Do you ever stop to think about where you spend your time? Is it in this moment, the only one you have right now or is it in some other world created in your mind where you live a dream and reality passes by?
Is our ability to fantasize a gift or a curse? If we spend our time dreaming when do we live? Or is life a dream?
I went to a talk by a noted theologian, a Psalms scholar, speaking about the Psalms. When his 3 day presentation was finished and he opened the floor to questions four or five different people asked him if there was a heaven. Four or five times he replied, "I don't know." And after each "I don't know," another person would ask again. His frustration mounting, he finally said, "I hope so, I believe so, but all I can do is live here and now and let heaven take care of itself." There was grumbling from the crowd as if the price of admission had been too high for this lowly response. Some people left shaking their heads as if they couldn't believe that this noted scholar could not answer a simple question.
Richard Rohr, a Catholic monk says, "The Christian churches today largely define faith as knowing, and even being certain about your knowing, when in fact it means exactly the opposite. Faith is being willing not to know, and still being content because God knows. Faith is a learned tolerance for ambiguity because I no longer use knowledge as power so I no longer need to be right."
Of course, faithful or faithless, we are all subject to the predilection to look for the greener grass. If we cannot predict what will happen then we will dream it for as Shakespeare once said, "nothing is but thinking makes it so." Perhaps, or perhaps this is the most foolish of ideas. For once we think this we have the illusion that we can control events and make our own dreams come true. And what of those not able to do so? Are they losers, faithless, lower class, not like us? If nothing is but...then the power is in the hands of those who can pretend that they know and can claim the "right".
The thought that every waking moment is a moment spent dreaming of somewhere else, someone else, something else is a monstrous creation. It lures us into a world not real, an intangible creation.
Look around, do you see what is in front of you? Do you smell the good earth, feel the rays of the sun, hear the laughter of children? Look around. Do you feel the coldness, breathe the dryness, hear the rustle of leaves? Look around. Do you feel the pain of the lonely, breathe the sadness of the sorrowful, hear the tears of the wounded? Look around. This is where you live, right here, right now. This is your reality. Do you believe that you do not know what is best, right, coming around the next corner? Do you believe that life is to be lived no matter what comes after? Do you believe? "Faith is being willing not to know...and not to pretend to know....
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Saturday, November 28, 2009
Shattered Glass
I clipped the last ornament, the star at the top of the tree, to the bough, when there was a pop and tinkle of breaking glass. Looking down I saw the pieces of an ornament littering the floor. Moving down the ladder with care, my joints creaking, my heart breaking, I made my way to the pieces. Some were glittery and some opaque, some shiny with reflections of the tree lights, others translucent and silvery.
No particular piece replicated the beauty of the once whole ornament. Each piece, a discrete, and uninteresting shard. Tears flowed as I remembered the particular care I took over the years to shelter this ornament from harm, wrapping it carefully in tissue, tucking it into a sturdy box, layering soft wool around the box to prevent punctures or jostles that might penetrate the outer layer of the box.
This small globe of glass given more care because it was rescued from a fire that had consumed my life. I had found it laying among the ashes, intact, no damage to it's shiny, sparkling exterior. No marks or mars to it's beauty. It lay among the burnt offerings of my life. Nothing survived the heat and smoke that roared through the house that night, taking everything I counted as mine.
Except this one fragile globe of glass looking like it had fallen from the sky and nestled there serenely proclaiming that in the midst of great destruction something had survived.
What value I gave it after that. I took it out at times to stare at it even when it was not Christmas. I remembered the trees it hung on in my old home, stately and covered with tinsel and ornaments and lights, shining in the darkness; people stopping to stare at the brilliant light in the window. I remembered the laughter of family, gathered around the table. I remembered the day our daughter was born and our son and a daughter after that. I remembered the days of summer when the thoughts of Christmas were far away and the days were thick with heat and humidity. We would move slowly in the heat fanning ourselves as the sun moved across the sky. I remembered my husband, coming in the door after work, boisterous and loud, calling to the children. I remembered life in that house, an enchanted life, lived by people without care or sorrow, blessed with all that was good or so it now seemed. Staring into that shiny globe I saw love, and laughter, and blessing. All that remained was that shining ball of memory. Holding it gently my thoughts drifting across years of joy, remembering all. No crystal ball conjured up more images of happiness than that ornament from those many years past.
I shattered. The pieces of me lying in the wreckage, each discrete shard of me reflecting back the past. My daughter's smiling face there, my husband's grin when he figured out the plumbing puzzle, my kitchen warm and filled with the fragrance of bread baking, cinnamon smells and vanilla too. Our pets, cat and dog, other pieces of me laying there. The conjured images pieces of a sorrow so vast I could not contain it, a sorrow that spread around me, covered me, buried me. The pieces not beautiful but broken. Where was the soft tissue paper to wrap my heart in, the sturdy box barricade, the wool to surround and protect me from harsh jostling and stabbing pain. All that I had left was that one beautiful glass ornament; shattered.
I swept up the pieces and laid them on the tissue paper carefully wrapping them and tucking them into the box, laying the box in the nest of wool. Silly old woman I thought as I wrapped and tucked; the broken could not be restored. That small globe the only proof of miraculous survival. Whatever resurrection I believed in shattered too. I sat in my chair, broken and bowed. I turned to the tree watching the twinkle of lights and glass, seeing again in my mind's eye, those Christmases past, ones I could not reclaim. I rocked, the light from the tree growing and twisting, flaming with anger, fear, sorrow. Doused by each tear. Outside the snow fell and the black ashes of lament were covered over with white as day turned into night.
No particular piece replicated the beauty of the once whole ornament. Each piece, a discrete, and uninteresting shard. Tears flowed as I remembered the particular care I took over the years to shelter this ornament from harm, wrapping it carefully in tissue, tucking it into a sturdy box, layering soft wool around the box to prevent punctures or jostles that might penetrate the outer layer of the box.
This small globe of glass given more care because it was rescued from a fire that had consumed my life. I had found it laying among the ashes, intact, no damage to it's shiny, sparkling exterior. No marks or mars to it's beauty. It lay among the burnt offerings of my life. Nothing survived the heat and smoke that roared through the house that night, taking everything I counted as mine.
Except this one fragile globe of glass looking like it had fallen from the sky and nestled there serenely proclaiming that in the midst of great destruction something had survived.
What value I gave it after that. I took it out at times to stare at it even when it was not Christmas. I remembered the trees it hung on in my old home, stately and covered with tinsel and ornaments and lights, shining in the darkness; people stopping to stare at the brilliant light in the window. I remembered the laughter of family, gathered around the table. I remembered the day our daughter was born and our son and a daughter after that. I remembered the days of summer when the thoughts of Christmas were far away and the days were thick with heat and humidity. We would move slowly in the heat fanning ourselves as the sun moved across the sky. I remembered my husband, coming in the door after work, boisterous and loud, calling to the children. I remembered life in that house, an enchanted life, lived by people without care or sorrow, blessed with all that was good or so it now seemed. Staring into that shiny globe I saw love, and laughter, and blessing. All that remained was that shining ball of memory. Holding it gently my thoughts drifting across years of joy, remembering all. No crystal ball conjured up more images of happiness than that ornament from those many years past.
I shattered. The pieces of me lying in the wreckage, each discrete shard of me reflecting back the past. My daughter's smiling face there, my husband's grin when he figured out the plumbing puzzle, my kitchen warm and filled with the fragrance of bread baking, cinnamon smells and vanilla too. Our pets, cat and dog, other pieces of me laying there. The conjured images pieces of a sorrow so vast I could not contain it, a sorrow that spread around me, covered me, buried me. The pieces not beautiful but broken. Where was the soft tissue paper to wrap my heart in, the sturdy box barricade, the wool to surround and protect me from harsh jostling and stabbing pain. All that I had left was that one beautiful glass ornament; shattered.
I swept up the pieces and laid them on the tissue paper carefully wrapping them and tucking them into the box, laying the box in the nest of wool. Silly old woman I thought as I wrapped and tucked; the broken could not be restored. That small globe the only proof of miraculous survival. Whatever resurrection I believed in shattered too. I sat in my chair, broken and bowed. I turned to the tree watching the twinkle of lights and glass, seeing again in my mind's eye, those Christmases past, ones I could not reclaim. I rocked, the light from the tree growing and twisting, flaming with anger, fear, sorrow. Doused by each tear. Outside the snow fell and the black ashes of lament were covered over with white as day turned into night.
Saturday, November 07, 2009
Take Down the Pictures, I Won't be Living Here Anymore
Taking one last breath, she passed away. Looking around the small, sterile room all that remained of her life was hanging on the walls - pictures of family and friends, a painting done by her husband, a still life done by a Dutchman hundreds of years ago.
The picture of a bowl, some fruit, a bottle of wine. No human breath gracing it's canvas and yet somewhere in the background, out of site, the sense that a human hand had laid out this table. The colors muted and funereal, the air surrounding the objects dusty and muted.
But the fruit, ripe and asking to be eaten. The produce of some faraway farmers labor calling from the bowl for a disposition. If not eaten left to rot, fruit of life or forgotten fruit. Forbidden fruit perhaps, lush and beckoning, worth the price of the fall? A mere apple, the symbol of the first temptation. Could this red, ripe apple really be the tantalizing source of sinful preoccupation?
Then the other painting, done by her husband. A small house in a valley, surrounded by mountains, cows peacefully grazing. A pastoral scene executed with little skill. The colors bright but not real, the perspective slightly skewed, as if the valley has tilted slightly in the shadow of the mountains.
There is a sense in this valley of solitude and quiet. No humans in this picture either and yet again the sense that somewhere unseen is the hand of a farm family, carefully tending the cattle, a wisp of smoke from the chimney suggesting food and warmth necessary to survival. The great mountains behind looming protectively or perhaps ominously, snow on their peaks suggesting that soon this valley too will be shrouded in the color of winter.
Perhaps this is the land of Nod, the place East of Eden where, after that first bite of lucious apple, mankind was banished to. A place, not unfriendly in this picture but with it's shadows lurking. Different than Eden in it's insecurity, no guaranteed warmth in the shadow of sin.
The woman lying on the bed is still, no breath moves her chest. She has departed this room, a still life. Her last words an odd request considering that she spent her life in pious devotion to an unseen God she believed in and then at the moment that she stood on the threshold of infinity her only consideration was about tidying up.
The family pictures a tribute to her devotion, she bore these children both by choice and dictate. No consideration ever that there was not an obligation to do so, modern science not yet available to offer her another option. Her devotion not in question, she did the best she could and her offspring have done her proud. One wonders if they would have earned a place on this wall if this was not so. Would they have been banished to Nod if they had eaten the fruit, fallen to temptation and sin. An unanswered question. She was not a god but certainly her firm rule in the domain of her family was never questioned. She did pass judgement on the rightness and wrongness of their behavior and there was no question as to her right to do so.
The light in the room changes as the sun moves lower, a dusty grey pervades. A still life on the bed, a still life on the walls, a stillness that is so thick that no sound can invade it. The objects of a life reflected in the stillness. The fruit in the bowl, the small house, the cows, the children. And behind them the stories of her life. Her daughter stands and slowly begins to strip the walls. No one lives here anymore.
The picture of a bowl, some fruit, a bottle of wine. No human breath gracing it's canvas and yet somewhere in the background, out of site, the sense that a human hand had laid out this table. The colors muted and funereal, the air surrounding the objects dusty and muted.
But the fruit, ripe and asking to be eaten. The produce of some faraway farmers labor calling from the bowl for a disposition. If not eaten left to rot, fruit of life or forgotten fruit. Forbidden fruit perhaps, lush and beckoning, worth the price of the fall? A mere apple, the symbol of the first temptation. Could this red, ripe apple really be the tantalizing source of sinful preoccupation?
Then the other painting, done by her husband. A small house in a valley, surrounded by mountains, cows peacefully grazing. A pastoral scene executed with little skill. The colors bright but not real, the perspective slightly skewed, as if the valley has tilted slightly in the shadow of the mountains.
There is a sense in this valley of solitude and quiet. No humans in this picture either and yet again the sense that somewhere unseen is the hand of a farm family, carefully tending the cattle, a wisp of smoke from the chimney suggesting food and warmth necessary to survival. The great mountains behind looming protectively or perhaps ominously, snow on their peaks suggesting that soon this valley too will be shrouded in the color of winter.
Perhaps this is the land of Nod, the place East of Eden where, after that first bite of lucious apple, mankind was banished to. A place, not unfriendly in this picture but with it's shadows lurking. Different than Eden in it's insecurity, no guaranteed warmth in the shadow of sin.
The woman lying on the bed is still, no breath moves her chest. She has departed this room, a still life. Her last words an odd request considering that she spent her life in pious devotion to an unseen God she believed in and then at the moment that she stood on the threshold of infinity her only consideration was about tidying up.
The family pictures a tribute to her devotion, she bore these children both by choice and dictate. No consideration ever that there was not an obligation to do so, modern science not yet available to offer her another option. Her devotion not in question, she did the best she could and her offspring have done her proud. One wonders if they would have earned a place on this wall if this was not so. Would they have been banished to Nod if they had eaten the fruit, fallen to temptation and sin. An unanswered question. She was not a god but certainly her firm rule in the domain of her family was never questioned. She did pass judgement on the rightness and wrongness of their behavior and there was no question as to her right to do so.
The light in the room changes as the sun moves lower, a dusty grey pervades. A still life on the bed, a still life on the walls, a stillness that is so thick that no sound can invade it. The objects of a life reflected in the stillness. The fruit in the bowl, the small house, the cows, the children. And behind them the stories of her life. Her daughter stands and slowly begins to strip the walls. No one lives here anymore.
Friday, October 16, 2009
Ownership
"Rags make paper,
Paper makes money,
Money makes banks,
Banks make loans,
Loans make beggars,
Beggars make rags."
Someone told me that the heart of the consumer is a heart that cannot love others. It reminded me of the story about Bernard Madoff. Here is a man who swindled the people he was closest to in the world, not just friends but family too. And I think the reason he could do so has to do with a sense of entitlement that comes from not recognizing that, truly, we own nothing, are entitled to nothing, and that whatever comes to us is a gift and a loan.
So I guess it is not so odd that the money maker is now making rags (or the prison equivalent of such). Wanting to own the world (or at least the money of all he knew and cared for) was the trap that led to his own demise. And he was so shameless in the flaunting of that money. Yachts and clothes and parties and all the things essential to the "good life." How does one fall from the pinnacle of consumerism to the pit? And was he driven by a lust for goods, or a desire to have one over on others, or was he just some dumb schmuck trying to get whatever he could before the party ended. Living each day as if it was his last because he knew that at any moment the jig could be up.
The point of the rag story, according to Sister Joan Chittister, is "be careful what you want. It will own you before you own it." And how clearly we can see that in the face of Bernard Madoff. But what of our own wants - the things we silently dream about, or pursue with a vengeance. How much of our own being is no longer ours but belongs to the stuff we accumulate, store, and covet.
As a child I learned the 10 commandments. I was always puzzled by that word "covet". What did that mean I wondered as it was being explained that I should not "want" my neighbors stuff even if it was better than mine or "desire" my neighbor's spouse no matter how much I might dislike my own or be attracted to hers. Is it the nature of human nature to want what we don't have - was the reason for the law that God recognized this basic flaw in our nature? And in the good nun's words - is the danger in possession being possessed?
Ownership, the basic assumption of the capitalist economy - do we possess or are we possessed? Is the engine of the economy the engine of our own destruction or are we above those laws laid down thousands of years ago in some primitive tale that might be the word of God or, for others, a long ago tale passed on by man? Of course in late 2009 we are more able to see the pitfalls in our economic system, to recognize that greed does indeed lead to destruction. And whether God is the source of this wisdom or man long ago understood this on some level, it is easier to see now how coveting may indeed close our hearts to the other. And ignoring our history we are indeed doomed to repeat it and have done so, over and over, for the length of recorded human history.
My mother loved things, she surrounded herself with lovely objects that she took great pride in. Her home was filled with art and beauty. In her last days, though, she lay in a bed in a tiny room in a private home, racked with pain and gasping for each breath. The home was one she would not have sought to live in, the bed tiny and lumpy. But the people there cared for her with love and compassion and ushered her out of this world with grace. The beauty lay in that grace, not in the surroundings but in the people. I wonder, belatedly, if she would have traded all those beautiful things for that grace and love. I believe so. I hope so. Today, some of those lovely things she cared for are in my care. I see them as a reminder to let go of what is not important.
Paper makes money,
Money makes banks,
Banks make loans,
Loans make beggars,
Beggars make rags."
Someone told me that the heart of the consumer is a heart that cannot love others. It reminded me of the story about Bernard Madoff. Here is a man who swindled the people he was closest to in the world, not just friends but family too. And I think the reason he could do so has to do with a sense of entitlement that comes from not recognizing that, truly, we own nothing, are entitled to nothing, and that whatever comes to us is a gift and a loan.
So I guess it is not so odd that the money maker is now making rags (or the prison equivalent of such). Wanting to own the world (or at least the money of all he knew and cared for) was the trap that led to his own demise. And he was so shameless in the flaunting of that money. Yachts and clothes and parties and all the things essential to the "good life." How does one fall from the pinnacle of consumerism to the pit? And was he driven by a lust for goods, or a desire to have one over on others, or was he just some dumb schmuck trying to get whatever he could before the party ended. Living each day as if it was his last because he knew that at any moment the jig could be up.
The point of the rag story, according to Sister Joan Chittister, is "be careful what you want. It will own you before you own it." And how clearly we can see that in the face of Bernard Madoff. But what of our own wants - the things we silently dream about, or pursue with a vengeance. How much of our own being is no longer ours but belongs to the stuff we accumulate, store, and covet.
As a child I learned the 10 commandments. I was always puzzled by that word "covet". What did that mean I wondered as it was being explained that I should not "want" my neighbors stuff even if it was better than mine or "desire" my neighbor's spouse no matter how much I might dislike my own or be attracted to hers. Is it the nature of human nature to want what we don't have - was the reason for the law that God recognized this basic flaw in our nature? And in the good nun's words - is the danger in possession being possessed?
Ownership, the basic assumption of the capitalist economy - do we possess or are we possessed? Is the engine of the economy the engine of our own destruction or are we above those laws laid down thousands of years ago in some primitive tale that might be the word of God or, for others, a long ago tale passed on by man? Of course in late 2009 we are more able to see the pitfalls in our economic system, to recognize that greed does indeed lead to destruction. And whether God is the source of this wisdom or man long ago understood this on some level, it is easier to see now how coveting may indeed close our hearts to the other. And ignoring our history we are indeed doomed to repeat it and have done so, over and over, for the length of recorded human history.
My mother loved things, she surrounded herself with lovely objects that she took great pride in. Her home was filled with art and beauty. In her last days, though, she lay in a bed in a tiny room in a private home, racked with pain and gasping for each breath. The home was one she would not have sought to live in, the bed tiny and lumpy. But the people there cared for her with love and compassion and ushered her out of this world with grace. The beauty lay in that grace, not in the surroundings but in the people. I wonder, belatedly, if she would have traded all those beautiful things for that grace and love. I believe so. I hope so. Today, some of those lovely things she cared for are in my care. I see them as a reminder to let go of what is not important.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Real Time
Did you know that physicists believe there are at least 11 dimensions in the universe and are pretty sure there are 2 more for a total of 13? So in my 3 dimensional view of things what am I missing? If I added a dimension or two what would happen, could I move backward in time? Could I shape change? Could I move beyond time? Could I still breathe, think, feel in another dimension? Would I still be human or some multi-dimensional being with super powers that could not be seen or felt but could act? WOW - that would be amazing!
Having no answers and not really even knowing what these other dimensions are I am stuck here in my 3D reality. I think? Am I?
Remember Madeline l'Engle's book "A Wrinkle in Time", wouldn't that be interesting to find the wrinkle. To slip the bonds of 3D and find 4D or 5D. Could you imagine a world beyond this one that is merely a wrinkle from your grasp, a world that exists behind a thin veil of 3Dness, a veil that parts ever so slightly once in a while and gives a chance for slipping in or out. Hmmm.
You may be wondering, who cares? or is this lady a nut? or I've got better things to do with my time. And you are right - it's not really a quest that one can succeed at.
I saw "Man of LaMancha" this past week at a local playhouse. Quite a production - excellent in all ways. The program described it as a play written in the 60's with all the idealism of the time. The implication being that this was a somewhat dated yet inspiring dramatization. But ah - the Quest! "To follow that star, no matter how hopeless, no matter how far".
Do we accept the 3Dness of life, the inevitable and inexorable pull of the familiar, the known, the previously discovered? Is it only the lunatic, the exile, the prisoner who has the vision to see what cannot be seen by others. Don Quixote's quest to battle evil, right wrongs, and restore chivalry - not really a quest to change the world or perhaps. And this during the Spanish Inquisition - a time of religious and ethnic intolerance when one's hope was not in the world or the body but in being saved from eternal damnation.
Yes, we have come far - we are no longer torturing those who are of differing religious persuasions or ethnic persuasions, the inquisitions have stopped??? We have become a kinder, gentler world in which all are provided the opportunity to reach their potential?
And so the fool, the madman is the one who says there is another dimension - a reality we can live that we have not tried. Our salvation is not in the next world it is in making this time and place heavenly - in finding the dimension within and without that holds out the possibility to all of grace, and love, and hope, and faith. "To dream the impossible dream."
Having no answers and not really even knowing what these other dimensions are I am stuck here in my 3D reality. I think? Am I?
Remember Madeline l'Engle's book "A Wrinkle in Time", wouldn't that be interesting to find the wrinkle. To slip the bonds of 3D and find 4D or 5D. Could you imagine a world beyond this one that is merely a wrinkle from your grasp, a world that exists behind a thin veil of 3Dness, a veil that parts ever so slightly once in a while and gives a chance for slipping in or out. Hmmm.
You may be wondering, who cares? or is this lady a nut? or I've got better things to do with my time. And you are right - it's not really a quest that one can succeed at.
I saw "Man of LaMancha" this past week at a local playhouse. Quite a production - excellent in all ways. The program described it as a play written in the 60's with all the idealism of the time. The implication being that this was a somewhat dated yet inspiring dramatization. But ah - the Quest! "To follow that star, no matter how hopeless, no matter how far".
Do we accept the 3Dness of life, the inevitable and inexorable pull of the familiar, the known, the previously discovered? Is it only the lunatic, the exile, the prisoner who has the vision to see what cannot be seen by others. Don Quixote's quest to battle evil, right wrongs, and restore chivalry - not really a quest to change the world or perhaps. And this during the Spanish Inquisition - a time of religious and ethnic intolerance when one's hope was not in the world or the body but in being saved from eternal damnation.
Yes, we have come far - we are no longer torturing those who are of differing religious persuasions or ethnic persuasions, the inquisitions have stopped??? We have become a kinder, gentler world in which all are provided the opportunity to reach their potential?
And so the fool, the madman is the one who says there is another dimension - a reality we can live that we have not tried. Our salvation is not in the next world it is in making this time and place heavenly - in finding the dimension within and without that holds out the possibility to all of grace, and love, and hope, and faith. "To dream the impossible dream."
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