For some there comes a time when a second chance is given.That time then becomes a celebration of the unrecognized gifts of the past and humble gratitude for the wonder of present.
This then is a collection of reflections and comments on life,work,love and faith to be sung ,and danced to, in thanksgiving for a second chance.
(The F. Scott Fitzgerald Model home
Little Egg Harbor, NJ)
“Though much is taken, much abides; and
though 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
“Everything dies baby
that's a fact
But maybe everything that
dies someday comes back
Put your makeup on fix
your hair up pretty and
Meet me tonight in Atlantic City”
-
Atlantic City, Bruce Springsteen
“How does
one become a butterfly? They have to want to learn to fly so much that you are
willing to give up being a caterpillar.”
"At
the Day of Judgment we shall not be asked what we have read, but what we have
done." ( Thomas
A’ Kempis , The Imitation of Christ, Book I, ch. 3.)
How
does one say farewell to trusted friends who have been with you every step of
the journey so far?
How
can one express gratitude for the inspiration, the comfort, the illumination,
grace and mentoring these companions have provided?
Is
it important that others are aware of the significant impact of the ideas and
insights that these compadres provided?
All
that has resided in the cluttered attic can’t continue on the passage to the
next chapter. It feels like Sophie’s choice. It is unfair to choose.Anger
swells against the pilgrim partner who insists that there is no room for many
of the friends.
Advances
in technology and the prospect of collecting a digital compendium are not the
same and an unsatisfactory solution.There
is something to be said about touch and physically grasping, if not caressing gently,
the confidantes and mentors. Just knowing that they are at an arms length is
comforting.
“Not
to decide is to decide”
But
the moment of reckoning occurs and reality wins where only a few will join the
pilgrim onward. A divine breath speaks silently of a somewhat solemn solution …some poetry,
some novels, some educational texts, some sacred tomes, some historical
records…. and so it goes. Refusing to say “goodbye” to those left behind this
reflection then will be a humble “thank you” to each one. Also, let it be known that each
one…yes, each one. …these sacred gifts ….every page…every word…every idea…every
concept will remain as an integral part of burning flame in this heart.
I
will never forget. I will try to find a way to honor the words... of the poets, the authors, storytellers, spiritual masters, saints and inspirational teachers .... and how they have blessed
me.
The rich industrialist from the North was horrified
to find the Southern fisherman lying lazily beside his boat, smoking a pipe.
"Why aren't you out fishing?" said the
industrialist.
"Because I have caught enough fish for the
day," said the fisherman.
"Why don't you catch more?"
"What would I do with it?"
"You can earn more money" was the reply.
"With that you can have a motor fixed to your boat and go into deeper
waters and catch more fish. Then you would make enough to buy nylon nets. These
would bring you more fish and more money. Soon you would have enough money to
own two boats... maybe even a fleet of boats. Then you would be a rich man like
me."
"What would I do then?"
"Then you can really enjoy life."
"What do you think I'm doing right now?"
-Anthony DeMello SJ
Passing through the door leading into the next season the
pilgrim sailor wondered about the progress, if any, that he may have made along
his journey. He realized how he easily got lost . One can get lost along the way especially
when he is distracted by state of his attachments to things and people and
worrying about the pieces he can’t control.
“What have I learned?”, he reflected .
He thought about those aspects of his existence that he truly
loved…his girls, his friends, the mentors, the people and places and experiences
that filled him with joy. He thought of all of nature - especially the majesty of dawns and sunsets and birds
singing freely and the sea. Then he recalled the poems (…yes, the poems) and
the books and music that comforted, inspired and continue to fill him up.
He is glad that he no longer fights the battle to fill his
silos. Sometimes he tries too hard
to be authentic. Sometimes he realizes that being human is imperfection.
Sometimes he is attentive to bringing a little smile to those in pain or those
who are alone. Sometimes he just finds himself lost in being mindful of the
present, the divinity of all things, and the wonder-filling grace. Sometimes he
is aware of the fact that he just needs to let it all go and just be.
April is
national Poetry Month
“We don't read and write poetry
because it's cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human
race. And the human race is filled with passion. And medicine, law, business,
engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But
poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for. To quote from
Whitman, "O me! O life!... of the questions of these recurring; of the
endless trains of the faithless... of cities filled with the foolish; what good
amid these, O me, O life?" Answer. That you are here - that life exists,
and identity; that the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse.
That the powerful play *goes on* and you may contribute a verse. What will your
verse be?”
-Dead Poets Society
“The Gate of Heaven is everywhere”
-Thomas Merton
"True spirituality is
not a search for perfection or control or the door to the next world; it is a
search for divine union now. The great discovery is always that what we are
searching for has already been given! I did not find it; it found me. “
-Richard
Rohr, The Naked Now
The Buddha's Last
Instruction
"Make
of yourself a light "
said
the Buddha,
before
he died.
I think
of this every morning
as the
east begins
to tear
off its many clouds
of
darkness, to send up the first
signal
- a white fan
streaked
with pink and violet,
even
green.
An old
man, he lay down
between
two sala trees,
and he
might have said anything,
knowing
it was his final hour.
The
light burns upward,
it
thickens and settles over the fields.
Around
him, the villagers gathered
and
stretched forward to listen.
Even
before the sun itself
hangs,
disattached, in the blue air,
I am
touched everywhere
by its
ocean of yellow waves.
No
doubt he thought of everything
that
had happened in his difficult life.
And
then I feel the sun itself
as it
blazes over the hills,
like a
million flowers on fire-
clearly
I'm not needed
yet I
feel myself turning
into
something of inexplicable value.
Slowly,
beneath the branches,
he
raised his head.
He
looked into the faces of that frightened crowd.
Does
it seem like some days you are in a never ending dream trekking through some
dark gray Paul Simon-like winter’s day - over and over and over? Books and poetry
begin to lose their comfort. Desolate Chicago blues tunes are the common acceptable
choice to play on your winter weary home stereo. The dog,who normally delights
in brisk walks, hesitates as his senses warn him of the frigid consequence of
stepping through the door.
Television
broadcasts of golf tournaments in summer-like climates are no longer watchable
as viewers sink into deeper doldrums. Local liquor entrepreneurs promote and
delight in the increasing of bourbon and wine sales. A news story of how a
husband and wife who took turns at using their 12 gauge shotgun on their state
of the art flat screen when a 24 hour ice skating marathon was broadcast are
seen as local heroes. Meteorologists hide as they are officially persona non
grata everywhere. Congress,
in its half-hearted attempt at across the aisle collaboration is said to
consider legislation to either shoot the messengers of bad weather or to ban
winter forever. Baseball spring training games are considered as a cruel tease.
Children urge escapes to the home of Mickey Mouse while their parents secretly plan
for a midnight getaway to Hemingway’s retreat at Key West . A nasty rumor leaks
out that the Pope is preparing an encyclical that God has stopped listening to
many in certain sections of the world and that “arctic vortexes” will become
the new norm. There is no new Noah to facilitate escape. Hope wanes.
They
say the next snowstorm will not be as bad as the last one. They say that it is
better to fill the tubs with water just in case the power lines come down due
to the weighted ice. They say the children no longer delight in the “snow days
off” as they will need to make up the time instead of a spring break. They say
the retailers have raised the prices of coats, hats, scarves and gloves. They
say the municipalities have used up their budgets for snow plowing, sanding and
salting. They say get your provisions before the roads freeze. They say, “you
are on your own!”
Without
warning something happens as pieces mystically fall into place. A not–a care-in-the-world giggling
gaggle of cherubs pulling sleds and ice skates saunter off to the hills and
pond past your window. The white
blanket suddenly seems to purify the once dark dismal landscape. A starling’s soft
soothing song sweetens the chilled air. The chimes respond gently to the frosty divine sourced breeze. The late owl’s call continues to query you and you no longer hesitate
to answer. A last minute almost
impromptu family reunion fills your home with unconditional joy and love. All
this is then capped off at your birthday dinner with your family as you
celebrate the now with one breath and in gratitude realize that warmth and
spring is ever present … within. The heart’s voice whispers “Wishes do come
true and everything is good."
The Winter of Listening
Inside everyone
is a great shout of joy
waiting to be born.
Even with the summer
so far off
I feel it grown in me
now and ready
to arrive in the world.
All those years
listening to those
who had
nothing to say.
All those years
forgetting
how everything
has its own voice
to make
itself heard.
All those years
forgetting
how easily
you can belong
to everything
simply by listening.
And the slow
difficulty
of remembering
how everything
is born from
an opposite
and miraculous
otherness.
Silence and winter
has led me to that
otherness.
So let this winter
of listening
be enough
for the new life
I must call my own.
~ David Whyte ~
Shoveling Snow with Buddha
by Billy Collins
In the usual iconography of the temple or the local Wok
you would never see him doing such a thing,
tossing the dry snow over the mountain
of his bare, round shoulder,
his hair tied in a knot,
a model of concentration.
Sitting is more his speed, if that is the word
for what he does, or does not do.
Even the season is wrong for him.
In all his manifestations, is it not warm and slightly humid?
Is this not implied by his serene expression,
that smile so wide it wraps itself around the waist of the universe?
But here we are, working our way down the driveway,
one shovelful at a time.
We toss the light powder into the clear air.
We feel the cold mist on our faces.
And with every heave we disappear
and become lost to each other
in these sudden clouds of our own making,
these fountain-bursts of snow.
This is so much better than a sermon in church,
I say out loud, but Buddha keeps on shoveling.
This is the true religion, the religion of snow,
and sunlight and winter geese barking in the sky,
I say, but he is too busy to hear me.
He has thrown himself into shoveling snow
as if it were the purpose of existence
as if the sign of a perfect life were a clear driveway
The slowly balding wrinkling tired pilgrim gathered his now
adult children, the dogs and anyone who was gracious, had enough wine or
saintly patience to listen to his story one more time.
“Well it was 50 years ago today Sergeant Pepper taught the
band to play. Back when I was in England in ’61 something was happening…”
“Please, you were going to tell us about the time the
Beatles saved your life,” answered an anxious voice from the back of the
gathering and it added “ you can tell us about those related episodes at
another time, ok?”
“What? Oh yeah. Well anyway back in ’62-‘63 or so my cousin
I met in London was sending me letters from there about a new rock band that
was shaking up more than the music scene in England. Girls were screaming and
fainting while tossing panties onto the stage at the band’s performances. I
needed to hear this music for myself since this band had not yet received radio
play in the states. In response to my pleas my cousin started sending me forty-fives from
England.”
“Forty-fives? “ that same questioning voice in back
interrupted.
“Oh yeah…these were small black vinyl discs with one or two
songs on each side that were played at 45 revolutions per minute on a
turntable”
“A turn ---- what?”
“Never mind. My cousin sent me these discs almost weekly. It
seemed as though this band was recording more songs than the typical performers
recorded in a lifetime. By this time word was starting to spread in the U.S. about
this band called The Beatles. Did I tell you how they actually created their
name as a homage to Buddy Holly and the Crickets?”
“Yeh, ya did dad, and you have told us how Buddy Holly was
your first rock n roll hero and how you were depressed when Holly died
tragically. Just tell us how The Beatles save you.”
“ Ok, Ok. You see the word got around that I had these 45’s
from England and no one in the area or even in the state had these records or
had heard these songs on the radio. So, I started to bring these records as I
got them to the local music store. These discs were as if they were gifts from
an unseen god. That store was sort
of the church of anyone who was interested in contemporary music. My friends
would be my bodyguards and co-disciples of sorts as we bicycled our way through
once quiet suburban streets to the small center of town that was lost in a
previous time. Everything was about to change and only a select few under the
age of fifteen were aware that something was in the air. There at this center
of this sacred store a crowd of girls and boys waited outside and cheered and
screamed as if I were one of the Beatles they come to baptize the believers. As
I entered this sanctuary my friends cleared a path to the main counter where the
manager stood with his turntable ready to play the new record. Reverential
silence took over those gathered to hear the words as girls reached through the
crowd to touch the holy grails, I mean records. I felt like a combination of
John the Baptist with Buddy Holly’s spirit carrying me each step. The voice in
wilderness had come home. It was the first time in my life where others seemed
to have some interest in me. I knew it was interest in and admiration for the
Beatles and their music, but I didn’t care. I think that is where for the first
time girl asked me out on a date and she didn’t even mention the Beatles or
bringing any of the records. I brought a couple of 45’s along on that date just
in case. “
A voice for the group chimed as if to bring this story to
closure” So, this is how the Beatles saved your life?”
The pilgrim slowly smiled saying,“ Hold on there this was
just the beginning.”
He continued and he knew he had to talk fast.
“One Friday night around that same period a small group of these
disciples and I gathered at a friend’s house that January as it was rumored
that the Jack Paar TV program was going to have the Beatles on his show.”
“Who, What?” that same voice queried. The old pilgrim looked
around and no one was checking or sending texts on their smart phones yet so he
quickly jumped back to the story before he would lose them.
“ Well, though the broadcast was just a filmed performance
of The Beatles somewhere in England there was some satisfaction. I had thought
‘ I was right! There is something special about these guys’ and suddenly I and
the small collection of disciples desired more. It was then announced that on
February 9, just weeks away, that the Beatles would perform live on the Ed
Sullivan Show. I know. I know. You were going to ask ‘who is Ed Sullivan?’
let’s just say if a performer made it to his live show you had made it to the
high mass of recognition in the entertainment industry.
More of the Beatles’ records were now being played on the
radio ten, twenty, thirty times a day. No one seemed to get enough of them.
Some of their recordings played I didn’t have. My importance and popularity as
the keeper of the Beatles’ flame in out little town faded fast. I regained some
of that attention when my cousin sent me a signed poster of the Fab Four for
their Command Performance at the Palladium in London. No one cared if the
signatures on the poster were real, replications or plain ole forgeries! No one
had seen such a full four-foot colored iconic poster of the Beatles. My
co-Beatle fanatic friend, David, encouraged me to find a bank vault for the
records and poster. My folk music friend, Matt, gave that smirky smile singing
‘The times they are a changing.’
Before we knew it that Sunday of infamy arrived. It was the
day of truth, true revelation, the day of the Ed Sullivan show featuring the
Beatles. It was like Christmas Eve all day as the time wouldn’t go fast enough.
I hoped that someone would decide to broadcast the show earlier than planned to
avoid riots in the streets and masses of teens dying of heart attacks or
suicide! But I had to hold my breath a little longer as the show would go on as
planned. Readying myself for the anticipated sacramental experience I retreated
into the bathroom earlier in the day and combed my hair down to lie across my
forehead in Beatlesque mop top style welcoming the troubadours into my home
through that magical mystery of technology called a television. My dad just
laughed. My younger brother followed my lead and my sister said wasn’t sure
about what was about to happen but the found the excitement contagious. And
then, then it happened….
The Beatles played five songs at different spots in the program
and from the first note of the first song my heart pounded harder and faster
than it has ever done before. My inner self was screaming in silence with the
girls in the live studio audience. A new chord had been struck. A flame that I
thought was out was not just rekindled but it exploded into a bonfire. When the
TV screen showed personal facts about each Beatle as they appeared on the
magical screen the camera panned on to the lead guitarist, George Harrison. The
words I saw are burned in my memory forever that he and I had the same birth date,
February 25. I felt as if it was
karma, speaking directly to me… and it was, it was …it is difficult to explain.
When I saw my friend David at school the next morning we could see the same
fire in each other’s eyes. It was just the beginning.”
One of his children who had been politely listening to this
half fable said, “Is that it? When are the Beatles going to save you? Didn’t
you and your friend David see them in concert at Shea Stadium? “
He smiled and said “ Yeh, we saw them at Shea but that was
later “
“But what was all the excitement about and when did they
save you?”
A little exasperated but smiling the pilgrim said “Ok, but
it would be a much longer story to discuss the significance of the cultural and
societal shift these young men had…. on music, the new types of lyrics… by the
way they would end up using the word ‘love’ 613 times in their songs over their
career together …social attitudes and values shifted and.”
One daughter abruptly interrupted, “Please no! Can you just explain
in a few words to us what it was all about and how they saved you?”
He smiled again and added, “ I guess it is ineffable. I guess
you had to be there. Maybe they just woke up dormant spirit in me…and were
channels to bringing light and joy to life."
( Sometimes the videos don't appear on smart phones...try clicking on the link)
A recent powerfully imaged television ad for the new Apple
iPad Air uses a voice over from one of my favorite scenes in a favorite movie
of mine, The Dead Poets Society. It also helped me recall a favorite poem of
mine by Mary Oliver. Each of these fuels the flame of my love for poetry and helps me remember why I love poetry - while revisiting the question “ Have I been or am I authentic enough and have I contributed a verse
to this powerful play?”
“We don't read and write poetry
because it's cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human
race. And the human race is filled with passion. And medicine, law, business,
engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But
poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for. To quote from
Whitman, "O me! O life!... of the questions of these recurring; of the
endless trains of the faithless... of cities filled with the foolish; what good
amid these, O me, O life?" Answer. That you are here - that life exists,
and identity; that the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse.
That the powerful play *goes on* and you may contribute a verse. What will your
verse be?”
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.
