Ex Animo

The Civil Wars - Aching Sound, Poetic Lyrics, Conjurers

2011-08-27T12:26:00.001-06:00

In a hushed, whispered tone, I say: God...their music...their interpretation...it's so real. They are conjurers.

Do you feel it, too?

This second live cut is a reinterpretation of "Dance Me to the End of Love," an amazing song from the renowned jazz artist, Leonard Cohen. I first encountered (and this is exactly the right word to describe it) Cohen's song years ago on a Madeleine Peyroux album, who is a contemporary jazz vocalist. It captured me then. Now...this version by The Civil Wars, it completely arrests me.

"Take Me" - Ahh...What a Song!

2011-07-22T08:27:00.000-06:00

My dad delights in the sound and music of George Jones. I've never been a big fan of Jones (I prefer the other "George," as in Strait), but I DO like the gals he sings with and the style of music he sang--at least the honky tonk genre; not the silly "redneck" sound he indulged from time to time. "Take Me" has that real honky tonk ache to which I'm so naturally inclined; its a rarity these days to hear it.

First Version: With the great Tammy Wynette when George was young.

Second Version: With my fave--Shelby--when George is older. If time would only allow them to sing it together when he was young. It would be as good as the original.

A "Sign" of the Times

2011-07-08T00:24:00.009-06:00

"Peace be with you." A common phrase used in high-church liturgies. In practice, it's more of a pleasantry, a gesture of shaking hands in keeping with a greeting, rather than a mindful, indeed hopeful, extension of the Kingdom. I'm not proffering a self-righteous judgment, but simply making an observation. It is largely the same for me. There are times and moments, rare though they may be, when I find myself capable, more by grace than sheer will, of efforts and feelings that dive deeper into the intent of a spiritual ritual. On the whole, I struggle between performing shallow acts and genuinely experiencing moving practices.

But when does a superficial act start to cross a boundary, to resemble a lower, baser self-centered instinct, to mimic an insult and essentially violate our common humanity? I know a person who with impunity pulls out of her purse, right after exchanging the sign of peace, a small bottle of hand sanitizer and proceeds to apply it with a half-hearted, feigned discreetness—right where she stands, among the same people with whom she was literally just moments before passing the peace. You can smell it, too. The scent of alcohol--of sterile—wafting like incense at the altar of the individual. The subliminal message being transmitted can't help but to be, though I’m sure unintended for the most part, a virtual veto on the transaction that just occurred. I recently witnessed the same action by a young couple in the pew ahead of me. I assumed noble intent, that they obviously had an explicit reason for exchanging the sanitizer after exchanging the peace--they had an infant with them. They were clearly new and proud parents and were taking precautions for the sake of their newborn’s health. But still, it bothered me at a deeper level.

In a similar vein, I know many—my wife and my mother included--who won’t partake from a common chalice of communion wine because of the “revulsion” factor associated with germs—the nasty “backwash” from a collection of individuals, many of whom are strangers. I respect their personal choice, but in my estimation it misses the point of a common cup. I suppose I comprehend why some do as they do in this regard, but I nevertheless bemoan the not so subtle shift to a "me first!" mentality that seems increasingly pervasive, especially in environments that portend to build community--e.g. church. I'm bothered by the blatant and casual disregard for the deeper meaning behind spiritual rituals. I'm distressed by the spirit of "me first!" that readily relegates others to the sidelines.

Granted, if a zombie virus is on the rampage, then, yes, extra precaution is to be expected, if not mandated. Common sense should prevail. Whatever new form of apocalyptic flu strain is in vogue, it requires of the community at large an appropriate response that prioritizes the health concerns of everyone. When the Bird Flu and Swine Flu were on the march, my daughters took to school their own bottles of hand sanitizer intended for daily and repeated use in the hope it would mitigate the risk of catching the virus. This was a practice that the school was requesting and attempting to implement broadly, but I would have still encouraged the same with my daughters if the school had not. Similarly, I frequently see bottles of common-use hand sanitizer near entry/exit points in churches. Likewise, my local supermarket offers a station of hand sanitizer towelettes upon entry of the store. All reasonable solutions from my perspective. But these scenarios are different from the ones I'm troubled by. These have a more general presence, at the most sounding a precautionary note of sorts. These examples are more generic and clearly unassociated with a specific, in-the-moment action meant to build or reconstruct bridges between human hearts. The two are not equivalent.

“Peace be with you.” A perfunctory mouthing of words that should at minimum represent a nod to decorum. We could do worse! Our current culture of distraction has practically jettisoned any respect for manners and politeness and to our detriment. To behave like a gentleman or lady is all too often considered exotic, if not unnecessary and anachronistic, in the prevailing culture.

“Peace be with you.” A declarative, deliberate, directional statement, and on better days, a soulfully felt and expressed sentiment—an action of the will (mind) being immersed and baptized into the heart in order to mysteriously bestow, or, if only tenable in a customary manner, at least wish a blessing on the person standing before you.

Sticks and Stones May Break My Bones, but Names Will Never Hurt Me

2011-04-24T20:51:00.002-06:00

A bigger lie, however noble the intent, has never been told and yet believed by so many. I heard this "saying" growing up as a kid--it was offered as something of a coping mechanism to better deal with and handle the harsh realities served up in life. The truth? The power of words is enormous--for good and ill.

I encountered the below YouTube video via Terry Hershey's site. I wanted to share it here because I believe it captures the imbuing potency of words. It doesn't explicitly address my post title, but is related and exudes the spirit of the power of words.

"The tongue has the power of life and death, and those who love it will eat its fruit."

Proverbs 18:21

Alison Krauss - Sister Rosetta Goes Before Us

2011-04-03T16:04:00.000-06:00

"Sister Rosetta Goes Before Us" is my favorite tune off the spellbinding album "Raising Sand," which is a strange musical union between Alison Krauss, bona fide Bluegrass royalty, and Robert Plant of Led Zeppelin fame and many solo efforts. I personally can do without Zeppelin (I know...many would say my comment amounts to blasphemy); I've just never been much of a fan, in spite of the enormity of their popularity and talent. Zeppelin had talent to be sure. Plant has a good voice and Paige is a solid guitarist (once again I'm engaging in blasphemy where I tread, as many consider Paige to be a genuine "guitar god," but I beg to differ). On the other hand, I very much enjoy and admire the music of Krauss. Unexpectedly, the two created an ethereal, magical sound in "Raising Sand." The song "Sister Rosetta" captures the spirit of the album.

I've long been moved by Alison's voice and have many of her albums (both with Union Station and solo), but when I came upon the below live recording I was mesmerized. I've never had the opportunity to see her live, but hard as it may be to believe, this live performance shows her to be even better than when in studio (a rare feat among artists, even great ones, where they don't have the luxury of taking the time to polish and refine their recordings).

On a side note, the partial song that follows "Sister Rosetta" is the kind of deep south, honky tonk that I grew up hearing. Wonderful song; I only wish the camera operator would have continued recording.

"Let's ride motorcycles!"

2011-03-28T20:25:00.000-06:00

I encountered this video link via a paid email subscription published by Terry Hershey that I receive weekly called "Sabbath Moment." I've watched it now numerous times, shown it to my daughters, and I'm always moved by it, especially at a particular section of the clip. The rub? It's a commercial--literally an advertisement--for a Taiwanese Bank. You just never know where meaning may be found. As Frederick Buechner says, "Pay attention--especially to those moments that give you a lump in the throat."

Best Song Ever - Blue Bayou

2011-03-24T22:06:00.000-06:00

I'm going there one day, too.

A Little Freaky

2011-03-07T23:12:00.000-07:00

Okay--this "numerical oddity" continues and is freaking me out just a bit. Last night I woke up and looked at my clock and it was 11:11. Then today at work I looked on the led display of my phone and it was 4:44. And...just now... a few minutes or so ago...I walk into my bedroom to go to bed and my wife's alarm clock on her side of the bed showed 11:11. (She always runs her alarm clock fast--I suppose so she gets up accordingly.)

Under normal circumstances I'd be using plenty of expletives to describe this phenomenon, but I don't feel right doing that in this case.

I'm perplexed. Maybe this is some psychosomatic thing?

Manhood & Friendships: Kemo Sabe - Revisited

2011-03-05T20:34:00.001-07:00

I attended a presentation/seminar today--really, more of a spiritual retreat, of sorts--and during one part, the men and women were segregated to discuss topics more in keeping with the particular challenges and perspectives of each gender. As I listened to my male peers--dudes, as it were—share their stories, I was disquieted by the similar theme and, frankly, broken state of affairs among my fellow blokes, as it relates to male friendships and connections, even at the father and son level. I very much related.

Good, even great friendships, are commonplace among women. My wife regularly demonstrates this in her life, as do my two daughters, even though they are still relatively young, near twelve and ten. But we chaps are often an island unto ourselves where male bonding is concerned. We are like Jason Bourne (awesome trilogy, btw!) moving from place to place flying under the radar, living a shadow live as far as meaningful connections are concerned. That's certainly how I would frequently describe my own condition. Don't get me wrong. I have "friends," but they are largely what I would style as acquaintances. Friends, I mean really good friends--kindred spirits--are a precious commodity. The one real male friend in my life—more akin to a kindred spirit or “blood brother”-- recently became my boss. As such, and appropriately so, that friendship, the deeper essence of it, essentially went up in smoke. I don’t begrudge in the least the change in reporting relationship—I’m without bias happy for his success!--but it nonetheless struck a chord of pang for me.

I’m a big fan of the Westerns, and arguably my favorite is “Open Range.” It depicts a great male friendship, even among two laconic cow pokes. Likewise, so does the film “The Shawshank Redemption.” They represent a model of how it could be among male friends. Alas, these kind of relationships are very rare, indeed.

During today’s conversations, I privately recalled an old post of mine from 2009 where I lamented much the same, and so, felt moved to revisit and once again share that mini-essay, because it speaks, at least in some measure, to an innate desire and need of humankind--especially men—to be a member of a “band of brothers.”

SEE HERE

Numerical Oddity—A Close Encounter of an Other Kind II

2011-03-03T20:41:00.010-07:00

Recently, maybe the last month or so, I’ve encountered on an unusually frequent basis (or so it would seem to me—I find it hard to imagine that it is a function of statistical odds, but I don’t rule that option out) a sequence of the same repeated number—i.e. 222, 333, 555, etc. This experience, from my best recollection, has occurred when looking at a digital clock of some sort—at work and home, via a computer, microwave, and car clock. I may have observed it in other formats as well—television, print, etc.—but I don’t categorically remember, and, irrespective of the source, I’ve now come to an awareness that I’m seeing this oddity frequently enough that it gives me a momentary pause, inducing a…huh, that’s weird…recognition. In other words, it’s happened enough for me to become aware that it’s happening, as opposed to just doing a quick mental “double-take” and then forgetting about it, if that makes any sense.

I don’t recall all the various sequences of a repeated number that I’ve seen, although the three examples referenced above I do remember; nor do I recall if the sequences were only three numbers in a row; although, I’m reasonable confident it has been at a minimum a sequence of three repetitions. I think? I seriously doubt the frequent repetition of two numbers would have triggered a perception that I was observing an unusual repeated sequence. The repetition of two numbers is too common to be out of the ordinary (unless it was yet another repetition of an already repeated sequence of the same number, then it would cease to be casual and become an oddity). Okay—I’m starting to take this thing a bit too far.

Anyhow, this experience has prompted me to wonder: What does this mean, if anything at all? I suppose I have some conditioning from my life that would allow for the suggestion that it could actually mean something. I suspect a person securely moored to a rationalistic understanding of the world would chalk it up to a mental game of chance ruled by odds, or, better yet, some form of subliminal autosuggestion—basically a form of paying attention when it seems fitting to do so. But I'm not so sure…I'm dubious of the dogmatically scientific understanding of all of life approach…I’m inclined to allow for other more “ethereal” explanations. Hunches and intuition are welcome--to a degree--in my life. Occam’s razor is situational and subject to interpretation, as far as I'm concerned. (Have you ever seen the Jodie Foster movie "Contact"?). Einstein said, “Coincidence is God’s way of remaining anonymous.” Of course, what (or why) someone or anything would be communicating to me through a sequence of repeated numbers is patently unclear. Maybe it’s better that way. While I’m open to an understanding of things that are “other,” or as the Creed says, “seen and unseen,” I’m also cautious for precisely the same reason. That's why I won’t mess with a Ouija Board. I think that’s asking for trouble, playing with fire. I’m an adherent of Frederick Buechner’s dictum to “listen to your life,” but this experience doesn’t quite fall into that category. Repeating the same number?? What’s the point? A “Thin Place” that serves as a riddle?

Of course, now that I’ve become sufficiently conscious of this numerical oddity, I’ve already become suspicious of looking at clocks and numbers. Whatever “magic” or “message” there may have been in the numbers is likely lost. Go figure (no pun intended—grin).

Oh My! Susan Singing So Sweet!

2011-02-26T11:33:00.002-07:00

...Oh yeah...she knows how to play, too! Soulful!

Once Upon A Time...

2010-12-25T10:57:00.001-07:00

"The true city, the holy one, allows us, in the words of Paul Philibert, an alternative 'vision of human relationships where beauty is more desirable than financial profit, friendship more precious than advantage, and solidarity in a common vision of human dignity more compelling than self-fulfillment.'"

-Kathleen Norris

I came across this Norris quote yesterday that an old friend of mine posted on his blog a while back. I so appreciate the sentiment and insight that Norris captures in her writings. This particular quote arrested me with a momentary sigh and sense of nostalgia. When I say nostalgia, I'm not exactly sure what I mean. It's not like I've experienced the reality it describes; well, maybe, just maybe, I've glimpsed it for a fleeting moment off in the distance as I cornered a bend. More candidly, I certainly don't personally live and practice this wonderful truth and way, or if I do, it happens by accident, a serendipitous moment of grace. Rather, I attribute my nostalgia to an intuition of a reality that is our true home. A home that stands in stark opposition, at least in many, if not most ways, to our current shadow life. It's nostalgia for a country that is "far, far away," a foreign and exotic city of utopia hidden in the "Lost Horizon," or it is "once upon a time" in Narnia playfully wrestling with Aslan.

Of course, I'm totally wrong...sort of. Shangri-La is the domain of the heart; therefore, it is present in the here and now and does indeed require one to practice the art of the way...but...it also seems to have a future quality associated with it--a long awaited destination, an oasis after a long Homeric and quixotic journey of many "twists and turns." I'll defer to the Romantic poet, Novalis, who seems to pine for the same or tap a vision of life in the Outer Banks of Paradise: "Our life is no dream, but it should and will perhaps become one." Perhaps it is found in the person and way of the babe in the manger, the one the traditional Yuletide carol asks, "What child is this?"

As always, I remain “on the road with the Archangel.” With luck, or better yet, the occasional sprinkle of grace, I too will one day come to the end of my journey and enter through the gate of the “true city” and find the wholeness of shalom.

Paths

2010-12-02T22:33:00.001-07:00

There is a strange little old lyrical Christmas book that I like. It's called "The Story of the Other Wise Man" by Henry Van Dyke. It tells the story of Artaban, a Magi that gets side-tracked on his journey following the star.

The below serves as something of a moniker for the story. I like it--a lot.

Who seeks for heaven alone to save his soul,

May keep the path, but will not reach the goal;

While he who walks in love may wander far,

Yet God will bring him where the blessed are.

KWS - Shame, Shame, Shame

2010-08-20T22:08:00.001-06:00

Kenny Wayne Shepherd...holy shit!...can this guy play! I remember buying the album this particular cut was on years ago--indeed, it was the initial prompt for me to buy it in the first place (and I'm a lover of the Blues)--and being thrilled at his precocious talent. He was a kid then, literally! His sound is raw, wicked, and nasty--it's a beautiful thang!!

S.L. - Like A Fool

2010-08-06T23:08:00.001-06:00

A Way of Acting: Shaking the Superflux

2010-07-30T19:20:00.007-06:00

“Expose thyself to feel what wretches feel,

That thou mayst shake the superflux to them,

And show the heavens more just.”

-Shakespeare, “King Lear”

Many, many moons ago, I wrote a letter to Frederick Buechner, the renowned author and spiritual theologian (he’s become something of a de facto spiritual “mentor” or “staretz” for me through his writings), when my daughters were still at most toddlers. I asked him how best to introduce Christ to them. He was gracious enough to respond. He said, “As best you can, be Christ to them.” (The underscored emphasis was his.) At the time it struck me as exotic and not all together what I had hoped for in an answer.

Now, I clearly see the penetrating truth to his wisdom. It is an entirely organic way of being a Christian; by that I mean, a way of acting and living out the spirit of the Christian faith. (I’m not talking about adopting a holier-than-thou attitude, suffocating piety, or rigid moralism; in fact it would be the opposite.) To “be Christ” in the ideal sense of that imperative is impossible, yet it remains nothing less than the explicit call of the Christian. This way of acting is life-giving. When attempted, or better yet, practiced, it’s sure to be done in a half-baked manner, by even the most sincere and devoted of followers, and at best will only approach the ideal. And that’s okay. We are all on a journey back to God. There are scores upon scores of people who don’t even know they are following Christ. Likewise, there are those who wouldn’t even want to be associated in any way with the idea of Christianity given the harshly dogmatic, often mean spirited, witness projected by so many “believers,” however well intentioned the ardent testimony of these believers may be. Indeed, those who don’t even know they are following the way of Christ, or those who wouldn’t dare adopt the label Christian, are often times the ones who best reflect or model a Christ-like spirit.

In several of his works, Buechner highlights his fondness for Shakespeare’s “King Lear,” and specifically calls out the “superflux” quote referenced above at the beginning of my post. Not unlike his call to “be Christ,” I used to find this particular reference largely unsatisfying, not even being sure what the hell it meant. (I’d challenge anyone to tell me what the hell “superflux” actual is or means; frankly, it conjures an image for me of the “flux capacitor” from the movie, “Back to the Future.”) However, over time I’ve come to grasp or intuit something of its truth from context. It represents nothing less than “being Christ” to others.

I try, though usually rather poorly, to act out of the spirit of Christ. There are times, moments, when my heart is moved of its own accord and the acting is more natural. Other times, most times, more likely, I have to act as a function of the will. And that’s okay, too. That’s why my actions are so inconsistent and comingled with the profane. But on occasion, I remember the wisdom from Buechner to “take heart,” and hope that I will have the courage to “be merciful” to myself, to remember that I’m on the road with the Archangel.

“Take heart. Fear not. Be alive. Be merciful. Be human. And most unlikely of all: Even when you can’t believe, even if you don’t believe at all, even if you shy away at the sound of his name, be Christ.”

-Buechner, “Speak What We Feel”

So…how does one “shake the superflux”? Be, learn to feel, like the blacksmith in the parable below from Peter Rollins, or like the character, Mr. Mendez, from “The Butterfly Circus.”

A parable from “The Orthodox Heretic” by Peter Rollins

There was once an old man named Benoni who had known great misfortune through life, having lost his wife and children to poverty, disease, and war. The many lines on his face betrayed his pain, and his heart was filled with sorrow and regret. Indeed he barely had the strength to carry on.

But there was one who had drawn alongside him in his sorrow. His comforter was the village blacksmith, a strong but caring man who exhibited a gentle, humble, and charitable way of life. People knew very little about this blacksmith, as he was a quiet man who had moved into the town only a few years before. Yet he was well liked by the community and would often be found sitting on the porch of his workshop, enjoying the midday sun and passing the time by engaging strangers in conversation. His face was strong and full of character, betraying both a depth of spirit and a breadth of experience. But it was also a kindly face that was set alight by his compassionate smile.

When Benoni lost his first child, the blacksmith called round to his home, put his hand on Benoni’s shoulder and with great affection said, “I am so sorry that you have suffered this grave misfortune. If you will allow me, I would like to stand with you at this time of hardship.”

Ever since this first encounter the blacksmith had called round to Benoni’s house most evenings, sometimes to sit and chat, sometimes to listen, and sometimes simply to leave food and other provisions. As each new calamity befell Benoni, the blacksmith would be there to speak and cry with.

One day when Benoni was particularly depressed he went to visit a pastor who lived in the heart of the city, so as to talk through what had taken place over the traumatic years and try to make sense of it. The pastor listened to what Benoni had to say and then, after a little thought, replied, “Well my son, in order for great fortune to take place one must first suffer great misfortune. The suffering you have faced is the price that has had to be extracted for strength of character, and a spirit forged in the fires of hell.”

So Benoni returned to his home alone, lit a fire in an attempt to take away the evening’s chill, and contemplated the words of the minister. Perhaps he is right, thought Benoni, maybe I should take some comfort from these words. But it is cold, I am alone, and words can offer no shoulder to rest on.”

Just then the blacksmith knocked on the door and Benoni, as always, welcomed him in. As they sat together they drank whiskey and talked long into the night. That evening Benoni shared the words of the pastor with his friend, adding, “Perhaps now that I have been given these words to comfort me, you no longer need to visit as you have done this last year.”

The blacksmith simply looked at the floor for a few moments and then replied, “My dear friend, if what the elder has said is true then I am needed all the more, for if you had to suffer such great misfortune in order to find strength of character and wealth of spirit, then this is in itself a great misfortune.”

And so they sat late into the night bringing comfort and warmth to each other through the sharing of their lives.

A Way of Believing: Nurturing a Spacious Heart and Embracing Paradox

2010-07-06T22:20:00.013-06:00

“But my dear Sebastian, you can’t seriously believe it all.”

“Can’t I?”

“I mean about Christmas and the star and the three kings and the ox and the ass.”

“Oh yes. I believe that. It’s a lovely idea.”

“But you can’t believe things because they’re a lovely idea.”

“But I do. That’s how I believe.”

-from “Brideshead Revisited” by Evelyn Waugh

Sebastian’s way of believing—as I see it, somehow more wholesome, simple, and innocent, perhaps even simplistic and naive, yet, very importantly, void of the harsher, judgmental, and self-righteous spirit typical of fundamentalism--resonates with me in many ways. I'm only able to appropriate its delightful simplicity in half measure, but I'm open to its spirit. As my faith has grown older and more experienced, it has acquired along the way, dare I say?!, a meager portion of wisdom (and, God willing, humility) that was largely absent in earlier incarnations. As such, it has become more nuanced and ambiguous, somewhat ethereal (I'm not prepared to use the word mystical as a descriptor where I'm concerned). So how does this square with Sebastian’s way of believing? It doesn’t, at least not when considered as an either/or proposition. Therein lies the rub (some would say untenable dilemma) that is part of my life philosophy. I embrace the tension of paradox.

One would be correct in asserting that Sebastian’s way of believing is more akin to the way a child believes in jolly old St. Nick or the Tooth Fairy. While warm and cozy for a spell, like a marshmallow roasting over a fire, it nonetheless quickly melts in the cauldron of real life. At its best and most noble, his way is childlike (though not childish). It establishes the loveliness of an idea as a cardinal virtue. Sebastian’s approach to Mystery expands and deepens the heart nurturing the delicate blessings of joy and hope. Of course, it doesn’t ratify the whole affair as fact or not, but that's not the point in this construct. Rather, it affords succor for the journey. Love and beauty primarily reside in the arena of intuition and spirit, not the intellect. Dostoevsky sums it up clearly and succinctly: "Beauty will save the world."

So what of the dark side of life? Joy and hope will certainly be forced to share residence in the heart alongside the inevitable co-tenants of doubt and brokenness. If the twain meet and manage to merge, it fashions a faith that is more elastic and apt to stretch with the challenges of life (though it certainly has a breaking point), thereby fostering a hopeful and open faith that transcends the merely logical and dogmatic. Sebastian’s notion fits ‘hand in glove’ with the Mark Helprin quote I use as a descriptor on my blog header: "As long as you have life and breath, believe. Believe for those who cannot. Believe even if you have stopped believing. Believe for the sake of the dead, for love, to keep your heart beating; believe. Never give up, never despair, let no mystery confound you into the conclusion that mystery cannot be yours." The combined sentiments expressed by Helprin and Waugh speak rather potently to where I frequently find myself where spiritual belief is concerned. My spirituality has morphed (evolved?). It’s more organic and non-linear. It’s paradoxical. (I’d contend it's not necessarily contradictory. As Niels Bohr, the famed physicist and contemporary of Albert Einstein, said, “The opposite of a fact is falsehood, but the opposite of one profound truth may very well be another profound truth.”) I’m confident some would say my approach represents a recipe for disaster, confusion, and chaos and is untenable with the potential to deconstruct sanity. The naysayers may prove ultimately correct on all charges, but this is where my journey has taken me thus far, and I take authority for what, how, and why I believe as I do.

I recently watched the movie “The Nativity Story” with my two daughters. Actually, I started the movie with both of them, but finished it with only my youngest (Huckleberry) at my side on the sofa. My oldest (Silly Bones) abandoned her viewing in a state of tears at a point roughly in the middle of the movie, distraught at a fairly innocuous scene (it cut away before showing the final blow) depicting a calf that was about to be sacrificed at the Jewish Temple as a person was preparing to “pass their sins” onto said sacrifice. As the scene showed the calf being readied for the slaughter, Silly Bones shot up from the couch and fled to her mom, who was sitting in a nearby chair half working on her laptop and half eyeing the movie. My daughter bellowed with a mixture of tears, disbelief, and anger, “What are they going to do to him!” I tried to explain, but that only made matters worse as far as she was concerned, so she and my wife (who shot me a piercing look of anger with her bottom jaw thrust out, as though it were me doing the sacrifice, a look that shouted at me that I should know better; I know how Silly Bones is with things like this and what is this movie rated anyway!) traipsed off upstairs to escape the sadness and ugliness of life as portrayed even in celluloid form. I understand the revulsion and how it can call into question the whole God overture.

However, as I watched the movie, I remember thinking to myself throughout how rather fanciful it all was and how I could easily comprehend why some would ascribe a fairy tale moniker to it. But…I was also seized by the thought, “Why not?” Due to my long history of religious experience and exposure, there was a time in my past when I would have nearly mandated acquiescence to the letter of the dogma of the Incarnation and all its attendant systematic apologetics. For quite some time now, though, this is no longer the case. Life is too complex and, hence, the arrogance of certainty has softened and mellowed considerably with time for me. My “Why not?” was more a recognition that if God is God, He can do whatever He damn well pleases. The "Why not?" was also something of a visceral response to its loveliness. Another way of saying the same thing comes from Frederick Buechcher: "Christianity (by this he means the hopeful heart of it) is preposterous."

I genuinely appreciate Sebastian’s way of believing in the Incarnation due to its loveliness. It’s free from the captivity of pure rationalism, which so often suffocates and binds. For so many, me included, all the scholastic polemics and apologetics of St. Aquinas and his ilk, that were forged in order to confirm and validate the truths of dogma, ultimately prove to be something of a barrier to embracing the Holy in a more hopeful spirit. Their approach makes faith sterile and rigid. Even Aquinas, a declared Doctor of the Church and granted the title "Angelic Doctor" by the See of Rome, finally resigned to the Mystery of God. After experiencing a mystical or Beatific vision of sorts he exclaimed, “The end of all my labors has come. All that I have written appears to me as much straw after the things that have been revealed to me." Now we’re talking (see my head nodding up and down)! What a powerful and revelatory concession from a prolific theologian of impeccable intellectual rigor and lasting reputation, and who relished advancing his arguments to the exponential degree in order to proffer a systematic understanding of God with roots firmly in ecclesiastical authority!

So how has all this informed my faith? I now value an approach of humility in the God endeavor. The final befuddlement of Aquinas seems befitting. We are on a journey; and as Homer’s Muse sings, one of “many twists and turns.” To be sure, I’m more convinced than not of the reality of the Divine, though this is more likely due to a legacy or heritage belief or conditioning. Likewise, if I’m to be fully candid with myself, I believe that the person Jesus of Nazareth is somehow deeply, materially mixed up in the whole beautiful and nasty mess of life. I tell my daughters frequently by way of explanation concerning life that we are all, everything, on a journey back to God. I invite them to see more organically. It represents something of a holistic understanding of life, though in no way defers or hides the ugly side. Plenty of others, especially those influenced by the Celtic “tradition” perceive much the same, espousing a kind of “journey” theology.

Over time I’ve come to prefer the “big picture” view of believing as favorable to growth. For example, when contemplating the Feast of the Epiphany, I’ve learned to leave it at the macro-level where it is more simple and, yes, more “Once upon a time…” in a fairytale kind of way—essentially, God entering the world as a blessing of Love, as opposed to all the minutia of the doctrine of the Incarnation that so many of the faithful are so insistent on bludgeoning the world into submission with at every conceivable opportunity. Don’t get me wrong. I understand why they act as they do. For those bound by literalism, they hold so much, frankly nothing less than everything, to be at stake in terms of believing as they do. They may be right, but I can’t personally reside in or abide a world of believe so definitive and categorical...and so judgmental, often on the most petty of grounds. I personally choose to believe as Lady Julian of Norwich that God, in His own way and time, will make everything right. This hard won conviction has been the only means by which I've been able to reconcile in any meaningful way the radical and polar disparities that existence itself serves up. In this regard, I've adopted as my own the famous words of the old magisterial reformer, Martin Luther: “Here I stand; I can do no other.”

Now, embracing this hopeful sentiment doesn’t make everything pretty and nice. Indeed, in spite of my personal belief that “all will be well,” I'm haunted with concerns about the nature of God (but that’s another post). In spite of my ongoing wrestling match with the Divine, I'm unwilling to yield or immerse myself in an unbending systematic understanding of God that invokes a strident anxiety as the modus operandi. In my observation and experience, those who are intertwined with and bound by the letter of the law seek the comfort of certainty…and for a reason…many, if not most, among this crowd shoulder the heavy burden of fear. It reminds me of a prayer I grew up with and prayed with fervor in my youth called the “Act of Contrition.” One line says, “I detest all my sins because I dread the loss of Heaven and the pains of Hell…” That is a prayer not of compunction, but of fear. It’s so unfortunate and misses the point all together.

With time and trials, I’ve become more comfortable with an increasingly nebulous spiritual path, although it is one that carries the markers of Christianity. Even if Christ (as the Good Shepherd) is found not to be true, He nonetheless represents a worthy wish…a lovely idea as Sebastian would say. Mind you, I said Christ, the meta-story, not all the systematic dogma, accompanied by a totally blind belief in an inerrant scripture and ecclesiastical authorities that often engender so much confusion and robs many of joy. Yes, I go to church—indeed, the one that is the most hierarchical and ecclesiastical of all. I also especially value the idea of Sacraments. I appreciate Holy Writ for what it tells us of the experience of God’s people. But all this aside, it’s the person of Christ that I’m ultimately drawn to time and again. Dostoevsky said, “I believe that there is nothing lovelier, deeper, more sympathetic, more rational, more manly and more perfect than the Savior... If anyone could prove to me that Christ is outside the truth, and if the truth really did exclude Christ, I should prefer to stay with Christ and not the truth.” I’m with Fyodor, even though the struggle of my faith, such as it is, continues and likely will until my appointed hour.

So, yes…I believe all that “stuff” about Christmas…the star and the three kings and the ox and the ass. It is, indeed, a lovely idea!

Marvelously Changed - The Heart of Mentorship

2010-07-01T23:27:00.004-06:00

I literally can't count the number of times I've watched this film. It carries a special significance, a meaning, in my life. The book from which it was adapted is shit. The movie represents one of those rare commodities where the screenplay adaptation and interpretation are clearly superior. The story goes to the heart of the value of genuine mentorship.

Joyful Devotion: A Close Encounter of an Other Kind

2010-06-15T23:44:00.002-06:00

Devotion experienced, understood, or projected as deep reverence, even awe, can readily be found among those inclined to a dogmatic expression of faith. (I speak of faith here very broadly to include religious or spiritual or anti-religious/spiritual.) The sheer force of presumptuous certainty (better understood as arrogance, as opposed to humility) demands it. As evidence, take note of the jihadist hell-bent on death and destruction. They harbor no expectation of tolerance, forgiveness, or hope inspired by a spirit of generosity or charity.

Question: What is so obviously missing in the example case of the jihadist that would represent the hallmark of a genuinely positive spiritual experience or direction?

Answer: Anything that remotely resembles joy.

Let us not confuse passion and conviction for the subtlety of joy. Let us not even confuse happiness or pleasure with joy, though they are more closely related. No, joy comes out of peace, peace as shalom, and love, however fierce and focused, that is nevertheless of the left hand sort, meaning that it exudes a spirit of respect, patience, kindness, and most notably, sacrifice. (There’s nothing easy about practicing this kind of love. Indeed, it is Divine in nature—extreme humility.) I don’t deny the power of passion and conviction or even that they don’t have a proper place in devotion; indeed they do. However, they do not alone verify or authenticate devotion of the genuinely spiritual kind.

Why am I writing about devotion of the spiritual kind? It sure as hell isn’t because I represent a model to follow or someone who consistently practices the art of devotion as a deeply felt connection with the Divine. No, the reason I’m speaking about the nearly lost virtue of devotion in today’s dizzy with busy society is because I recently witnessed its presence from a distance a couple of weeks ago at Mass. A young woman across the way from me so naturally married the two expressions of reverence and joy that I was beholden to its beauty and was moved by its authenticity. There was something so resonant in her simple and low key, although unselfconscious, way that was clearly demonstrable of true devotion—one that is connected in a more…well, the only word that seems to fit is transcendent…manner; so beyond intellectual asset or faux emotion that’s conjured through the priming of the pump so common among the loud and boisterous and entirely convinced.

I seriously doubt real devotion is consistently sustainable. We are after all only human. The experience of a “dark night of the soul” has been conveyed by great lovers of God. As Frederick Buechner so aptly says it, “God reserves His deepest silence for His saints.” Moreover, I imagine that for even those that are gifted or blessed with genuine devotion, the dry, spare, or desert seasons still threaten.

Devotion that is quiet and gentle, yet deep and pervasive is redolent of the “real thing.” There is something remarkable about how unremarkable genuine devotion is revealed. It doesn’t seek out attention. If attention from others occurs, it is a fringe benefit for those fortunate enough to stand in its presence. As such, it bears the strongest possible testimony. I lament the near lost reality of devotion as a more common experience and practice. It has been usurped by the maddening and trivial distractions of our current society. I feel privileged to have witnessed it recently.

The Left Hand of Strength

2010-05-28T20:38:00.003-06:00

Oh, palms that bow before the gale,

Until its peaceful ending,

Teach us your yielding, linked with strength,

Your graceful art of bending;

For every tree must meet the storm,

Each heart encounter sorrow;

Teach us, like you, to bow, that we

May stand erect tomorrow;

For there is strength in humble grace—

Its wise disciples shielding—

And he is strong who understands

The happy art of yielding.

-Edgar Jones, from "A Nature Prayer"

S.L. - Old #7

2010-05-16T21:42:00.001-06:00

Damn! Her singing continues to improve with years. (Not that she's old; I think she's around my age.) Her vocals were more deep and husky on her earliest tunes. What a rare evolution to witness...a voice that matures over time with more range and projection.

Her latest entry, "Tears, Lies, and Alibis," was released in April on her own new independent label. She produced the album and wrote all eleven songs (one track shows a co-writer). Just shy a month old and it's already made an imprint on me.

The songs--music and lyrics--are sparse, stripped, and naked. The spare construction fits her unregulated style and leaves space and freedom for her to authentically share the underlying emotions of the songs. Her music is revealing; not like a tattoo, but like a still unhealed seared fire brand. There's an open wound that permeates TLA. It's frequently raw and thoroughly atmospheric. If you pay attention, listen and not just hear, you will holistically feel and experience this collection of songs.

See below for a live tour performance recorded this month. This particular cut is my favorite on the album. (A close second is "Old Dog.")

Shelby Lynne - Old #7

HOME

2010-05-06T20:53:00.002-06:00

"It is not down in any map; true places never are."

-Herman Melville, Moby Dick

Patty Griffin - "Move Up"

2010-04-28T20:35:00.003-06:00

A great gospel tune (below) from Patty Griffin's latest album (2010) - "Downtown Church."

I really like this gal's musical style. I've been a listener for a few years and continue to find her "mood" very appealing. I'm especially moved by her album from 2004 - "Impossible Dream." Gorgeous and moving melodies.

P.S. Shelby Lynne just released her newest, "Tears, Lies, and Alibis," on April 20. I picked it up the same day and I've been listening to it every day since. Great tunes--authentic stuff. More to come on this one later.

Cat-Skinning Zombies

2010-04-15T21:56:00.001-06:00

Today I was standing, leaning would actually be more like it, exhausted, literally, after a long and stressful day of mental gymnastics, next to a counter-top in a local restaurant waiting for my “to go” order. (This from a guy who truly enjoys and finds solace in cooking, but time is increasing difficult to find for such quotidian pleasures. The “Matrix” has me—ahh!—j/k, sorta.)

Anyhow, on the counter-top was a fish bowl (this was a highfalutin place I tell ya, the kind of joint I frequent!) where patrons were encouraged to deposit their business cards to participate in a lotto style drawing for a shot at a free lunch. I’m leaning there, staring, in a partial daze, and I glimpse a business card positioned just so, ensuring that at least I would read it before it was buried by other cards piled on in search of their turn, and it made me snort a subdued laugh in disgust and momentary resignation. I don’t recall the exact name of the company, but I remember clearly what they claimed to do—remedy “electronic pollution.”

The worm has turned for sure. Good luck finding such a remedy if this is what ails ya. “Electronic pollution” is ubiquitous. It brings to mind the recent slew of zombie flicks. No matter how many of the emotionally vacant, stalking zombies you take out, they continue to multiply exponentially. You see, that’s their job to keep spreading their "virus." You can’t blame ‘em; they gotta "eat," too—but just how did they get that way in the first place, I wonder?? I'll tell you how--by being f'ing mindless before they became mindless. How did they (and we?!) become mindless? They (we?) got infected with the ever expanding and trivial means of technology, especially of the sort that portends to make communication and "entertainment" better and easier. The kind that makes us have the attention span of a freaking nat! And just what is the zombie's one and only desire, nay, appetite?--to devour you without prejudice.

How many ways can you skin a cat…simultaneously? Let’s see…by way of example, shall we count but some of the ways folks choose to “talk”…at the same time: text, blog, facebook, email, MySpace, Twitter, web page, IM, occasionally via phone, etc.

Hey—technology and the global connected world ain’t all bad (I live and play in it, too); but really, must we skin the poor cat so many ways and all at the same time? Does the emaciated feline have no dignity left? Reminds me yet again a bit of the ravenous, unquenchable appetite of the “zombies”—one bite is never, ever enough. It’s our-- oops--I meant, their nature, I suppose.

The question though, at least from my vantage point, is…are we any better for it? Per chance could there just maybe be some value to simplifying a bit (and there’s a material difference between simple and simplistic, lest anyone think I’m advocating for some kind of monastic extraction from the world). Maybe the old magisterial reformer, Luther, posited the best explanation for our (mea culpa) ongoing dilemma in terms of our many unusual ways and propensities and inclinations: “Simul Justus Et Peccator.”

Daily Illuminations

2010-04-09T21:59:00.001-06:00

"What is the meaning of life?... a simple question; one that tended to close in on one with years. The great revelation had never come. The great revelation perhaps never did come. Instead there were little daily miracles, illuminations, matches struck unexpectedly in the dark." -Virginia Woolf

The Butterfly Circus

2010-03-30T23:19:00.001-06:00

SEE HERE

Allison Moorer - Crows

2010-03-19T14:46:00.005-06:00

Crows

A new album from Allison Moorer (Shelby Lynne's little sister). The songs exude a gorgeous melancholy. I'll grant that the mood of this album isn't suited for everyone's palette. It displays a raw connecting honesty that is touching.

LISTEN to Crows (limited plays from Rhapsody)

True Questions

2010-03-19T07:57:00.001-06:00

"We have been as usual asking the wrong question. It does not matter a hoot what the mockingbird on the chimney is singing....The real and proper question is: Why is it beautiful?''

-Annie Dillard

Soul-Full Living V: "Letting Our Souls Catch Up With Our Bodies"

2010-03-14T16:56:00.002-06:00

Terry Hershey - "The Power of Pause"

Trivial Words or the Trivialization of Words?

2010-03-13T01:48:00.001-07:00

Best Friends Forever. Better known as BFF. I hear my two young daughters use this phrase all the time. The initials near ubiquitous as license plates on the interstate—on notebooks, homemade bracelets, necklaces, shirts, etc. Everyone is a best friend. I don’t begrudge their egalitarian dance—truth is, in a perfect world this would be as it should be—how God must imagine it (so maybe one day it will be so). But it’s not a perfect world. Now…please don't get me wrong. I don’t make a thing of this with my girls. Who the hell am I to shatter a noble idea and generous spirit?

I work with a gal who uses the word “love” as casually as I use the f-bomb. “I love this or that person’s enthusiasm or energy.” “I love it!” when speaking of an idea or decision. “I love the way he does this or that.”

I know this is part of the common vernacular and usage among the masses, but not with me. Some words are too serious and powerful.

The Lone Ranger didn’t ride with a tribe of Tontos. I have friends. But the word “best” is a reserved and special label. I don’t think I have a “best friend.” Moreover, it’s not like I don’t use the word “love." Indeed, I use it daily and with focused intention. This is precisely why I don’t want to trivialize it by associating it with my favorite whiskey or my preference for make and model of vehicle, etc.

Some words carry more than a meaning derived or conveyed by a definition. We must be careful not to misuse, or worse, abuse them.

Note: If you’re curious, see THIS past post for similar thoughts in this regard.

De Novo Bakersfield Sound: Surfing Cowboy - Gary Allan

2010-03-06T15:51:00.014-07:00

Gary Allan is one of my favorite musical artists. I remember being floored the first time I heard his 1999 release "Smoke Rings in the Dark." (See album cover below with him walking in a parched desert in a zoot suit.) The cover tune is exactly the moody type of sound I crave. There's another sweet and sensual cut off the same album called "Lovin' You Against My Will."

He hails from California and has been branded with the moniker “the surfing cowboy.” His style of country music falls into a category typically referred to as "Bakersfield," as it largely comes out of the California oil country area. It blends rockabilly, honky tonk, C&W, and is often laced with the older surfer Stratocaster sound. There are a few famous voices that fall into this category: Buck Owens (the first real popular artist of this sound), Merle Haggard (remember the song "Silver Wings"?—what a great old tune—Merle later became associated with a much more “traditional” country sound), Dwight Yoakam (superlative Bakersfield sound par excellence!), and, of course, Gary Allan, who currently carries the mantle with a de novo twist, at least as of late. The Bakersfield sound is my absolute fave in the C&W genre. Most of it flies under the radar, but it’s a primo sound in my book. See THIS archived post. As far as country music goes, the “Bakersfield” sound is perceived as more of a stepchild and kept at arm’s length by Nashville. Their freakin’ loss, if you ask me.

My wife (who's not as big a fan, but indulged me by attending) and I saw Gary Allan in concert touring for his last album here in Colorado at Red Rocks (a spectacularly beautiful and natural outdoor amphitheater in the foothills right outside of Denver). As a matter of fact, the video for "Airplane" (an okay song, as far as I'm concerned, but my daughters enjoy it) was filmed at that concert, so we're somewhere out in the audience of that video.

His last couple or so albums are not exactly my preferred taste, but still not too bad. He’s expanding into a more popular or in vogue sound, with even a somewhat “outlaw” fringe approach (although Bakersfield has always had something of a rebellious streak by definition). I still listen to him, though. My wife and daughters like his new stuff as opposed to his older stuff. The video below is his first single (a good one) called "Today" off his new album--"Get Off On the Pain"--that will be released in a few days. I’m looking forward to it! Most of his albums usually have a real gem or two on them.

He has some real broken pieces in his life. His wife took her life in a horrific way. In fact, one of his songs titled “The One” was written for her, and he no longer sings it live. His music has changed since that event (how could it not)—as I said more “outlaw” and rogue.

Findlay Brown

2010-02-25T20:45:00.004-07:00

I’ve been wearing this CD out listening to it over and over. I’m a huge fan of “retro” music sounds. This guy, Findlay Brown, a British singer, has apparently been around for a few years, but it’s his latest release (2009) that has me spellbound. His earlier sound, at least that which I’ve sampled, sounds a bit like Simon & Garfunkel, who I’ve never really cared for outside of a few songs. Too folksy for my taste. But, whoa, Findlay Brown has struck a chord (pun intended) with his current album. He sounds like a mixture of Chris Isaak (another artist that I admire and listen to frequently), Roy Orbison, and maybe a smidge of The Moody Blues a la “Nights in White Satin.” Of course, he’s himself, but you know what I mean. Take a look and listen to the below cut from his latest album.

To Bless

2010-02-23T20:18:00.001-07:00

“The best portion of a good man's life is his little, nameless, unremembered acts of kindness and of love.”

-William Wordsworth

Raul Malo

2010-02-18T20:09:00.000-07:00

I've been listening to Raul since he was the front man for The Mavericks. He's been solo for some time now, and his latest release, "Lucky One," is a real winner.

LUCKY ONE - TAKE ONE LUCKY ONE - TAKE TWO

Soul-Full Living IV: Identity Crisis and Sacramental Living

2010-02-13T22:25:00.001-07:00

I strive to work out the kinks in my soul through a variety of means, one of which is writing down my musings. Writing has proven to often be a cathartic, even sacramental, exercise for me. It helps me to better understand myself, to discover who I am—to excavate my identity. Wisdom from the pen of the Bard from his play “Hamlet” is suitably fitting for framing how writing is an instrument by which I discover myself more fully: “By indirections find directions out.”

I watched the film “Bright Star” last night with my wife. It’s about the Romantic poet John Keats. Absorb this from the hand of this masterful poet: “A thing of beauty is a joy forever; its loveliness increases; it will never pass into nothingness.” Glorious phrasing that gives voice to the intangible “knowing” of the soul. I find a kinship with much of the sentiment expressed by the Romantics. Suffice it to say, I’m less than even a novice when it comes to comprehending their riddle of words, which tend to offer meaning the way a wind chime coaxes a melody. Their poems have an ethereal, even mystical, quality that I find foreign and exotic, requiring one to be conversant in another unknown or lost language, in some cases the tongues of angels. But the delicate slivers of meaning that I am fortunate enough to translate render a soothing balm for my soul.

I’m reminded of another lesser known member of the Romantic cadre, Novalis, whose sublime convictions stoke my subterranean yearning for the Divine. Taste and drink these two excerpts from Novalis that reverberate and echo in the well of my soul and the chambers of my heart:

"Our life is no dream; but it ought to become one, and perhaps will."

"We are closer to things invisible than to things visible."

I became aware of Novalis via my long ago interest in George MacDonald, the famous Victorian novelist and Scottish theologian, who was significantly influenced by Novalis. In analyzing the influence of Novalis on MacDonald, Michael J. Partridge writes of Novalis that “his belief was that the heart was the key to the world and life itself, and that all men and women were on a journey Homeward.” I personally hold precisely this sentiment…and at a deep level. I just intuit it is true. As another Romantic, William Wordsworth, said: “Faith is a passionate intuition.” Much that MacDonald wrote about conveyed the same conviction of Novalis relative to our odyssey or pilgrimage back to God. As much as I appreciate MacDonald’s understanding of life, I find his approach driven too much by piety and moral persuasions.

But, alas, my spiritual side often runs afoul of my more earthy self. Depending on the season of my life and stirrings within my soul, this internal struggle alternates between two poles. One rages like a river of rapids and the other is still and calm, like a slumbering bear in hibernation during winter. This internal conflict represents the dichotomy of my approach to life. In one respect, I’m a rather earthy, even sensible guy. At a surface level, I’m reasonable and pragmatic. This is the person most folks know and encounter. And to be sure, this persona is genuinely me. And, yet…my earthy self is chiefly overruled by that aspect of myself that is swayed, nay, haunted (hunted may be the more apropos word here) by the numinous.

I seek the middle road, the Anglican spirit of via media, as it were. To foster synthesis when and where tenable and to allow room for belief in a benevolent paradox in the face of harsher contradiction. While I’m simpatico with much of the philosophy or movement of Romanticism a la Wordsworth, Novalis, Donne and other similar kindred spirits, I don’t exactly revolt against the notions of Realism or the conclusions and outcomes of the Enlightenment. Rationalism has its virtues.

Jonathan Swift, Anglican priest and theologian and renowned author of “Gulliver’s Travels” said, “Vision is the art of seeing things invisible.” I personally divine this to be true and value its wisdom. Ahh…but Swift also said, “May you live all the days of your life.” I view these two rails of thoughts as constituting a track on which to travel life--a sacramental way of living.

Swift “gets it” in my estimation. If you believe in purpose and meaning, then be alive to life! Life is not meant to be a perpetual and exclusive monastic exercise. Swift’s axiom here reminds me of the clichéd quote from the film “Braveheart,” where the primary character, William Wallace, says, “Every man dies, but not every man lives.” True enough and a point often lost on the religious or spiritually inclined.

Thus the horn of my dilemma: a collision of the down-to-earth with the ethereal. I recall once describing myself to someone at work in the context of leadership as a “hopeful realist.” The standard continuum of attitude has bookends of pessimism on one side of the spectrum and optimism on the other, with realism positioned in the middle.

Pessimists don’t want or like to acknowledge they are pessimists, but they are readily identifiable in spite of their opposition to the label. They can’t help themselves—their inner “Eeyore” escapes one way or another like the gestational alien life form from the well known “Alien” horror flicks.

Optimists, on the other hand, generally take more pride in being known as such, although, even they, or at least most, don’t want to be thought of as given over to blind or perpetual optimism, essentially creating a false positive where it frankly shouldn’t be. Many Christians are infamous for adopting this mentality, exhorting one another to “rejoice in suffering.” Please! No amount of exegetical maneuvering can square this attitude with real life. The Holocaust has no silver lining--end of story. Read a history book or watch the news, maybe consider your own life experiences or those of someone you know. Only those in a servile state of denial or who espouse an Oprah philosophy and spout the good news according to the “Law of Attraction” continue to reside in the sphere of pure, unadulterated optimism.

When I encounter these PMA disciples I want to shout, “Wake up and smell the g.d. coffee of life!” Lord Byron, another Romantic, said, “But what is Hope? Nothing but the paint on the face of Existence; the least touch of truth rubs it off, and then we see what a hollow-cheeked harlot we have got hold of.” While I certainly take a measure of exception to his perspective, I think it accurately describes the truth of the dark side of life that so many choose to ignore. The folks that don’t want to be bothered by the details of brokenness seem to place their own pleasure above all else, knowingly or unknowingly adopting a bastardized understanding of the verse from scripture, “For ye have the poor with you always.” In other words, yeah, we know there is some bad stuff out there, but it’s not my problem or concern. I don’t want to be confused or depressed by the facts.

Most like to claim the center position of Realism as their own and wear it as a badge of honor displaying how reasonable they are. This appears at first blush like the place to land if you are sane, but I contend it still misses the mark. For me, optimism is certainly the right direction or orientation and it should be nurtured, but never, ever at the expense of truth. So for me, a combination of optimism and realism, or what I call “hopeful realism,” is a porridge that is “just right,” as far as I’m concerned.

I’ve never formally written out a personal “Philosophy of Life,” though I think about it often and attempt to live out of one, however fuzzy or ill conceived it may be. To be sure, a cursory reading of my blog would reveal segments of my thinking related to my “Philosophy of Life,” but that would be the extent of it—segments. I suppose I’m something of an existentialist (more akin to Kierkegaard and Dostoevsky, essentially coming from a theistic perspective; Nietzsche can kiss my ass). I carry a propensity to stay grounded or anchored in this life and in this world and largely in the here and now. Even still, I ultimately resonate with the more mystical realm in life. Therein lies my ongoing conundrum.

So…what remedy do I prescribe for myself? Ultimately I choose to believe that life is organic and holistic and that we must endeavor to embrace paradox. A synthesis is needed between the practical, pragmatic, day-to-day “stuff” of life and the soul and heart. Even in this alchemy (I so appreciate this word!), the latter represents the key imperative and should carry the upper hand and trump in the final analysis. Our prayer should be that the fruit of the heart and soul, love and compassion, are never extinguished by the harshness of life. It is my contention that matter and spirit must be united, even if on uneasy terms, if one hopes to live a “Soul-Full” life imbued with meaning, purpose, and hope.

I seek, with varying degrees of success and promise, to experience and live a sacramental life, intertwining the sacred with the physical reality. Perhaps the Celtic notion of “Thin Places” proffers something of what I’m attempting to articulate here. Moments, times, and situations in life where the Holy invades…no, that’s not the right word…I should say mixes and mingles with, even on occasion, envelopes, the material world of life. (Annie Dillard, a contemporary Romantic if there ever was one, writes beautifully and brilliantly about this in her Pulitzer Prize winning book, “Pilgrim at Tinker Creek.” At best, I only “get” a small portion of what she is describing, but I sense its genius.)

The Gnostic path, though there are insights to be gleaned, is too separate and divorced for me. I’m too connected and a part of the “profane” to adopt such an esoteric approach. At the end of the day, I choose to align myself with Swift’s marriage of the sacred invisible with living a robust life in the here and now. In other words, or at least according to my modified definition, pursuing Sacramental Living.

"If a body catch a body comin' through the rye..."

2010-01-28T23:48:00.002-07:00

When I read the news of Salinger's death tonight on CNN's scrolling ticker, I experienced a momentary start. I quickly turned to my wife and told her the news and then discussed it briefly with my mom on the phone (we were talking when I caught a glimpse of the headline). I immediately began to feel a tinge of sadness. I knew I needed to post an entry to commemorate the moment and offer my gratitude to the author for offering the world an enormous gift in Holden.

I don't have the words to adequately describe the indelible influence of J.D. Salinger's book, "The Catcher in the Rye" on me personally. There are four books that carry a uniquely special place in my life. Of these, "Catcher" is my favorite, and has been since I was 18 or 19. I'm 42 now, so a good span of time. I’ve read his other works and outside of “Franny and Zooey,” don’t find them particularly memorable. But “Catcher” is another matter.

This book has a reputation for capturing the heart of many readers, only to ultimately let them go later in life. Truth is, I think they are the ones letting go. (Kind of the point of the book, in an ironic way, with its theme of "innocence under pressure.") I once heard one of my sisters-in-law remark that one of her friends, who apparently was originally moved in her youth by this book, had re-read it later in life as a selection in her book club, a revisitation of a contemporary "classic," and had commented that she found Holden immature and childish—or something like that. Basically, that he needed to "grow up."

I haven't "outgrown" it like I hear many others do, and I pray that is the way it will always be with me. (I have a book, "With Love and Squalor: 14 Writers Respond to the Work of J. D. Salinger," which is a collection of essays where many former "Catcher" aficionados articulate why they no longer find it resonates with them). I don't and never have agreed with every sentiment expressed in "Catcher," but that's what makes it so special. From an alchemy of ink and paper, Salinger conjured up a real person in his key protagonist. I'm a kindred spirit with Holden, even though I don't necessarily see everything as he does (though mostly I do, truth be told). And, no, I'm not crazy, at least not entirely. Grin. It seems that every so often some freak does something nuts in the name of this beautiful story. Nothing original about that, though. On a daily basis the same is done with Holy Writ. And it seems Mr. Salinger was an eccentric at best for the better part of his life.

The image below is a scan of my first and most important copy of "Catcher." I have multiple copies (yeah, I know…), but only read this one. As you can see it has experienced considerable use. It's been a mainstay of comfort for me. I read it roughly every year or so, something of a ritual. The irony is that I picked it up (it resides in my nightstand drawer) two days ago and started to read it. I've been feeling the weight of many things lately, so I reached out to a kindred spirit (Holden, not Salinger) for support, if you will. I'm not happy to hear the news of Salinger's passing, but in a mood of melancholy, I am strangely comforted by the fact that I was reading his magnum opus when I learned of the news.

God bless you, Mr. Salinger, on the next leg of your journey.

Click here: J.D. Salinger dies at 91

"...I keep picturing all these little kids playing some game in this big field of rye and all. Thousands of little kids, and nobody's around--nobody big, I mean--except me. And I'm standing on the edge of some crazy cliff. What I have to do, I have to catch everybody if they start to go over the cliff--I mean if they're running and they don't look where they're going I have to come out from somewhere and catch them. That's all I'd do all day. I'd just be the catcher in the rye and all. I know it's crazy, but that's the only thing I'd really like to be. I know it's crazy."

-from "The Catcher in the Rye" by J.D. Salinger (Holden speaking)

Soul-Full Living III: Sabbath Moments

2010-01-23T14:10:00.011-07:00

Warning: If you choose to read the below be prepared for a ranting diatribe.

“You must have a place to which you can go in your heart, your mind, or your house, almost every day, where you do not owe anyone and where no one owes you—a place that simply allows for the blossoming of something new and promising.”

-Joseph Campbell, “The Power of Myth”

Campbell’s cry of wisdom, like a secular prophet among the modern landscape, calls us to a quest, a journey, a path, one that must be embarked upon, purposely chosen, deliberately determined, and intentionally integrated into living. To wait for a time when you can get “away” is to invite the specter of incremental invasion by everything that is not uniquely you…a true body snatching and possession that will find you one day a pixilation of yourself—a slow, creeping, suffocation of the soul.

We must hearken to the call to pause and breathe. The challenge, even barrier at times, is that we live in a world where everything, and I mean everything, is digitized. Heaven forbid that people enjoy the touch and smell, indeed, the je ne sais quoi comfort of a real book—paper and ink, a cover cracked and worn from repeated use and time (I’ve fallen asleep with a book next to me in my bed purposely not moving it to my nightstand). Instead, let’s put it all in a small microprocessor a la Amazon’s Kindle*. One is somehow more real, as it were, somehow “present”; whereas the other is a utilitarian cage that captures the spirit of the story and reduces it to binary numbers, essentially a bunch of zeros and ones. I know, I know…I’m engaging in hyperbole, but it still pisses me off.

Worse yet, let’s encourage our youth, hell, adults are doing it too, to play endless hours of “Guitar Hero,” so that at the end of the day they’ve been sufficiently anesthetized and distracted, but couldn’t play a real chord on a real guitar to save their lives. One is pure fantasy, the other an art form. Imagine if the masses (literally!) of those pretending to be “guitar heroes” were to pick up a real guitar, or any other musical instrument of their choice, and invest the same amount of time learning to actually play and create, how life and the world would be so different. We’d be transformed as a people. What is happening now, at least on many levels, through the means of a technopoly, is not transformation, but rather often a distortion or mutation of something good and meaningful into a faux replica of the real thing.

Similary, in full disclosure and candor, I lament the lost art of letter writing. Now it’s emails (not so bad, but certainly not as personal), bullshit “tweets,” and texting (in the middle of a goddamn movie for heaven’s sake—some kid couldn’t keep still next to me for a measly two hours to watch a flick, an irony given the movie I was watching—“The Book of Eli”), all of which rarely connects two sentences together, much less two coherent thoughts.

Now…as per usual, I’m preaching to myself. My work, my job, the manner and way in which I make my “living” and pay the bills, takes a heavy toll, hence the venting. And let it be said, I’m thankful for gainful and, usually, somewhat meaningful employment, but it’s not a vocation in the truest sense of that word. The amount of time, energy, and effort required to be successful in my role is considerable…and currently there’s not a realistic or viable alternative or option for me. So be it. I have my wonderful, beautiful daughters to provide for, to offer a stable world in which to live, and, as such, I don’t mind. All that I have is theirs—including most of the overlap of our waking hours (when I’m not at work, of course).

I very frequently stay up late into the wee hours after my two “little ones” (alas, not so little anymore—ten and nine) have entered the enchanted altered dimension of their slumbering dreams. It is then that I find some measure of contentment, outside of the pleasure of being a dad, by engaging in key activities that nurture me—reading, writing, blogging (not the same as real writing), listening to music, drinking whiskey, watching my favorite films, playing my guitar, shadow boxing and working the speed bag, and pondering God (you know--if God has all the "omni's," then why Haiti? I basically have a running theodicy going on in my mind).

So…after all that ranting and raving, I’m back to the beginning of my proposition—the clarion call of Campbell. I am determined to carve out more time, to design opportunities for Sabbath Moments. What transpires, if anything, during these moments I will leave to Mystery—maybe they’ll be dry and hollow, maybe deep and penetrating, more likely somewhere in the middle, but that part is not my responsibility in the process, but the Divine‘s. My work is to find, even mandate, and allow for space and time for Sabbath Moments that bear witness to my deeper, real self and also who (whom? I always get confused—I need to look it up I suppose) I should and can become. As a starting place, the church I attend, Pax Christi, (yeah, I know, I should be more of a member, a parishioner, a part of the community, rather than just “attend”…at least it has a cool Latin name--grin), which is a slight stretch down the way from my house, has a small labyrinth (or as my girls think of it, a maze or puzzle to play in—geez—grin, I can’t even convince them. That’s okay; I love ‘em). I propose to myself to “walk” it more frequently—to go where I can see clearly the majestic Rockies in the background, take some quiet and deep breathes, and pause.

Every day after school, the son of a well-known rabbi would enter his house, place his backpack on the dining room table, leave the house through the back door, and head into the woods behind the house.

At first, the rabbi gave little thought to his son’s ritual. But it continued for days, and then for weeks. Every day, out into the woods for almost a half hour. The rabbi grew concerned.

“My son,” he said one day. “I notice that every day you leave our home to spend time in the woods. What is it you are doing there?”

“Oh, Papa,” the son replied. “There is no need to worry. I go into the woods to pray. It is in the woods that I can talk to God.”

“Oh,” the rabbi said, clearly relieved. “But, as the son of a rabbi, you should know that God is the same everywhere.”

“Yes, Papa. I know that God is the same everywhere. But, I am not.”

-story recounted by Terry Hershey, "The Power of Pause"

*I’m not adverse to technology, hell, I’m blogging on my home PC to post this blabbering mess of thoughts, the family has a roving laptop and satellite TV with a shitload of stations to peruse, I have a BlackBerry (actually, this is more of an electronic leash to my work environ, along with the remote access I have to my company’s network), I have an electric guitar, and, yes…my kids have a Wii, a Nintendo DS, cell phones, etc., but it’s the all consuming, pervasive, controlling aspect of the “advancement” of technology that I begrudge. It’s a losing battle, I know, and in many respects I’m hypocritical, but putting down my thoughts keeps me sane. I know that “books,” the paper, ink, leather, jackets, etc., are just the temporal materials, the vehicles, through which stories, the real beating heart, are conveyed and projected. And, no doubt, I will eventually relent and acquiesce to the technology gods and own a Kindle or nook myself, but it’s not and won’t be the same, much less better. My brother-in-law, a complete technophile, showed me with great pride—he was trying to “poke” me a bit, pull the scab off a wound to essentially “inform” me that I’m a lost and last breed—his Kindle with “The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn” downloaded on it. Are you fucking kiddin’ me! Huck Finn rafting down the Mississippi eluding the authorities and conventions of his time on a Kindle?? I tried it and was appalled at some level deep inside myself, but even with my biased psychosomatic revulsion set aside, it was a big pain in the ass to use. I just didn’t feel like I was reading a story. I wonder how Twain would feel? Who knows, he’d probably be much more modern and sensible than I.

Sorry for the tirade.

KU Acoustic

2010-01-17T23:46:00.001-07:00

Hands-down my favorite player. When you hear him play acoustic you realize how good he is. Amazing!

I always drink whiskey when I listen to Shelby...

2010-01-09T00:53:00.002-07:00

...though I'm not sure why. She's intoxicating enough without liquor to boot. Which reminds me, I have a new favorite whiskey called Pendleton. It's a premium blended Canadian whisky (the way our friends up north prefer to spell it--no key, just ky). It has a weird ass, convoluted distillation process and naming convention. It's imported and bottled by Hood River Distillers in Oregon here in the good ole US of A using glacier-fed spring water from Mt. Hood, but it's a product of Canada, and,yet another but...it takes its name from the Pendleton Round-Up, which is a famous rodeo in the States. Go figure. I have no fucking idear. I polished off my first bottle in short order and let little time waste before I picked up my second.

See post title for a link to a recent (December '09) live performance of Shelby singing "You Don't Have To Say You Love Me." My favorite cut off her last album. Patiently...not...waiting for her next release. I hope soon.

Notice in the video clip she's holding a bottle of beer she's been drinking. This gal is crazy good.

Polk Salad Annie

Archive post on Shelby

Crossroads Guitar Duel

2010-01-04T19:55:00.006-07:00

A delightfully wicked scene of headcuttin'! (see post title for link)

Definition: Cuttin' Heads; also known as headcutting. The term refers to a competition between musicians where one player will try to outdo another, entertaining an audience by outplaying or outperforming a rival. A time-honored blues tradition.

Deep Places

2009-12-29T22:27:00.001-07:00

Thanks to the human heart by which we live,
Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears,
To me the meanest flower that blows can give
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.

-William Wordsworth

PLAY!

2009-12-27T10:53:00.007-07:00

BRAD PAISLEY

One of my fave guitarist. Great song writer, good vocalist.

He can PLAY!

LISTEN: TURF'S UP

Blistering instrumental!

LISTEN: WHEN I GET WHERE I'M GOING

This song never fails to move me. The words are beautiful, even poetic at times.

WATCH: WHISKEY LULLABY

A superb duet with Alison Krauss. Beautiful storytelling.

Refiner's Fire

2009-12-21T20:02:00.000-07:00

"And we are put on earth a little space,
That we may learn to bear the beams of love."

-William Blake

Writing: The Dream of My Hope

2009-11-15T21:20:00.002-07:00

My soul aches with the desire to write. Not just any hapless string of words, but something meaningful and authentic to me and life. I’m frequently intoxicated by books and stories, my real life spinning and buoyant with an imagined world conjured via the written word. The “dream of my hope” is that one day, before my allotment of time this side of life is extinguished, my fervent appeal to the gods of Story will be granted—to experience the blessed fortune of humbly offering a worthy story, a novel, for posterity…but with a condition. If by some tender caress of grace I ever succeed at wooing one of the ever elusive and ethereal muses to labor with me for a spell to compel this dream to animate with words on the canvas of a blank page, I would allow it to materialize only if it ultimately surrendered to the spirit of Leo Tolstoy’s standard that resonates deeply with me: “The aim of an artist is not to solve a problem irrefutably, but to make people love life in all its countless, inexhaustible manifestations. If I were told that I could write a novel whereby I might irrefutably establish what seemed to me the correct point of view on all social problems, I would not even devote two hours to such a novel; but if I were to be told that what I should write would be read in twenty years’ time by those by who are now children and that they would laugh and cry over it, and love life, I would devote all my own life and all my energies to it.”

I recently encountered another piece of vintage and eminently practical writing advice in the form of a quote from the renowned author, Isak Dinesen: “Write a little every day, without hope, without despair.” Author, Mindy Friddle, proffers a brief commentary on the Dinesen citation that renders a beautiful translation of the adage that blooms with keen insight and glows with meaning: “Words of wisdom from Isak...a succinct way of advising one should write without expectations, ‘relinquishing the fruit of action,’ in Bhagavad Gita terms. The joy in performing an action is much greater than the joy you get from the fruit of the action.”

All this in spite of the fact that I’m not by any real standard much good at weaving words together in a manner that ultimately is sticky. Moreover, discovering and grasping a cohesive story eludes me with the slipperiness of a mossy river rock. But, as even a brief perusal of EAC would reveal, hope-filled belief and Mystery are intangibles that are imbued with meaning when “seen” through the eyes of the heart. And so, I will go on believing and hoping…and laboring.

Sanctioned Violence - Pacquiao vs. Cotto

2009-11-14T10:00:00.026-07:00

Manny Pacquiao (pictured top-right), a southpaw who hails from the Philippines, is the considerable odds-on favorite, both with fans and betting money lines, which is especially notable given his opponent, Miguel Cotto (pictured bottom-right). Cotto is a proud and esteemed fighter from Puerto Rico, an island with a rich and storied boxing heritage. Cotto is not accustomed to being an underdog, as his record, replete with legitimate opponents defeated at his hands, attests, but that is precisely where he finds himself in this bout set to explode tonight in Sin City. In spite of his stellar record and laudable skills and ring generalship, the oddsmakers are favoring Pacquiao because of his matchless hand speed and the fiery assault that he brings to the squared circle.

Both boxers are in peak condition and in their physical prime, essentially at the top of their game. There is much at stake for both, too. Only one will move forward with a glorious destiny still intact, while the other will be relegated to a contender status, albeit as an extremely talented one. The best fighter will ultimately have their hand raised in triumph tonight to savor and relish the spoils of victory. The victor will almost certainly be paired in a legitimate future match-up against the best pound-for-pound pugilist, Floyd Mayweather, Jr. This latter fight, should it indeed come to fruition, would be the only one in quite some time that I can imagine being more anticipated and touted than the action scheduled for tonight. As such, tonight’s fight represents one of the best match-ups in many, many years, instead of being just another largely promoter engineered and hyped event (though no doubt, it is this, as well).

I am a man primarily and ultimately ruled by my heart. That said, a continual war is waged for primacy within the confines of my psyche between head and heart. With that as context, I'm picking and rooting for Cotto to win. His boxing skills are enviable, even among the best of professionals. He is technically sound and is heavy handed. More importantly, he is a cerebral fighter, always weighing the strategy of the fight like a chess match. This is only outdone by his heart. He is a determined, intense, and internally focused fighter. His persona is introspective and centered. His ego is kept in check by close-knit relationships with loved ones. Instead of traditional ego and bravado, he exudes more of a self-confident resolve. He has intangibles that are at play. I admire these traits.

My head says Pacquiao. Even though he is the fighter coming up in weight to Cotto's division (Cotto is the natural welterweight), he is a supremely gifted athlete. His angles, swift and nimble footwork, speed and quickness are art in motion and beautiful to behold. He's riding a crest of momentum that seems unstoppable, which may indeed be the case. Likewise, as with Cotto, Pacquiao seems like a good man, not just a great boxer. Many stories confirm his generosity and his being rather rooted to his religious upbringing. Nonetheless, he is by most accounts addicted to the distractions of fame and seeks out the limelight of public admiration. While his ego is a minor character at best in comparison to Floyd Mayweather, Jr., he apparently is fully at home as the center of attention as a celebrity and surrounds himself with an adoring entourage befitting a star. Of course, he is a star. Who knows, though? Maybe he's just a gregarious extrovert and that accounts for all the hoopla that attends him. Either way, he poses an ideal juxtaposition to Cotto's demeanor and style (personal and boxing), which will make for a glorious match of skill and will.

"In the brightly lit ring, man is in extremis, performing an atavistic rite or agon for the mysterious solace of those who can participate only vicariously in such drama: the drama of life in the flesh. Boxing has become America's tragic theater."

-Joyce Carol Oates

Your Lies

2009-11-06T12:35:00.002-07:00

My fave Shelby Lynne tune. Great vibe!

Absence and Presence: The Threads of Life

2009-10-24T16:00:00.007-06:00

Separation

By W.S. Merwin

Your absence has gone through me

Like thread through a needle.

Everything I do is stitched with its color.

Poetry usually eludes me. Poets and poems typically broadcast on a frequency that, in spite of my best efforts at hairline adjustments with the tuning dial, render a reception usually on the order of static with only the occasional breakthrough of clarity. The problem is largely with the receiver, not the transmitter. There are a number of exceptions. One such poem that captures my attention and unveils a vista of meaning is “Separation” by W.S. Merwin.

I admire this poem for its ability to penetrate the heart and conjure a world of feelings with a modicum of words. Its scarcity belies it depth. It paints, even sears, a tactile impression in the mind’s eye. At first blush, it’s tempting to compare this poem to a terse, bite-sized proverb dispensing clever axiomatic wisdom. But upon deeper reflection, it reveals a manifesto of emotion. Merwin exposes the raw nerve endings of a deeply felt experience and concentrates it into an aching psalm of the heart. Its metaphor is stark, even harsh, yet surprisingly beautiful, as it awakens the heart with neon truth. It’s simple, but not simplistic, allowing for multifaceted interpretations. Its application is broad in scope: lovers, friends, family, adversaries, God, et al.

When I encountered this poem for the first time, I quickly felt and sensed its weight as a parent. I am an active and involved Dad (I have two daughters—8 and 10), and I instinctively perceived the corollary to Merwin’s poem and exchanged the word “absence” with “presence.” In the context of noble fatherhood, absence acquires attributes that can be sharp and cutting to the soul, leaving abandoned hollow spaces that long to be filled and wounds that need healing, whereas presence is nurturing and protective and provides a climate for healthy and hope-filled growth. Absence is more likely to lacerate and puncture, while presence provides a safe harbor and lifts the spirit.

Relationships are defined by presence and absence. While the physical side of presence or absence is the most conspicuous, the more meaningful manifestations are emotional and spiritual. A body may be within an arm’s reach, but the heart of the same a thousand miles away. Of course, the experience of absence or presence is not uniform. Depending on times, situations, and circumstances either can prove positive or negative. Both attach tethers that are far reaching in life.

From time immemorial everything has a season. Most will experience both absence and presence in the course of a lifetime, though to varying degrees and duration. Regardless of station in life, the impact of absence and presence is pervasive, stitching indelible threads in the fabric of life.

“The world breaks everyone, and afterward, some are strong at the broken places.” -Hemingway

Treasures

2009-10-23T10:38:00.006-06:00

"The treasure which you think not worth taking trouble and pains to find, this one alone is the real treasure you are longing for all your life. The glittering treasure you are hunting for day and night lies buried on the other side of that hill yonder."

-B. Traven (epigraph from the novel, "The Treasure of the Sierra Madre")

"Old Enough" - The Raconteurs

2009-10-09T13:30:00.024-06:00

Check out this cool video and great song--"Old Enough ." I watch and listen to this tune frequently.

Jack White* (the guy playing the red acoustic next to Skaggs) is the leader of this group--The Raconteurs. They typically play alt-rock, but retranslated this song into the musical vernacular of bluegrass. Here's the original cut to compare and contrast.

*Yeah--that Jack White--of "The White Stripes"--one hell of a guitarist, though on "Old Enough" he steps into the background to give the spotlight to the two featured artists--Ricky Skaggs and Ashley Monroe. White is a revered musician, although I can't get into most of his music outside of his forays into alt-country and bluegrass. He plays a minor role in the beautiful film "Cold Mountain" (based on the equally beautiful novel by the same name written by Charles Frazier). He does several cuts off the soundtrack which are primo. Here's my fave--"Great High Mountain."

Check out this awesome alt-country tune (I believe it's a remake) called "Portland, Oregon" that White does with Loretta Lynn (yep--the Coal Miner's Daughter).

Here's an old related archived EAC post from early 2006. Funny how certain themes are circuitous.

Rocktober Returns!

2009-10-03T11:28:00.004-06:00

Go Rockies!

Movie Matinee Madness - "Inglourious Bastards"

2009-09-25T17:46:00.004-06:00

I saw this flick today. Superb!

Click HERE to view trailer.

Real Magic

2009-09-23T20:22:00.007-06:00

TAKE AND READ...AND LEARN OF REAL MAGIC...

Select my post title for a link to DiCamillo talking about her new novel.

“A children’s story that can only be enjoyed by children is not a good children’s story in the slightest.”
-C.S. Lewis

Mayweather: Boxing Virtuoso

2009-09-19T18:15:00.022-06:00

Floyd Mayweather, Jr., is fighting tonight, and I'll be watching via HBO PPV. He's as close to a sure bet as they come. His boxing acumen and talent is unmatched and a marvel to behold. He offers up the highest order of skill currently (maybe ever) among the practitioners of the Sweet Science. He is without a doubt a boxing virtuoso.

He's coming out of "retirement," which was a joke the moment he announced it given the career life that remained unspent, but he's been away from the fight game for nearly two years, so the "ring rust" may be present early on in the fight, but all indications point to him still being the best pound-for-pound pugilist in my estimation.

He's fighting a very good and seasoned, though smaller, Mexican fighter with enormous will, so he'll need to be on his guard, but Mayweather's win is nearly (I won't say categorically--that's why they "fight the fights") a foregone conclusion. "Pretty Boy" Floyd's speed, timing, footwork, ring generalship, and uncanny and brilliant "shoulder roll" style (a characteristic trait of the Mayweather clan--his family has a prominent and storied, indeed, at times, infamous, history in the annals of the Sweet Science) are beautiful to watch.

He is not a humble man--at least as far as his public persona is revealed. Frankly, he comes across frequently as a prick. He claims to be the best, shouts it often from the roof tops, and the truth is--he is--as far as boxing goes. If he continues to sustain his dominant force as a boxer, he may ultimately garner consideration as the best ever. That remains to be seen, though.

I so wish he would adopt a more humble approach in terms of his attitude and presence. We need noble knights; we need heroes we can admire and model; alas, they are a dying breed. Who knows, maybe his private demeanor is materially different, but he comes across so shallow, arrogant, and narrow that I have a hard time imagining otherwise. If he were to project a more humble and centered personality and lifestyle, many would not only stand in awe of his ability, but would also admire him as a person.

Of course, there would likely be a significant monetary cost to him if he were to adopt something other than his brash, flamboyant, in-your-face, me-centered persona. He likely wouldn't be able to promote himself as successfully as he does now, and, as such, wouldn't make the significant coin he does, and he clearly voices his lust for the greenback. As evidence, among the various monikers he carries, one is "Money" Mayweather. He also has a hip hop record label called "Philthy Rich Records."

Boxing is so like life--underneath and running concurrent with the fight--there is so frequently a grand story behind it all!

Davy Knowles: Guitar god Rising!

2009-09-13T20:16:00.034-06:00

I'm a guitar freak. Just a fact of life for me. Guitar (admiring the talent of others and playing myself), books and writing (ohh--what a dream!), boxing (admiring and practicing the "sweet science" myself), baseball, though more minor as a fixation, but I appreciate its mythic quality, spiritually-God haunted, and, of course, top of the list, being a Dad--that's me. I wonder what Freud would say? Grin. I prefer Jung anyway.

This past Friday night I journeyed to downtown Denver and listened--in awe--to this "kid" in his early 20s, Davy Knowles (pictured), conjure guitar riffs with a technical wizardry that belies his age. He played and sang with an emotional maturity and savvy of a seasoned bluesman.

His musical talent is a gift to behold. He is a guitar god rising! This I know. I venture to say he will be the next SRV.

His primary, though not exclusive, repertoire is a heavily blues infused rock. He not only has enviable guitar licks, but his voice is nicely suited to this style of music as well.

Listening to him play live was a sublime experience. I pulled a couple YouTube videos below to serve as samples. The second link is from the concert I attended (not recorded by me). Take a listen!

Video 1

Video 2

Marriage: A Double-Edged Sword

2009-09-05T11:17:00.005-06:00

"Marriage hath in it less of beauty but more of safety, than the single life; it hath more care, but less danger, it is more merry, and more sad; it is fuller of sorrows, and fuller of joys; it lies under more burdens, but it is supported by all the strengths of love and charity, and those burdens are delightful."

-Bishop Jeremy Taylor (17th Century Anglican Clergyman and Theologian)

Les Paul Departs

2009-08-13T21:59:00.014-06:00

Sad news for guitar aficionados around the world. Famed guitarist, Les Paul, died today at age 94. Select my post title for a link to the New York Times obituary.

All blessings to him and his memory.

I mentioned him in passing on one of my earlier blog posts this year: "STRADIVARIUS – Eddie Van Halen."

See HERE for a video clip of Mr. Paul proving he still had chops shredding "How High the Moon."

A Double Barrel Whiskey of a Song

2009-08-08T15:48:00.002-06:00

Ahh...this is a tasty song--aged to perfection.

Movie Malaise

2009-08-06T19:13:00.006-06:00

Just thinking out loud...it can be cathartic...sometimes...I watched a movie a few days ago--"The Exorcism of Emily Rose"--very disturbing, very depressing, unsettling...on multiple fronts.

The Souvenirs - King of Heartache

2009-08-03T10:58:00.003-06:00

This is one album that I return to time and again. Their sound is retro and moody; a honky tonk vibe laced throughout with reverb. A lush Bakersfield sound. As a young boy, I grew up listening to tunes very similar in style and sound. As far as I know, it's their only official release (1999).

If you are so inclined, search for the artist and album name via Amazon.com to hear a 30 second preview of each track by selecting the"Listen to Samples" link.

Kemo Sabe, Where Art Thou?

2009-07-29T23:06:00.028-06:00

Kemo Sabe: a term of endearment meaning “faithful friend” or “trusty scout.”

Nowadays heroes are largely absent, real or otherwise, at least the kind worthy of genuine admiration and respect, someone to model at a deeper and truer level.

I recall hearing a speaker many moons ago refer to an observation made by a religious thinker who lamented how the public square has become virtually naked, and how as a culture we are more deficient as a consequence. The ubiquitous statue or memorial of yesteryear that populated most town centers like a sentinel, a standard bearer, have virtually vanished from sight.

In days of old, churches were frequently identified by name with a patron saint. Now, this legacy practice is commonly replaced with the label "community church." This generic, vanilla, and risk averse use of the word "community" is proudly presented and viewed as a badge of honor, as though it demonstrates how as a society we've moved beyond...beyond what, I'm not exactly sure.

Similarly, in the past, it seems to me that children were more apt to be named after those that went before them. Being a namesake carried a sense of pride and honor and was often aspirational in nature. Naming a child for the sake of posterity alone may serve little purpose outside of continuity, feigned or not, but maybe that's not such a bad idea after all and holds some minor merit. Of course, there are those who have experienced sufficient enough family dysfunction who would see naming a child after family to be contrary to their own hope and nothing short of anathema from their point-of-view.

To be sure, doubtless there have been plenty of town center statues erected to honor precisely the wrong kind of person and/or for the wrong reason. Moreover, there are surely saints counted among the various litanies of church history who propagated beliefs and actions that were less than charitable and in keeping with the spirit of Christ.

Nonetheless, I suggest we need--we crave--heroes of the right kind. Not perfect, manufactured automatons, but true, stained though they may be, models to admire and respect. In so doing, we more clearly hear the call to become better ourselves. Consider the fictional heroes of lore: The Dark Knight, Zorro, and Shane. They all internalized the weight of life and carried the burdens of their own mistakes and dysfunctions. They were not tame; they were not safe; but they endeavored to be good and noble (don't read the descriptor "good" as used here as necessarily synonymous with pious or righteous, at least in the way those terms are normally understood). I personally admire and respect much that the fictional protagonist, Santiago, from Hemingway's "The Old Man and the Sea," represents. Santiago projects a true inner nobility, goodness, and grace.

Maybe it’s not about “heroes," as such, but the innate want, indeed, deeply felt need for a “faithful friend.” I'm reminded of the touching film, "The Shawshank Redemption." It depicted at its core a faithful friendship--flaws and foibles not withstanding--that offered and sustained hope. This kind of genuine "blood brother" opportunity is a very rare find in life, especially among men.

Worthy heroes may ultimately be figments of our collective imagination. Kemo Sabe and Tonto may represent too perfect of an ideal. It’s a nice thought and hope, though. Regardless, I miss Kemo Sabe…whoever and wherever he is.

Felina Rising

2009-07-28T21:24:00.006-06:00

I remember growing up listening to many of the songs off this very album. "Big Iron," "Cool Water," and especially, "El Paso." Check out the video clip (post title link) of KU singing and playing a small segment of "El Paso" recently at a tribute to George Strait.

Cultivating the Creative Spirit

2009-07-25T09:02:00.006-06:00

I encountered this video clip (select my post title for a link) on another generous and insightful blog I frequent. The video stream offered via TED is nearly 20 minutes in duration. I wish it were 3x as long! Elizabeth Gilbert, author of "Eat, Pray, Love," delivers a remarkable "homily" on "Nurturing Creativity."

Considering one of my recent posts (Kate DiCamillo: Vocare), this video seemed a befitting follow-up.

Last Night: At the Altar of a Guitar God

2009-07-16T21:04:00.028-06:00

KEITH URBAN

Kate DiCamillo: Vocare

2009-07-12T19:42:00.048-06:00

Vocare (Latin): To call or name; to invoke

Kate DiCamillo travels the tributaries of the heart. She divines the voice of the soul. See HERE for her June '09 Journal entry. Oh!...how I wish I had dreams analogous to what she describes! Her entry summons a sublime, if somewhat haunting, tale of wisdom.

I’ve long been mystified by the magical manner in which DiCamillo speaks of how some of her stories were conjured to life. In a matter-of-fact way, as if it were commonplace and nothing less than expected, she describes "visits" by certain characters who strike up a conversation with her and pour out their secrets, joys, and sufferings. This, apparently all in a day’s work.

Her descriptions have an unusual, almost séance-like, quality that rings authentic. Listen to how she evokes the inspiration for her deeply life affirming debut YA novel, “Because of Winn-Dixie”: “One night before I went to sleep, I heard this little girl's voice with a Southern accent say, 'I have a dog named Winn-Dixie.' I just started writing down what India Opal Buloni was telling me." She similarly describes the impetus for her sophomore YA novel, “The Tiger Rising": “Rob Horton showed up in a short story I wrote and then hung around the house driving me crazy. I finally asked him what he wanted, and he told me he knew where there was a tiger."

Wow! Maybe for her this is standard fare and quotidian, but to me that's one helluva encounter with a Muse! Maybe she’s engaging in hyperbole or a figure of speech.......

Regardless of the source of her inspiration, I deeply enjoy and value her heart-infused wisdom. A cursory search of my blog would confirm my admiration and appreciation for her keen insights. She is a talented and gifted and inspired (inspiring, too) storyteller.

She artfully reveals in her June '09 Journal entry that our task, our charge, nay, our hidden hope, is to seek out and release the "scroll with the story on it" in our own life and that of others. To do otherwise is to remain inanimate, a shell of a life.

No matter how arduous the voyage or what trepidation we may hold, we must endeavor to set out on our journey, to be intrepid, for it is a quest of self-discovery. In so doing, I venture a worthy wager that along the way we will encounter the “Old Man,” nodding and saying, “Yes, that is good.”

Cocktail of Life

2009-06-15T23:50:00.009-06:00

It’s late, and I have something of a buzz working while I listen to my blog's music ‘playlist’ (currently playing Debussy’s "Clair de Lune" at the moment). I’m drinking--more like already finished--a rather potent concoction called ‘Gin and Sin.’ I, of course, poured the gin portion of the recipe sufficiently strong with none other than Bombay Sapphire, or what I like to affectionately call “Blue Bottle Elixir.” Yummy!

Anyhow, I decided to post a brief quote from Rabbi Lawrence Kushner (*not* to be confused with the more famous Harold). It comes from his beautiful book of short essays, as I would label it, anyway, “Invisible Lines of Connection—Scared Stories of the Ordinary.” He reminds me of a Jewish version of my fave spiritual thinker, Frederick Buechner, who happens to come at life from a more nebulous Christian perspective. The quote below from the good Rabbi is somewhat disturbing to me at one level and at another level comforting.

“Look, I don’t think God made a tumor grow in that girl’s mother's brain or that God has anything to do with the choice of careers or where I used to shop for bargain basement clothes. But I can’t get it out of my head that somehow God is mixed up in the whole horrible, holy and joyous goddamn thing.”

Soul-Full Living Redux: Deeper, Not Wider

2009-05-27T22:04:00.022-06:00

"Humans are not ideally set up to understand logic; they are ideally set up to understand stories."
--Roger C. Schank

Logic is linear and rational. It adheres to facts and formulates the norms of existence. It is deterministic and mechanistic. Its vantage point is wide and surface level. In spite of lip service to the contrary (I'm including moi here in numerous respects), many folks perform a "motion of existence" under such an umbrella of logic. If you doubt this, then pause for a moment and consider how many people you know (yourself?) that are fully engaged in a marathon maze “rat race.”

Being logical and rational are good attributes, but limiting. Utilization of logic should be kept in check and on a short leash. Its limitations can be severe as it serves to keep the stories of life at bay. Since when has love and passion ever been logical or rational? Or van Gogh's "Starry Night"? Or a Chopin Nocturne or Prelude? (Yes, with these particular examples, or "stories," there may be a semblance of order, but I'm talking about how they arouse the soul. LISTEN
to Chopin's Prelude, Op. 28, No.6 in B minor.) What genuine logic is there in Salinger's "Catcher in the Rye" (no, I'm not a loon)? What's rational about Holden's concern for the ducks in Central Park in the winter? These examples reveal stories of life that illustrate a break from a normative, day-to-day lifestyle.

I'm not saying a simple, uneventful life is shallow. Indeed, the opposite may be the case more so than not. Deeper living is meditative by nature and seeks to reflect on the simple joys of life instead of changing lanes at rapid, breakneck speeds because that's what's in vogue or expected a la the style of Corporate America. (Of course, not all that is the business life is distasteful, one just needs to exercise authority over your life if you play in this arena, lest you find yourself trapped). Even aspiring to take on more adventure, to taste and breathe more of the robust and colorful, requires a concerted slowing of pace and tempo in life. If you desire to "Run with the Bulls" in Pamplona (an act that unfortunately, even sadly, many would label useless, serving no utilitarian purpose other than to feed a bloated ego--they miss the point!), then out of necessity, you must off-ramp from the automaton rat race of "motion."

Stories are about life. They are organic and holistic and mysterious. They are deep and penetrating, potentially lacerating. They may or may not be utilitarian, and thank God for that! The "more" that is fomented by a life of "motion" is not necessarily more!

"Soul-Full" living demands a deeper dive into the well of life. It's more risky and scary and dangerous to be sure, and, yes, potentially opens the door to additional pain and suffering, and, as such, leaves us more exposed and vulnerable, but it also fosters a more rich and vibrant experience of living. It's about being alive to life and not just existing. It represents a migration of the mind, the intellect, into the heart. (Notice I didn’t say elimination of the intellect.)

The logic, the approach, if you will, of existing, which if done habitually over time is readily confused with living, can be summed up by the axiom: "A mile wide and an inch deep." To live a more meaningful and purposeful life requires a frequent reversal of the logic of existing. We need to allow for, even engineer or carve out, if necessary, space and time for immersion into the realm of the heart.

"Listen to your life. See it for the fathomless mystery that it is. In the boredom and pain of it no less than in the excitement and gladness: touch, taste, smell your way to the holy and hidden heart of it because in the last analysis all moments are key moments, and life itself is grace." --Frederick Buechner

Shelby Lynne

2009-05-21T00:36:00.031-06:00

I’ve been listening to this gal belt out tunes since the early 90s when I was still a relatively young man (I'm 41 now) and when she was still primarily singing C&W (that's Country and Western for the uninitiated). I’ve also been listening to her younger sister, Allison Moorer, sing since her first album was released back in the late 90s. Both are great, but the elder sister’s music has made deeper inroads into my soul, such as it is. Their life story is achingly sad and broken. It’s reflected in their music, too. They were raised in the Deep South, down Alabama way. Believe me, when you hear either of them speak outside of their singing voices, there’s no doubt.

I know a thing or two about the South myself and its ability to influence in unusual ways. On one of Shelby's albums she has a song entitled "Iced Tea" and one of the lines from the lyrics says, "You’re the cornbread and iced tea of life." I understand that. I would suggest you have to have some roots from the South to really get the gist of that sentiment. I was born and raised in the South—deep, deep South Tejas that is—literally 20 or so miles from the Mexican border. Later I moved to a small town outside of San Antonio. During my high school years, I moved to Arkansas and eventually found my way to Oklahoma where I graduated from OSU at Stillwater. I now live out West in Denver and have for the last...geez…18 or so years. Yes, indeed. I know all about the South—its good and its bad side. My wife and others say that my "Southern Drawl” becomes more pronounced and evident after a few rounds. I take that to mean that under "normal conditions," I tend to speak more or less in a regular cadence.

Anyway, back to Ms. Lynne. She’s also had a rather unusual up and down rollercoaster ride of a musical career. From performing Country to more of a bluesy--actually, maybe more R&B laced--lite rock sound to winning a Grammy and then falling off the map to something of a small resurgence now with her latest entry. Truth is she’s never quite caught on among the masses. That may be a good thing because the curse that often follows substantial notoriety hasn’t had any real chance to entangle, erode, and erase who she really is at core.

I had the marvelous opportunity to see her perform last April here in the Mile High City at the Bluebird Theater—a shit hole old time converted movie theater (all the seats have been removed—essentially a standing only venue ). When I say shit hole, I mean shit hole. It’s situated right next to a porn shop. The theater has something of a retro feel that was befitting for this particular concert. Indeed, I was quite intoxicated during the performance—due to my consumption of more than my fair share of Maker’s Mark bourbon on the rocks, but also by the magnetic presence of Shelby on stage. I had a funny moment at the concert when during a slight pause between songs, while the audience was still hypnotically hushed in a mesmerized state, I yelled out while raising my glass in a toast, “God bless you, Shelby.” She paused for a moment and looked my direction (I was probably all of 25 feet away from the stage) and responded, “That’s a sweet thing to say; I hope you don’t mind me saying this, but this next song, I wrote after having 13 margaritas.” That got the whole crowd riled and cheering. Grin. I intuit she drinks quite a bit. Of course, I didn’t and don’t mind, especially given that I was plenty polluted myself at the time. I don’t know—kind of a funny and good story—at least to me. Moreover, I meant what I said, too! I do indeed hope that God blesses her. Knowing her life story, it’s hard to imagine a wish for her or her sister otherwise.

She is a tremendous musical talent. Her music is richly authentic, raw, and emotionally moving. Her most recent album (2008) is called “Just a Little Lovin’” (this was the album tour I was fortunate enough to catch and experience). It’s a real gem. The cover art notes it was "inspired by Dusty Springfield." Indeed! It seems as if Shelby channeled Dusty's spirit on this collection of songs.

Note: Click HERE for a link to a music video of “Anyone Who Had a Heart” from her latest album.

Soul-Full Living

2009-05-07T02:20:00.009-06:00

“Motion is the lotion,” or so I’ve heard it said. I’ve encountered this expression in the context of applying bodily movement as a remedy for when you’re ailing from physical soreness or stiffness and as a means to avoid atrophy. No doubt this axiom is often situationally true; I’ve experienced it myself. But what of its application at a deeper level—the level of the soul? To my chagrin, I’m afraid the same concept has taken root as the key methodology for how life among the modern masses is generally or broadly lived out. It’s become an almost lemming like impulse or habit. By default, pause and solace and contemplation have become subliminally profane. To be sure, I’m no exception. Mea culpa.

“Never mistake motion for action.” Sagely words of wisdom from one of my favorite authors, Ernest Hemingway. He was speaking about the craft and art of writing, but my contention, my instinct, is that his sentiment offers insight and guidance that’s equally apropos for how we should endeavor to live a more holistic life.

Much of contemporary society is obsessed with staying busy. I readily acknowledge and accept the wisdom that there is a time for everything, including a time to be busy. Hard work, long hours and executing against plans to achieve goals have a genuine place in the order of things. But when this becomes the modus operandi in life and seeps into the pores of our culture, it can digress de facto into an end unto itself, a mindless skipping on the turntable of life where there is a cacophony of static and noise, but no music. When the needle of our place in time and space gets stuck in a monotonous groove of motion, our bearing relative to establishing proper priorities that sync up with our deeper self goes awry like a compass needle in the Bermuda Triangle. We become captive to a matrix of motion. Time and vitality can be cannibalized by a faux life--an imposter life hiding in full view. Its camouflage? An insidious insistence that staying busy is somehow meaningful. It seeks to confuse success with significance. It frequently promulgates acquisition as the prime mover of a fulfilling and satisfying life. If you don’t exercise caution it will vector your energy, your life force into an ever maddening rat race. This faux life insinuates that if you occasionally seek out opportunities to “be still” or to “unplug” and just breathe, you’re engaging in anomalous, eccentric and wasteful navel gazing behavior. You become an outlier by extension, an exotic specious to be avoided and observed from afar.

I’m not suggesting that seeking material well being is an ignoble pursuit, quite the contrary. It can empower and ennoble. But it should be pursued with prudence. It should be labeled “handle with care” and “proceed with caution,” lest you inadvertently become a rat in a maze chasing cheese that ultimately doesn’t feed your deeper motivations and longings. Again, I’m in no way equating indolence and sloth with serenity. In my estimation, living life with a healthy measure of intention is essential. Industry and a dose of ambition are good attributes. Being deliberate, embracing responsibility and sacrifice for a purpose and the love of others is noble. Laziness--not relaxation, which is a very different thing indeed—is essentially the same contagion that I’m lamenting here, only the inverse, an upside down version.

My observation and experience is that we can easily fall prey to the mad pace of generic expectations, the sometimes warped consensus of mob psychology. We incrementally become automatons, zombies of motion. We lose our ability to just “be”; to discover, cultivate and nurture a life where joy is natural (happiness and pleasure are not always synonymous with joy). Hard work and long hours that are in alignment with an intrinsic joy really isn’t work, but a calling. I’m not advocating that when a perceived ideal in life is out of step with the realistic necessity of being responsible, that we should tumble into an existential crisis and use that as an excuse to abandon accountability. I espouse the notion of noblesse oblige. But I also believe that one should, must!, hang on to dreams and aspirations (be careful not to confuse these with fantasies), especially the ones that persist and won’t let go. The desires of the heart that persist do so for a reason. They are tenacious because they are attempting to alert us to something. We should take heed to the counsel offered by my favorite spiritual thinker, Frederick Buechner. He repeats almost ad nausem, “listen to your life; pay attention!” Dreams and obligations need not be different or at odds with one another. But if they are for a season, even a season that seems to exist in perpetuity, a blistering, scorching summer that burns delicate and fragile hopes and dreams and moves in slow motion, don’t despair, but believe. Pursue excellence and labor indeed for that which inspires your heart and lifts your spirit. Enjoy, taste, and savor the gifts of life. Never stop excavating your soul for that which connects you to your true vocation. In so doing, you become more alive!

Hemingway said, “When writing a novel a writer should create living people; people not characters. A character is a caricature.” In life I believe we can become so busy that we set aside meaning and “being” and become lost wayfarers wandering in a morass of motion. This is our clarion call: That we stop and reflect along the journey to keep at bay the risk of becoming a caricature in our own life.

God help us. God help me.

Well…enough “homiletics” for the evening. I’m preaching to myself, of course—a choir of one. Time for a quick nightcap and then off in search of slumber. I have a long and very busy day scheduled tomorrow (hmm…that would be today as I look at the time). Grin.

Another Guitarist Par Excellence - Keith Urban

2009-02-01T18:58:00.018-07:00

As a segue from my previous post where I mentioned that EVH (a true Stradivarius in terms of creativity, originality, and technical skill) was one of my two favorite guitarists, I'm compelled to share my other fave--Keith Urban. The difference between the two is that KU brings additional substantial talent to the table by way of a really good singing voice and great overall songwriting (music and lyrics) ability and style. His music is a spiritual food of sorts for me. It carries and projects a kind of golden aura, an infusion of light that lifts the spirit. I truly can't get enough of this guy’s music. It injects my soul with a positive and healing verve. I need that, too, given my propensity toward "life noir."* Urban can play like nobody's business! It's a joy to watch and to hear him play.

Check out the post title link for a fantastic live video performance. Enjoy!

Note: Forgive whatever brief "commercial" may play prior to the actual live performance video clip when you select the link.

*Sorry, I digress, and badly, but by way of example, anyone that appreciates the classic "Of Mice and Men" by Steinbeck as much as I do will know what I mean by the term "life noir." If you are so inclined, see the beautiful 1992 film adaptation of this Steinbeck classic directed by Gary Sinise. And, of course, read the novella.

STRADIVARIUS – Eddie Van Halen

2009-01-28T23:32:00.014-07:00

One of my two fave guitarists turned 54 a couple of days ago. I saw him play last year when VH came to Denver and his playing was nothing short of phenomenal. He still has amazing chops and tone. He looked healthy, too—clean and sober.

Believe me, I like fine Scotch as much as the next guy, but if it’s about to take you out for the final count, you gotta change your “tune,” so to speak. It appears that Eddie has, changed his tune that is, where substance and alcohol abuse is concerned anyway.

He still seems to have a penchant for cancer sticks in the extreme. In spite of being diagnosed with serious mouth cancer a few years back, he smoked throughout his entire solo on stage when he was in town. He has a beautiful new custom guitar for sale out this year (named after his son, Wolfgang) and many of the advertising video clips and pictures show him smoking. This could be a play on his “image,” but I highly doubt it. I remember reading somewhere that his former Mrs. (Valerie Bertinelli) waited until his treatment for tongue cancer was complete before finally leaving him. You can hear the years of smoking in his voice, too. I wish the guy would cut out the coffin nails for his own good. I’d love to still hear him play into old age. Chet Atkins did. Les Paul does.

Anyhow, I wish him all the best. Happy Birthday, Ed!

Note: Click HERE for a clip of live footage from Seattle in December 2007 of Eddie playing his famed "Eruption" solo in a more improvised manner.

Measuring Life: Just Leaves or Fruit?

2009-01-01T23:00:00.023-07:00

I’ve long been fascinated by the subject of NDEs (Near Death Experiences). I have several books that recount numerous said experiences by people of all walks of life. I remember my mother once saying that an elderly neighbor who had apparently died and was eventually resuscitated mentioned later that he experienced traveling through a tunnel of light. Some of the stories I find remarkably persuasive, especially those of children. Others, nothing short of self-delusional at best, or worse, a con man’s hyperbolic pandering in an attempt to confirm very narrow religious notions. I’m also aware of the various scientific debunking of NDEs, but I find many of these “answers” limited and even contrived, essentially a disguised effort to present any answer other than the one offered by those who have had an NDE, lest there really be a world or life beyond the purely material and physical.

I recently came across a recounting of a NDE that described the experience as one where a Being of Light encapsulated the newly arrived “dead” person’s life as “just leaves,” as juxtaposed to a life that had yielded fruit. If I recall the story correctly, the person was sent back and endeavored to live a different way—a sensitive life, one marked by genuine caring and love.

Here’s how I interpret this “Just Leaves” story. It’s about the internal or inside life, the intrinsic bearings (how these arrive and develop is another post altogether) that guide your life, that are your life. Of course, all this ultimately translates “inside-out” to the world of the external. It’s not about perfection or how one lives a “holy and pious” life—saying the right prayers, following all the exactitudes of religious rules, rites and orders, holding fast to all the correct doctrines and dogmas and petty moral dictates. It’s not so much that doing all these things are wrong or bad, indeed, they may serve to foster a better life, and, as such, be good. But for the most part, all this “stuff” is about the “outside” or the “leaves.” The “Just Leaves” encounter is about spirit—what is nurtured inwardly and, thus, ultimately projected outwardly.

So what does this mean in terms of a life lived true and good? Here are some of my thoughts, or questions of juxtaposition really, that are meant to reveal the "inside," as to what behaviors may eventually, when practiced over time, lead to or resemble either leaves or fruit.

Do you embrace life with gusto and a gracious spirit, or hoard up envy and gnaw away at yourself and others with God only knows what? Do you pause in gratitude to notice the small and simple joys of life, or continually seek out in an excessive manner superficial and numbing stimulus that ultimately keeps real life at bay? Do you embody an attitude of hope, or relish apocalyptic scenarios? Do you cling to a broken, resentful, even angry, existence, or do you seek out moments of healing and restoration, however small? Do you harbor a cynic’s view of the world, or allow for the possibility of renewal? Do you ignite glimmers of hope, or incite fear? Do you seek to ennoble others (and yourself), or are you disrespectful and indifferent to the dignity of life? Are you arrogant and pretentious, or humble, carrying yourself with a sense of spiritual sobriety (humility doesn’t preclude confidence)? Do you value and appreciate moments of stillness and quiet and deep breath, or remain in a constant state of flight and frenzy and busyness? Do you wear a smile, or frown most of the time? Does your presence promote and exude a sense of light and ease, or darkness and dread? Do you harp, nag and nitpick, or grant appropriate space and freedom? Does your voice carry joy and calm and poise, or harshness and bitterness? Is your touch affirming, gentle and tender (this doesn’t mean weak, passive or absent of confident self-knowledge), emanating a caring spirit, or is it selfish and forceful? Do you harbor a spirit of criticism, self-righteousness and judgment, or do you seek to understand and practice kindness?

I’m not ignoring the very real shadows of life here. There are plenty of very good reasons for being pessimistic about life. Some of the felt heaviness in life is justifiable given what the world can happily dish out. There is awful and unbearable suffering. There is evil. It’s easy to understand why some can’t fathom the notion of forgiveness given what evils have been and can and will be perpetrated. I’m not endorsing a happy, shiny people approach either. I’m not talking about a “hippy” or “Woodstock” or commune approach to life—actually the very opposite, as these approaches all too often seem to me to abandon the world. I’m talking about the spirit you imbue regardless of position or place, status or stature. No matter who you are or where you are, choices about the course of your life are ever present before you. It’s a process, a “slowly, but surely” way of life.

As for me, I suspect I’m a combination of leaves and fruit. Alas, maybe more leaves at the end of the day, but there are moments of grace where I seem able and willing to labor for something noteworthy—a berry or flower that represents something lasting and true.

Kinetic Confession

2008-12-24T00:32:00.006-07:00

My youngest daughter, Grace, participated tonight (11-13-08) in giving her "First Confession" as the penultimate act in route to receiving the eventual pinnacle Sacrament of First Holy Communion (Eucharist). To what extent she really comprehended the whole ritual and exercise is hard to say, because as her father I don't overemphasize (though I don’t entirely ignore it either—though close, I suppose) the need for such a practice. As part of the initial instructions given, an offer was made by our Priest that parents could participate as well. My speculation is that he perceived this afforded an opportunity for parents to model a practice and behavior that is largely lost among many lukewarm, but nevertheless practicing Roman Catholics, or maybe he was inclined to consider this moment as one of the few remaining clandestine strings at his disposal that he could pull that could possible rope in a recalcitrant parishioner into approaching God unexpectedly. It could be that many parents were prepared for such an invitation by way of an “examination of conscience,” but I for one was not. That presented no problem though, as my sins are many, so even a cursory or stream of consciousness confession from me would likely be enough to make the uninitiated squirm. I indeed accepted his invitation, but not so much as a means to "model the way," because by the time I approached the “confessional box” my wife and daughters were in the reception hall enjoying cookies and conversation. I initially joined them, but then absconded back to the sanctuary to stand in line with some other adults/parents who decided to do the same, as the children were largely already done for the evening. I accepted because it seemed right and good, even needed. The atmosphere or environment, the spirit of the moment, if you will, prompted me to action. In candor, I must acknowledge that my willingness is in part due to this particular parish--my "home" church, if you will--which is rather open and projects a welcome and accepting aura.

Here's what I learned from my experience tonight. The Sacrament of Reconciliation can be a source of kinetic (as in active or activating or energizing) power. The Rite, if imbued with the gentle and discerning Spirit of Christ, puts in motion the blessing of forgiveness (and I do mean here blessing, not the forgiveness itself, though I don’t entirely deny in some small way the “releasing” or “loosing” powers associated with this exercise). Forgiveness has been there all along and already ultimately granted*, in my estimation anyway, but the interaction of human connection, priest and penitent, if done with sensitivity and grace and not in a forensic manner, allows the confessor to appropriate more intrinsically the intent and nature of forgiveness. Penance (not the stereotypical concluding priestly instruction prior to granting absolution to say five “Our Fathers” and ten “Hail Marys”) in this vein becomes healing and restorative instead of punitive. The oft heard and quoted expression, "we seek progress, not perfection" rings true to me in general, but in considerable fashion tonight. It may fly in the face of Holy Writ given what the Gospel according to St. Matthew tells us, “be ye therefore perfect, even as your Father in heaven is perfect,” but in the end my ultimate and final authority is not Scripture (though I'm thankful for it as a record of the experiences of God’s people and as a guide, but I’m cautious with it as well), but the felt intuition, if you will, that is "written" on my heart, however imprecise it may be throughout life.

I was born and raised Roman Catholic. I remain so to this day, though, of course, with some reservations and reticence. Though I've had some very powerful detours in my faith journey--e.g. a comparatively short, but very intense diversion into the quagmire (a very apt description!) of Calvinism, my path continually leads me "home" to the See of Rome. Not so much because of her claim to be the One, Holy, Catholic (universal) and Apostolic True Church (though I suppose that distinction holds some minor merit with qualifications), or because I'm somehow being guided mystically to such an end, but because of nothing more mysterious than for the sake of propriety and the idea of continuity. I'm 41 years-of-age, and I think that today was the first time I ever experienced "Confession" as it should and could be. I'm not saying it was perfect or ideal or not in some way even a bit awkward still, but the spirit of it seemed to me to be in keeping with faith, hope, and love. And for this, I'm truly grateful. I’m keenly aware (a residual from my bygone Calvinist tendencies) that “feelings” or emotions are not always a reliable barometer of an encounter with the numinous (though they shouldn’t be dismissed offhand either). As such, perhaps the best description of my confessional experience tonight would be my awareness or sense of the caress of the Holy.

In summation, my final conclusion is this: Engaging in this particular Sacrament, or any other for that matter, in a manner that is “true” or more genuine and authentic is ultimately a function of spirit. I don’t mean some “holy roller” type of spirit (though I should be careful not to judge, frankly, in spite of my rather very deep antipathy to this persuasion of expression of faith), but spirit as in a breath of life—animation of the moment by a quite, still and gentle, yet Divine and authoritative reality, that condescends to work through imperfect agents and structures.

*Note: God's final judgment for all will be mercy in my humble opinion, as I am an adherent of the heterodox belief (some, if not most, would label this doctrine heretical) in Apokatastasis--essentially a belief in the final and ultimate restoration of all and everything to God, although, of course, in His own sweet time and way. Here’s how an early Church Father, St. Gregory of Nyssa, says it: "When, over long periods of time, evil has been removed and those now lying in sin have been restored to their original state, all creation will join in united thanksgiving, both those whose purification has involved punishment and those who never needed purification at all."

A Winding Path: From There to Here

2008-12-13T21:59:00.025-07:00

For the few that know me, fewer and fewer it seems these days (grin)—I essentially work all the time (my colleagues at work know at best only a thin slice of whom I really am, or at least the deeper self that I am) and what little time is left is by and large devoted to my family--it will come as no surprise that I’m posting yet another blog entry connected to Frank Schaeffer (the son that is, not the father). Case in point, he is the subject of one of my more "recent" postings on 10/3/07, (“Frank Schaeffer's Memoir"), which is Schaeffer’s more explicit memoir. Of course, my blogging is hardly prolific as of late, all of one entry in 2008 prior to this one (although I have several drafts in queue requiring additional editing that I’ve yet to piece together in a manner that “speaks” as I desire—I suppose I need to finalize these entries and publish them, if only for myself), but when I do blog, a few subject matters or individuals of personal influence seem to repeat like a needle stuck on an old scratched record. Namely, Frederick Buechner (a titan influence on me), Frank Schaeffer, Kate DiCamillo, Mark Helprin, boxing, Gibson’s film, “The Man Without a Face,” and Hemingway’s, “The Old Man and the Sea.” What’s a bit surprising is that Salinger’s “Catcher in the Rye” only makes a brief oblique appearance on EAC, in spite of the fact that its influence runs rather deep in me and has for a long time. I quickly scanned through most of my old entries searching for past Schaeffer references to confirm my suspicion that he was more than not a frequent subject matter, and found among them significant references on 2/4/07 (“Jesus and the Monkey Blood”) and again on 1/2/06 (“Meet a Friend of Mine—Calvin Becker”). Indeed, the “Meet a Friend of Mine” blog entry speaks of my heartfelt love and connection to a literary creation of Frank’s—Calvin Becker, who in so many ways is a kindred spirit to me. You may take note that my profile picture is but a “cut-out” of none other than a representation of Calvin Becker from one of the highly stylized covers of Schaeffer’s touching and hilarious novel, “Portofino.”

So why the long, rambling introduction to this post? Well, I’d be hard pressed to say it offers much of value other than to articulate my ongoing connection to, nay, eerily similar “evolution” with Frank. This is precisely the crux of this post. As you will see (hear, if you select "Listen Now" to the 39 minute audio clip) from the link provided HERE, Frank Schaeffer has slowly moved from being a right-wing, Christian conservative, even at times, fundamentalist Christian, to being a person more solidly grounded in the “gray,” all the while still strangely remaining a committed Christian, even if riddled with certain doubts. As evidence of his (and ironically my own as well) evolving self, he voted for Senator Barack Obama for the highest office in the land, which would have been unthinkable to him many years ago, as it would have been with me. I also voted for Obama, with a combination of deep pride, but also reservation (he’s a bit too Pro-Abortion for my taste). Overall, I believe that President-Elect Obama is the most amazing personality of historical significance since President Lincoln that’s entered the arena of politics. He’s a hopeful light in my humble opinion. I had no idea that Frank voted for him until tonight when I happened upon this fairly recent NPR story, but it only reconfirmed that his journey is my journey in many similar ways.

So for those that may have an interest and know something of either me (not very likely) or Frank Schaeffer (more likely), please take a brief detour by selecting the link (from the blog entry title) and listen in to an interview of Frank Schaeffer by NPR’s Terri Gross. His spiritual journey is long and battle scarred, as is mine in so many ways. I personally remain a committed believer in Jesus the Christ of Nazareth. Even through the recurring crucible of doubt, and, at times, personal anger, sadness, and disappointment with God, I nevertheless trust in Him, too. There are for me some parts of my Christian faith that are very explicit and others that represent something more of an aimless wandering. I also happen to be quite the willful sinner. For me, as it was with some of the disciples who were apparently just as confounded at Jesus on occasion as I am, I say, “Lord, to whom shall I go?” Truth be known, I don’t want to go anywhere else, but I remain a wayfarer, a lonely pilgrim. The Mark Helprin quote that serves as my blog description within my blog header essentially sums up what I'm attempting to convey about my personal journey. As my virtual mentor, the good Mr. Buechner, says, “a Christian is one who is on the way, though not necessarily very far along it, and who has at least some dim and half-baked idea of whom to thank.”

Epitaph: In Searh of Wisdom

2008-07-15T20:43:00.017-06:00

One of my personal heroes of the Faith, Frederick Buechner, a member of the great cloud of witnesses, if you will, at least for me anyhow in many ways, turned 82 years old last week on July 11. By all accounts and reports, he still appears to be going strong--entirely, completely lucid and eloquent as ever, which is par for the course where he is concerned. He's acknowledged having a form of "writers block" for some time now. Most of his publications over the last several years confirm this, as his recent "books" are more a collection of past writings. Indeed, his last published work from just this last month or so carries in its title the word "miscellany." By and large, it's the kind of book that only a die-hard Buechner fan would appreciate. I was hoping for more, but something is better than nothing I suppose.

Every so often, I will search the internet for the latest and greatest on my favorite authors, etc., and when I was doing so recently with regard to the good Mr. Buechner, I came across an interview he did with PBS's Religion and Ethics back in 2006. I recalled having read it in the past (I try to read everything by or on Buechner, as I consider myself a “student” of his philosophy), but one particular Q&A from the interview caught my attention for some reason more so this time around.

Here is verbatim that unexpected catechism taken from the PBS interview:

Q: There's a lovely phrase you have used someplace comparing death next to life. What is it?

A: It's from a novel I wrote called GODRIC, told in the voice of an 11th-century English monk and mystic named Godric -- at the end of his days, in words he speaks that I in a sense put into his mouth, but in another sense heard from his mouth (some mysterious thing in the process of creating a character). He said as an old, old man who had lost almost everything, "What's lost is nothing to what's found, and all the death that ever was set next to life would scarcely fill a cup." If I do say so, marvelous words, not because I invented them. This is an answer I wanted to give the world -- but because in searching whatever dimension of myself I was searching at that moment in writing the book, they are the words that came out of the depths of me. And who knows? I may even get sort of spooky about it. Who knows? Maybe Godric himself was involved in it. I hang on to those words: "What's lost is nothing to what's found, and all the death that ever was set next to life would scarcely fill a cup." I love that. I'm so glad you reminded me of that. The other day, the way people [do] who are approaching their 80th birthday, I was thinking about all the last business -- funerals and where do you want to be buried -- and I thought if anything were to be inscribed on my tombstone, I said let it be that. "What's lost is nothing to what's found." Very important words.

This touched me more so than it may have in the past. It's hard to say exactly why. True as the words of Godric may be, they are hard to believe, if you know what I mean...and yet I do, with all my heart, even when I don't want to because of some anger or broken sadness or resentment inside me that would prefer some get their due comeuppance or because even a cursory glance at the world around us or a review of history seems to tell another tale. Maybe these words from the novel, Godric, moved me because Buechner, a "mentor" to me in so many ways, though not in every way to be sure, essentially confirmed with these particular comments that his departure to the next life draws nigh, even if that should be a decade or so from now, and that saddened me. Maybe it reminded me of my own fragile mortality and my hope that I may be as blessed to live as long as Buechner has thus far and to still have my wits about me, if not more so by then (one would hope that a life genuinely lived and experienced after many such years would at least bear the mark of wisdom in some manner, even as a compensation of sorts for youth lost and spent). Maybe it was because I frequently ponder my strongly held believe in the ultimate reconciling of all to God in the final analysis, that indeed, "all will be well," as the medieval Christian mystic, Lady Julian of Norwich, famously uttered to the chagrin of Tradition. This happens to also be a belief that Buechner himself holds. Though in classic Buechnerian style, what I'd label an honest humility that finds expression in ambiguity and even doubt, he allows for the possibility that in the end there's nothing and all our musings about God and the afterlife are imaginings and ultimately a farce. He’s always careful when he says this to qualify that this is not what he believes or intuits, quite the contrary actually, but that he wouldn’t be so arrogant to presume with certainty that it wasn't a sad possibility.

I don't know for sure why I was moved by these particular words of the old saint as voiced by Buechner, but it prompted me to give consideration to what epitaph I'd like on my own tombstone when the time comes--some words of wisdom, so to speak, that would encapsulate more than anything else my heart (The heart always trumps, does it not, or at least it should). In many ways this idea of identifying my highest measure of intrinsic value or “marching orders” is in keeping with my personal approach to life. I frequently like to consider, weigh and determine what are my favorite books, films, and songs, etc. As such, the notion of discerning a future epitaph for myself is much the same--a means of divining what it is that is me, my essence, what holds the greatest sway and influence over my destiny. I suspect that I'll be giving this some thought on and off for some time--God willing! I'd prefer to live out a rather lengthy life if given a choice in the matter, so I can experience the blessed marvel and delight of my daughters growing up, and to be there for them as their father--until I discover what those concentrated words are for me.

In the mean time, I've been inspired to take up and read Buechner's novel, "Godric," yet again. I think I've read it at least twice, maybe even started it a third time at some point, but never got around to finishing it that last time. It was nominated for a Pulitzer Prize, which if you read it will come as no surprise. The language and style, while anachronistic, is entirely apropos given the nature and setting of the story. It can be a difficult read frankly, as it flows more like poetry at times, but if you persist, you'll begin to catch its phrasing and cadence and admire it for the beautiful art that it is and then, if you're lucky, blessed even, you'll take in at least some of its wisdom as a reward for your patience.

Frank Schaeffer's Memoir

2007-10-03T11:50:00.003-06:00

If you have frequented EAC in the past, you might recall my occasional mentioning of the author, Frank Schaeffer. He wrote the Calvin Becker Trilogy, which I consistently rave about and recommend to any who will listen. Calvin Becker is in the mold of Tom Sawyer or Huck Finn, a hero for those who have experienced dysfunctional religion at some point in their lives. If you haven't done so yet, do yourself a mighty favor and take up and read the novel, Portofino. The Trilogy, of which Portofino is apart, is basically a thinly veiled or disguised autobiography, as you'll note, if you read Crazy for God.

Jesus and the Monkey Blood--Growing Up Fundamentalist then Joining the Human Race

2007-02-04T20:35:00.000-07:00

WHAT'S THE BEAR IN YOUR LIFE?

2007-01-27T13:12:00.003-07:00

"Man has places in his heart which do not yet exist, and into them enters suffering in order that they may have existence."
--Leon Bloy

Incarnational Ponderings

2006-12-23T14:14:00.003-07:00

There are a couple of posts from my archives that I've decided to re-post. Here's the first among them.

From: Wednesday, June 15, 2005

In conversation the other night a close friend of mine spoke of the idea that “icons find you.” This was an interesting thought to me on many fronts, one of which was that what I consider to be my favorite icon first came into my possession through this same friend as a wedding party gift. I don’t remember if my increasing awareness and affection for this icon came about as a result of having first received it as a gift or if my initial attraction began prior to that time and served as an impetus for my friend’s gift selection. Regardless, the icon, Christ Pantocrator – Sinai, “speaks” to me. I have one in my writing area and in each of my daughters' rooms.

Here are some words or notions that come to mind and bear significance for me when I gaze upon this icon:

Burden
Weary
Tired
Prince
Great
Weight
Broken
Tender
Sad
Lonely
Outcast
Long-suffering

For those with a theological “eye” (icons carry an inherent or associated theology) this list of words may pose some problems or concerns giving rise to questions. What of the doctrine of the Impassability of God? Doesn’t the triune nature of God presuppose a perfect union of love amongst the Godhead, whereby the word “lonely” becomes a contradiction in terms? Etc., Etc. All this aside, these words represent some of what I see in this icon. It stirs within me a kind of emotional connection with Him. I feel sympathetic on some level for Him when I gaze at this icon. It comforts me somehow. I feel “simpatico” with Christ as depicted here. I feel that He understands my plight, and that He wants me to attempt to do the same in reverse for Him. Admittedly, these are not words one would normally associate with the title “Pantocrator” (Ruler of All), but they nonetheless are what come to mind. This is not to say that I dispose of the traditional understanding that comes with an icon of this type, but that it has evolved into something more “personal” and “felt” for me. The idea of "felt needs" in the context of religion gives me pause, but I promised to make a best effort at authenticity on EAC, so I'm calling it as I see it.

Considering our contemporary pop culture, an attractive appearance sadly trumps just about all else in our woefully shallow society. While it is in large measure the appearance of Christ in this icon that grabs me, it is one that runs contrary to the sought after standard of current times. He’s depicted slightly out of sorts, which is not unusual in iconography, but this particular presentation somehow arrests me more.

Origin said of Christ, “His body was small and ill-shapen and ignoble.”

The Old Testament prophet Isaiah spoke, “He had no beauty or majesty to attract us to him, nothing in his appearance that we should desire him” (Isaiah 53:2b, NIV). I like the way older versions say the same thing. The verbiage is more archaic, but somehow more apropos to the intent of the description: "He had no form or comeliness that we should look at him, and no beauty that we should desire him" (Isaiah 53:2b, RSV).

In parting, I should say that other words come to mind too as to this icon, and which are often seemingly contradictory or at least paradoxical, i.e. humble and foreboding, but they don’t carry the same weight for me as the composition or amalgam my original word list imagines.

I hope and pray that this icon has indeed chosen me in some way, whatever that means. As I continue to consider the Sinai Christ, may it become for me a means by which God “speaks” to me.

The Voice of Silence

2006-12-14T19:52:00.015-07:00

"Well timed silence is the most commanding expression."
-Mark Helprin

What is the Nature of Silence?

Solitude or meditative?

Introspection?

Timidity or doubt?

Self-reflection?

Haughty contempt?

Pretentiousness?

Reticence and Reserve?

Brokenness?

Insecurity?

Contemplation?

Fear?

Repose?

Laconic?

Pregnant pause?

Self-assurance or confidence?

Poise?

A China Rabbit and a Giving Tree

2006-12-02T18:25:00.003-07:00

I love this author, and I love this book. For those that know a bit about me, this should come as no surprise. I recently re-read, for about the third or fourth time, “The Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane,” and after I turned the last page, I proceeded to Google for some book reviews and perused Amazon.com for the same, because I was curious about the impact and influence this book is having. That I am of the persuasion that this book is having an impact is hardly original or unique. If you’ve read it, you’ll know what I mean. Now, as to what kind of impact, that is another matter altogether and the subject of this post.

While I expected to see some detractors, given DiCamillo’s subject matter, I was nevertheless surprised to see more than a few reviews and comments that took DiCamillo to considerable task for this book, launching more than a few salvoes her way, saying in so many words that the book was out of line and basically sadistic.

The point of view represented by many of these detractors (see one such review from the Washington Post in the link below) took particular exception to a description in the book with its accompanying illustration that depicts our protagonist, the toy china rabbit, Edward, as he encounters further suffering on his journey, being utilized as a scarecrow. Of course, the obvious is its striking similarity to crucifixion. To be sure, each time I've read this book, the scene in question strikes me as unusual, but I’ve never taken it as an affront.

I grant that the subject matter of this book may not be suitable for the very young, and thus appropriate parental judgment and discretion should be exercised. In fact, the argument could be made, and is being made implicitly in some regard by many of the detractor reviews and comments, that this book is essentially an adult book in the form or guise of Young Adult literature.

Those particularly sensitive to suffering and hardship should avoid reading "The Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane," even though its dénouement is redemptive in nature. Readers who only like happy beginnings, middles, and endings should stick to sitcoms and the like. But if you respect and appreciate, even desire, stories that delve into the heart of life and love (and you know where that will inevitably lead), then I suggest this book is a work of artistic beauty (narrative and illustrations alike) and worthy of adulation and a wide readership. If you want to propagate a sterile, suburbia view of the world, one that compartmentalizes life, giving the term “sheltered” an even more expansive reign, then, yes, this book is not for you or your children.

Note: The whole matter reminds me a bit of the common reactions to Silverstein’s famous (infamous according to some) children’s book "The Giving Tree." (If you're curious about this, too, then see the applicable link below for a symposium of sorts that addresses the controversial nature of this book.) I remember my first reading of "The Giving Tree," and, yes, candidly, I was initially taken aback, though not any longer. This change in my initial impression is not because I now suddenly understand and support its message, because truth be known, I still have no clue what that message is. Additionally, I find the book overly simplistic. My change of mind ultimately has its roots in my semi-libertarian leanings. I simply am bothered by the notion of some flunky telling me what to believe, think, and do. All "political" propositions aside, in spite of my initial misgivings and still befuddled understanding of its meaning, I must admit to being somehow moved by the Tree itself, especially in its stump form.

WASHINGTON POST BOOK REVIEW

SYMPOSIUM

APOCALYPTO

2006-11-25T22:13:00.001-07:00

I’ve been wired with anticipation, what with everything I'm learning about this film. Of course, that’s no real surprise considering its source—the charged and controversial Mel Gibson. I've been a long time fan of Mel’s acumen and sensibilities as a director since his directorial debut, "A Man Without a Face.” Indeed, if pressed to name my favorite film, I’d likely call on said debut. Mel displays a remarkable talent for storytelling a la the grammar of film. Whatever you may think of him otherwise as an individual, or even the choice of subject matter in his films, he nevertheless remains an artistic genius in my estimation. More so as a director than as an actor, although he’s not too shabby where the latter is concerned either.

Apparently, “Apocalypto” delivers a timely and thematic message that underlies the dramatic action, and one that is aptly apropos given my nation’s current “state of denial.”

I can't wait for “Apocalypto!” Lots of testosterone—my kind of story (Ha. J/k-sort of. LOL). Take notice. This movie will be huge. Mark my word.

Release Date: December 8th.

APOCALYPTO.COM (Official Site)

Advance Screening Review by Rolling Stone Magazine

THE VELOCITY OF LIFE - Part II

2006-11-18T11:53:00.001-07:00

The quality of mercy is not strain'd,
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven
Upon the place beneath: it is twice blest;
It blesseth him that gives and him that takes…
--William Shakespeare (The Merchant of Venice)

Preface: What follows is not a discourse by me utilizing theology proper, but instead a meditation on life. Yes, I know that theology at its best is an attempt to understand and remedy life's woes, but I wanted to avoid in my reflection the narrow categories and implications of this discipline, while still using the common vocabulary of theologians. I propose to beg, borrow, and steal, if you will, the broader sentiments expressed by some theological terminology.

Tenderness moves slow, as it is an attribute of love. Grace and mercy, no less so, as they too originate from the same source. Their velocity is markedly different. They are restorative, though usually not in any manner or way that is expected or hoped for. These blessings are usually bestowed, if at all, within the landscape of brokenness (though not always, as they can occur during moments of celebration and joy as well). The landscape of which I speak consists of the usual suspects: loneliness and heartache and...well, you can fill in the blanks.

The notion of these remarkable "velocities," as I'll refer to them here--tenderness, grace, mercy--evoke memories for me of scenes from movies in which the filmmaker attempts to make an impression by showing a particular moment or frame in slow motion, construing an awareness that approaches transcendence or that seeks to highlight an epiphany. One such particular scene comes to my mind now. It shows the primary characters caught in a rainstorm (an apropos ambiance given the chaos and storm that is their situation), but for a few brief frames you see the rain drops falling slowly and gracefully, with a seeming sense of purpose, as they land on metal objects (in this case hubcaps) producing a melody of percussion for the moment. The moment in question is the growing chemistry or attraction between the two main characters, which is in truth a reflection of a love that is blooming of its own accord, even though it shouldn’t be in their case, morally speaking.

In many respects, our soul is the embodiment of the velocity of our life, and we filter life based on the state of our soul. Such is the human condition. Of course, that state or condition operates within a dynamic continuum of flux. Ultimately, one would be hard pressed to say categorically if this flux, which is sometimes thrown upon us unaware, is a blessing or curse in the final analysis. One can only hope that it will be the former. That determination, of course, will remain largely unknown this side of life.

If a heart is predominately restless, what does that say? Upon what axis does a life turn, and what falls within the gravitational pull of its orbit?

THE VELOCITY OF TENDERNESS

2006-11-16T22:03:00.001-07:00

I LOVE THIS WOMAN. THIS WRITER OF "CHILDREN'S" BOOKS. THIS AUTHOR OF "YOUNG ADULT" LITERATURE. SHE GETS IT.

Kate DiCamillo Journal Entry - Nov. '06

OFF TO THE FIGHTS...

2006-11-04T16:26:00.001-07:00

...but unfortunately via PPV, but that's better than nada. I'd love to be in Sin City @ the Mandalay Bay Resort sipping top shelf Scotch, playing Craps and Blackjack, and jabbering it up about the fight w/ some buddies before entering the casino arena, but, alas, this will be happening (minus the gaming, of course) instead in a local pub here in the Mile Hile City. Mayweather Jr. will win (he's pound-for-pound the best pugilist in the game), but I hope, and even expect, a legitimate contest. The other reason to see Mayweather Jr. win is that it will likely, if not inevitably, lead to a truly beautiful match up against Oscar de la Hoya.

Messages in a Bottle?

2006-11-02T17:55:00.000-07:00

SEE THIS

Life is Mystery

2006-10-31T15:29:00.000-07:00

"No one ever said that you would live to see the repercussions of everything you do, or that you have guarantees, or that you are not obliged to wander in the dark, or that everything will be proved to you and neatly verified like something in science. Nothing is: at least nothing that is worthwhile. I didn't bring you up only to move across sure ground. I didn't teach you to think that everything must be within our control or understanding. Did I? For, if I did, I was wrong. If you won't take a chance, then the powers you refuse because you cannot explain them, will, as they say, make a monkey out of you."
- from the novel "Winter's Tale" by Mark Helprin

?

2006-10-20T15:24:00.000-06:00

What is the most important question in life?

If you were to strip away what you're expected to say or think you should say or have been conditioned over the course of a lifetime to say...if you could make yourself vulnerable and anonymous to the world but for a brief moment, what would you say at the heart level is the most important question?

Take away the veneer of family and religion and work and culture, etc. What would be the most important question in the middle of the shadow of night in the privacy of your heart?

SPF and Moi...

2006-10-18T21:17:00.000-06:00

Here's what happens when you don't wear sunscreen! Over the last two days I've been under the knife (see bandage) due to skin cancer on my nose--a combination of Basal and Squamous cell carcinoma (thankfully, not melanoma). Fortunately, the doctors were able to remove--basically cut out--the nasty shit. I'd like to submit as evidence a picture of me, beat-up and unshaven, taken this very evening by my youngest daughter, Huckleberry. The real case and message being presented here is about the SPF in my future. At 39, I've had my first and, pray tell, last bout with skin cancer. I won, or so the judges say, but I'd damn well better wake up and smell the coffee, take careful note and guard against excessive sun exposure. That means using sunblock when I'm in the sun for any length of time. If not, the next round might bear the news that I should get my house in order. Bluntly, I might not be so fortunate the next time around, which means I won’t get to see my girls grow up. And, frankly, that’s all that really matters in the end to me. In this kind of fight you can't afford a loss. Even a split decision in your favor doesn’t carry the best of odds going forward. You basically need to win by KO or majority decision to advance to the next bracket in the tournament. So here’s to more liberal use of SPF!

Note: I believe this is the first time I’ve posted a pic of myself on EAC. Well, now you know what that smart-ass Constantine looks like.

The Alchemy of Tears

2006-10-12T20:51:00.000-06:00

Crying is an amazing thing, don’t you think? Could it be that it is the quintessential human expression? Tears often punctuate our deepest emotions or experiences—birth, laughter, fear, joy, death, passion, forgiveness, grief, pain, hope, an encounter with the holy, love, even anger or hate. The list is virtually endless.

I don’t cry very often, in fact, rarely. Indeed, when I wish I could cry, I frequently find the expected spring of tears run dry rather than flowing, though not always. And yet, at other times, surprisingly at moments that appear at least on the surface as more inconsequential, the well waters of my soul rise to the surface reminding me that the heart is the source of life.

A life without tears, be they private or public, hidden or visible, frequent or rare, would be unbearable, unthinkable, in truth, would be no life at all. My hunch is that tears are a divine gift—Eternal Water, the river that is the source of the Tree of Life, and which eventually merges and pours into every person’s heart. Tears are a connection, maybe the connection, to the numinous, in a way that bespeaks of our humanity in its most raw form, but in no less a way, whether known or unknown, acknowledged or not, tears beckon back to our noblest roots, that of being made in the image of God.

Take and Read - “thirteen moons: A Novel”

2006-10-11T17:29:00.000-06:00

I already quoted from this book in my last post. The author’s prose is captivating and poetic.

Here’s how the story is described on the inside flap: Charles Frazier’s “Thirteen Moons” is the story of one man’s remarkable life, spanning a century of relentless change. At the age of twelve, an orphan named Will Cooper is given a horse, a key, and a map and is sent on a journey through the wilderness to the edge of the Cherokee Nation, the uncharted white space on the map. Will is a bound boy, obliged to run a remote Indian trading post. As he fulfills his lonesome duty, Will finds a father in Bear; a Cherokee chief, and is adopted by him and his people, developing relationships that ultimately forge Will’s character. All the while, his love of Claire, the enigmatic and captivating charge of volatile and powerful Featherstone, will forever rule Will’s heart.

My paternal great-grandmother was full-blood Cherokee. (You’d never know though by looking at me, other than my nose, or so my mom says anyway, but it’s so.) I’ve been told by my mother that she was bought (God save us!) for a horse blanket! That knowledge, connection if you will, given the plot of this novel, in small part prompted me to buy this book, but more so because it was written by Charles Frazier, who wrote the spellbinding novel,“Cold Mountain,” which won the National Book Award. After I read the first paragraph, my senses were arrested, and I knew I needed to read this book.

Listen to the first paragraph (the novel is written in the first person):

“There is no scatheless rapture. Love and time put me in this condition. I am leaving soon for the Nightland, where all the ghosts of men and animals yearn to travel. We’re called to it. I feel it pulling at me, same as everyone else. It is the last unmapped country, and a dark way getting there. A sorrowful path. And maybe not exactly Paradise at the end. The belief I’ve acquired over a generous and nevertheless inadequate time on earth is that we arrive in the afterlife as broken as when we departed from the world. But, on the other hand, I’ve always enjoyed a journey.”

This book is written by an artist of the written word, but there is also wisdom to be found between the covers of this novel. The first sentence above a case in point.

“There is no frigate like a book.”
--Emily Dickinson

Atavistic Heart - III

2006-10-07T10:17:00.000-06:00

"When all else is lost and gone forever, there is yearning. One of the few welcome lessons age teaches is that only desire trumps time."
--Charles Frazier (celebrated author of "Cold Mountain") from his new novel "thirteen moons"

Kate DiCamillo Journal Entry - Oct. '06

2006-10-04T10:01:00.000-06:00

http://www.katedicamillo.com/journal.html

A Sermon by Frederick Buechner - Jairus’s Daughter (from “Secrets in the Dark: A Life in Sermons”)

2006-09-29T23:23:00.000-06:00

Then one of the leaders of the synagogue named Jairus came and, when he saw Jesus, fell at his feet and begged him repeatedly, “My little daughter is at the point of death. Come and lay your hands on her, so that she may be made well, and live.” So he went with him. And a large crowd followed him and pressed in on him. Some people came from the leader’s house to say, “Your daughter is dead. Why trouble the teacher any further?” But overhearing what they said, Jesus said to the leader of the synagogue, “Do not fear, only believe.” He allowed no one to follow him except Peter, James, and John, the brother of James. When they came to the house of the leader of the synagogue, he saw a commotion, people weeping and wailing loudly. When he had entered, he said to them, “Why do you make a commotion and weep? The child is not dead but sleeping.” And they laughed at him. Then he put them all outside, and took the child’s father and mother and those who were with him, and went in where the child was. He took her by the hand and said to her, “Talitha cum,” which means, “Little girl, get up!” And immediately the girl got up and began to walk about (she was twelve years of age). At this they were overcome with amazement. He strictly ordered them that no one should know this, and told them to give her something to eat.
--Mark 5:22 – 24, 35B – 43, NRSV

The Story Mark tells takes place on the western shores of the Sea of Galilee, which isn’t a sea at all, of course, but a large freshwater lake some thirteen miles long and eight miles across surrounded by high mountains and apparently roughly in the shape of a heart, which is rather wonderful if you stop to think about it—a heart-shaped lake at the heart of where it all happened. After leaving Nazareth Jesus seems to have spent most of what was left of his short life in the city of Capernaum, which was on the northern shore of the lake and the center of its fishing industry. A number of his best friends lived there including Zebedee’s two sons, James and John, together with Peter and his brother Andrew, who were all of them partners in some sort of fishing enterprise that employed other people whose names we don’t know and that seems to have owned a least two boats.

When Mark gives his account of what happened by the lake on this particular day, he puts in so many details that Matthew’s parallel account leaves out that is seems possible he was actually there at the time or at least had talked to somebody who was. It has the ring of an eyewitness account, in other words, and that makes it a little easier for us all these centuries later to see it with our eyes too, which is what I think we should always try to do with all these stories about Jesus. Hearing them preached on in church year after year and reading them in the dreary double columns of some bible, we tend to think of them as dreary themselves—as little stained-glass stories suitable for theologizing about and moralizing about but without much life in them or much relevance to the reality of our own lives and to us.

But that is not at all the kind of story that Mark is telling us here if you think about it, or maybe if you don’t so much think about it as just listen to it, let it take you wherever it is going. It is a quiet, low-key little story and in some ways so unclear and ambiguous that it’s hard to know just why Mark is telling it or just what he expects us to make out of it or made out of it himself. It’s a story not about stained-glass people at all but about people who lived and breathed and sweated and made love and used bad language when they tripped over furniture in the dark and sometimes had more troubles than they knew what to do with and sometimes laughed themselves silly over nothing in particular and were thus in many ways very much like the rest of us.

Jesus had just crossed over in a boat from the other side of the lake, Mark writes, when he found himself surrounded by some of them right there at the water’s edge where there were nets hanging up to dry and fish being gutted and scaled and stray cats looking around for anything they could get their paws on. He doesn’t say there was any particular reason for the crowd, so it’s probably just that they had heard about Jesus—probably even knew him, some of them—and were there to gawk at him because there were a lot of wild stories about who some people said he was and what he was going around the countryside doing and saying, and they were there to see what wild things he might take it into his head to say or do next.

There are so many people around him it’s hard to pick out which one Jesus is, but it’s worth giving it a try. Is he the one with his hand in the air signaling to somebody he can’t get to on the far edge of the crowd? Is he the thin, sad-eyed one who looks a little like Osama bin Laden, of all people? Is he the one leaning down and reaching out to take something a child is trying to hand him? What did it feel like to be near enough to touch him if you dared? If his eyes happened to meet yours for a moment, what would you say if you could find the right words for saying it, and how would he answer you if he could so much as hear you in the midst of all the babbling and jostling? What if just for a moment as he tried to shoulder his way out of the crowd he brushed against you so that for a second or two you actually felt the solid flesh and bone of him, smelled the smell of him?

I think that is part of what all these stories about Jesus in the Gospels are trying to tell us if we keep our ears open. They’re trying to tell us who he was and what it was like to be with him. They’re trying to tell us what there was about him that made at least some of the people here by the lake that day decide to give up everything they had or ever hoped to have, in some cases even their own lives, maybe just for the sake of being near him.

Matthew’s account doesn’t give us the name Jairus, but Mark’s does. There was a man named Jairus there, he says, who somehow made his way to Jesus and threw himself at his feet, as Mark describes it, fell to his knees perhaps, or touched his forehead to the ground in front of him. He was a synagogue official of some kind, Mark says, whatever exactly that means, but an important man anyway, which is possibly why the crowd gave way enough to let him through. But he doesn’t behave like an important man, though. He behaves like a desperate man, a man close to hysteria with fear, grief, horror, God knows what.

The reason is that his daughter is at the point of death, Jairus says, only he doesn’t say “my daughter,” he says “my little daughter.” She is twelve years old, going on thirteen, we’re told, so she wasn’t all that little really, but to Jairus she would presumably always be his little daughter the way even when they’ve grown up and moved away long since, we keep on speaking of our sons and daughters as children because that is what they were when we knew them first and loved them first.

His child is dying is what Jairus is there to get through somehow to this man some say is like no other man. She is dying—he says it repeatedly, Mark tells us, dying, dying—and then he says, “Come and lay your hands on her,” because he’s seen it done that way before and has possibly even tried doing it that way himself, except that it did absolutely no good at all when he tried it, as for all he knows it will do absolutely no good now either. But this is the only card he has left to play, and he plays it. “Lay your hands on her, so she may be made well, and live,” he says—live, he says, live, not die, before she’s hardly had more than a glimpse of what living is. It’s a wonder Jesus even hears him what with all the other things people are clamoring to him for, but somehow he does, and so does a lot of the crowd that follows along as Jairus leads the way to where his house stands.

They follow presumably because at the moment Jesus is the hottest ticket in town and because they don’t have anything better to do and because they’re eager to see if the man is all he’s been cracked up to be. But before they get very far, they run into some people coming the other way who with the devastating tactlessness of the simple souls they are come right out and say it. “Your daughter is dead,” they tell Jairus. They have just come from his house, where she died. They saw it with their own eyes. There is nothing anybody can do about it now. They have come too late. “Why trouble the teacher any further?” they ask her father, and it is Jesus who finally breaks the silence by speaking, only it’s just Jairus he speaks to.

“Do not fear,” he says. Don’t be afraid. Don’t be afraid. And then, “Only believe.”

The question is what is a man to believe when his whole life has blown up in his face? Believe that somehow life makes sense even in the face of a twelve-year-old’s death? Believe that in some unimaginable way all will be well no matter what? Believe in God? Believe in Jesus? Jairus doesn’t ask what he is to believe or how he is to believe and Jesus doesn’t tell him as they stand there in the road. “Only believe” is all he says, meaning maybe only “Believe there’s nothing you have to be afraid of,” and then he tells everybody to go home except for his three particular friends, who Mark tells us were Peter and James and John. And everybody goes home.

When the five of them finally get to Jairus’s house, they find it full of people “weeping and wailing loudly,” as Mark describes it because this is not the twenty-first century but the first century and people apparently hadn’t started yet saying things like “It’s really a blessing” or “She is in a better world now” because for the most part they didn’t believe in any better world but just some sort of limbo world under the earth where the ghosts of the dead drift like dead leaves. Instead, they wept and wailed because they didn’t have it in them to pretend that the death of a child is anything but the tragic and unspeakable thing that it is, and Jesus didn’t say anything to make them change their minds, didn’t tell them that it was God’s will or anything like that. What he did instead was to say something that it’s hard to know how to understand.

“The child is not dead,” he said, “but sleeping.”

Was he speaking literally? Did he mean she had lapsed into some kind of coma? Or was he only trying to comfort her father with the thought that death is only a kind of eternal sleep? Who knows what he meant, but the people in the house seemed to think he was either a fool or a madman. They had been there when it happened. They knew death when they saw it, and because the line between weeping and laughing is sometimes a very tenuous one, they stopped their weeping and wailing and of all things laughed at him, Mark said, laughed because they didn’t know what else to do, until Jesus finally “put them all outside,” the way Mark tells it, so that only the three fisherman friends along with Jairus and the child’s mother were there with him, and together they went on to the room where the child lay.

It is the deafening stillness of it, I think that you can imagine best—the mother with her face in her hands, Jairus on his knees at the bedside, the child like the waxwork of a child, hair brushed, face washed, hands folded one on top of the other on her chest.

Then the moment of magic, if magic is what is was. It’s the child herself that Jesus speaks to. He reaches down and picks up one of her hands in his hand, and Mark reports the words he used not in Greek, which is what the rest of his Gospel is written in but in Aramaic, which was the language Jesus actually spoke, so somebody who was there at the time must have heard them and remembered them---the actual words he used as he reached out and lifted up the child’s hand in his.

“Talitha cum,” Jesus says. “Talitha cum,” and you hardly need the translation to understand him, “Little girl”—Talitha—“get up,” is what he said, and then according to Mark “immediately the girl got up and started to walk about….At this they were overcome with amazement.”

It was not just the child’s life that had been given back, of course, but the lives of the mother and father, who stood there with no words they knew how to say. The worst thing that had ever happened to them had suddenly become the best thing that had ever happened to them, and you can imagine their hardly daring so much as to breathe for the fear of breaking the spell. You can imagine her walking around the room touching familiar things—a chair, a comb, a flower somebody had left, a chipped plate—trying to get the world back, trying to get her self back.

For whatever the reason, Jesus asked them never to tell a soul what had happened—maybe because he wasn’t ready for the secret of who he was to be known yet, maybe because he wasn’t sure he knew the secret of who he was yet himself. Who can say? Then he told them to go get the child something to eat, something for the child to eat, and that is where Mark’s story ends.

The question is what kind of a story is it? If the little girl had actually died the way the people who were there in the house believed she had, then it is the story of a miracle as dazzling as the raising of Lazarus and bears witness to the power Jesus had over even the last and darkest power of all. If she was only sleeping as Jesus said—in a coma or whatever he may have meant—then it is a story about a healing, about the power of Jesus’ touch to make the blind see and the deaf hear and the lame walk. Either way it is a story about a miracle, but about a miracle that doesn’t end with an exclamation point the way you would expect, but with a question mark or at most with the little row of dots that means unresolved, to be continued, to figure out somehow for ourselves.

Who can say for sure exactly what it is that Jesus did in that house where Jairus lived or how far down into the darkness he had to reach to do it, but in a way who cares any more than her mother and father can have cared. They had their child back. She was alive again. She was well again. That was all that mattered. I picture her looking something like the photographs we have of Anne Frank—a wry, narrow little Jewish face full of irony and wit and a kind of bright-eyed exhilaration; I picture how it would be to have the child that was Anne Frank back again somehow, the way she was before the gates of the concentration camp closed behind her. I picture how one way or another, if such a thing were to happen, we would all of us fall to our knees. The whole world would fall to its knees.

Who knows what kind of story Mark is telling here, but the enormously moving part of it, I think, is the part where Jesus takes the little girl’s hand and says, “Talitha cum”—“Little girl, get up”—and suddenly we ourselves are the little girl.

Little girl. Old girl. Old boy. Old boys and girls with high blood pressure and arthritis, and young boys and girls with tattoos and body piercing. You who believe, and you who sometimes believe and sometimes don’t believe much of anything, and you who would give almost anything to believe if only you could. You happy ones and you who can hardly remember what it was like once to be happy. You who know where you’re going and how to get there and you who much of the time aren’t sure you’re getting anywhere. “Get up,” he says, all of you—all of you!—and the power that is in him is the power to give life not just to the dead like the child, but to those who are only partly alive, which is to say to people like you and me who much of the time live with our lives closed to the wild beauty and miracle of things, including the wild beauty and miracle of every day we live and even of ourselves.

It is that live-giving power that is at the heart of this shadowy story about Jairus and the daughter he loved, and that I believe is at the heart of all our stories—the power of new life, new hope, new being, that whether we know it or not, I think, keeps us coming to places like this year after year in search of it. It is the power to get up even when getting up isn’t all that easy for us anymore and to keep getting up and going on and on toward whatever it is, whoever he is, that all our lives long reaches out to take us by the hand.

The Unspoken - Atavistic Heart Part II

2006-09-22T20:19:00.000-06:00

I’ve been pondering the potential or latent power of silence lately. Well, not exactly silence as such, but something akin. I'm not speaking of a monastic mentality or quality that engenders the practice of silence and prayer in a cell a la Mount Athos, though there may be some vague connection. Nor am I referring to the “strong and silent” archetype, though that’s getting somewhat closer to what I'm attempting to enunciate here rather poorly. But more to my point would be the sentiment expressed in the words of a beautiful song that says, “you say it best when you say nothing at all." Of course, this “best [that] you say” via the form of the unspoken could be a brooding resentment or anger, or more to the intent of the song lyrics, bespeak of the power of deep intimacy.

Is the unspoken emotion, vibe, or feeling better left that way, as unspoken, and hence somehow more "real," or is the unspoken instead the source of innumerable frustrations and ultimately unhealthy in the end, effectively nothing more than the psychosis of avoidance?

I'm going back to the idea of the "atavistic heart" again. Upon my recent re-reading of Harrison’s novella “Legends of the Fall,” and the watching again of the film adaptation of the same, I find it interesting (frankly, because I find myself doing the same and often) that so much is left unsaid among all the characters—be they family, friends, lovers or enemies. What’s often left unsaid is communicated and conveyed in other ways. At times, what’s left unspoken is pain. At other times, it’s pleasure, hope, love, or loyalty.

Once again, I’m thinking about this more and more because I recognize the same dimension in myself. Of course, that gives way to contemplation.

DOA?

2006-09-17T10:55:00.000-06:00

In my estimation and experience, the Liturgy of the Word in Roman Catholicism is largely Dead On Arrival.

If one is to believe that Christ is made present in the Eucharist and the Word, then the question is begged, just what is it that is going on in the majority of the Roman Catholic Masses that I have attended since I was a boy? No amount of slickly produced presentations, slide shows and calls for vocations and money can make up for the fact that the first half of the Mass is half-baked and stultified. Indeed, it is those very things done to excess ad nauseam that contribute to its anemic condition.

So, if my contention is correct, then where should blame be assigned, especially in light of the authoritarian, hierarchical structure of the Church of Rome? Sure, without question, the congregant, the pew-sitting zombie, should listen and be attentive to the Word spoken...but...if no relevant, meaty and substantive homily follows with attendant exhortations, instruction, and edification outside of calls for fund raising, capital campaigns and the like (pedophile defense fund??), then again, I ask myself, just what is it that is going on in that supposed first half of the Liturgy? Is it laziness on the part of the clergy? The homily is no less than the application of the readings, no? That means one, as in the professional homilist, otherwise known as the priest, must thoughtfully prepare for said homily. The outline of the readings provides the launching pad for the homily in no less a way than the Liturgy of the Eucharist is presented in template form by way of the lectionary prayers. So get busy I say. But I know better. This hope, this dream, won’t happen by and large, and when it does, I’m sure the minors will be made into majors and vice versa.

The practice of the Liturgy of the Word provides the platform, or lack thereof, from which the pinnacle of the Mass, in the Eucharist, is received. To avoid the stereotype and caricature of dead ritual, pageantry and playing dress-up, the context, foundation, and pathway to receiving Holy Communion should be established first by the full practice of the Liturgy of the Word. The full practice of the Liturgy of the Word should and could be a bridge to receiving Holy Communion with understanding.

Imagine, if you will, if during the Liturgy of the Eucharist, wine were to be substituted with grape juice? It would be anathema, and rightly so. It would rob and steal everything authentic and genuine about celebrating and receiving communion. It would be a symbol, a shadow. In much the same way, that's how I feel relative to the common practice of the Liturgy of the Word. It's half-baked. The homilies in Roman Catholicism have been taken hostage. They are AWOL. There is and has been a nearly wholesale substitution of the homily, once again, in my experience, with every conceivable pretext but a thoughtful, prepared, rich and robust exposition of what has been given to us in the Tradition of Scripture.

The Liturgy of the Word, in its fullness, should be more than the mere rote, inanimate recitation of ancient texts with automatons for an audience. In my experience, the homily as the application of the Word, Christ presented to us, is but a shell, a hollow place, a slot to be filled and substituted by unthinking responses for the need for money and vocations. Is the whole affair a demonstration of the experiment of Pavlov's Dog, an exercise in stimulus and response? Could it be that maybe that's why both, the ongoing need for money and vocations, are sorely lacking?

So I ask again, just what is it that is going on in Rome? Nature abhors a vacuum.

THE ENGLISH PATIENT

2006-09-10T14:53:00.000-06:00

Take and read Ondaatje's, "The English Patient." He's Canada's answer to Hemingway. Certainly watch Minghella's film adaptation as well.

Listen to the beginning that is Ondaatje's, "The English Patient":

"She stands up in the garden where she has been working and looks into the distance. She has sensed a shift in the weather. There is another gust of wind, a buckle of noise in the air, and the tall cypresses sway. She turns and moves uphill towards the house, climbing over a low wall, feeling the first drops of rain on her bare arms. She crosses the loggia and quickly enters the house.

In the kitchen she doesn't pause but goes through it and climbs the stairs which are in darkness and then continues along the long hall, at the end of which is a wedge of light from an open door.

She turns into the room which is another garden--this one made up of tress and bowers painted over its walls and ceiling. The man lies on the bed, his body exposed to the breeze, and he turns his head slowly towards her as she enters.

Every four days she washes his black body, beginning at the destroyed feet. She wets a washcloth and holding it above his ankles squeezes the water onto him, looking up as he murmurs, seeing his smile. Above the shins the burns are worst. Beyond purple. Bone.

She has nursed him for months and she knows the body well, the penis sleeping like a sea horse, the thin tight hips. Hipbones of Christ, she thinks. He is her despairing saint. He lies flat on his back, no pillow, looking up at the foliage painted onto the ceiling, its canopy of branches, and above that, blue sky.

She pours calamine in stripes across his chest where he is less burned, where she can touch him. She loves the hollow below the lowest rib, its cliff of skin. Reaching his shoulders she blows cool air onto his neck, and he mutters.

What? she asks, coming out of her concentration.

He turns his dark face with its grey eyes towards her. She puts her hand into her pocket. She unskins the plum with her teeth, withdraws the stone and passes the flesh of the fruit into his mouth.

He whispers again, dragging the listening heart of the young nurse beside him to wherever his mind is, into that well of memory he kept plunging into during those months before he died."

Atavistic Heart

2006-09-05T19:12:00.000-06:00

Preface: I had a difficult time writing this post. My thoughts never seemed to gel enough in order to express myself clearly. Even though I've made multiple attempts at editing this post to better articulate my thoughts and feelings on this idea, clarity has eluded me. Please bear this in mind if you should decide to read further.

What is the source, or lifeblood if you will, of tragedy...brokenness...ecstasy?

I read a comment by film director Edward Zwick, in reference to his film “Legends of the Fall,” that struck a resonant chord with me. Frankly, it kind of spooks me a bit that it does, but be that as it may, it is what it is. His comment was in the context of working with composer James Horner, who wrote the film’s haunting music score. (Aside: This fellow knows how to compose beautiful music. He wrote the scores to “The Man without a Face,” “Glory,” et al. I have several of his soundtracks and they are richly expressive.) Here’s what Zwick said: “At the heart of every story is a sound – something so deep that it resonates like a pressure in our chest…As we (Zwick and Horner) began work on ‘Legends of the Fall,’ we talked a lot about its atavistic nature – the dark and bloody heart, a love both overwhelming and destructive.” Do you see as I do strains of familiarity here a la the biblical stories of say Jacob and Esau, or Samson and Delilah, or even more so, the whole mess that was King David’s life?

Here are some quotes from the movie that in their essence provide commentary on the atavistic heart:

"Some people hear their own inner voices with great clearness and they live by what they hear. Such people become crazy, or they become legends."

“She was like the water that freezes inside a rock and breaks it apart. It was no more her fault than it is the fault of the water when the rock shatters.”

Is the atavistic heart that of "fallen" man (humankind for you PC folk)? Or are the passions and depth of feelings of which we are capable part of what makes us human, even apart from the so called Edenic fall (whatever the hell this means), endowing upon us the simultaneous blessing and curse of experiencing life in ways that are at times unbearable and crushing, and yet at other times engendering the mystical, lifting us to heights of ecstasy, even to a place where just maybe we could reach out and touch the face of God? I don’t know. I’m just thinking out loud here. Is an element of the "crazy" required in a person to see and think along these lines, or to understand it in some fashion, or is the atavistic heart a common thread within universal mankind, but just hidden away by the more moral or holy among us, and ignored by most of the rest as a means of self-protection?

Note: “Legends of the Fall” was first a novella by Jim Harrison. In the same collection is another novella entitled “Revenge,” which was also later made into a film. I have this book and immensely enjoy and admire Harrison's craft. Listen to how Zwick speaks of both Harrison’s novella and Horner’s score. If it doesn’t entice you to check out the film or book, then I’m not sure what would.

“All I can say is that somehow James managed to distill all these lofty conversations into a score that is at once brooding and lush, redolent of both love and loss, and that touches that secret place of awe I had experienced only once before – upon my first reading of “Legends of the Fall.”

Life Metaphor

2006-09-02T16:26:00.000-06:00

Let me at least not die without a struggle, inglorious, but having done some big thing first, for men to come to know of.
--Hector

The Fight World is the Outside World condensed and refracted. It is a world of great toil and pain. Definable laurels rarely accrue. Dubious laurels pale behind the heavy human cost. The satisfactions are prosaic and known only to the participants in the craft. The dividends are wholly those of witness. Perseverance, stamina, fidelity, and bravery come with the job.
--James Ellroy

I can entertain the proposition that life is a metaphor for boxing--for one of those bouts that go on and on, round following round, jabs, missed punches, clinches, nothing determined, again the bell and again and you and your opponent so evenly matched it's impossible not to see that your opponent is you....
--Joyce Carol Oates

I’ve long thought of life, my life, in the metaphorical sense as a journey—Odysseus on his Odyssey. But boxing, maybe because of my love for the art and the fact that I work at it, however good or bad, keeps returning to me over and over again as a life metaphor. I’m not confrontational or belligerent in my daily life, but that surely doesn’t speak of a lack of battles. Of course, even a cursory reading of Homer’s Odyssey positions its protagonist on his journey in any number of wrangles and fisticuffs of numerous varieties. So I suppose it can be both—a journey and a fight. It is for me anyway.