Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Sing lullaby...
A wonderful Basque carol (Douze Noëls populaires en dialecte souletin, 1895), paraphrased Sabine Baring-Gould (1834-1924)
The Infant King
Sing lullaby!
Lullaby baby, now reclining,
sing lullaby!
Hush, do not wake the infant King.
Angels are watching, stars are shining
over the place where He is lying:
sing lullaby!
Sing lullaby!
Lullaby baby, now a-sleeping,
sing lullaby!
Hush, do not wake the infant King.
Soon will come sorrow with the morning,
soon will come bitter grief and weeping:
sing lullaby!
Sing lullaby!
Lullaby baby, now a-dozing,
sing lullaby!
Hush, do not wake the infant King.
Soon comes the cross, the nails, the piercing,
then in the grave at last reposing;
sing lullaby!
Sing lullaby!
Lullaby! is the babe awaking?
Sing lullaby!
Hush, do not stir the infant King.
Dreaming of Easter, gladsome morning.
conquering death, its bondage breaking:
sing lullaby!
Saturday, December 19, 2009
Hardship
I'm not entirely enamored with some of President Obama's initiatives, policies--but do love this remark from 2007:
"I take away the compelling idea that there’s serious evil in the world, and hardship and pain. And we should be humble and modest in our belief we can eliminate those things. But we shouldn’t use that as an excuse for cynicism and inaction. I take away the sense we have to make these efforts knowing they are hard, and not swinging from naïve idealism to bitter realism..."
This reminds me of the honesty and hopefulness in Jesus' words:
"In this world you have many troubles. But don't be afraid: I have overcome the world."
John 16:33
"I take away the compelling idea that there’s serious evil in the world, and hardship and pain. And we should be humble and modest in our belief we can eliminate those things. But we shouldn’t use that as an excuse for cynicism and inaction. I take away the sense we have to make these efforts knowing they are hard, and not swinging from naïve idealism to bitter realism..."
This reminds me of the honesty and hopefulness in Jesus' words:
"In this world you have many troubles. But don't be afraid: I have overcome the world."
John 16:33
Saturday, December 12, 2009
California, 1963: Wisps of age
A terribly double-exposed and poorly transferred video of graduation day at El Centro Elementary, June 1963--a remnant/artifact providing just a wisp of that day--Mr. Edgar our principal, the ceremonial ringing of the bell by students, etc.
The clip also has the images of my family & cousins swimming in Wisconsin on our family vacation later that summer, cavorting in the lake, sliding down the waterslide--the conflation of happy memories, and the beginning of my father's nearly predictable tendency to double-exposure...
Given its poor quality it's best viewed in large format...
The soundtrack is 'Massasoit' penned in 2003 in honor of one of the most magnificent, courageous and beloved friends ever--Dan Swensen. (A tribute to Danny as beloved professor, here.)
The clip also has the images of my family & cousins swimming in Wisconsin on our family vacation later that summer, cavorting in the lake, sliding down the waterslide--the conflation of happy memories, and the beginning of my father's nearly predictable tendency to double-exposure...
Given its poor quality it's best viewed in large format...
The soundtrack is 'Massasoit' penned in 2003 in honor of one of the most magnificent, courageous and beloved friends ever--Dan Swensen. (A tribute to Danny as beloved professor, here.)
Tuesday, December 08, 2009
Elizabeth Bishop's Sestina
When son Cameron was in 4th grade, Cam asked teacher Mrs. Gray if his dad could share this lovely poem with the class.
Thanks to the esteemed Donna Gray's invitation, I soon witnessed a class remarkable for its depth of insight, its delight in the sestina structure--we seemed to talk about its meaning forever. An absolutely delightful poem--can't wait to share it with grandchildren, insha'allah!
Elizabeth Bishop
Sestina
Elizabeth Bishop, 1956
September rain falls on the house.
In the failing light, the old grandmother
sits in the kitchen with the child
beside the Little Marvel Stove,
reading the jokes from the almanac,
laughing and talking to hide her tears.
She thinks that her equinoctial tears
and the rain that beats on the roof of the house
were both foretold by the almanac,
but only known to a grandmother.
The iron kettle sings on the stove.
She cuts some bread and says to the child,
It's time for tea now; but the child
is watching the teakettle's small hard tears
dance like mad on the hot black stove,
the way the rain must dance on the house.
Tidying up, the old grandmother
hangs up the clever almanac
on its string. Birdlike, the almanac
hovers half open above the child,
hovers above the old grandmother
and her teacup full of dark brown tears.
She shivers and says she thinks the house
feels chilly, and puts more wood in the stove.
It was to be, says the Marvel Stove.
I know what I know, says the almanac.
With crayons the child draws a rigid house
and a winding pathway. Then the child
puts in a man with buttons like tears
and shows it proudly to the grandmother.
But secretly, while the grandmother
busies herself about the stove,
the little moons fall down like tears
from between the pages of the almanac
into the flower bed the child
has carefully placed in the front of the house.
Time to plant tears, says the almanac.
The grandmother sings to the marvelous stove
and the child draws another inscrutable house.
Thanks to the esteemed Donna Gray's invitation, I soon witnessed a class remarkable for its depth of insight, its delight in the sestina structure--we seemed to talk about its meaning forever. An absolutely delightful poem--can't wait to share it with grandchildren, insha'allah!
Elizabeth Bishop
Sestina
Elizabeth Bishop, 1956
September rain falls on the house.
In the failing light, the old grandmother
sits in the kitchen with the child
beside the Little Marvel Stove,
reading the jokes from the almanac,
laughing and talking to hide her tears.
She thinks that her equinoctial tears
and the rain that beats on the roof of the house
were both foretold by the almanac,
but only known to a grandmother.
The iron kettle sings on the stove.
She cuts some bread and says to the child,
It's time for tea now; but the child
is watching the teakettle's small hard tears
dance like mad on the hot black stove,
the way the rain must dance on the house.
Tidying up, the old grandmother
hangs up the clever almanac
on its string. Birdlike, the almanac
hovers half open above the child,
hovers above the old grandmother
and her teacup full of dark brown tears.
She shivers and says she thinks the house
feels chilly, and puts more wood in the stove.
It was to be, says the Marvel Stove.
I know what I know, says the almanac.
With crayons the child draws a rigid house
and a winding pathway. Then the child
puts in a man with buttons like tears
and shows it proudly to the grandmother.
But secretly, while the grandmother
busies herself about the stove,
the little moons fall down like tears
from between the pages of the almanac
into the flower bed the child
has carefully placed in the front of the house.
Time to plant tears, says the almanac.
The grandmother sings to the marvelous stove
and the child draws another inscrutable house.
Saturday, December 05, 2009
Uncle Bobby
Just home from two weeks in Laguna with family which causes us to reflect on the blessing that family is. Here's a photo of Uncle Bobby with Cam & Jessie, Wheelers' Point, Gloucester, Massachusetts, 1992.
Monday, November 16, 2009
"I Will Carry You"
Doing the truth
Even to your old age and gray hairs I am he, I am he who will sustain you. I have made you and I will carry you; I will sustain you and I will rescue you.
-Isaiah 46:4
“He gathers the lambs in his arms and carries them close to his heart.”
–Isaiah 40:11
Elizabeth Anscombe
Married for nearly sixty years, and nurturing three sons and four daughters, Mrs. Anscombe was a beloved wife and mother when she died at home in Cambridge in 2001, surrounded by family prayers. Wittgenstein's prize student and protege, Elizabeth Anscombe was also one of the foremost philosophers of the twentieth century, whose convincing logic as a young woman at a university debate with C.S. Lewis in 1948 persuaded the intellectually honest Lewis to rewrite a chapter in Miracles. 1 With her penchant for rigorous intellectual honesty and for putting her faith into action, she whole-heartedly loved her God. Though troubled in the last few years of her long life by a heart ailment and nearly crippled in a car accident, Elizabeth Anscombe wrote what would be her final lecture, entitled "Doing The Truth"--a touchstone to St. John 2, and a fitting capstone to a life engaged not only in philosophical studies of human action and intention, but chiefly in a lifelong passion for her God.
If we say that we have fellowship with him and walk in the darkness, we lie, and do not the truth: but if we walk in the light, as he is in the light, we have fellowship one with another, and the blood of Jesus his Son cleanseth us from all sin.
–1 John 1:6,7.
"Doing the truth" extends immeasurably beyond even our best plans and most beneficent strategies--as godly as those plans may be. In “doing the truth” we remember that whatever we do, God carries us. From this vantage, we have one humble purpose: to love God and our neighbor—where as C.S. Lewis pointed out “your neighbor is the holiest object presented to your senses.”4 Our own strategies are welcome and necessary--but they are the prayerful plans and deliberations of men and women already securely enfolded in the arms of their heavenly Father.
“Doing the truth” is rooted in God’s great and utterly sacrificial love for us—with His lavish love we’ve been given everything. We are then free to proceed boldly beyond the things that would perhaps keep us from doing His purpose, from extending His mercy throughout our community and the world. Our confidence to pray, to act and to serve rests entirely in Him, our surety in a loving Father who carries us “close to His heart.” A fitting nineteenth-century Danish meditation from Soren Kierkegaard reminds us to Our Lord’s love, redemption, strength and rescue as he carries us:
O Lord Jesus Christ, there is so much to drag us back: empty pursuit, trivial pleasures, unworthy cares. There is so much to frighten us away: a pride too cowardly to submit to being helped, cowardly apprehensiveness which evades danger to its own destruction, anguish for sin which shuns holy cleansing as disease shuns medicine. But Thou art stronger than these, so draw Thou us now more strongly to Thee. We call Thee our Saviour and Redeemer, since Thou didst come to earth to redeem us from the servitude under which we were bound or had bound ourselves, to save the lost. This is Thy work, which Thou didst complete, and which Thou wilt continue to complete unto the end of the world; for since Thou Thyself hast said it, therefore Thou wilt do it—lifted up from the earth Thou wilt draw all unto thee. 5Hallelujah!
Notes:
1. Anscombe and Lewis debated 2 February 1948, at the Socratic Club, Oxford. See Lewis, C.S., God In The Dock (Grand Rapids: Wm. B Eerdmans Publishing, 1994), p. 144.
2. This use can be seen not only here in John's first epistle, but in his gospel as well: "But he that doeth truth cometh to the light, that his deeds may be made manifest, that they are wrought in God" (John 3:21 KJV).
3. From a letter to Fr. Calabria, 13 January 1948. See Lewis, C.S. and Calabria, Don Giovanni, The Latin Letters of C.S. Lewis, (South Bend: St. Augustine's Press, 1998), p. 43.
4. Lewis, C.S., The Weight of Glory, (New York: Harper Collins, 2001), p. 14-15.
5. Kierkegaard, Soren, The Prayers of Kierkegaard. (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1996), p. 87.
(The original PDF can be found here: I Will Carry You)
Saturday, November 14, 2009
Song: Caresse Sur L'océan
Our family was taken years ago with the film "Les Choristes" and especially this song from the soundtrack.
Bruno Coulais' "Caresse Sur L'océan"
A live variant version can be viewed here.
Bruno Coulais' "Caresse Sur L'océan"
A live variant version can be viewed here.
'How fragile we are'...
One of two marvelously tender videos...
"Fragile": a moving song by Sting, September 11th 2001, Tuscany.
Lyric:
If blood will flow when flesh and steel are one
Drying in the colour of the evening sun
Tomorrow's rain will wash the stains away
But something in our minds will always stay
Perhaps this final act was meant
To clinch a lifetime's argument
That nothing comes from violence and nothing ever could
For all those born beneath an angry star
Lest we forget how fragile we are
On and on the rain will fall
Like tears from a star, like tears from a star
On and on the rain will say
How fragile we are, how fragile we are
On and on the rain will fall
Like tears from a star, like tears from a star
On and on the rain will say
How fragile we are, how fragile we are
How fragile we are, how fragile we are
"Fragile": a moving song by Sting, September 11th 2001, Tuscany.
Lyric:
If blood will flow when flesh and steel are one
Drying in the colour of the evening sun
Tomorrow's rain will wash the stains away
But something in our minds will always stay
Perhaps this final act was meant
To clinch a lifetime's argument
That nothing comes from violence and nothing ever could
For all those born beneath an angry star
Lest we forget how fragile we are
On and on the rain will fall
Like tears from a star, like tears from a star
On and on the rain will say
How fragile we are, how fragile we are
On and on the rain will fall
Like tears from a star, like tears from a star
On and on the rain will say
How fragile we are, how fragile we are
How fragile we are, how fragile we are
'Heaven on earth, we need it now'...
The other marvelously tender video...
"...heaven on earth, we need it now..." The U2 song "Walk On" in the aftermath of 9/11/2001...
U2's 'Walk On', 2001
Lyric:
And if the darkness is to keep us apart
And if the daylight feels like it's a long way off
And if your glass heart should crack
And for one second you turn back
Oh no, be strong
Walk on, walk on
What you've got they can't steal it
No, they can't even feel it
Walk on, walk on
Stay safe tonight
You're packing a suitcase for a place
That none of us has been
A place that has to be believed to be seen
You could have flown away
A singing bird in an open cage
Who will only fly, only fly for freedom
Walk on, walk on
What you've got they can't deny it
Can't sell it or buy it
Walk on, walk on
Stay safe tonight
Yeah, I know it aches, how your heart it breaks
You can only take so much
Walk on
You gotta leave it behind
You gotta leave it behind,
We've got to leave it behind
All that you fashion
All that you make
All that you build
All that you break
All that you measure
All that you deal
All you count on two fingers
And all that you steal
You gotta leave it behind
Halle halle
Halle hallelujah
You gotta leave it behind
Halle halle
Halle hallelujah
Halle halle
Halle hallelujah
Halle halle
Halle hallelujah
We're going home sister
Halle halle
Halle hallelujah
Halle halle
See you when I get home
Halle hallelujah
See you when I get home, sister
Halle halle
Halle hallelujah
Halle halle
"...heaven on earth, we need it now..." The U2 song "Walk On" in the aftermath of 9/11/2001...
U2's 'Walk On', 2001
Lyric:
And if the darkness is to keep us apart
And if the daylight feels like it's a long way off
And if your glass heart should crack
And for one second you turn back
Oh no, be strong
Walk on, walk on
What you've got they can't steal it
No, they can't even feel it
Walk on, walk on
Stay safe tonight
You're packing a suitcase for a place
That none of us has been
A place that has to be believed to be seen
You could have flown away
A singing bird in an open cage
Who will only fly, only fly for freedom
Walk on, walk on
What you've got they can't deny it
Can't sell it or buy it
Walk on, walk on
Stay safe tonight
Yeah, I know it aches, how your heart it breaks
You can only take so much
Walk on
You gotta leave it behind
You gotta leave it behind,
We've got to leave it behind
All that you fashion
All that you make
All that you build
All that you break
All that you measure
All that you deal
All you count on two fingers
And all that you steal
You gotta leave it behind
Halle halle
Halle hallelujah
You gotta leave it behind
Halle halle
Halle hallelujah
Halle halle
Halle hallelujah
Halle halle
Halle hallelujah
We're going home sister
Halle halle
Halle hallelujah
Halle halle
See you when I get home
Halle hallelujah
See you when I get home, sister
Halle halle
Halle hallelujah
Halle halle
Alasdair MacIntyre
Alasdair MacIntyre, 25 September 2009
John's esteemed professor (eons ago) with a recent (9/25/09) lecture, 'Ends and Endings'...
Sunday, November 08, 2009
My Life as a Dog (Mitt liv sum hund)
OK--the film My Life as a Dog is one of our family's favorites.
But I need to come clean: I watch it 3 or 4 times each year, loving its rhythm, cadence--cheered in much the same way a Chopin berceuse soothes, stirring the soul. I can only thank my family for their kindness, tolerance!
Translation:
I should have told her everything. She loved stories like that.
... ... ...
It's not so bad if you think about it. It could have been worse.
Just think how that poor guy ended up who got a new kidney in Boston.
He got his name in all the papers, but he died just the same.
And what about Laika, the space dog?
They put her in a Sputnik and sent her into space.
They attached wires to her heart and brain to see how she felt.
I don't think she felt so good.
She spun around up there for five months until her doggy bag was empty.
She starved to death.
It's important to have something like that to compare things to.
But I need to come clean: I watch it 3 or 4 times each year, loving its rhythm, cadence--cheered in much the same way a Chopin berceuse soothes, stirring the soul. I can only thank my family for their kindness, tolerance!
Translation:
I should have told her everything. She loved stories like that.
... ... ...
It's not so bad if you think about it. It could have been worse.
Just think how that poor guy ended up who got a new kidney in Boston.
He got his name in all the papers, but he died just the same.
And what about Laika, the space dog?
They put her in a Sputnik and sent her into space.
They attached wires to her heart and brain to see how she felt.
I don't think she felt so good.
She spun around up there for five months until her doggy bag was empty.
She starved to death.
It's important to have something like that to compare things to.
Medley of snaps
Another miscellany/catch-all/hodgepodge/medley of snapshots...
To paraphrase Huck Finn: "...persons attempting to find a [narrative in the album below] will be prosecuted; persons attempting to find a moral in it will be banished; persons attempting to find a plot in it will be shot."
Most are snaps of nearby Annisquam (probably our favorite spot in the world), followed by a potpourri of photos of forever friends, and newlyweds Sean & Duyen, among others.
Annisquam
Robin, Jessie, Allison, Duyen
Jessie, Duyen, Robin
View of Annisquam Light from below Squam Rock.
Mom & Dad Lovell
Allison & John
Duyen
Robin
Annisquam Light from pasture
Annisquam Light, midway pasture
Family, Annisquam Light
Jessie in a cleft granite seat
Sean & Duyen's Gloucester wedding
After the church wedding, some photos from Rockport's Long Beach...
Duyen
Jessie & mom Allison
Sean & Duyen
Robin, Cameron, Sean & Duyen, John & Allison, Jessie
Family & friends
Allison, niece/cousin Jewelea, Jessie, Robin
Edithe, John, Allison, Mark
John, brother Jim
Cameron, proud Mom Allison
John's 58th, July 17 2009
Cam, Christmastide, 2008
Goofing: Cam, Rob, Sean
Cam & Mom, Aunt Peggie leading the way. Wisconsin, June 2009
Rockport Memorial Day Parade, 2008
Robin w/xylophone
Robbie, a quick rest
Oldies
John, best friend Jim, Labor Day, 1980, Gloucester's Round The Cape race
John, Robert Hanlon, winter 1978
Wedding day, 1980: Jim & Louise Rotholz
Wedding day, 1981: John & Allison Lovell
John, Essex MA
John, New Hampshire
John, Robert Hanlon, New Hampshire
New Hampshire
Jim, Lanesville MA
Wedding day, 1980: Allison's sister Jennifer Lyon
John, Louise Rotholz
John (w/Smokey), Jim Rotholz (w/Ivan)
Allison & John, Louise, Jane, Martha, Abby
Wedding day, 1980: Jim & Louise, Rockport Country Club
To paraphrase Huck Finn: "...persons attempting to find a [narrative in the album below] will be prosecuted; persons attempting to find a moral in it will be banished; persons attempting to find a plot in it will be shot."
Most are snaps of nearby Annisquam (probably our favorite spot in the world), followed by a potpourri of photos of forever friends, and newlyweds Sean & Duyen, among others.
Annisquam
Robin, Jessie, Allison, Duyen
Jessie, Duyen, Robin
View of Annisquam Light from below Squam Rock.
Mom & Dad Lovell
Allison & John
Duyen
Robin
Annisquam Light from pasture
Annisquam Light, midway pasture
Family, Annisquam Light
Jessie in a cleft granite seat
Sean & Duyen's Gloucester wedding
After the church wedding, some photos from Rockport's Long Beach...
Duyen
Jessie & mom Allison
Sean & Duyen
Robin, Cameron, Sean & Duyen, John & Allison, Jessie
Family & friends
Allison, niece/cousin Jewelea, Jessie, Robin
Edithe, John, Allison, Mark
John, brother Jim
Cameron, proud Mom Allison
John's 58th, July 17 2009
Cam, Christmastide, 2008
Goofing: Cam, Rob, Sean
Cam & Mom, Aunt Peggie leading the way. Wisconsin, June 2009
Rockport Memorial Day Parade, 2008
Robin w/xylophone
Robbie, a quick rest
Oldies
John, best friend Jim, Labor Day, 1980, Gloucester's Round The Cape race
John, Robert Hanlon, winter 1978
Wedding day, 1980: Jim & Louise Rotholz
Wedding day, 1981: John & Allison Lovell
John, Essex MA
John, New Hampshire
John, Robert Hanlon, New Hampshire
New Hampshire
Jim, Lanesville MA
Wedding day, 1980: Allison's sister Jennifer Lyon
John, Louise Rotholz
John (w/Smokey), Jim Rotholz (w/Ivan)
Allison & John, Louise, Jane, Martha, Abby
Wedding day, 1980: Jim & Louise, Rockport Country Club
Saturday, November 07, 2009
Robert Frost's "Directive", 1948
A magnificent poem.
Directive Back out of all this now too much for us,
Back in a time made simple by the loss
Of detail, burned, dissolved, and broken off
Like graveyard marble sculpture in the weather,
There is a house that is no more a house
Upon a farm that is no more a farm
And in a town that is no more a town.
The road there, if you’ll let a guide direct you
Who only has at heart your getting lost,
May seem as if it should have been a quarry—
Great monolithic knees the former town
Long since gave up pretense of keeping covered.
And there’s a story in a book about it:
Besides the wear of iron wagon wheels
The ledges show lines ruled southeast-northwest,
The chisel work of an enormous Glacier
That braced his feet against the Arctic Pole.
You must not mind a certain coolness from him
Still said to haunt this side of Panther Mountain.
Nor need you mind the serial ordeal
Of being watched from forty cellar holes
As if by eye pairs out of forty firkins.
As for the woods’ excitement over you
That sends light rustle rushes to their leaves,
Charge that to upstart inexperience.
Where were they all not twenty years ago?
They think too much of having shaded out
A few old pecker-fretted apple trees.
Make yourself up a cheering song of how
Someone’s road home from work this once was,
Who may be just ahead of you on foot
Or creaking with a buggy load of grain.
The height of the adventure is the height
Of country where two village cultures faded
Into each other. Both of them are lost.
And if you’re lost enough to find yourself
By now, pull in your ladder road behind you
And put a sign up CLOSED to all but me.
Then make yourself at home. The only field
Now left’s no bigger than a harness gall.
First there’s the children’s house of make-believe,
Some shattered dishes underneath a pine,
The playthings in the playhouse of the children.
Weep for what little things could make them glad.
Then for the house that is no more a house,
But only a belilaced cellar hole,
Now slowly closing like a dent in dough.
This was no playhouse but a house in earnest.
Your destination and your destiny’s
A brook that was the water of the house,
Cold as a spring as yet so near its source,
Too lofty and original to rage.
(We know the valley streams that when aroused
Will leave their tatters hung on barb and thorn.)
I have kept hidden in the instep arch
Of an old cedar at the waterside
A broken drinking goblet like the Grail
Under a spell so the wrong ones can’t find it,
So can’t get saved, as Saint Mark says they mustn’t.
(I stole the goblet from the children’s playhouse.)
Here are your waters and your watering place.
Drink and be whole again beyond confusion.
Franz Wright's "The Only Animal"
Allison & I have loved this poem since we first found it in the New Yorker years ago now.
Franz Wright reads it at: NPR.
The Only Animal
Franz Wright reads it at: NPR.
The Only Animal
The only animal that commits suicide
went for a walk in the park,
basked on a hard bench
in the first star,
traveled to the edge of space
in an armchair
while company quietly
talked, and abruptly
returned,
the room empty
The only animal that cries,
that takes off its clothes
and reports to the mirror, the one
and only animal
that brushes its own teeth
somewhere
the only animal that smokes a cigarette,
that lies down and flies backward in time,
that rises and walks to a book
and looks up a word
heard the telephone ringing
in the darkness downstairs and decided
to answer no more.
And I understand,
too well: how many times
have I made the decision to dwell
from now on
in the hour of my death
(the space I took up here
scarlessly closing like water)
and said I'm never coming back,
and yet
this morning
I stood once again
in this world,
the garden
ark and vacant
tomb of what
I can't imagine,
between twin eternities,
some sort of wings,
more or less equidistantly
exiled from both,
hovering in the dreaming called
being awake, where
You gave me
in secret one thing
to perceive, the
tall blue starry
strangeness of being
here at all.
You gave us each in secret one thing to perceive.
Furless now, upright, My banished
and experimental
child
You said, though your own heart condemn you
I do not condemn you.
Tuesday, November 03, 2009
Growing up in southern California
4th Grade, El Centro Elementary School: I'm in the middle of the back row.
My 40th high school reunion came and went this summer--Allison and I hoped to go, but couldn't. In preliminary emails we were asked to "briefly describe what it was like, growing up as a teenager in Southern California." Here's what I jotted back:
Everything's so terribly half-remembered!--and (to steal from book titles) those teen years in the '60s were both "days of heaven" and "chronicles of wasted time!" Here's a short history.
I mostly relished the '60s--I realized even then that I basked in all sorts of beauty right there around me--physical, intellectual, spiritual--the palms, magnolias, eucalyptus, bougainvillea--hummingbirds, a fish pond, my dog Kim in the backyard--the architecture of El Centro, SPJHS, the Plunge--swimming, skating--biking to the Arroyo and all round town with my little brother Jimmy. The joys of playing piano, reading wonderful books in and out of school, the thrill the first time I heard the Beatles over a transistor radio as I biked home from SPJHS. The steadfast, uncomplicated loyalty of school chums and caring teachers taught me so much about (steady, good-humored) human kindness--I realized later this was pretty much Augustine's "to be faithful in little things is a big thing"...
And yet and yet and yet--the sad effects of divorce continued to cascade into my teen years--troubled, unsteady, ungainly in some ways--though through it all I was mostly happy. The '60s--what an eclectic confluence: I was a kid with buckteeth, braces and glasses--loved his folks and couldn't wait to leave; enthralled with the Gospels, the beach and Beach Boys; reading Kierkegaard, Huck Finn; loving the Boy Scouts, hiking the mountains, mile swim in Catalina; poolside Saturnalia; playing B football, lobbing Salvo detergent into the SM pool with the guys; loving Chopin, Wolfman Jack--the strange, joyous unpatterned mix of things that growing up still entails, I suppose.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Nuptial
A poem for Duyen's birthday, August 27th...
Your first year together
a few short days ago--
my son's eyes mirror
the deep, arresting
joy in your eyes,
his beloved. Your heart
beats for joy, God's
joy that pulses true
and full, now into our family.
A year has passed--you first
breezed to this shore,
then off to another--then (unexpectedly
as a wave crashing early) too soon
to another--heartsick, homeward. Praise
to God for you, for your own
mother's heart, your own father's song,
your own voice, laughing, confident,
trembling with joy. Praise.
Your first year together
a few short days ago--
my son's eyes mirror
the deep, arresting
joy in your eyes,
his beloved. Your heart
beats for joy, God's
joy that pulses true
and full, now into our family.
A year has passed--you first
breezed to this shore,
then off to another--then (unexpectedly
as a wave crashing early) too soon
to another--heartsick, homeward. Praise
to God for you, for your own
mother's heart, your own father's song,
your own voice, laughing, confident,
trembling with joy. Praise.
Thursday, June 11, 2009
Billy Collins: The Lanyard
Former poet laureate Billy Collins reads his poem The Lanyard, video clip here.
The Lanyard
The other day as I was ricocheting slowly
off the pale blue walls of this room,
bouncing from typewriter to piano,
from bookshelf to an envelope lying on the floor,
I found myself in the L section of the dictionary
where my eyes fell upon the word lanyard.
No cookie nibbled by a French novelist
could send one more suddenly into the past --
a past where I sat at a workbench at a camp
by a deep Adirondack lake
learning how to braid thin plastic strips
into a lanyard, a gift for my mother.
I had never seen anyone use a lanyard
or wear one, if that’s what you did with them,
but that did not keep me from crossing
strand over strand again and again
until I had made a boxy
red and white lanyard for my mother.
She gave me life and milk from her breasts,
and I gave her a lanyard.
She nursed me in many a sickroom,
lifted teaspoons of medicine to my lips,
set cold face-cloths on my forehead,
and then led me out into the airy light
and taught me to walk and swim,
and I, in turn, presented her with a lanyard.
Here are thousands of meals, she said,
and here is clothing and a good education.
And here is your lanyard, I replied,
which I made with a little help from a counselor.
Here is a breathing body and a beating heart,
strong legs, bones and teeth,
and two clear eyes to read the world, she whispered,
and here, I said, is the lanyard I made at camp.
And here, I wish to say to her now,
is a smaller gift--not the archaic truth
that you can never repay your mother,
but the rueful admission that when she took
the two-tone lanyard from my hands,
I was as sure as a boy could be
that this useless, worthless thing I wove
out of boredom would be enough to make us even.
The Lanyard
The other day as I was ricocheting slowly
off the pale blue walls of this room,
bouncing from typewriter to piano,
from bookshelf to an envelope lying on the floor,
I found myself in the L section of the dictionary
where my eyes fell upon the word lanyard.
No cookie nibbled by a French novelist
could send one more suddenly into the past --
a past where I sat at a workbench at a camp
by a deep Adirondack lake
learning how to braid thin plastic strips
into a lanyard, a gift for my mother.
I had never seen anyone use a lanyard
or wear one, if that’s what you did with them,
but that did not keep me from crossing
strand over strand again and again
until I had made a boxy
red and white lanyard for my mother.
She gave me life and milk from her breasts,
and I gave her a lanyard.
She nursed me in many a sickroom,
lifted teaspoons of medicine to my lips,
set cold face-cloths on my forehead,
and then led me out into the airy light
and taught me to walk and swim,
and I, in turn, presented her with a lanyard.
Here are thousands of meals, she said,
and here is clothing and a good education.
And here is your lanyard, I replied,
which I made with a little help from a counselor.
Here is a breathing body and a beating heart,
strong legs, bones and teeth,
and two clear eyes to read the world, she whispered,
and here, I said, is the lanyard I made at camp.
And here, I wish to say to her now,
is a smaller gift--not the archaic truth
that you can never repay your mother,
but the rueful admission that when she took
the two-tone lanyard from my hands,
I was as sure as a boy could be
that this useless, worthless thing I wove
out of boredom would be enough to make us even.
Sunday, May 17, 2009
Almost unmade
A recent book review in the New Yorker made me appreciate the simple, spare language (& ancient antecedents) Gerard Manley Hopkins uses to capture what life's about.
From Gerard Manley Hopkins' Wreck of the Deutschland, c. 1875:
Thou mastering me
God! giver of breath and bread;
World’s strand, sway of the sea;
Lord of living and dead;
Thou hast bound bones and veins in me, fastened me flesh,
And after it almost unmade, what with dread,
Thy doing: and dost thou touch me afresh?
Over again I feel thy finger and find thee.
Snippet from Cædmon's Hymn, c. 660:
Now we must praise / heaven-kingdom's Guardian
the Measurer's might / and his mind-plans,
the work of the Glory-Father, / when he of wonders of every one,
eternal Lord, / the beginning established.
From Gerard Manley Hopkins' Wreck of the Deutschland, c. 1875:
Thou mastering me
God! giver of breath and bread;
World’s strand, sway of the sea;
Lord of living and dead;
Thou hast bound bones and veins in me, fastened me flesh,
And after it almost unmade, what with dread,
Thy doing: and dost thou touch me afresh?
Over again I feel thy finger and find thee.
Snippet from Cædmon's Hymn, c. 660:
Now we must praise / heaven-kingdom's Guardian
the Measurer's might / and his mind-plans,
the work of the Glory-Father, / when he of wonders of every one,
eternal Lord, / the beginning established.
Tuesday, May 05, 2009
1838: Trail Where They Cried (Nunna dual Tsuny)
Allison's great-great-grandmother was a Cherokee who survived the travesty of the Trail of Tears--a heartbreaking time for a courageous, heartening people who sang hymns as they were forced along:
In 1838, in one of the best remembered incidents of the Removal of Natives from the American Southeast, sixteen thousand Cherokees were forcibly marched nine hundred miles from Georgia to present-day Oklahoma. One-fourth of the Cherokee Nation died along the route that came to be called the Trail of Tears. As they walked, Christian Indians among them sang Christian hymns in their own language. The best known of these was an atonement hymn, "One Drop of Blood," which asks, "Jesus, what must I do for you to save me?" The reply is, "It only takes one drop of blood to wash away our sins. You are King of Kings, the Creator of all things." The Cherokee translation of "Guide Me, O Thou Great Jehovah," also sung on the trail, is equally poignant:There is additionally this snippet from the article: Among the Cherokee Indians, 1824, p. 224:
Take me and guide me, Jehovah, as I am walking through this barren land.
I am weak, but though art mighty. Ever help us..
Open unto us thy healing waters. Let the fiery cloud go before us and continue thy help.
Help us when we come to the Jordan River and we shall sing thy praise eternally
Source, Google Books: Jace Weaver's Other words: American Indian literature, law, and culture. UOP, 2001, p. 280.
There are several hymns in the Cherokee language, which our dear friends sing almost constantly. We sing in Cherokee at night when the school closes. The Lord is visiting this nation in great mercies. I have witnessed what my weak faith hardly ever dared to expect...Google Books is a rich repository of early 17th-, 18th-, and 19th-century accounts of Cherokee history and faith, here.
It's a reminder to remember and treasure the love, faith, endurance of a great-great-grandmother at this time of year in a late May now so long ago.
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