalm him with ichor of nettle.
This is the word of your Queen."
And presently on the scene
Appears a solemn mortician;
And taking formal position,
With feelers calmly atwiddle,
Seizes the dead by the middle,
And heaving him high in air,
Carries him out of there.
No one stands round to stare.
It is nobody else's affair
It couldn't be called ungentle
But how thoroughly departmental

Friday, January 22, 2016

skis, scale, and mountains

I returned earlier this week from a wonderful trip to Colorado with the guys from work and a few friends.  It was my first time on skis, and I was instantly taken back to the feeling I had trying to get a bicycle to stay upright for the first time.  It was incredible to see young children blowing by me as I fumbled around like a drunken sailor.  A good friend gave me the only advice that was helpful before we departed, "Don't give up."  And my wise law partner and good friend Donovan Whibbs gave me the only advice that was helpful after we arrived, "Take another lesson."  I'll go back and do it again, partly because being untrained and on the side of a mountain scared me to death.  And I believe very much in the idea of doing things that scare me.  Three thoughts on this cloudy Friday afternoon, as has become customary:

1. Taking some time to unwind, even before I felt like I desperately needed it, reminded me of the importance of intentional rest and time with friends.  Bold living all too often falls victim to incessant productivity.  All this in addition to teaching me another valuable lesson in trying new things.  I am increasingly aware of the interplay between creativity and rest. 

2.  On the morning of our departure, I got up early and made my way down to the coffee shop.  I spent a little time with Pascal's Pensees, and I was drawn to his thoughts on the grand scale of nature.  I took a solo gondola ride later that morning, which viscerally drove home what Pascal conveyed on paper.  But I've also been thinking about the scale of interiority.   That we can usually and easily, with attention, appreciate the scale of exteriority.  But the appreciation of the equally immense scale of interiority requires, possibly, an even keener attention. 

3. Moved by John O'Donohue, I have made arrangements for a solo pilgrimage to Ireland in April.  I am looking forward to seeing the wild countryside that O'Donohue speaks so compellingly of.  Somehow, I feel like I am going home.

I'll leave you with a new piece.


Pascal and these mountains
bring scale to me this morning
fear and trembling

and I know as I look about
despite all doubt
that whatever God is, She is grand

a lone soul below
makes a way up the mountain
slowly and deliberate

and I hope that I
can move that way too

eyes forward
toward the peak
ever in awe

great expanses
all about us
awake climber!

the mountain, splendid
holds us in its crowned dignity

Wednesday, January 13, 2016

books, ordinary time, and snow

It is a brisk morning here on the Gulf Coast.  This cool weather won't last for long, so I am enjoying it.  My entire crew was slow moving as we tried to get our day started, my son's planner was missing in action, and Gracie started to walk off to school with her backpack still in the truck.  Perhaps the need for coffee starts earlier than I thought.  Three ramblings on this lovely morning, as has become customary.

The crew on their way this past weekend to see the Pensacola Symphony rehearsal
1.  I committed to a 25 book reading list this year, and was fortunate enough to have a few friends agree to read several of the selections along with me.  The first book to come in was Thomas Merton's, The Way of Chuang Tzu.  Which is proving to be an interesting, but far from fast read.  I am perhaps most looking forward to starting John O'Donahue's book on the aesthetic.  I am fascinated more and more with the idea of the aesthetic as a necessary life force, and the ability to appreciate it without the necessity of possessing it.  His interview with Krista Tippett has inspired me to make my way to Ireland this spring.

2.  It is the first week of ordinary time.  The end of the year was wonderful, we feasted.  But I heard someone tell the story of a theologian once having quipped that the Almighty must love ordinary time, as there is so much of it.

3.  Although it's cold with no snow here, Robert Frost seems fitting today:

Dust of Snow

The way a crow
Shook down on me
The dust of snow
From a hemlock tree

Has given my heart
A change of mood
And saved some part
Of a day I had rued.