July 4, 2013 : Freedom Prayer

                             (The Charles River with a view of Boston from Cambridge - J.Sobecki)

MY LORD GOD, I have no idea where I am going. I do not see the road ahead of me. I cannot know for certain where it will end. Nor do I really know myself, and the fact that I think I am following your will does not mean that I am actually doing so. But I believe that the desire to please you does in fact please you. And I hope I have that desire in all that I am doing. I hope that I will never do anything apart from that desire. And I know that if I do this you will lead me by the right road, though I may know nothing about it. Therefore I will trust you always though I may seem to be lost and in the shadow of death. I will not fear, for you are ever with me, and you will never leave me to face my perils alone.

• Thomas Merton, “Thoughts in Solitude”

So the planned annual pilgrimage to the cathedral of number nine in the town that birthed a revolution brought the pilgrim up through the hills of the long tidal river. There ahead a cloud poured a continuous veil of tears as his vessel and companion passed through a black hole in the universe. The sound of anguished cries of mothers and angels could be heard in the rain . No words were necessary as they reverently passed the sign that read “Newtown.” Silence. Prayers. After years of repeated passages their vessel and hearts knew this path perfectly to their Jerusalem but now they were aware of how their journey and nothing would ever be the same. 

Just months previously that great storm of the century seemed to be the first ominous sign of that the universe was turning upside down as it battered their shores of their childhood. Memories were washed away to sea. The boss’s prophetic premonition lament of the light shining on the stranded stony faces on the shore should have warned them. Dreams and homes covered by soft-yellowed sand and water logged flotsam and jetsam saw hand holding families bowing heads bidding goodbye from the new shoreline while attempting to rekindle the flame of faith and hope. They will rebuild.

Then as he neared his Jerusalem, with great expectation of redemption and deliverance, he crossed over into the town that had become his adopted home. His welcome was celebrated like a Joycean wake mixed with the songs of freedom by ghosts of patriots . Constant solemn bells rang out in sacred remembrance for all the broken hearts and the heroes. To him it was and is personal. He and the co-sojourner family pausing their moveable feast softly somberly joined the ever echoing voices of marathoners and citizens in a reverential defiant chorus of “we are Boston Strong!” 

“Storms end, souls consoled and prayers are answered for those who believe” were words he recalled from a good book.

The prognosticators proven wrong, the rain ended and the sun broke through the clouds like the first morning. Sitting within a tearful cry from where a young man on the job in training had his life stolen by the sons of Satan, he sat in silence watching the Charles flow. His heart moved by the perpetual flow , the river of freedom – the gift of living in present with his family; the gift to love and being loved, and the gift of hopes and dreams.

                                                                                             (J. Sobecki)

(Lindsay Malone)

(Lindsay Malone)

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amdg

" The Present "

 The present moment is filled with joy and happiness. If you are attentive, you will see it. (21)” 

― Thich Nhat Hanh, Peace Is Every Step: The Path of Mindfulness in Everyday Life

Ever have one of those days? You know what I mean. You go to make a nice fresh pot of coffee and that new super-duper digital self-timing self-measuring alarm clock radioed CD playing coffee maker won’t turn on. Suddenly you are forced to boil water over the stove because the microwave is set permanently to “thaw” and won’t boil water in a nanosecond. It takes a few frustrating minutes to rummage through the overstocked food cabinet to find that “New improved tastes like beans” instant coffee you bought months ago. Voila, persistence pays off as you find the package only to realize it is hardened and you have to chip away at the newly formed brick to make flakes to drop in your about to be boiled water.

 Finally you go to sit outside on the deck to witness the peace-filled dawn and there on your favorite most comfortable outdoor chair is a fresh welcoming pile of bird poop. You angrily grab a stiff wooden hard backed chair from inside the kitchen, sit perfectly up right and begin to record your morning observations in your journal. Opening the black book you see all the pages are full and that note that you had written that said,“ get a new journal,” slips gently from the inner pages of the book.

Sitting still you try to be present. Breathing deeply. Taking more breaths, in and out, in and out. Relaxed you forget to grasp the boiling hot mud-filled coffee mug on your lap and it spills probably scarring you for life. Rather than giving out that outlandish screech a perfectly fouled mouth curse slips out from under your breath. Retreating inside after you are done wiping and cleaning up much of the staining coffee you decide that sitting at the computer seems to be the perfect way to save the morning. Recording your thoughts and events so far on a hard drive will preserve this moment forever. No filled pages to worry about. You pop open the screen from our laptop to witness a rainbow ball spinning, spinning and spinning.

Recalling with arrogant pride your well-trained techno savvy cleverness you immediately reboot the computer. Again... Again. The ball still spins and spins and seems to spin faster and faster and finally the screen is blank. For some reason this box of electronic wizardry refuses your firm finger poking “command” to come back to life. CPR for laptops is a myth. For a split second tossing this useless “ piece of s *&%$” out the window seems like a way to get relief.

“But there are so many memories locked inside her. Maybe I can find a hard drive Dr. Frankenstein who can give her life again.”

Recalling that the TV cable connection is out from the storms two days ago. It has stormed a lot lately. Some trees have fallen but birds still sing and greet each day from the branches of the trees that still stand . So watching failed actors masquerading as television journalists to get their pre-adolescent versions and uneducated opinions of what is news and why is not an option now. You stumble your way to the front door for that trusted black and white solution. Opening the door it becomes evident that the paperboy has again skillfully tossed the morning newspaper to be visibly lodged in the upper third of your front lawn 50 foot oak tree.

“Gotta give that kid credit. He has a great arm.”

Frustratingly closing the door inner strength is gained to glance up the stairs to head back to where you started, and there stands that full smiling floppy eared golden hair shedding canine companion.  His happy tail wags feverishly. He pants over and over and over now sitting patiently awaiting your strides up the stairs so he can burst up jumping as you reach the final step with his fore paws onto your drained slumping shoulders.

Upon reaching that top stair the companion reacts precisely as you expected. Bracing yourself in advance you hold out your arms to welcome him. Luckily he is not a slobbering kisser like some dogs in the neighborhood. He jumps and wrestles you to the ground. Exhausted from the trials of the morning you lie there and your pal just lies next to you. Somehow in the middle of all the excitement he snatched up that funny little furry stuffed whatchamacallit into his mouth and presents it into your face and drops it.

“Let’s play!” he says in his way. He is ready to go.

His sleeping late has helped him conserve all the energy he has. Surprising him you hold onto him firmly with a big hug for a second. Thinking you are ready to play he jumps up, almost breaking your nose, and leans back with fore legs down and that big silly panting smile.

He aggressively wrestles the slobber-coated stuffed toy from your hands and with the wag of a tail he his gone as if to say “Come on, chase me!” You wonder if he realizes that the root of those aches and burning pains that kept him restlessly trying to get comfort on a cool soothing wood floor all night is the cancer that slowly eats away at his insides and how it will never go away.

Remembrance of the early morning trifles evaporates as you become grateful for becoming present to all that matters… now. Smiling you jump after your companion …. and finally the day begins.

                                                              ( for my Otis Redding)

amdg

Will The Circle Be Unbroken?

"The trouble is, you think you have time."  

                           – Buddha

( another real problem is that this month there seemed to be so much to write about  -- and so little time...here is one take.)

________________________________

Two singers casually debated

 “Is melancholy a bad thing?”  said the first

“It is cathartic” The older second one chimed .

“Nostalgia is another matter” added the first and the two nodded in agreement.

The pilgrim’s heart cried out to the two talking heads on the screen,

“You are both confused!“   

"He silenced his voice as he questioned his own memory. Before he could conjure courage to continue the challenge the conversationalists had removed themselves to the stage harmonizing about fields of gold and resting high on a mountains. The pilgrim listened as the crumpled letter written in gratitude filled with a veil of tears and bleeding words fell floating in slow motion to the ground. The report of how one of the original posse called “the Wanderers” had gone home having his ticket punched to Pleasant Stream .

“No time to grieve about that now” the pilgrim thought. He packed his bags to journey to say farewell to the one mater while wondering if she was welcoming his youthful companion in crime.

The sun still rose, no clouds just a crystal blue canopy , the birds sang and the rivers continued to flow to the sea. The recollections of what once was were fueled the redemptive silent flame . Endings were coming faster than expected. The lost moments of smiles outnumbered the regrets. His salvation history had another chapter completed.

Whispering with eyes closed his thanksgiving meditation closed with,

“Two more saints to pray to today.”

________________________________________________________________________

Repast

Faces wrinkled and bent bodies seek

Searching for words as myths are born.

Prayers of the pastoral presider sooth slightly

but cannot resolve the great mystery.

Reality polished as tears fall and smiles half –fabricated fill

the reunion of lost souls where memories are attempted to celebrate.

But the truth is buried.

Children, now women weep at the father’s vulnerability.

 Dionysian delights cannot drown the sorrow

As the great absence grows more evident .

All present hunger to be nourished by something

More satisfying than that which is on the menu for the day.

                             - JF Sobecki

News of Death

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

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”

“He is no longer here”
that the night put its arm around me
and all the white stars turned bitter with grief.

~ David Whyte

A Hard Life with Memory

I'm a poor audience for my memory.

She wants me to attend her voice nonstop,

but I fidget, fuss,

listen and don't,

step out, come back, then leave again.

She wants all my time and attention.

She's got no problem when I sleep.

The day's a different matter, which upsets her.

She thrusts old letters, snapshots at me eagerly,

stirs up events both important and un-,

turns my eyes to overlooked views,

peoples them with my dead.

In her stories I'm always younger.

Which is nice, but why always the same story.

Every mirror holds different news for me.

She gets angry when I shrug my shoulders.

And takes revenge by hauling out old errors,

weighty, but easily forgotten.

Looks into my eyes, checks my reaction.

Then comforts me, it could be worse.

She wants me to live only for her and with her.

Ideally in a dark, locked room,

but my plans still feature today's sun,

clouds in progress, ongoing roads.

At times I get fed up with her.

I suggest a separation. From now to eternity.

Then she smiles at me with pity,

since she knows it would be the end of me too.

                -  by Wislawa Szymborska

(translated by Clare Cavanagh and Stanislaw Baranczak)

“Death is not the last sleep. It is the final awakening.”

-       Walter Scott,

Remember Boston ! 

amdg

A Good Friday Prayer : For Lilia

It started out as one of those normal good Fridays : coffee , paper, and the dog outside for a whiff of the finally spring air while marking his ground. The sacred day was upon everything and everyone. The pilgrim didn’t realize how holy it was about to become

“We all mark our ground in one way or another,” the pilgrim reflected.

To watch the dog no one would surmise that cancer had invaded his physical being as he carefully observed birds dart from here to there. He and his human companion listened to what seemed to be the first songs of spring from a robin that anointed the scene from above.

For the first time in what seemed to be forever the sun rose without a cloud to hide her beauty as she commenced the gentle warming of everything in her sight. Yet, the pilgrim couldn’t shake the picture of from his head of the once majestic forest of his younger days that had been swept down by some angel’s broom. That which was needs to fall make room for new seeds and new stories to be lived and told.

“ Everything changes, everything says goodbye,” his poem turned song lyrics had become a mantra.

And so it began, while those chimes softly echoed with the assistance of some divine breath. Then just like that…the universe stood still… absolute, silent, pure, peace and grace-filled. That moment of solitude and solace was shattered by a distant call where a brotherly tear-filled voice proclaimed that their mother, who had insisted on going home, had finished her journey and moved on to just what she had desired.

For hours lightening flashes of a million memories constantly zipped through his head. His spirit draining his heart finally rested with the awareness that the sun had reached her peak. It wasn’t until a friend’s words, “Let love lead you into mystery,” that he understood .

And just like that again .... he awakened and it was Easter.

Do not stand at my grave and weep

I am not there. I do not sleep.

I am a thousand winds that blow.

I am the diamond glints on snow.

I am the sunlight on ripened grain.

I am the gentle autumn rain.

When you awaken in the morning's hush

I am the swift uplifting rush

Of quiet birds in circled flight.

I am the soft stars that shine at night.

Do not stand at my grave and cry;

I am not there. I did not die.

Mary Elizabeth Frye

FAITH

I want to write about faith,

about the way the moon rises

over cold snow, night after night,

faithful even as it fades from fullness, 

slowly becoming that last curving and impossible 

sliver of light before the final darkness.

But I have no faith myself 

I refuse it even the smallest entry.

Let this then, my small poem, 

like a new moon, slender and barely open, 

be the first prayer that opens me to faith. 

-- David Whyte

                 "A Time to say good-bye"

                        In Memoriam Lilia Avogadri Sobecki

 

 amdg

March 2: The Bodyguard Reflection Number 2

“…There were incidents and accidents,

There were hints and allegations ..... “

                -  You Can Call Me Al, Paul Simon 

“…My, but we learn so slow

and heroes, they come

and they go

and leave us behind as if

we're supposed to know why

Why do we give up our hearts to the past?

and why must we grow up so fast? -

   

Pretty Maids All in a Row , J. Walsh and J. Vitale

It was a slow day, one of those Simon days of wonder. Thirty-three years to the almost exact minute since the lonely pilgrim crossed the finish line of his long distance run. It wasn’t over as the real race had just begun. Back then the master mechanic departed without warning ( just days before the marathon and has been absent for any advice ever since.) Many Ash Wednesdays have come and gone. Just because the prayers were not immediately answered the priest said it didn’t mean that they were not on file for consideration.

If you could listen closely one could hear a voice singing out breaking through the darkest silence of the suburban night ….

“I am giving up hope for Lent this year…yeah,yeah,yeah” 

He could see his past like some Kevin Burns documentary - heading down the river to Graceland writing letters with a melancholic song in his heart. But then man made monuments are often always disappointments. White bronzed statuettes of the self-proclaimed king surrounded the snow globes with almost imperceptible caped figurines lost inside.  Everywhere he planned to go for redemption seemed more glorious in his dreams. His grasping for any thing left him with nothing. He would often find himself  stuck outside of  Mobile again with the Memphis blues.

Someone once said sometimes on slow days miracles happen. A sweet shining sunbeam slipped through the perpetual winter cloud cover  like some reverential spotlight ahead of each step he took as he wondered round the lake. The intermittent confetti snowflakes glittered like angelic dust blessing him as he processed on with his canine companion. The eyes closed as he stopped to feel the power of the warmth and the shimmering cold flakes simultaneously caress his essence. Each moment of grace of his salvation history became crystal clear all at once.  

Smiling that mischievous smile he gratefully muttered

“No angels with stop watches were ever observed along the way.

It’s never been about the speed but how the race is run, right?”

He continued his stroll singing out "If I can call you Betty...."

                                            

amdg

The Emmaus Dialogues: Act II Scene 1 “Credentials” – draft 5.1

( the following is a sneak peak of an extract from the yet unpublished play "The Emmaus Dialogues")

                                                                                   

So two pilgrims walk into a bar….

It usually begins something like that doesn’t it? 

Pilgrim 1:  So my mother is in the hospital and she says that her doctor is “very nice” and that the food is excellent and that she is quite pleased to be there. I ask if she is doing any better and about her prognosis. She answers, “I don’t know. I didn’t ask and no one ever said. But, the doctor is very nice.”

Pilgrim 2:  I think I know what you mean. Sometimes if we look at what is important to us it might indicate to us what we really need.

Pilgrim 1:  Oh, I don’t know if that is what I meant at all.  I believe we can easily get focused on the wrong things. My mother should be focused on getting the medical treatment she is paying for and getting healed and not nice personalities and good food.

Pilgrim 2:  Yeh, I guess that just because a doctor has his or her medical doctoral degree and passed some type of examination that the credentials aren’t really a guarantee of proper treatment. Besides, just because the hospital has all it’s beds filled doesn’t mean it is a “good hospital.”

Pilgrim 1: It seems to me that the problem is that we live in a  “credentialed society” and it seems that our culture demands “seals of approval” or “Certificates of completion” as some type of indication of qualification and we don’t really go any deeper than that.

Pilgrim 2: By the way why are we going into this bar? I would prefer to go to the one down the street where the bartenders are all graduates of some hoity-toity college of mixology and spirits. You know that bar where all the formerly employed investment banker MBA’s hang out.

Pilgrim 1: But you and I both know this bar’s reputation precedes itself. I have a great looking bar tenderess who always pretends to listen well when you complain about something personal. Besides they have a great Irish troubadour for entertainment.

The two find a table with three empty chairs and sit….

The exchange continues without missing a beat

Pilgrim 2: I guess it doesn’t make any difference what bar we are in when all we are doing is drinking is Guinness from a bottle !

Pilgrim 1:  You are right! What’s the big deal about credentials anyway? Life is about doing your best with what you have while remembering always that it is never about you…but how you treat others.

Pilgrim 2: What? Aren’t we missing a discussion about competence and how, when and why do we trust others?

Pilgrim 1: Fine, I know society relies on and needs credentials, ratings and rankings because we have thrown true integrity and conscience out the window. We would need less reliance on credentials and such if we all just focused on doing the right thing, for the right reason and doing it the right way?

Pilgrim 2: Now you sound like a Buddhist…

Pilgrim 1: Or…remember what the teacher told us to just love others as you would love yourself…You know, treat others, as you want to be treated.

Pilgrim 2: OMG! Are you some kind of outrageous ethicist or moralist?

Pilgrim 1: Well, I wonder what would have happened to the great teacher if everyone demanded to see a holy certificate or a “license to heal anyone ?” But, you know, what I do know is that in this world the focus on competition has gotten everything twisted…. you know competition and greed… pushes us all off course. I really think these competitive and greedy aspects drive most of us to rely on credentials of all kinds to prove ourselves worthy.

Pilgrim 2: Yeh I guess. So you wanna just split a pitcher instead?

Pilgrim 1: OK as long as you are the “dd”

Pilgrim 2: Sure, but remember I have a DUI and my drivers license is suspended. Anyway, Here’s to your mom! She was right…. as long as she likes the doctor and the hospital food is good…. and of course if they “do no harm”…who cares about the credentials!

Pilgrim 1: Salute’

Pilgrim 2: Cent’ anni!

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

(and now for your viewing and listening pleasure - no credentials required!)

amdg

The Soundtrack and Score for 2012.

(The wandering imperfect pilgrim wondered about concerns that have been expressed about the sometimes-esoteric ethereal type constructs of previous blog posts. So he let go at the end of the Mayan’s calendar and it sparked a different type of reflection. ….)

Doesn’t it seem that sometimes we are living in some type of movie? Sometimes it seems as though the movie is a blend of comedy, tragedy, adventure and an almost science fictional account of some dreamlike experience. But regardless of the scope and depth of events where there seems to be times of gentle smiles, tears, nostalgic memories and prayerful reflections, - through it all there was one aspect that is common and persistent…. music. Movie scores that are original or adapted are usually constructed by someone who is not a major player or character in the play. If done well the music and sometimes lyrics of theme songs and ongoing pieces throughout the movie either set or reflect the tone. And the pilgrim thinks

"What of our own play?"

Isn’t interesting how hearing some musical piece from the past sparks a memory about a time, an event, person(s) or locations. The original emotions are relived all over again. Sometimes it is the melody. Sometimes it is the lyrics. Sometimes it is the instrumentation or theme. Sometimes it is the beat that magically gets one’s foot to tap and the urge to get up and dance is fueled.  Sometimes one can’t help but to sing along. Sad, happy, melancholic, spiritual, meditative and uplifted moods are mystically conjured when the first series of opening notes of a song are heard and seep into the deepest hidden crevices of our souls.

How is it that when one is driving along some winding road to nowhere in a somber mood and while flipping through some new unknown radio station on a satellite network suddenly seems to get locked in and that perfect song from way back when starts or a new piece unknown and unfamiliar catches your attention? It is a song with lyrics and tempo that suits and sooths your spirit. It is as if….

And then there's that unforeseen accidental coincidental circumstance when a particular emotion begins to fire up suddenly some song is heard off in the distance with apropos lyrics and instrumentation that nurtures the present spirit. It is almost as if….

Who gave the artists the idea for that arrangement of those notes? It has been said that all music is just a series of a combination of tones, pitches and rhythms separated by silence. It is said that it is the space and timing of the silence that makes these tones and instruments musical.  It has been said that we should  learn more about the power of silence. Who is this silence really? (But that’s another reflection.)  However, how did those few selected words that fill dictionaries of hundreds of languages find their way to accompany the musical melodies to express specifically what you were feeling or experiencing at that very moment? Or, how is it that these grace-filled emotional architects are able to give birth to the most perfect synergy of words and music to inspire or mirror your heart?

It’s a mystery. It is as if….

“What of this last year? How often and how many songs or musical pieces seemed to mysteriously transcend the spirit? It is not about what song or musical piece was favored or liked but those pieces that actually fueled the spirit and reflected the tone of the odyssey for these past twelve months…. and, by the way who is behind all this in the first place. …that really matters," the wandering pilgrim thought.

"I need to create a list of those songs ....and maybe even burn a CD of my soundtrack/score to 2012"

 Well, the first part of his task was not too complicated as technology now has the ability to count and record how often a musical piece was listened to. He appreciated and delighted in all the songs he had heard that moved him over the course of the year but there were those that stood out from the rest. Also, it was not difficult to be able to identify the new discoveries of unique surprises that were unplanned and unexpected and yet seemed to musically fill a void or express what he was unable to articulate himself. He began to create his list of his soundtrack for 2012. Though he was tempted to keep all the songs that were “favorites” on the annual soundtrack list it really wasn’t laborious for him to limit this list to those pieces that mystically played a significant role in the mystery of his existence in the universe. Somehow the sacrosanct soundtrack list flowed from pen to paper for his heart knew each song in advance . It was if….

The Wandering Imperfect Pilgrim’s Soundtrack/Score for 2012

Daughter -  Loudon Wainright

Father and Daughter – Paul Simon

I knew the bride  Dave Edmunds

Circle Game – Joni Mitchell

Urge for Going – Tom Rush version of J. Mitchell

Land of Hopes and Dreams - Bruce

We take care of our own - Bruce

Stay young go dancing  - Death Cab for Cutie

Hopeless Wanderer - Mumford and sons

Persuasion - Richard Thompson

Born to sing – Van Morrison

Days Like this  - Van Morrison

Brown Eyed Girl – Van Morrison

Keep me in your heart – Warren Zevon

A time to say goodbye – performed by Andrea Bocelli

One of these days  - Neil Young and Billy Frissell’s versions

The Promised Land - Bruce

Alone again  - Calexico

Falling slowly  - from the movie "Once"

Better off today – David Arn

Save it for a Rainy Day  - Jayhawks

That’s what makes you strong – Jesse Winchester

Show me the place – Leonard Cohen

The Walk – Meyer Hawthorne

Christmas Day – Paul Simon

Fear of fallin  - Robbie Roberston

Whats so funny about Peace,Love and Understanding  -  Elvis Costello

Here comes my man -  National Anthem

Something you got - Jerry Douglas w Eric Clapton

Windfall  - Son Volt

Si Tu vois ma mere – from "Midnight in Paris" Soundtrack

When your minds made up  - from the movie “Once”

Got to be better in a little while – Eric Clapton

Take it to the people  - Woggles

Soneto de la Noche – performed by Conspirare

All things Must Pass – George Harrison

Louie Louie – The Kingsmen
Until I Die - Beach Boys

He wondered about the miracle of different soundtracks for his family and friends. He wondered about the songs he played and sang.
 
And the Beach Boys could be heard singing off in the tall distance….”Add some music to your day”

  

I hope your own soundtrack was exactly what you needed and that the New Year brings you much peace and joy!

                Happy New Year!

 -The Wandering Imperfect Pilgrim 12-31-12

        

"The Only Truth is Music"
         - Jack Kerouac








amdg