An Auld Lang Syne Dialogue

                                                       (Click image to play)

                                                   scene from "Midnight in Paris"

 

nos·tal·gia

 1: the state of being homesick : homesickness 2: a wistful or excessively sentimental yearning for return to or of some past period or irrecoverable condition…

"Remembrance is a form of meeting." ~ Kahlil Gibran

“Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.”

                            ~  George Santyana

(The following is a transcript from a secretly taped meeting of a seeker's sanzen  with a Zen Master)

The seeker asked,

“Is it really wrong to dream about another time and another place?”

The teacher soberly responded….

“That all depends on one’s motivation for the yearning. It also depends

on what one is yearning for. I guess.”

“You guess? You guess? Don’t you know any more than guessing”

“Well, you could say it’s a good guess, then. You see the term nostalgia can find it’s origins from Homer and the painful aching neurotic almost obsessed desire to get back home, to a place and time of safety, good times, peace and happiness. This of course is a fantasy or a state of selective memory that is created to avoid the fears of dealing with the current moment or dealing with the ambiguity of the future. Many Swiss soldiers and soldiers in the American Civil war were often labeled with a disease called “nostalgia.”  Soldiers in World War I and in World War II were also diagnosed with this disease and sent home to be treated for their “homesickness.”

“Yeh, but weren’t they all just afraid of death and the unknown?”

“Yes, that’s quite possible. There are volumes written about retreating to the past ,  locus of control and intolerance of ambiguity as well as the basic fears of death and dying. But personally I believe much of the aching to get back home or to the past has a lot to do with avoiding being present to the current experience …now.”

“Don’t you think that some folks can just have fond memories about certain times and places? Don’t you think that certain songs, pictures or selective possessions can conjure up fond emotions with a smile about a specific period, person or place from the past ”

“Of course memories can be quite joyful. But if we get lost in living in the past then it might be important to explore what is driving the perceived need to exist in the past . Let me explain further.”

“Please do because now I am completely confused.”

“Sometimes it is selective memory that surfaces our desire and fondness for a certain time or period in the past. If we had a digital video of our life history we may find that the certain fond memories are edited episodes that are only minutely accurately anchored in a small iota of truth. Sometimes we may have had a very delightful experience in the past and our recollection fires up that positive emotion again and the memory fuels the flame to be a little greater than of the original experience.“

“Yeh , I know I have some friends who remember our attending school together as a wonderful experience and I don’t see it that way at all.”

“Well, remember sometimes it is all a matter of personal perspective and how was that time or place for them and how is it or isn’t it consistent with your experience or view. Also, what is driving them now to fondly remember that particular time?  It is not a bad thing to consider and reflect fondly on the past…friends, lovers, or occasions. It can be quite comforting. Even recalling one’s who have passed on can be healthy. What I am saying is remembrance is good but just not necessarily healthy to get mired down in the desire “to live” in the past. It is all not black and white, you know.”

“Yeh ,well you may be right. I love my fifty year old guitar and the music of the 60’s and delight in the great books and artists and poets of the early 20^th century.  I feel like I fit in some other time or place….”


The teacher attempted to console the seeker ...

“ I know what you mean. I really do. But it seems to me that sometimes we need to be grateful for whatever and wherever we are and have some faith and trust in the universe that we are the right road at the right time. They haven’t invented time travel yet to jump into the past or future. Nobody really knows what’s next. I know you know the saying…

‘The clock is running. Make the most of today. Time waits for no man. Yesterday is history. Tomorrow is a mystery. Today is a gift. That's why it is called the present.’

So, the best we can really do is to do is to love another and do whatever we can to learn how to savor the moment.”

“Hey, I just wrote about that perspective on life in my journal”

“What’s that?”

“Loving another and savoring the moment”

“Well then...”

amdg

A Pilgrim's Pondering ( Christmas 2011 )

The pilgrim read the news today. “Oh boy,” he thought as he saw the headlines. Economic downturn and spiraling unemployment figures in waring blenderized calculations indicated for economists and politicians a prediction that the worst is yet to come. The words were clear for anyone to see, ”Christmas may not come this year.”

He just had to laugh. Though his friend had blown his mind out of fear of that black hole of despair, (“no faith-no courage”, some said,) it is not what the pilgrim understood in the good books he had read .The lights had changed but it really didn’t matter. Victory is not celebrated with the abundant accumulation of things. Contrary to current catechesis for communicants grace will not thrive in only those who have achieved the most points.

In the beginning the pilgrim misunderstood. The words were good but often became muddled and confusing by translators who had their own agenda to support. His Obe Wan once consoled him, “It is the birth of love that matters. It is the nourishing the love within and with others that is the point. There is nothing you do but you can learn how to be you in time - its easy. All you need is one thing.“

It is fine and the sun shines even if there are clouds overhead. Lonely winters too come to an end. The fool was said to have said, “You have to know the dark to see the light.” Well, whoever said it was right you know.

The three wise men, actually two males and a female who were therapists in disguise, appeared in a dream and told the pilgrim of how they readied themselves for their busy season.

The first one said, “ The waiting for that one joyful day and moment is too frustrating for some, especially when that day gets here and it is much like any other day“

The second added, ”The problem is that most humans bought into the promise that worldly success will set them free and bring them peace and happiness.”

The third concluded “The real gifts of grace aren’t under a tree in December.”

The Pilgrim knew he would carry the weight of what was read and heard. There was only one word and one-way ….to get back home – love.

[One of my favorite comic strips is “Peanuts.” It is a vehicle that helps me laugh and be reflective at the same time. In one particular strip that appeared around this time of year Charlie Brown asked Lucy why she was so happy. Lucy explained how it was "Christmas" and she explained further that this was the time of year to "spread joy, caring, compassion, giving and love." Charlie Brown wondered to Lucy, "Why do we just do these things at Christmastime and why can't we do those things all year round?" Lucy yelled at Charlie Brown "What are you some type of religious fanatic?!"]

                            Do they Know its Christmas? ( Feed The World)

"Mankind was my business. The common welfare was my business; charity, mercy, forbearance, and benevolence, were all my business. The dealings of my trade were but a drop of water in the comprehensive ocean of my business!"

                                                    " Peace and goodwill to all..."

amdg

Lesson 47: Sometimes unforeseen storms are just what are needed to clear away the clutter.

“ You don’t need a weatherman to know which way the wind blows "
             -       Bob Dylan

So who would of ever considered that a simple weekend respite would be changed overnight by the miscalculation of overpaid meteorologist? The Pilgrim’s prospective plans purposely and pointedly put off out of self-preservation. The pshawed snowflakes magically materialized into wind driven two feet of white wet blankets. Some found the weight too much to bear. It wasn’t just the leaves and branches that bent or snapped. No things ever stay the same.

Self-important businessman grumped at the bagel shop. The locals waiting to be warmed by a fresh hot java were surrounded by his hot air. The pompous protestor piously pontificated about the ineptitude of everyone…. forecasters flubbed, electric companies unprepared, politicians corrupted , the inconsiderateness of God and a requisite shot at Wall Street Occupiers who probably had something to do with his current state. No heat, no power, no shower…how dare he be inconvenienced like this…doesn’t anyone know who he is? Not really and nor did anyone care.

Embarrassed, the pilgrim slipped away in silence as the chronic complainer’s concerns recalled a scintilla of his own unspoken similar sentiments. He deflected,

“Where were Mother Nature’s favorites in all of this? “

Angelic footprints of faith-filled fawns were found marking their fearless passage in the virginal white 19” deep blanket .Some predawn feathered winged friend soloed a song  of welcome to the morning just breaking. A few branches creaked as they cracked eventually finding the earth below scattering the rummaging nut gathering squirrels.

The all hallowed-eve cherub costumed confectionary collectors were tricked and the anticipatory celebration of treats would be postponed.   A few souls departed to join those liturgically memorialized with a few saints, their intercessions unknown and interventions unseen. One million sentient beings believed they lost power. They only lost worldly comfort. They never realized the power they really had. The pilgrim wondered,

“Are faith, trust, love and mercy just words scripted between the lines in belief that their being written is the only needed proof of their existence? “

No rooms at the inns. Even the lowly stable had a “no vacancy” sign posted as it waited for the newly wedded couple to arrive while on their long journey of redemption. A once “Jedi-in-training” posted publicly his gratitude for Maslow’s first three levels being satisfied.  Other wandering nomads commiserated their plights of their odysseys as the paths of the pilgrims continued to coincidentally intersect.

The first one and the other one there made for the coast listening to the three they admired most. The first one then bowed his head as he smiled reading cyber-spaced deliveries from concerned companions. The best offered shelter from the storm and a member of the band sent forth word that he safely made it back to the beach.

It wasn’t until the breaking of bread in the city of Brotherly Love that true gratefulness was experienced and he realized that home was not a place.

                                                              (Click picture to play )

                             
                                                        "Home, home, where I wanted to go..."

amdg

A summer adieu

Whyte’s evening v formation fearlessly floats across the sunsetted horizon pointing to a trusted destination unseen. The fact that the distance between this point and there is not a straight line is of no considered consequence to the honking sojourners. Oranged yellowed red leaves are shaken by the breath of God. Coasting carefully to a final resting place the once shade and nest providers become piles for innocents to dive and hide. Purpose fulfilled, they nurture the mother who breeds new seed.

Bishop’s sandpipers and resident union gulls buy another moment of authenticity as the tide continues to kiss the sand. Abandoned Lifeguard stands and their sister rescue boats rest alone and unmoved as they still may be called upon to serve and save. Beach footprints once used to inspire stories of savior companionship and consolation are washed away remembrances. High-pitched laughter of children chasing waves and the echoes of whistle alarms cautioning riptide challengers have been swept to sea by the same breath that shook the leaves to freedom.

Oliver’s inspired jotted journal reflective recollections accompanied by a select few digital representations affirm the experience that remains ineffable. “Farewell friends!” some lost inner voice echoes softly to the spirits that comforted the pilgrim in that season passed. Turning to face the wind of change a grateful humble anticipatory “welcome” is solemnly whispered.

The Journey - by David Whyte (click link)

http://www.panhala.net/Archive/Journey.html

Sandpiper - Elizabeth Bishop (click video)

Autumn Poem

In the last jovial, clear-sky days of autumn
the mockingbird
in his monk-gray coat
and his arrowy wings

flies
from the hedge to the top of the pine
and begins to sing — but it's neither loose, nor lilting, nor lovely —

it's more like whistles and truck brakes and dry hinges.
All birds are birds of heaven
but this one, especially, adores the earth so well
he would imitate, for half the day and on into the
evening,

its ticks and wheezings,
and so I have to wait a long time
for the soft, true voice
of his own glossy life

to come through,
and of course I do.
I don't know what it is that makes him, finally, look
inward

to the sweet spring of himself, that mirror of heaven,
but when it happens —
when he lifts his head
and the feathers of his throat tremble,

and he begins, like Saint Francis,
little flutterings and leapings from the pine's forelock,
resettling his strong feet each time among the branches,
I am recalled,

from so many wrong paths I can't count them,
simply to stand, and listen.
All my life I have lived in a kind of haste and darkness
of desire, ambition, accomplishment.

Now the bird is singing, but not anymore of this world.
And something inside myself is fluttering and leaping, is
trying

to type it down, in lumped-up language,
in outcry, in patience, in music, in a snow-white book.

--- Mary Oliver

For all my friends who are gone especially  - Dennis , Fr. Joe and Kathy who left us this past summer



amdg

Labor Day : Sencillos Meditaciones

Dorothy Day

Faded hand scripted notes flew around the room as a bad moon storm of memories began to deluge the wandering spirit. It was almost a forever ago that a retreat on the theme of Spirituality and Work found it’s way from inspiration to implementation. A voice kept whispering,  “It’s never been about the money!” 

The pilgrim teacher didn’t listen as the whirlwind almost brought down the house. His heart was a beat from being seized up from all the desire and pressures to fill the siloes. A nephew of Richard Cory whose heroic last attempt at salvation was to rescue the pilgrim eventually suffered the same fate as his infamous uncle. Meanwhile Dickens’ spirits continued to work overtime on the pilgrim.

Waking to a morning of the Second Chance Dance the pilgrim teacher could be heard singing,  “ I don’t know anything, never did know anything…” and asked, “What day is this?” He recalled how Ebenezer’s first acts on his day of redemption sought forgiveness from family and friends as he commenced the practice of Ignatian generosity. The pilgrim has been a little slower to respond to the illumination and amazing grace.

One portrayal of the “Carol” classic has Fessiwig proclaiming that labor is “… an opportunity to use one’s gifts to provide for one’s family.” Then there is Thomas A‘Kempis depressing the pilgrim teacher with the proclamation, “At the Day of Judgment we shall not be asked what we have read, but what we have done."  

“But I have read so many books!” The pilgrim teacher protested.

Sociologists and economists can’t shoot straight and constantly miss the point .The movement of weights or the execution of activities have very little to do with the nature of work. It’s been said one’s labor is the expression of authenticity. Albert Camus’ observation then becomes even more haunting…“Without work, all life goes rotten. But when work is soulless, life stifles and dies.” The pilgrim frets, “ Is Freud right that ‘love and work are the cornerstones of our humanness?’ ”

Off in the tall distance a retired Jersey Johnny breaks out the blues harp attempting a new song in a new key. He mutters in between breaths “This is work!”

 ++++++++

^"As the rain and the snow
 come down from heaven,
and do not return to it
 without watering the earth
and making it bud and flourish,
 so that it yields seed for the sower and bread for the eater,
¹¹ so is my word that goes out from my mouth:
 It will not return to me empty,
but will accomplish what I desire
 and achieve the purpose for which I sent it.
¹² You will go out in joy
 and be led forth in peace;
the mountains and hills
 will burst into song before you,
and all the trees of the field
 will clap their hands. 

Instead of the thornbush will grow the juniper,

This will be for the Lord’s renown,
 for an everlasting sign,
 that will endure forever.”

       

                    Isaiah 55:10-13

+++++++

“A tree gives glory to God by being a tree. For in being what God means it to be it is obeying Him….
 The more a tree is like itself, the more it is like Him….
 This particular tree will give glory to God by spreading out its roots in the earth and raising its branches into the air and the light in a way that no other tree before or after it ever did or will do….
 The special clumsy beauty of this particular colt on this April day in this field under these clouds is a holiness consecrated to God by His own creative wisdom and it declares the glory of God.
    The pale flowers of the dogwood outside this window are saints. The little yellow flowers that nobody notices on the edge of that road are saints looking up into the face of God.
    This leaf has it own texture and its own pattern of veins and its own holy shape, and their beauty and their strength canonize the bass and trout hiding in the deep pools of the river.
    The lakes hidden among the hills are saints, and the sea too is a saint who praises God without interruption in her majestic dance.
    The great, gashed, Half-naked Mountain is another of God's saints. There is no other like him. He is alone in his own character; nothing else in the world ever did or ever will imitate God in quite the same way. That is his sanctity….
 for me to be a saint means to be myself. Therefore the problem of sanctity and salvation is in fact the problem of finding out who I am and of discovering my true self.
    Trees and animals have no problem. God makes them what they are without consulting them, and they are perfectly satisfied.
    With us it is different. God leaves us free to be whatever we like. We can be ourselves or not, as we please. We are at liberty to be real, or to be unreal. We may be true or false, the choice is ours. We may wear now one mask and now another, and never, if we so desire, appear with our own true face. But we cannot make these choices with impunity. Causes have effects, and if we lie to ourselves and to others, then we cannot expect to find truth and reality whenever we happen to want them. If we have chosen the way of falsity we must not be surprised that truth eludes us when we finally come to need it!
    Our vocation is not simply to be, but to work together with God in the creation of our own life, our own identity, our own destiny….
 The seeds that are planted in my liberty at every moment, by God's will, are the seeds of my own identity, my own reality, my own happiness, my own sanctity….”

       Thomas Merton, The Seeds of Contemplation

amdg

Third Anniversary of The Second Chance Heart Surgery : Gratitude for all the Angels!

Archangel Barchiel

Unexpected blessings from unforeseen encounters and accidental relationships fill the prodigal pilgrim’s prayer journals. Here comes another sleepless night. The black and white news silently broadcasts a memorial resume of an ordained impermanent sojourner. He was witness and blessor to the sacred vows of the two proclaiming partnership in the summer of ‘72, two islands touched by Gibran’s sea. He was also anointer, purifier of that duet’s first one as she set sail into the river of life. This earthly spirit was sherpa politely prodding persistent pilgrims onto the path back home. 160 Mitchell seasons have gone round since the first meeting on Fat Tuesday preparing ashes while his water bed was draining as the refrain from Rainy Day Women echoed in the distance. Even strangers knew of mostly true stories of his anomalous authentic allegiance to his mission. This Lone Ranger of souls left his silver bullet of faith as he moved onto serve the distant voices singing out for rescue .The celestial picaresque hero rode off into the sunset.

The pilgrim unexpectedly greeted by his long lost Celtic intermittent bus driving soccer grocery store ecclesiastical friend on the way to the blessor’s celebratory farewell.  Superficial calm suddenly stormed into regrets as the six foot leprechaun messenger shared that this blessor had filled his final years as a wandering ship passing in the night crisscrossing the pilgrim’s own earthen vessel’s passage. But almost just as suddenly and unpredictably another divine wink amidst the gathered congregation caused the pilgrim to connect with yet another sacred cherub from his own salvation history. The disguised Frost who fueled the Apollonian flames within the student-pilgrim a lifetime ago smiled and kindly said he too ”remembered.” Synchronicity is real.

Upon exiting the sanctuary walking alone under a blessed bright blue canopy on an unexpected perfect post storm day overflowing gratitude filled a river of tears of humility and love for these messengers and all the Malachim who have blessed the prodigal wanderer keeping him on the right path.

He wondered…

“ Is this pilgrim that difficult a student or that valued?  What will it take for this heart to be opened and truly healed?"

If the only prayer you ever say in your entire life is thank you, it will be enough.
            - Meister Eckhart

                                            "When will I ever learn - Van Morrison"

 

The Miracle of Yawkey Way: Father's Day Eve

Fenway Cathedral at Dusk

 

In a cartoon called “Non Sequiter” a New Englander is sitting at his seat at his local diner and notices a sign that reads “ Thank you for Not Talking about Religion.” The customer asks the waitress

“Whoa , what’s this all about Flo?”

She says

“I just want to prevent auguments breakin out in heah.”

The customer protests

“Well that’s trampling on my rights!”

The waitress puzzled

“Since when have you been…”

She catches herself mid sentence and says

“Oh” and she continues

“Baseball isn’t a religion, Eddie!”

The customer screams out in protest

 

“BLASPHEMY!!!”

 

http://www.gocomics.com/nonsequitur/2010/03/06/

 

Pompous prognosticators are paid to predict precipitation possibilities. Passionate prayer filled petitioners plead for picture perfect serene skies. Prediction versus hope.  Dreams of fields filled with the spirits of Williams and Yaz consume the gathering pilgrims parading through passageways of the sacred sanctuary.  The explosive torrent that suddenly washed away the throngs celebrating the awarding of Stanley’s Cup from another season did not wash away the spirit of the anticipated evening-time ecclesiastical celebration.

 

The grace of Kenmore’s tri-color trimark sits atop a short distance from the green monster, quiet vigilant paladin of the trio ward-robed in their allegiant attire maintaining their confident expectancy as they pass through these welcoming gates of paradise. The fears that the diabolical meteorologists may have been accurate suddenly succumb to amnesia. Warm mother sun seems to wind-wipe away the collection of ominous cumulous puffs. All that remains on the great canopy are white streaks along the virgin blue canvas creating a gentle glow of orange-red on the holy horizon as mother sun bids her farewell.   

 

The pilgrim father witnesses this grace with pious humility wondering when will he ever learn and why worry found a place in his heart. Safe at home, his blood, the divine gifts, the miracles of their existence join him in the jubilee of their mutual love and the love for their team.

 

This trinity raise cold ones in sacramental salute while the angelic choir proclaim… ”So good, so good….”

The Trio at Home (plate)

  

 

    “In my beginning is my end…
    Home is where one starts from…
    In my end is my beginning.”
    (T. S. Eliot, “East Coker”)

 

“..baseball is about coming home. The whole point of the game is to finish where you begin – home plate – and once you are home you are finally safe.”

-       Crossing Home, James Penrice

 

 

 

 

 

 

amdg