Saturday, December 10, 2016

Exceptional Excerpts: Mystics and Sages


"Are the mystics and sages insane? Because they all tell variations on the same story, don't they? The story of awakening one morning and discovering you are one with the All, in a timeless and eternal and infinite fashion. Yes, maybe they are crazy, these divine fools. Maybe they are mumbling idiots in the face of the Abyss. Maybe they need a nice, understanding therapist. Yes, I'm sure that would help. But then, I wonder. Maybe the evolutionary sequence really is from matter to body to mind to soul to spirit, each transcending and including, each with a greater depth and greater consciousness and wider embrace. And in the highest reaches of evolution, maybe, just maybe, an individual's consciousness does indeed touch infinity — a total embrace of the entire Kosmos — a Kosmic consciousness that is Spirit awakened to its own true nature. It's at least plausible. And tell me: is that story, sung by mystics and sages the world over, any crazier than the scientific materialism story, which is that the entire sequence is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying absolutely nothing? Listen very carefully: just which of those two stories actually sounds totally insane?"

         ~ Ken Wilber, author, The Theory of Everything

The Three Magi, consulting the heavens to ascertain the Mystery of prophecies
from the Basillica of St. Apollinarius in Ravenna, Italy
"Mysticism" is derived from the Greek μυω, meaning "I conceal", and its derivative μυστικός, "mystikos" meaning 'an initiate'. The verb μυώ has received a quite different meaning in the Greek language, where it is still in use. The primary meanings it has are "induct" and "initiate". Secondary meanings include "introduce", "make someone aware of something", "train", "familiarize", "give first experience of something".


O Magnum Mysterium


Thursday, December 1, 2016

Unholy Holidays

The holidays are upon us, but it seems like many are involved in holy wars over what feels sacred and nonnegotiable. Some are trying to just get through the holidays that bring added expectations, and the war plays itself out between the folds of a wallet opening and closing.

When holiday music gets piped into the stores, it’s not a song by Amy Winehouse. She’s dark, wounded and tragic. But during one of her hopeful moments she considered the idea of being her "own best friend". I like the way she describes her idea of what such a friend would be like in a song about her “man”. She's all in. Yet she switches pronouns between “him” “you” and “we”, which suggests to me that she’s not sure, even with millions of fans, if anyone is listening to her declaration of dedication, and if it matters to anyone but her. I wish she could have given this kind of fiercely loyal friendship to herself, because she might have lived to write more about what she held sacred. She only got a running start before she was overtaken, but I imagine she knew what we all need to remember during these uncertain times:

"The main thing is to be moved, to love, 
to hope, to tremble, and to live"
~ Auguste Rodin, sculptor


We all need a friend to be able to do the main thing. Treasure the ones you have, for they are more precious than the Internet of Things. And so are you, your own best friend, who stays with you, not to the year’s end, or the bitter end, but beyond any ending you could dream up.

 "The Thinker"

If my man was fighting
Some unholy war
I would be behind him
Straight shook up beside him
With strength he didn't know
It's you I'm fighting for
He can't lose with me in tow
I refuse to let him go
At his side and drunk on pride
When we wait for the blow
Put it in writing
But who you writing for?
Just us on kitchen floor
Justice done reciting
My stomach standing still
Like you're reading my will
He still stands in spite of what his scars say
I'll battle till this bitter finale
Just me, my dignity, and this guitar case, whoa, whoa
If, if my man is fighting some unholy war
And I will stand beside you
But who you dying for?
B, I would have died too
I'd have liked to
If my man was fighting
Some unholy war
If my man was fighting

A union found in hands "Cathedral" by Auguste Rodin, 19th Century



Monday, November 14, 2016

A Supermoon and a Space Oddity


With everything going on in the world, many people may want to leave the country of their birth or even the planet altogether. Some are forced to leave because of oppression, war, or illness. 

Please never forget all of the places you have inhabited by way of your heart. Your feet need not be planted on them for them to remember you. Their borders, and yours, can't be seen from space. All the nations of your soul can't be taken, so they can't be taken back again.

Let's let Bowie sing it better:


Ground Control to Major Tom
Ground Control to Major Tom
Take your protein pills and put your helmet on
Ground Control to Major Tom (ten, nine, eight, seven, six)
Commencing countdown, engines on (five, four, three)
Check ignition and may God's love be with you (two, one, liftoff)
This is Ground Control to Major Tom
You've really made the grade
And the papers want to know whose shirts you wear
Now it's time to leave the capsule if you dare

November Supermoon over Seattle Space Needle photo credit: Quyhn Ton, National Geographic Editor's Pick
This is Major Tom to Ground Control
I'm stepping through the door
And I'm floating in a most peculiar way
And the stars look very different today
For here
Am I sitting in a tin can
Far above the world
Planet Earth is blue
And there's nothing I can do
Though I'm past one hundred thousand miles
I'm feeling very still
And I think my spaceship knows which way to go
Tell my wife I love her very much she knows
Ground Control to Major Tom
Your circuit's dead, there's something wrong
Can you hear me, Major Tom?
Can you hear me, Major Tom?
Can you hear me, Major Tom?
Can you Here am I floating 'round my tin can
Far above the moon
Planet Earth is blue
And there's nothing I can do

To all the Major Toms: Stay tethered to what you know to be true. Let us hear from you wherever you find yourself.

Tuesday, November 1, 2016

Day of the Dead: Wuthering Heights part 2

Wuthering Heights: A Ghost Story part 1

The Bronte sisters had a man problem in Heathcliff. Considering how Charlotte overstepped her role as an executor of Emily's work and became its editor, the curtain on her relationship with Emily is pulled back and the importance of the Nelly, the narrating witness, emerges. The watchfulness of Nelly, the all-seeing housekeeper, may have been seeded in the intrusiveness of Charlotte, the boundary-crossing sister. At a young age, Charlotte had stolen among Emily's papers and read her poetry and short stories without permission. Emily forgave her, because Charlotte became her champion when it came to her writing. Charlotte not only encouraged her, but insisted upon the need to have Wuthering Heights published.

Sister Charlotte, getting a bit carried away with moral dilemmas in fiction

It seems to me that the complex structure of Wuthering Heights is due to Emily's complex relationship with Charlotte. To begin with, many readers and critics have complained that the frame story--a first person narrative by the new tenant of Thrushcross Grange, Mr. Lockwood, relaying the history of Wuthering Heights as told by Nelly--renders Heathcliff and Cathy too distant, and blocks the immediacy of their characters. It is a peculiar and aloof stance toward the two, but seems to point to an authorial personality that perhaps found itself at odds with and at arm's length from immediate kin, and who actually felt oppressed or at least stifled by them. 

Not all of that can be laid at the feet of Charlotte, because we know that their brother, Branwell, terrorized the family with his addictions and constant drain on their finances. But Emily's home atmosphere may possibly be reflected in Heathcliff's taut frustration over his dependent circumstances, and how his loyalty to Cathy, who is both his family and his beloved, binds him to daily compromises and degradation.

I now think that Emily struggled with how to present Heathcliff and Cathy realistically and mercilessly with all of their flaws laid bare, to a Charlotte-esque readership that would be closer to the horrified and scandalized Mr. Lockwood, who would identify with the moral and practical sensibilities found in Nelly. Perhaps this is why she pairs these witnesses together as the story's initial editorialists, to tip us off that she knows exactly what sort of reaction to the novel's monstrous characters she expected to receive. Yet she also challenges the reader to soften harsh judgment by emulating the sadder but wiser example set by Nelly.

In a similar way that Charlotte attempted to temper the extremes in Heathcliff's character, all of the novel's extreme action is tempered by solid and steady Nelly. She is the character who has a mind that knows itself, and isn't completely consumed by the events of the others' making. She must work alongside them, and is emotionally impacted by them, but she is not fully formed by Wuthering Heights, herself. She relates sympathetically to Mr. Lockwood--a stand-in for the reader--as he listens along with us to her account of both the natural and supernatural beings of Heathcliff and Cathy, the offspring of the "wily and windy moor". 

The two wild lovers are bound to it, even in death, and their sorrow is bound to us as we change from the bewildered and fascinated Mr. Lockwood into the empathetic yet even-handed Nelly.
Their sorrow is also bound to us through the transformational life of this novel within Western culture. Like an oracle, Nelly is the only one capable of bearing the burden of telling this tragic tale because she isn't under its spell. 

The clear-eyed distance she provides between the reader and the moorland characters allows them to be presented as they would in Greek drama or Shakespeare--raw creatures that spring out of Mother Earth to battle with the gods or play tricks on human heroes. As such, many of the characters that people Wuthering Heights are types. They cannot exist apart from the place, and events that happen beyond its borders "offstage" are recounted to us at a remove. These types are like the Wyrrd sisters assigned to set the scene of Macbeth, the Caliban and Ariel of the Tempest who must act at the bidding of their master, and the Friar of Romeo and Juliet, who must take on the role of intercessor and go-between. They each put on a frayed semblance of society, in order to fulfill the machinations of the plot, but then recede or return to their natural states when the principal action takes over.

Emily also uses types to contrast the natural element from its civilized appearance, to lay them before Charlotte as proof of her case that this distinction must be made. Hindley, the spiteful heir of Wuthering Heights has been sent away to school to be trained as a gentleman, but he violently brings out the whip against Heathcliff in front of polite company, the Lintons, who he wishes to impress. He can't control his baser instinct in spite of his wish to fit in. Cathy is turned into a protege and pet by the Lintons, but her body can't withstand their aristocratic impregnation of her. Once robust and running about, she weakens and dies under their scrupulous care and constant watchfulness. Her nature can't withstand the new frivolous and constraining mold she has squeezed herself into. Edgar Linton is pure societal form with no real substance. His feelings stem mostly from sentiment, offended pride and wounded vanity. He hates and avoids Heathcliff, not because Heathcliff has done anything directly against him, but because Heathcliff does not like him. That is offense enough.

In Heathcliff, himself, Emily produces a character that is fully sprung from Nature who later mimics the part of a gentleman, but only at the service of his elemental natural self. Nature simply does what nature will do, dispassionately and without reverence for its creatures. To accept this as just and inevitable may have proved so scandalous to Charlotte's beliefs and judgments that she took a heavy hand to force Wuthering Heights into submission.

In the scene after Heathcliff leaves the moor for the city, when Cathy makes her infamous "I am Heathcliff" speech to Nelly, it's as if Emily is pleading with Charlotte to understand that there are some people who are closer to the elements of nature than of heaven. This kind derives their strength from the heath and its cliffs and streams, and even the best ideals of religion can't save or satisfy them. While Charlotte presents salvation as controlling one's passions by way of virtue and sacrifice, Emily presents salvation as liberating the soul by way of throwing off societal roles and unnatural restraint.

Cut of the same cloth as Heathcliff, Catherine tells him that she dreamt of getting herself expelled from the comforts of heaven because she wanted to be at Wuthering Heights and nowhere else. I wonder if Heathcliff noticed that she didn't say that she wanted to always be at his side and nowhere else. However, she affirms that they both belong there and with each other in spite of how often they might stray. I recall an English professor who clasped her hands and said she wished the two would have run away to America together. But Emily's plotting instincts instruct us that they would ultimately cease to exist apart from the landscape. 

All of the action takes place on the moor between Wuthering Heights and Thrushcross Grange and, after all, the novel is titled after the place and not the people. The Lintons and their home are like heaven, where everything is perfect and safe, but contains none of what Cathy needs to stay alive and vital. She betrayed not only Heathcliff, but the heath itself, by leaving it for the finishing school the Lintons have spoiled her with.

Emily, the wild one, contained in a moment by the release of her mind

By contrast, Charlotte Bronte portrays the moorlands in her own novels as a dangerous, dividing  territory between lovers, blocking their union. The rough landscape is not to be trusted because it is not cultivated like Jane Eyre's Thornfield Hall. But for Emily, the heath/moor exists apart from morality, desire or human will.

In this same sense, Heathcliff exists apart from the moral code of society, without a sense of ethics, and he connives without a conscience. He's a force of nature that emerged outside of marriage, an amoral waif that becomes a beloved favorite with his own set of values based on loyalty, betrayal, exploitation and vengeance. When he returns to the streets of society to make his fortune and win back Wuthering Heights, he fulfills his scheme by taking on the guise of a fine gentleman, betraying himself as well. What was once just wild in him becomes depraved, in the way that wild things can, when caged.

The story of Cathy as an element is a ghost story, and her ghost torments Heathcliff, pointing to the possible reality of an afterlife of punishing separation, whether parted from him by her own choosing or by death. Heathcliff is deprived of any peace by her flickering memory. His fury and revenge turn the landscape into a horror show of doomed allegiances and ill health. There is only hope that the two can find their way back to the moor and each other to find that peace.

By the end of the novel, it seems as if Emily tried to reconcile her own feelings about having produced all of this fictional furor with Charlotte's more stoical views and governess-like pragmatism, by giving the innocent offspring of this cast of monsters, Hareton and Catherine, a purified bliss while still on earth. We can perhaps see them as the redeemers of their families and the land that they will inherit. And yet, it is the lost and wild ghosts of the story that we remember.


Monday, October 31, 2016

An All Hallow's Eve Ghost Story: Wuthering Heights

This book has been assigned to several generations, filling classrooms and book club living rooms around the world. 




It was written by a young woman who kept hardly any society beyond her immediate family, and even they found her aloof and inaccessible. The book also has a nearly inaccessible narrative structure: a visiting tenant is told a tale second-hand by a housekeeper, who is looking back over thirty years at the main characters of Heathcliff and Cathy, whom she no longer lives with. The housekeeper recounts all of it with dread and distaste, and most readers seem to feel the same way. The poet and painter Dante Gabriel Rossetti referred to it as "A fiend of a book–an incredible monster...The action is laid in hell–only it seems places and people have English names there."

Yet this branded “unfilmable” story has not only been filmed, but translated and remade several times in various languages, and still others are currently under production. Although the critics hated the book upon publication, it has has never been out of print since 1854. 

In the second half of the 19th century, Charlotte Brontë’s Jane Eyre was considered the best of the Brontë works, but following later re-evaluation, critics began to argue that Wuthering Heights was superior. The book has inspired adaptations, including film, radio and television dramatizations, a musical, a ballet, operas, a role-playing game, and a 1978 hit song by English pop star Kate Bush.

So why does the slog of Wuthering Heights suck us in and stay with us?


Wood engraving by Fritz Eichenberg

Its staying power comes from the challenge presented by the nature of Heathcliff to our notions of humanity and redemption. People keep creating new ways of interpreting this challenge, because it refuses to settle itself, like the ghosts that roam across the moor.

It's not a likable story, with likable characters. The setting is off-putting and bleak. The events are over the top, even for a Gothic novel. The happy ending isn't really all that happy, but only provides a little bit of relief. So, why haven't we, as a culture, rejected this book, just like the angels rejected Cathy out of heaven, flinging her back to the top of Wuthering Heights? Why did it not live and die within the confines of its own time and place? How did this story worm its way into our consciousness and remain there, even when it is somewhat repulsive?

Let's have a little mood music before we begin the challenge of Heathcliff. Here is the song by Kate Bush, covered by Pat Benatar, the rock queen of the Eighties. She had classical training in opera, and you can hear her hit those high notes like a proper diva.



Out on the wiley, windy moors
we’d roll and fall in green
You had a temper like my jealousy
too hot, too greedy
How could you leave me
when I needed to possess you?
I hated you, I loved you, too

Bad dreams in the night
they told me I was going to lose the fight
Leave behind my wuthering, wuthering
Wuthering Heights

Heathcliff, it's me, I'm Cathy
I've come home, I'm so cold!
Let me in-a-your window

Heathcliff, it's me, I'm Cathy
I've come home, I'm so cold!
Let me in-a-your window

Ooo, it gets dark, it gets lonely
on the other side from you
I pine a lot, I find the lot
falls through without you

I'm coming back, love
Cruel Heathcliff, my one dream
My only master

Too long I roam in the night
I'm coming back to his side, to put it right
I'm coming home to wuthering, wuthering
Wuthering Heights


Heathcliff, it's me, I'm Cathy
I've come home, I'm so cold!
Let me in-a-your window


Heathcliff, it's me, I'm Cathy
I've come home, I'm so cold!
Let me in-a-your window

Ooo, let me have it!
Let me grab your soul away
Ooo, let me have it!
Let me grab your soul away
You know it's me, Cathy!



Coming Back to the Heathcliff Challenge: A few years ago, I read that Charlotte Brontë, after Emily's death at age thirty, revised Wuthering Heights because she felt that Heathcliff was too immoral and couldn't attain a Christian salvation. He had not been redeemed before his death, and in Charlotte's mind, eternal condemnation couldn't sit on the head of a protagonist. I don't know what changes were made, but the original way that Emily had written it was soon restored by the publisher and it became a monolith in English Literature.

I think that Charlotte's mistake was in seeing Heathcliff as a protagonist or a hero, or even a lovable anti-hero, or any of the forms of a male character that Charlotte was familiar with. Although Heathcliff is the pivot of the events surrounding Wuthering Heights, I don't believe he was meant to be the book's exemplar. I believe that Nelly the housekeeper, who lived and witnessed everything at Wuthering Heights, and who was part of it before Heathcliff appeared as a foundling, is a type of Charlotte; but a Charlotte who doesn't change the story from how it happened. Emily seems to be putting her hope and faith in Nelly as more than a faithful servant to a fictional family, but as a faithful witness of Emily's heart, one who doesn't miss a trick or a beat.

So why are these two sisters fighting over a fictional man? Go to part 2

Saturday, August 6, 2016

Exceptional Excerpts: Isak Dinesen's Shadows on the Grass

The memoirs of Karen Blixen are familiar to us as recounted in her book Out of Africa. Yet, she also wrote a slim volume of tales long after she left the continent in 1961 at the age of 76. Here, she gives a long description of the person with whom she felt the greatest partnership, whom she was forever separated from, in the midst of her other great losses. It is not about her lover Denys Finch-Hatton, but rather Farah Aden, the one who oversaw the running of her farm, while keeping his own household and family thriving as well.

She calls this simply, "Portrait of a Gentleman":

As here, after twenty-five years, I again take up episodes of my life in Africa, one figure, straight, candid, and very fine to look at, stands as doorkeeper of all of them: my Somali servant Farah Aden. Were any reader to object that I might choose a character of greater importance, I should answer him that that would not be possible.


Farah came to meet me in Aden in 1913, before the First World War. For almost eighteen years he ran my house, my stables and safaris. I talked to him about my worries as about my successes, and he knew of all that I did or thought. Farah, by the time I had had to give up the farm and was leaving Africa, saw me off in Mombasa. And as I watched his dark immovable figure on the quay growing smaller and at last disappear, I felt as if I were losing a part of myself, as if I were having my right hand set off, and from now on would never again ride a horse or shoot with a rifle, nor be able to write otherwise than with my left hand. Neither have I since then ridden or shot.

The introduction into my life of another race, essentially different from mine, in Africa became to me a mysterious expansion of my world. My own voice and song in life there had a second set to it and grew fuller and richer in the duet.

As if her literary talents in portraiture weren't enough, here are examples of Karen Blixen's visual talents: this is of a Somali boy, who may be Farah's son, Saufe. The other two are of an unidentified Kikuyu girl and young man. Before emigrating to Africa, Blixen attended art schools in Copenhagen, Paris and Rome.

The Somali are very handsome people, slim and erect as all East African tribes, with sombre, haughty eyes, straight legs and teeth like wolves. They are vain and have knowledge of fine clothes. When not dressed as Europeans— for many of them would wear discarded suits of their masters’ from the first London tailors and would look very well in them— they had on long robes of raw silk, with sleeveless black waistcoats elaborately embroidered in gold. They always wore the turbans of the orthodox Mohammedans in exquisite many-coloured cashmeres; those who had made the pilgrimage to Mecca might wear a green turban.

For Farah, although gravely posing as a highly respectable major-domo, Malvolio himself, was a wild animal, and nothing in the world would ever stand between him and God. Unfailingly loyal, he was still at heart… a cheetah noiselessly following me about at a distance of five feet, or a falcon holding on to my finger with strong talons and turning his head right and left. 

When Farah first took service in my house, or first took my house into possession— for from that day he spoke of “our house” “our horses” “our guests”— it was not a common contract which was set up, but a covenant established between him and me ad majored domus gloria, to the ever greater glory of the house. My well-being was not his concern, and was hardly of real importance to him, but for my good name and prestige he did, I believe, hold himself responsible before God.

Farah strictly saw to it that our Native servants groomed the horses and polished the silver of the house till they shone. He drove my old Ford car as if it had been a Rothschild’s Rolls-Royce. And he expected from me a corresponding loyalty to the paragraphs of our covenant. As a consequence of this attitude he was a highly expensive functionary in the house, not only because his salary was disproportionately larger than that of my other servants, but because he did without mercy demand my house to be run in grand style.



Then came the hard times on the farm, and my certainty that I could not keep it. And then began my ever-repeated travels to Nairobi with such sorry aims as keeping my creditors quiet, obtaining a better price for the farm and, at the very end, after I had in reality lost the farm and become, so to say a tenant in my own house, securing for my squatters the piece of land in the Reserve where according to their wish they could remain together. It took a long time before I could make the Government consent to my scheme. On these expeditions Farah was always with me.

And now it happened that he unlocked and opened chests of which till then I had not known, and displayed a truly royal splendour. He brought out silk robes, gold-embroidered waistcoats, and turbans in glowing and burning reds and blues, or all white— which is a rare thing to see and must be the gala head-dress of the Somali— heavy gold rings and knives in silver and ivory mounted sheaths, with a riding whip of giraffe hide inlaid with gold, and in these things he looked like the Caliph Harun-al-Rashid’s own bodyguard. He followed me, very erect, at a distance of five feet where I walked, in my old slacks and patched up shoes, up and down Nairobi streets. There he and I became a true Unity, as picturesque, I believe, as that of Don Quixote and Sancho Panza. There he lifted me and himself to a classical plane…


When I had sold all the contents of my house, my paneled rooms became sounding boards. If I sat down on one of the packing cases containing things to be sent off, which were now my only furniture, voices and tunes of old rang through the nobly aired room intensified, clear. When during these months a visitor came to the farm, Farah stood forth, holding open the door to the empty rooms as if he had been doorkeeper to an imperial palace.

No friend, brother or lover, no nabob suddenly presenting me with the amount of money needed to keep the farm, could have done for me what Farah then did. Even if I had got nothing else for which to be grateful to him— but that I have got, and more than I can set down here— I should still for the sake of these months, now thirty years after, and as long as I live, be in debt to him.

Tuesday, July 12, 2016

Silly Season




As we watch the presidential candidacy unfold, we are reminded as the stakes get higher and the polling gets frenzied and the media are, as Elton John sang, “searching for tidbits on the ground”, that there truly is a silly season that can be embarrassing if not downright discouraging.


Where I live, near a place called Eagle Harbor, a certain solitary eagle has a daily route that allows me to see her sail through all sorts of skies, perhaps from the tidal bed full of tidbits to a nest further off and higher up. It is a peculiar and hushed feeling I get, to see the symbol of American freedom in its be-feathered flesh going about its business, hopefully and probably blissfully unaware of the silliness that we humans are serving up to one another with an endless appetite for more.



But this season is necessary. Our personal silly seasons are necessary. It is from the ridiculous that we are able to compare the sublime. The contrast of the eagle’s silent and mostly unnoticed flight allows me to remember that the nest is full of screeching,  fuzzy, silly-looking and voracious babies who demand attention in unison over and again. This is simply part of what our democracy does, too, as we go through another birthing cycle of leadership change.

We suddenly feel our needs, our injustices, our disunity, and desire for camaraderie more keenly. We demand. If that means we have to resort to antics to get it, we will. Like the jester who keeps the king and his court informed and challenged, we sideline, blindside, and backhand with ridicule, with manipulations of wordplay and acrobatics, making black seem white and back again. Except in democracy, the leaders are the jesters, and we are the kings. People often say that politics is simply theater, but if that is true, then we are the ones being played to.


The prevailing spirit of this age is one of conspiracy that breeds paranoia and contempt. If you think that someone is drinking the Kool-Aid, then be assured that this same someone thinks that you’re drinking yours. If you think the spirit of the age you are in is trampling out the vintage of the memories you cherish, don’t fear: your kids will trample out what they don’t like about you, and wrathfully restore what they value about your parents’ age. The left foot crushes down, the right foot lifts up. The past is restored to the present.


The eagle is not a symbol to himself. He is a living being that is affected by what we humans decide. His kind were once nearly hunted out of existence. And now he is left alone, to just live along currents, no longer in peril from us "where the dogs of society howl". Silly season has its purpose and allows us to right ourselves when we falter too far in one direction. It deflates solitary symbols and engages our humanity, releasing it back to the personal and the interconnected.

Democracy is ideally a self-regulating system, but as much as we need the majesty of an eagle to inspire us, we also need the foolish and the comedic to guide us along that dangerous highwire balancing act.  We check ourselves. It’s our way.



Friday, June 10, 2016

MayDay: Flight of the Mother Bee



I leave my daughter 
behind in my 
mother’s city:
the Old Pueblo
all jazzed up now, 
but not
while I lived there

Once again, between
golden ages
and silver wings,
the shadow of
my plane
crosses the
freeway
and an outbreak
of turquoise
swimming pools.

Then comes
fields of perfect
geometry, scraped
with lines of a comb
A pipeline of irrigation
feeds along a
daisy chain
that becomes a
dusty knotted string
until
arroyos, arroyos
everywhere
spreading away from
the false summer of 
desert December

Schlieren image of shock waves created by a T-38C in supersonic flight.
from NASA.gov


Arrival into Seattle
is smooth sailing
over a sparkling
Rainier who has
pulled the snowy
blanket over her head
and sighs for the 
young that hide
deep inside her,
heartbeats stilled
breathing slowed
she knows
only to wait
until they are ready
to peer into spring.

The voice of God,
the Captain,
murmurs that we,
the cabin of
honking hooting geese
in stifled V formation,
are cruising
at 16 nautical miles per hour.
Like arcane knowledge
this... saying so
slips off of me
formless
from its blinking
tower.

I think instead
of how my
mother bemoans
the wrinkles
under her arms
because she doesn’t
know or believe that
arroyos are hopeful
because
they lead somewhere

Page from Tennen hyakkaku (Tennen's One Hundred Cranes)
by Kigai Tennen, Kyoto
 



Saturday, January 30, 2016

A Catskill Eagle

If you have ever known anyone who has bipolar illness, you can feel their likeness in the weather of the Pacific Northwest. For the last few weeks, the weather has been alternating between grey rains that keep darkened wet leaves and limbs in the ravines held down, or days of winter sun that draws everyone outside for that blissful sight of orange, red and fuchsia that bathes the inner lids so soothingly.



Many artists have been blessed and cursed with an internal barometer that rises and falls for reasons that are obscure to themselves, as well as those who love and care for them. I don’t know if Herman Melville was one of these afflicted souls, but his writing suggests it. 

Long ago, my mother wrote down a passage of his, that reads like a poem, into a book of collected snippets of wisdom given to my sister and myself on our wedding days. It isn’t a verse from religious scriptures, but it could be, and it has stayed with me more than any other lines I’ve known.

In this same book my mother gave me is a quote from a minister, no less: “The theologians gather dust upon the shelves of my library but the poets are stained with my fingers and blotted by my tears.” And so as we go, we thoughtfully or unintentionally gather to us images, scenes, sayings, and writings of all sorts that find their way to the place in our imagining hearts that is waiting for them.


Ravines and gorges in a futuristic vision of "King's View of New York" by Moses King 1915


There is a wisdom that is madness, but there is a madness that is woe; and there is a catskill eagle in some souls that can alike dive down into the blackest gorges and soar out of them again to become invisible in the sunny spaces. -- Herman Melville

"Blue Savannah Song" by Erasure from their 1990 album Wild!

I like to think of Melville's Catskill eagle flying into Camus' invincible summer. This song is for my girl, the lullaby we sang to you when you first exploded onto the desert scene.


Tuesday, January 19, 2016

Janus and the Seadoor




Can it really be an entire year since we looked upon the faces of Janus and reflected on all the previous months and wondered at the ones ahead. Here we are, again. Like many people, I have been through several circumstances in the past year; landing in geographical and emotional climates I had never bargained for, struggling to stay afloat. 

Janus looks upon it all as the protector of doors, gateways, roadways, bridges and harbors, for those who travel to exchange goods, do business, or to return from war. He was honored in times of transition, particularly during outbreaks of war and ensuing peace, when communities had to find ways to integrate and restore balance. Janus was appealed to as one who opens and closes the ancient ceremonial passage of Mars, god of war, along with Quirinus, the “wielder of the spear.”

The temple of Janus. Two sets of arched doorways were to remain open during times of war and closed during times of peace.

Quirinus, the lesser known deity is a salient symbol as well. The fear of some potential doom can indeed feel as if a spear has been wielded upon the sternum, and is still protruding for all to see. Of course no one can see, as we continue to go about the business of opening and closing doors into the new year. 

One interesting observation about Janus is that he is the protector of all of these structures— the doors, the bridges, the harbors— but he is not a protector of the people who pass through them. He presides over but apart from hopes, resolutions, loss and gain. His silence is neutral and he never tugs at his beard over a dilemma or tips his garland in a favored direction. He is a reminder that life must move forward, and will do. Our acceptance of this law can buoy us up, while resistance to this law can leave us capsized and floundering. The Romans remind us of this with an ancient bronze coin depicting Janus on its head, showing the prow of a ship on its tail.

 Coins are an appropriate object for the depiction of Janus, as they are currency and often needed for passage through doors and across waters.

A now-popular quote from Isak Dinesen states, “The cure for anything is saltwater: tears, sweat or the sea.” And perhaps if we have tried two of those for long enough to no avail, Janus might provide a reminder to round out our efforts by trying the third.


Rooms by the Sea by Edward Hopper, 1957