Unexpected Windfall: New Chapter/ New Year

"For last year's words belong to last year's language. And next year's words await another voice. And to make an end is to make a beginning."
                                            —T.S. Eliot

Where is Joseph Campbell when we need him? Great myths remain to be explicated!

So many queries need to be resolved and a substantive discernment is imperative in order to examine the convoluted origins of purpose.

Some unpublished storyteller continues to weave the fable about that lost boy pilgrim dreaming of canvas tightening to catch the breeze just right to head out onto uncharted waters. Another myth had that boy watching in wonder the effortless soaring of God’s favored feathered friends. “To be free” was the oft whispered mantra .”An inner voice said “Just think good thoughts.” Maybe these storyteller are just confused .

Paintings of sloops and ketches would stop the boy dead in his tracks. His trance would transport him into the painting on the shore or even on the deck with the salted wind brushing his face as he prepared to come about on a starboard tack. When in the actual presence of real vessels either moored or under sail offshore he felt as if he was standing at the gates of heaven. Though surrounded by lakes, ponds and bays he remained landlocked as those odyssean dreams dissolved.

Beguiling guitars and girls gradually goaded the pilgrim into another world.

He was also quick to break his covenant concerning passing that math test and committing to priesthood. No one explained to him how God does not forget and how God also forgives. There was a plan, or at least an outline of a potential chartered course that would remain a mystery. What the lost boy didn’t disclose was that the fears, the gratitude and peculiar perceptions concerning these dreams and distractions would be secretly recorded in once virginal volumes. The storytellers said that they may hold the key…but again the musings within those pages might be a diversion.( maybe the Hawk Hill girls will eventually decide the veracity and worth-whileness .)

But it was the admiration of the freedom of the flight of the feathered friends that changed everything, or so it seems. Growing into a classical type “A” , things needed to be controlled and the pilgrim decided to take things into his own hands. Student of DaVinci and Audubon the lessons commenced on the art of flight. He quickly learned that it took more than  “thinking good thoughts.” It was more like $50/hr for lessons in a Cessna 172! After a few hours of freedom coasting with the angels a day  of reckoning  called “power off stalls”  arrived. The plane would intentionally lose power and lift and fall from the sky. “Relaxation and response”, everything was almost counter intuitive – such as pointing the nose of the plane down. The next week the lost boy was found wondering at the docks of the local lake looking at weekend sloops. So much for taking things into one’s own hands! “Well, the principle of Bournelli’s Theorem applies to flying and sailing” he rationalized. He finally  fulfilled that boyhood dream of discovering the Southern Cross of peace in the wind on the water.

Though the earth has turned more than a thousand times since that day, the wind still speaks to him through the song of the chimes of freedom . The words now flow  effortlessly into the new freshly opened journal with wonder in gratitude about how often he has been distracted  and how he accidentally comes back to the point where he belongs .

“Another year gone by. Another year begins tomorrow.”

“Those who restrain desire, do so because theirs is weak enough to be restrained”

       - The Marriage of Heaven and Hell, The Voice of the Devil, William Blake

amdg

Son Volt - Windfall

Click title and listen

Son Volt - Windfall

Windfall lyrics

Now and then it keeps you running
It never seems to die
The trail's spent with fear
Not enough living on the outside
Never seem to get far enough
Staying in between the lines
Hold on to what you can
Waiting for the end
Not knowing when
May the wind take your troubles away
May the wind take your troubles away
Both feet on the floor, two hands on the wheel,
May the wind take your troubles away
Trying to make it far enough, to the next time zone
Few and far between past the midnight hour
[ From: http://www.elyrics.net/read/s/son-volt-lyrics/windfall-lyrics.html ]
Never feel alone, you're really not alone...
Switching it over to AM
Searching for a truer sound
Can't recall the call letters
Steel guitar and settle down
Catching an all-night station somewhere in Louisiana
It sounds like 1963, but for now it sounds like heaven
May the wind take your troubles away
May the wind take your troubles away
Both feet on the floor, two hands on the wheel,
May the wind take your troubles away.

The Great Mandala: Unexpurgated Scene from "It's A Wonderful Life"

“Remember No man is a failure who has friends.”

-       Clarence, It’s a Wonderful Life

(A while back I began the mental and emotional exercise of  drafting  a Christmas themed posting for the blog ; Christmas , angels, friends , special gifts , and suddenly found myself getting diverted into writing about another one of those “earthly angels” who have influenced me and even saved me. What follows is an accident and  is about a surprising gift I received ..the gift of friendship and  the gift  of love ….if the truth be known…this is just the tip of the iceberg of memories and gratitude.)

Did you ever think about why certain people were placed in your path at specific moment in your life? Sometimes I fantasize that certain folks were really angels sent back to complete some great task in order to earn their wings. Sometimes I wonder if that person I met along the road was really the Buddha who needed to put on another face for me to pay attention to a great lesson he would teach me . Sometimes I think that God  just thought it beneficial for me to intersect with this other creation so this the both of us might become complete . Often these accidental interveners   are characters from which great myths are born. Sometimes these questions and reflections really frighten me, as I believe I have experienced all of the above and more. I guess the heavens believed I need some extra help.

In one particular case I did find an Obi Wan Kenobi, who like to be called Kirk, but who’s real name was John. He used to wander up and down the rivers of life Sherpa-ing pilgrims or wayward adventurers who were too proud to seek assistance to find their way to the open sea. .  His unassuming demeanor was part old salt, part working class hero and part absent-minded A.W.O.L. professor from the Institute of Advanced Studies in Princeton.

One can only imagine what happens when we are not prepared for a particular voyage. Whether it is a river raft or well crafted sailing vessel, being adrift can be stressful especially when your partner  abandons ship because she lost confidence or trust in your seamanship. On one of the occasions, yes there may have been more than one, when I was adrift and floundering a friend threw me a lifeline and said I should meet this river master/sailor - teacher – counselor, who seemingly  was a twin to Kris Kristofferson.  I wondered if I would learn some new songs. Little did I know I would learn a lot more than anticipated and the songs I would learn would be my own?

The first encounter with this old salt guru in disguise was purely transactional. He became navigator for one defined leg of my odyssey.  His methodology was obscure as we conversed about how the universe was in a constant state of change . He said he would assist me to chart a course to be present to the universe, to change, to just being. He noted that I remained disoriented during our setting out together as he whispered “the secret was to let go!”  In order to do this I discovered that I had to trust…myself, the universe and yes…God.

Our mentor/mentee relationship slowly transformed to become companions striving, seeking , finding and not yielding on our way to find out..

My familiarity with the classics helped me realize that a characteristic of most gurus, mythological and real , is that they have some retreat place hidden off away from the busy-ness and distractions of the world. Kirks’ was a house on a lake in the woods. For all I knew there might have been a steady stream of pilgrims who visited him at this holy ground but his welcoming made me feel as though I was the only one who was ever invited into his sanctuary in the woods. Books of all kinds and subjects adorned his table and floors. His yoga mediation pillow faced the window overlooking the lake with his professional astronomer’s telescope just a short grasp away in case he needed to get a closer witness of a meteor blessing the heavens at night.

My visits were almost a religious ritual.  Upon entering his inner sanctum he began with a short silent tea ceremony that transitioned to quietly soaking in the solace and solitude of the waves on the lake reflecting the gold and red rays of a sun bidding farewell beyond the mountain. Words eventually flowed like the streams that fed to and emanated from the lake. We spoke of poetry, nature, relationships, sailing, spirituality and more poetry. Teacher was student and vice versa.  He shared how he was at times awestruck with contemplations of contemporaries like Joseph Campbell, Frederick Franck, Robert Bly, and David Whyte and how he humbly admired his old friend and classmate, Robert Kennedy SJ. , who had become a true Zen master priest .

Our time together was part Zen sesshin and part story telling. He loved it when I brought my girls to visit. His smile sprouted from deep within and easily blossomed to become a contagion to all those in his presence.

In gratitude I invited him to accompany me him to a gathering of the great poets at The Dodge Poetry Festival. It was the first time I witnessed tears fill his eyes while intently soaked in the verses and images of the likes of Billy Collins and Mark Doty. But it was when Kunitz peeled back the layers for the pilgrims gathered on theat mountain when Kirk touched my arm and whispered,  “listen.” I wasn’t sure if he meant to Kunitz or the wind swaying the leaves. It doesn’t matter.

Though a lapsed Catholic his personal office was decorated with paintings of French cathedrals. He had studied in Paris and rationalized that the pictures helped him recall a special time of his life. I said “You can take the boy out of the church but you can’t take the church out of the boy.” He nodded  “not bad, a good one.” That phrase would echo the retort of another Buddha I have met , Fr. Tom , Hmmm? During the course of Kirk’s own early voyage he retreated with this own Yoda, Robert Kennedy SJ, for perspective. Kirk reported that he told his master that he had trouble with prayer and faith. His master said,  “Well at least you tried.”

Since the Jesuits schooled him he seemed to be sincerely respectful and genuinely interested in my own spiritual exercises with my newly found priestly companions.  I think he was relieved that there were others who could take on the task of trying to teach me. He would often reflect on the similarities of the great spiritual masters. I shouldn’t have been surprised at his adroitness in the quick quoting of Ignatius of Loyola, Thomas Merton, Teresa of Avila and Lao Tzu, the Dalai Lama and Thich Nhat Hanh and a litany of other saints. Every so often he would also quote a line from some long lost poem or repeat a phrase of a French philosopher, in French of course,  that would illustrate his point. Though an avid meditator he would query me about my own prayer and my experiences of centering prayer, which was much like his Zen meditation. I gave him a book of Jesuit prayers, Hearts on Fire. He was delighted but smartly critiqued the gift “these are poems!”

As if it were a common quality of great teachers and companions he, like my friend Herb, would give me books to read. Usually they would be collections of poetry or Haiku. These would be well used and devoured texts ,dog eared , pages slightly falling from the binding and marked with his own notes . I wondered  , “maybe the notes were intended for me?”

I can see and hear him now in his Stickley leathered Mission armchair musing about how Tibetan monks would create great works of art out of millions of colored grains of sand. These intricate works of art, he explained,  are called  Mandalas and once the wonderfully colored piece of art was complete the monks would sweep away the grains of sand and the artwork was gone. He would softly conclude,  “You do know things change and besides the real art is in the doing.” Sometimes I believe he really was a Buddha in disguise  always focused on the present. He was a real artist…an artist of life. http://www.mysticalartsoftibet.org/Mandala.htm

At a more vulnerable time he retrieved a collection of handwritten pages that were being typed by one of his daughters. These were his own memoirs. It was interesting to realize that he too was intrigued by the “accidental” encounters in his life and where these seemed to lead him. He smiled when I suggested that the title of his tome be “The Accidental Therapist.” We discussed how he really never had a “career plan” he said he just let go and followed his heart.

He never stopped speaking about his wife and his children. Even when his wife passed he continued to speak of her as if she were still present. I think she was. A mantle was passed right after one of our tea ceremonies at the lake retreat. He  requested that I spend sometime with one of his sons. His confidence in my ability to counsel and chart a course for his son about career matters was humbling. It was also around the same time when my own business life began to rapidly unravel.  I sought him out at the sanctuary and requested his consolation. All he gave me was one word “courage.” Of course it was the right prescription.

But as all things change eventually his time had come to leave this world. I am still angry as I was filled with busyness trying to do whatever I could to get out of a hole I had dug and not staying connected with him. Ignoring or denying his failing health it was the longest period of silence we had experienced since we first met twenty some odd years earlier. But he had not forgotten as he had left my phone number with his children so I could be told  he was gone. His son left a voice mail message with the news of his passing. I cried and read a David Whyte poem as if it would help me reconnect with him one more time.

News of Death

- - - - - - - - - -

Last night they came with news of death
not knowing what I would say.

I wanted to say,
"The green wind is running through the fields
making the grass lie flat."

I wanted to say,
"The apple blossom flakes like ash
covering the orchard wall."

I wanted to say,
"the fish float belly up in the slow stream,
stepping stones to the dead."

They asked if I would sleep that night,
I said I did not know.

For this loss I could not speak,
the tongue lay idle in a great darkness,
the heart was strangely open,
the moon had gone,
and it was then
when I said, "He is no longer here"
that the night put its arms around me
and all the white stars turned bitter with grief.

At the wake I met one of his daughters who said that her dad spoke about me often.

My eyes filled. She wanted me to know that just before he would close his earthly eyes forever he said to her “teach me to pray ” I said to her…”his life was a prayer.”  His own Mandala complete , he was swept away.

 --------------------------------------------------------------------

Accidental Therapist

The pilgrim became

that dancer

the troubador sang about

one with uncoordinated sorts ,

Kind of A poet, word worker

A singer of  self crafted music

A pray-er of spark sown meditation.

That certificate  sought

Was just waiting

for the official waxed seal

Created years ago

yearning within.

Confused seekening a  mentor,

accidental therapist

Poetic sherpa

He exited the cathedral

But the cathedral had not left him.

Sailor, consoler , guide, meditator

Introducer to the great spirits

Wandering the hardwoods

Earning his degree diplomate.

Introducing the pilgrim

To word and spirit master

From east and west

Together at the gathering

They peeled back the layers

Proclaimed by the laureate.

They sailed unchartered waters

Selected  mantras

Consumed the silence

Of the great tea ceremony

As student

Introduced the teacher

His children and the power

Of powers.

But the like whyte’s river

Pouring out into the sea

The mentor departed

Before the pigrim  would say

A prayer of gratitude.

        -J.F.Sobecki

amdg

Sometimes one has to wonder what some Division of Motor Vehicles clerks put in their coffee in the morning! It is as if someone has given some basement-cured drug that helped him or her remain in  Dr. Jekyll’s Mr. Hyde  state for a full eight-hour shift! After meandering in serpentine lines at the local DMV I had finally made it to the final gate where I carefully and anxiously confronted the Cerebus of the DMV! The rights of passage attaining the golden prize of a renewed driver’s license were about to be consummated. This bureaucratic beast   gave a burning gaze at my previously pre-approved documents and said, “Your name is different on certain documents. You can go no further!”  (Which meant that I would not have a renewed state driver’s license!)

Scrambling for an answer or believable excuse I recalled how I had changed the spelling of my first name from “JOHN” to “Jon” while in my rebellious years and then converting it back to “John” when an illumination sparked a spiritual metanoia. I lied to this administrative guardian of the gate of hell “it was a clerical error made on my marriage license application years ago and I never changed that mistake.”

I avoided explaining that back when I was born children seemed to be named after grandparent’s .So being a good mother my mom selected John after my paternal grandfather. My father’s family story was that Jadec (my grandfather) was reported to be a descendant of a King John of Poland in the 16^th century, who was infamous for being the hero saving the Holy Roman Empire from an invasion of the Ottoman Turks! Rumors grew to mythical proportions of how the Viennese people celebrated their salvation from the Turks by creating a pastry in the form of a halo in support of King John’s saintly effort.  They say that pastry was the birth of the bagel.  However, this King had fathered a child out of wedlock and had an illicit affair while married. Maybe that’s why he was never “sainted”.  (Nice namesake huh?) But I realized that this King spelled his name “J-A-N”, not the common everyday

 J-O-H-N.

The real “A- Ha “ moment sparked as I became aware of how my good ole bachelor uncles had nicknamed me “Janko.” Coincidentally it was also the same nickname given to my ancestor King John was given as a boy.  Somehow my connectedness to this ancestor was being confirmed.

Yet, it is Janik that is a familiar form of Jon in Polish as it is an affectionate term loosely translated as “Johnny.”  But then Janko in Polish was also a different adaptation of the name Jon. Its been said that this nickname of Janko is an affectionate term loosely translated to mean “John the Troublemaker.”  That ancestor king was noted as being so mischievous even in his early days and that he was called “Janko.” Hmmm, again I felt a sense of connectedness! So without further forethought of any possible legal implications fifty years hence I changed the spelling of my first name to “J-o-n. “ I thought that this would be some affirmation of my roots and distinguish me as being a little different from my contemporary “Johns.” Like I needed the help of a new sir name to do that!

 So before I could further qualify my remarks about the different spellings of my first name to this formal control freak DMV clerk she retorted instantly, “No, that’s not it. You se on some of the documents you have a middle name, Francis, and on most documents there isn’t any mention of a middle name. “

I danced, bobbed and weaved and the clerk finally said, “well I’m just saying…you might run into a problem with social security.” Quickly I answered “Why do you say that as I am collecting social security now.” She took my picture, where my smile looked more like a grimace, produced the picture and handed me my new license and I think I heard her say “See ya in four years - Janko!”   http://www.about-poland.com/polish-history.html

But the truth be told is that over the years I have been given several other nicknames or labels by others. During a Catholic ceremonial rite of passage called confirmation, Sr. Philomena of the Sorrowful Sisters of No Mercy asked what name I had chosen as my confirmation name. I was proud as I thought I had put some serious thought into this exercise and selected the name Dismas, the good thief on the cross next to the crucified Jesus. While hanging on the cross next to Jesus the thief attests to his belief that Jesus is the Son of God and then Jesus says to the thief   that he will be with Jesus in Heaven that day. I believe that Dismas is the only person other that Jesus who is mentioned in the scripture as being in heaven. I thought that this was not too shabby for a thirteen year old to figure this out. But Sister countered that Dismas was a mythical name and not a saint. Catholics were supposed to select a name of a saint (a lot happens in thirty years as Dismas is now a saint) and therefore I needed to select another name. Immediately I shouted “St. George”, the hovering nun responded just as quickly “Why? “ and quipped, “Because he was known as the dragon slayer.” Janko rides!

During my first year of high school I accidentally won a persuasive presentation competition in taking the pro side of the argument that the Confederate States of America separated from the union over preserving states rights (too long to argue e that perspective here and I don’t want to give ant Tea Party members any further ammunition,) In reality I recall being more obstinate than persuasive.  As a result of this victory my friends labeled me “Reb. ” The girl I was dating at the time thought the nickname was “cool” and meant something else. She gave me the Shirelle’s single “He’s a Rebel” as a Christmas gift. Reb , Janko …at least I was consistent.

When working in Copperhill, Tennessee some of the locals  labeled me  “The Reverend” as I seemed to preach more than speak with them.  Of course the sports teams I coached called me “coach” and some students I have taught called me “Captain” (but you will have to watch the movie the  Dead Poets Society or read “Oh Captain, My Captain” by Walt Whitman to understand that nickname.) They also like to call me “Mr. S. O. B.”(I thought it meant “soft ole bugger.”)

But out of all the nicknames and names I have been called and have chosen for myself I prefer one. It is a name that makes me melt every time I hear it said. It is a name that reminds me of how an imperfect pilgrim can be blessed(by the gift of my two daughters) It is a name that I would change my first name to if I could legally. Out of all the names and nicknames I have been called it is a name that describes how I would like to be remembered. Every time I hear this name called out by someone else I cannot help but to look up and believe the person who was saying the name was calling me. I know many others who have been called the same. However, the one name I love to be called is “dad.” 

I wonder how the DMV clerk will react in four years if I come in with a new sir name – “Dad.”

But now thus says the LORD, he who created you, O Jacob, he who formed you, O Israel: Do not fear, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by name, you are mine.

    -.(Isaiah 43:1)

amdg

John Lennon-Watching the Wheels

John Lennon-Watching the Wheels

Thanks John...Happy Birthday.
I have adopted this song as my own.
(Click to link to listen)

People say I'm crazy doing what I'm doing
Well they give me all kinds of warnings to save me from ruin
When I say that I'm o.k. well they look at me kind of strange
Surely you're not happy now you no longer play the game

People say I'm lazy dreaming my life away
Well they give me all kinds of advice designed to enlighten me
When I tell them that I'm doing fine watching shadows on the wall
Don't you miss the big time boy you're no longer on the ball

I'm just sitting here watching the wheels go round and round
I really love to watch them roll
No longer riding on the merry-go-round
I just had to let it go

Ah, people asking questions lost in confusion
Well I tell them there's no problem, only solutions
Well they shake their heads and they look at me as if I've lost my mind
I tell them there's no hurry
I'm just sitting here doing time

I'm just sitting here watching the wheels go round and round
I really love to watch them roll
No longer riding on the merry-go-round
I just had to let it go
I just had to let it go
I just had to let it go

Part Four: Odysseus meets Alice in the Town of Princes

“…'It's very good jam,' said the Queen.
'Well, I don't want any today, at any rate.'
'You couldn't have it if you did want it,' the Queen said. 'The rule is, jam to-morrow and jam yesterday--but never jam to-day.'
'It must come sometimes to "jam to-day,"' Alice objected.
'No, it can't,' said the Queen. 'It's jam every other day: to-day isn't any other day, you know.'
'I don't understand you,' said Alice. 'It's dreadfully confusing!'
'That's the effect of living backwards,' the Queen said kindly: 'it always makes one a little giddy at first--'
'Living backwards!' Alice repeated in great astonishment. 'I never heard of such a thing!'
'--but there's one great advantage in it, that one's memory works both ways.'
'I'm sure mine only works one way,' Alice remarked. 'I can't remember things before they happen.'
'It's a poor sort of memory that only works backwards,' the Queen remarked.”

- Through the Looking Glass, Lewis Carroll

Roaming from town to town with or without the Belmontettes can be an odyssey of sorts . Coming to a crossroads like Alice confused about which path to take is not the time to trust the counsel of an obscure wisecracking Cheshire cat. We have learned that it is the Aeolian winds and songs that direct the pilgrim’s earthen vessels to uncharted water and unexpected experiences on an unknown sea.What will happen and what will be learned is known only the Mad Hatter and a select few of the gods. The source of the secret is said to be reason for the clash between the Titans and Olympians.

It has been twenty years since the launch the current adventure when the pilgrim’s band of knights commenced their philanthropic crusade for the innocents plagued with neuromuscular disorders on a battleground that would be known as the “fields of dreams.” The fields were built and the players came to participate just as the voice had promised. The joy-filled battle ensued with echoing cracks of metallic bats accompanied with the odors of oiled and soiled leather and freshly grilled hot dogs drifting with the assistance of the breath of God to Rockingham , the historic campaign headquarters of the rebellion’s reluctant king . This land-based island of tigers and the institute that would give birth to relativity eventually became incorporated as the “town of princes” and welcomed future chivalric crusades while harboring the pilgrim-sailor and his princesses on their passage.

In honor of their successful crusade this pilgrim descendant of the once infamous great “troublemaker”, and savior of the papal empire ,and his Samaritan daughters were summoned to be recognized . Penelope disguised as the Queen of Hearts monitored the occasion with DYFS on her cell phone speed dial just in case. The celebration would be broadcast to the kingdom on the date reserved for honoring workers and Jerry’s kids.The landmark in which their holy war’s victory would be consecrated was within a three-pointer of Hawk Hill where the hallowed halls of the Son’s companions sat. Named for the patron of workers and fathers this grace-filled ground of illumination would soon shelter the princesses in their jedi-noviate equipping them for their own adventures against their Cyclops’ and random multi-headed Greek beasts. One princess would chose to return to this place of brotherly love as apprentice care giver taking the oath of a nightingale. While the first one chose the route of Telemachus as a resource in attempting to catch the workers as they jumped off the cliffs into a fields of rye. She would secure shelter and mentoring in the land where a fictionalized house would become somewhat famous on the boro’s plains near the home of princes, tigers and laureates (oh My!).

It is assumed that Homer and Socrates could not be successful in their conjectures , nor could any of poets gathered at their Woodstock craft alliterations, or assonance , the Jungian synchronicity of the pilgrim’s progress. Mr. Joyce even got diverted from this task and took Leopold with him on his flight to France . It is the goddess Pyche who knows where the question and the answers begin and end. “It’s a secret” she says. It all humbles us to remember “if momma ain’t happy nobody is happy.” Yet, the monastics of Manresa in their well meaning discernment of the spirits and the journey’s import chose to rationalize causality of the interconnectedness of events in the form of the centering mantra… “it’s a mystery .”

"Coincidence is God's way of remaining anonymous."
- Albert Einstein

“If you want to make God laugh, tell him about your plans.”

- Woody Allen

”`Cheshire Puss,' [Alice] began, rather timidly, as she did not at all know whether it would like the name: however, it only grinned a little wider. `Come, it's pleased so far,' thought Alice, and she went on. `Would you tell me, please, which way I ought to go from here?'
`That depends a good deal on where you want to get to,' said the Cat.
`I don't much care where--' said Alice.
`Then it doesn't matter which way you go,' said the Cat.
`--so long as I get SOMEWHERE,' Alice added as an explanation.
`Oh, you're sure to do that,' said the Cat, `if you only walk long enough.'"

- Through The looking Glass, Lewis Carroll

“…Old age hath yet his honour and his toil;
Death closes all: but something ere the end,
Some work of noble note, may yet be done,
Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.
The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks:
The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends,
’Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.
Tho’ much is taken, much abides; and tho’
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

- Ulysses , Alfred Lord Tennyson

amdg

Part Three : Diversions :The exiled pilgrim finds refuge in a safe harbor

"Every day is a journey, and the journey itself is home "

- Basho

The geese that normally rest along the shoreline of the mist-coated lake of the new day’s early morning hour were absent today. No typical honks or to echoes of flapping loosened feathers were present to pierce the silence and solitude.

“ Have they heard the news of the potential storm heading this way and took their

chevron formation to some safe lake further inland? Or , did they begin their communal charted pre-Labor day trek south to their winter retreat?”

The anticipated consociation transformed, the solitude gingerly tiptoed it’s path between the rocks along the shoreline and desolation. Expectation of a forthcoming hurricane is not anomalous as storms are usually advance notices of a change in season. Leaves departing their branches and the transition from warm sea breezes to chilling winds that cause one to lift their collars should be enough to indicate change. However, it seems that nature prefers a dramatic entrance.

This observation conjures a recollection of when the exiled pilgrim had arrived circuitously at the place of hallowed ground that was coincidentally only a short distance from his own home port .Yet , it took finding shelter a thousand miles from this port to receive an invitation to this proximate hallowed ground.

While on a journey seeking legal tender for the selective apportionment of talents a new refuge was discovered overlooking the big muddy that once carried Tom, Huck and Jim into a new world. The prayer on the precipice sparked a consolation that evolved into an unexpected invitation from a recovering resident priest . He knew of a secret hidden hallowed ground along millionaires row not far from this adventurer’s Ithaca.

The sailor's loyal companion, Argos, welcomed the pilgrim on the return to his home and forgave him unconditionally for his meanderings and belief that self discovery was achieved through attachments to worldly things and victories. Both kept the secret of the probability that pilgrim’s journey was not over and that it had most likely just begun. Without discussion, a chart or a plan the pilgrim set out to find that sacred place the recovering priest had described.

In due course the holy ground , once the shelter for a famous former money trader who’s family gifted it for the greater glory, was found without much drama or consternation. This blessed place was now the home of the companions who were called to serve all pilgrims in need of rest on their journeys.

The first companion welcomed this pilgrim and queried:

“ Where have you been? We have always been here and we have been waiting for you”

The pilgrim retorted,

“No one had ever invited me before.”

The first companion ,

“You were invited when you started your journey. You were just too busy to listen to the voice calling you.”

The first companion introduced this self described wayward imperfect sailor to a second companion who then took it upon himself to be the pilgrim’s sherpa . They put the pilgrim’s baggage aside and the journey started anew. These newly found companions immediately loved this sinner and lowered his paralyzed heart into the presence of the wonder counselor. The journey and the man would then never be the same. This house of retreats and solitude had become the intermittent safe harbor from which this pilgrim would take respite to be consoled, illuminated and recharged as he kept retreating from the storms and the wrath of contemptuous world-wise demons . The abundance of blessings of the past became more obvious as grace bathed him while he was immersed into his own new season.

Suddenly the early morning’s meditation concerning the purpose of the little lake for the traveling geese made sense. All creatures need safe harbors and companions on their journey.

Post script: As the Next Season begins

Just a month ago I happened to visit my old friend and former spiritual director

Fr. Lou., who now lives three hours from my home We hadn’t seen each other in years. It took only a minute for us to rekindle the spark that connected us twenty years ago. Also, I ran into former retreat house director , Dick ,who now lives up north not far from Lou and has a new life and family. He and I met again at the retreat house. It was good to reconnect. But then Fr. Tom ,my Buddha, who has been showing wear and tear of a long-time dedicated shepra who had a stroke and has been taken to the society’s infirmary. He has taught me much and I pray for him constantly. Now I discover that that first companion, Fr. Bill, who would eventually guide me

through the 19^th Annotation of the Spiritual Exercises of St. Ignatius has been transferred with fellow companion Fr. Ed both near Dick and Lou. I will miss them both as I miss them all. Maybe I need to head north?

I wonder if the fond memories of grace will carry me through my next season and if their “house on holy ground” will continue as source of consolation and safe harbor .

Thank you for The Society of Jesus - especially Lou, Dick, Bill, Ed, Tom, Gerry, Kirk , all the companions who have welcomed me on my journey

into their safe harbors of White House , Loyola and Eastern Point .

The Earth Turned to Bring Us Closer

The earth turned to bring us closer,
it spun on itself and within us,
and finally joined us together in this dream
as written in the Symposium.
Nights passed by, snowfalls and solstices;
time passed in minutes and millennia.
An ox cart that was on its way to Nineveh
arrived in Nebraska.
A rooster was singing some distance from the world,
in one of the thousand pre–lives of our fathers.
The earth was spinning with its music
carrying us on board;
it didn't stop turning a single moment
as if so much love, so much that's miraculous
was only an adagio written long ago
in the Symposium’s score.

(Eugenio Montejo, 1938)

amdg

Summer Bonus track - The gift

(Here is a reflection on what recently happened when my email was hijacked and a financial scam went out to my address book under my name . Suddenly dozens of companions, fellow travelers, associates , friends and some strangers reached out with compassion and concern and again I was humbled )

There is nothing like the melancholic peace-filling mood of a Van Morrison ballad to set the tone for a day or even a week . His up tempo ditties are actually poems that simply sooth the seeker’s heart.

Who would have ever thought that technology would become an instrument of constant communication? Also, who would have thought that the removal of the instrument might bring silence and loneliness to one’s existence ?

Imagine technology becoming your voice and ears and then suddenly some demonic thief grabs these senses from you and you are deaf and speechless. For a moment you are falling into a deep hole where you are disconnected from everyone and everything., or so it seemed . The threads that have kept you connected to spirits of the earth suddenly have evaporated and the wavelength that secured the source to receive the great messages has disappeared from the dial.

Disconnected, lost, voiceless, helpless, prayerful , wandering and desperately trying to unravel the web of self-pity a depressing realization overwhelms. There doesn’t seem to be any way to tap into self-reliance to deliver one from a morass of despair.

Hope magically arrives in the form of previous connections secured in relationships with fellow pilgrims , wandering family members and companions of the sacred heart . Without hesitation these fellow journeyists lift the sense-less paralytic up and lower him into the presence of the wonderful healer and consoler.

Realizing one is not created to be here alone and that the previous giving of one’s self was returned to ten fold with the awareness that connection was never lost.

They say that prayer is a form of seeking connection…but one doesn’t need wifi or 4G service on a cell phone to make connection…just an opened heart .

Days Like This

When it isn´t always raining there will be days like this
When theres no one complaining there will be days like this
When everything falls into place like the flick of a switch
Well my mama told me there will be days like this

When you do not need to worry there will be days like this
When no one has in a hurry there will be days like this
When you do not get betrayed by that old Judas kiss
Oh my mama told me there will be days like this

When you do not need an answer there will be days like this
When you do not meet a chancer there will be days like this
When all the parts of the puzzle start to look like they fit
Then I must remember there will be days like this

When everyone is up front & they are not playing tricks
When you do not have no freeloaders out to get their kicks
When it is nobody´s business the way that you want to live
I just have to remember there will be days like this

When no one steps on my dreams there will be days like this
When people understand what I mean there will be days like this
When you ring out the changes of how everything´s
Well my mama told me there will be days like this

Oh my mama told me
There will be days like this
Oh my mama told me
There will be days like this
Oh my mama told me
There will be days like this
Oh my mama told me
There will be days like this

amdg

Van Morrison - Days Like This

Van Morrison - Days Like This

Jackson Browne - Time The Conqueror - New Album

Jackson Browne - Time The Conqueror - New Album

Ulysses at the safe harbor of Syracuse (soliciting martyred spirits while recovering from sinusitis.)

"At the Day of Judgment we shall not be asked what we have read but what we have done."

- The Imitation of Christ, Book I, ch. 3

(“Sometimes when the winds and sea are becalmed itinerant sailors take a moment to reflect about - how far and what for. ”)

July 31,2010

- Solemnity of St Ignatius of Loyola, priest, founder of the Society of Jesus

Seven thousand three hundred sunrises and sunsets, or around 735 million beats of the heart, give or take one or two, a ring of the chimes of freedom mark the celebration of the repaired sacred heart. It was just a short 7515 hard and soft covered pages consumed and scoured that filled the space between twenty – three attempts at discovering and producing the appropriate collections of words that would best represent what had been churning deep within.

More than one hundred and ten new faces with sponge-like minds presented themselves to soak in the barrels of unwonted accumulated flotsam called knowledge that would be poured into their yet to be filled experience. New names and places were recorded just in case they needed to be recalled at some distant event. Some of the faces and voices left indelible marks where no memory was needed as they have become one on the journey. Gratitude grew for the spirits who were of the pilgrim, the one’s who never left, the one’s who would hold him up and lower him through the roof into the presence of the great healer, the one’s who reflected parts of his own being became closer in their own journey of individuation.

It is not hard to conjure the physical and spiritual impact of 1,584,000 paces around the pond in the Norwegian woods. The steps were accompanied by 4,350 iTouch sorted musical collections from Beatles to Bocelli to recent reminisces by Cohen. Digital downloads preselected prayers and reflections would also augmented the 6700 breaths filling in the scenery of gaggled geese gliding gleefully down from heaven onto the glassy waters of the lake as the sum peaked pouring her pure glowing warmth over the guardian trees.

Forty minutes of pre-dawn examens preceded by thirty minutes or so of reflections on the current experience and the liturgically based scriptural passage are all usually concluded with no words or thoughts meditations attempting to be completely present. Approximately one hundred and eighty of these events have been journaled to take place outside in the witness of the night sky fading and color gradually making her appearance. Sometimes the silence and solitude seeps secretly surrendering into the soul waking the humbled spirit to gratitude. Though the countless dawns regardless of clouds or clarity of crisp blue heavens maintain one constancy, the welcoming song of the morning bird. The occasions of her absence can be counted on one hand and realized that she was protecting herself from an intermittent storm so she could sing again on a new day. Then there were the other hundred and eighty mornings where living rooms, dens and hotel rooms became the official prayer closets. A rare occurrence was watching the majesty of the sea gently kissing the sand at sunrise and the silent dew resting on the surface of a lonely lake. This seeking soul slowly begins to be filled with graces pouring from within and without.

It is easy to get angry at the ineptitude of the countless meteorologists who most often completely miss the prediction of storms that will impact a specific region. Sixty-one and a half inches of snow over a 120 day period. Adding that amount to the previous year’s total brings the grand amount to not even 90 inches. Hawk Hill girls became “snowed in” and a city of “Brotherly Love” cut off affection and shut down for three days on two occasions. Blessed by a good neighbor more than eleven events of motorized blowing snow and sharing fresh brewed java filled the space between the wet winds blown flakes.

Nashville cats, Haitians, Peruvians, Chinese and thousands of other spirits departed their vessels as a result of Mother Nature telling us that something’s wrong. And, if that were not enough corporate greed decides to unleash the remnants of million years fossil fuels gifted us by once grand and great extinct creatures, choking God’s current creatures of the air and sea leaving us to stand on black coated beaches.

One hundred and four Sundays, twenty or so additional holy days, intermittent days

where reverence and adoration consumed the spirit. Body and blood blessing the being bringing the holiness that fills the universe fueling the depths of the pilgrim vessel. The end of work as we knew it and desired sets with the last sun of winter. The new flowers proclaims spring making a calm and deliberate entrance . Hours of spiritual direction then prevailed deciphering and discerning spirits under the umbrella of a 19^th annotation, opening the heart once more.

Bookmarked, dog-eared pages of life included a short record of being two and one at Fenway since the year of the second chance dance. Eagles soared and Bruce pleaded in protest the prospect of the wrecking ball bringing down the cathedral of giants. Philadelphia blue eyed soul brothers temporarily provided relief and on another Browne’s laments consoled the night away. Companions depart along the way , one responds to a larger voice and the Buddha of Christ Chapel now awaits at heaven’s gate. Reconnections to companions once thought lost sing of salvation. Bout markers remind the helmsman’s “red on right return” as the vessel slowly wakes herself through the long channel home.

Knots measure the time it takes a vessel to traverse one nautical mile. 9-3 Saab convertible goes from 0 to 60 in 6.7 seconds. The recent baccalaureated Hawk Hill girl purports that the vehicle represents a symbol of an “old life” crisis.” The motion wound watch and electronic clocks alike seem to repeat themselves over and over again. The amount of time it takes to consume an Irish Black and Tan varies as bartenders know that a “Guinness pint” is not a standard measurement as the days of savoring sip by sip increase and the days of chugging are bid a fond farewell.

How many words have been spoken?

How many words and thoughts have been heard?

How many laughs were shouted out? How many gentle smiles shared?

What is the number of tears shed and for whom?

How many songs and been sung and poems read where the spirit was raised up and comforted?

How many empty hearts were consoled and wandering souls comforted?

Was love given freely?

Was there real authentic presence to the living God in all things all ways?

It is the eve of the second anniversary of the Second Chance Dance where the pilgrim’s heart, the core of an aging vessel was given new hope with a new wind, the breath of God filling the sails. Unfortunately it is taking so long for the initial illumination to take root …that for the ever-wandering ever-wondering pilgrim sailor it is not a matter of how far, how much , how many or how often , but isn’t it is all about just “how” one lives loves and serves that makes the journey a worthwhile endeavor?

Seasons Of Love

Five hundred twenty-five thousand
Six hundred minutes,
Five hundred twenty-five thousand
Moments so dear

Five hundred twenty-five thousand
Six hundred minutes
How do you measure, measure a year?

In daylights, in sunsets, in midnights
In cups of coffee
In inches, in miles, in laughter, in strife

In five hundred twenty-five thousand
Six hundred minutes
How do you measure a year in the life?

How about love? How about love?
How about love? Measure in love

Seasons of love
Seasons of love

Five hundred twenty-five thousand
Six hundred minutes
Five hundred twenty-five thousand
Journeys to plan

Five hundred twenty-five thousand
Six hundred minutes
How do you measure the life
Of a woman or a man?

In truths that she learned
Or in times that he cried
In bridges he burned
Or the way that she died

It's time now to sing out
Tho' the story never ends
Let's celebrate
Remember a year in the life of friends

Remember the love
(Oh you got to, got to)
Remember the love
(Remember the love)
Seasons of love
(Measure measure you life in love)
Seasons of love
Seasons of love

Time The Conqueror

- J. Browne

Time on my side, a stowaway in the slipstream
A time I could glide the shifting currents of my dream
In my dream the sunlight was falling from one side
And every blade of grass was casting its own shadow
And every little bird was singing its own song

Time in my mind, the past of least resistance
The future almost blind, both in need of assistance
In my mind the question: Sunrise or sunset?
In my mind I'm certain: Nothing's certain yet

With every grain of sand casting its own shadow
And every ray of the sun flashing on the sea
Time may heal all wounds
But time will steal you blind
Time the wheel, time the conqueror

Time to decide what kind of world I believe in
The world open wide,
Or the world about to stop breathing
In my world I'm standing just inside the door
In my world I'm speaking into the ocean's roar

And every thought of you casts its own little shadow
And everything I wanted, subject to review
Time may heal all wounds
But time will steal you blind
Time the wheel, time the conqueror
Time will heal all wounds but time...

amdg