Barack Obama’s inaugural address was followed immediately by Elizabeth Alexander’s stirring inaugural poem, “Praise Song for the Day”:
Steadfastness is the indispensable quality of every man who one day does not wish to be obliged to say: “I have wasted my life.”
1894 Courage
Elizabeth Caitlin
11-15-2008 20th Birthday
We surprised her with balloons when she woke up on her birthday :) a girl’s gotta celebrate!
October 15th Feast of St Teresa of Jesus
St. Teresa of Jesus
Teresa Sánchez de Cepeda y Ahumada, (March 28, 1515 – October 4, 1582)
Mystic – Teacher of Prayer – Doctor of the
Church
St. Teresa of Jesus, also known as St. Teresa of Avila,
lived in Spain during the 16th Century. Her life as a Carmelite, though far
removed from the mainstream of modern culture, still speaks powerfully to us
today, as we enter the third millennium.
St. Teresa of Jesus is a heroic figure in the history of the Church; and one of my patron saints. A reformer of the Carmelite order of contemplatives … thus the Discalced Carmelites. She established many new foundations , approximately 40 new religious houses of women and men as well. She was a mystic of the church and as often happens with mystics and reformers she came under criticism and suspicion, for three years she was restricted to seclusion in one of the monasteries until the process of inquisition against her was stopped and she was allowed to continue to spread her reformed Carmelite houses and continue her writings.
The Autobiography of a Soul
The Interior Castle
The Way of Perfection
These are perhaps her main writings, and give a mystics understanding of one’s relationship with God. I have always felt that her definition of prayer, contemplative prayer is a good one, maybe because it is simple enough for me to take in: “prayer is a conversation between close friends”. She was blessed with many spiritual gifts, but also history says she was a woman of strength and simplicity guided in all things by her love of Jesus.
Let nothing disturb you.
Nothing frighten you.
All things are passing.
God never changes.
Patient endurance attains all things.
Whom God possesses in nothing is wanting.
Alone God suffices.
~The bookmark of Teresa of Avila
St. Teresa of Jesus, pray for us this day; for my soul, my family, my Church, this nation and for peace in this world. Please Teresa, intercede for us before the throne God with whom you enjoyed such friendship while living and must only be joyously closer now in heaven.
Amen.
Seriously? Seriously.
Today I had the experience of having a second tier interview for a christian counseling position. I have been fully vetted by the organization for which I would be working and have known the president of this organization for nearly eight years. Love him. Admire his skill, committment and authenticity as a therapist. And, he apparently thinks well enough of my skills, that he is rearranging the organizational structure to fit me into the picture (convoluted story involving state regulations and professional standards) anyway, this is an individual that I admire as a skilled professional and would count myself fortunate to be supervised by him.
This organization works by partnering with area churches to provide skilled, credentialed and vetted professional therapists to serve the mental health needs of the congregation and the community at large; a benefit that not only serves the congregation, saves the pastor much time and also is a potential draw from the community to the church. What’s not to like?
Per the procedure of this agency, after initial contacts by the president and ceo of this organization have established interest with an area church, at the pastor’s bidding, the next step is to bring in the counselor to meet and discuss the role … an opportunity for the pastor to meet the counselor personally; which is entirely appropriate and essential in my opinion. As it turned out, it was a surreal experience for me, one that I am still processing (read: reeling)
The universe began to ever so slightly shift under my comfortable chair in his wonderfully comfortable office after sharing my credentials, (masters degree from the University of Michigan) and applicable work (inpatient psychiatric work; outpatient mental health counselor; director of community support program for chronically mentally ill clients, hospice social worker) volunteer experience (Foster Care Review Board, 6 years on the Board of Directors of support/training facility for adult disabled, serving as both VP and a year as Board President) and life experience. All of these strengths seemed to suddenly go out the window when sharing my faith background, it became quickly clear that this christian pastor was surprised/unsettled by the fact that I am a Catholic Christian.
Suddenly, polished but pointed questions about my ability to counsel the “christians” of his congregation given my catholic faith. (Excuse me? I have worked with psychotic individuals one of whom thought the devil was writing invisible words on his legs; have set with a group of adolescent girls having survived sexual abuse, trying to make some sense of it all; been at the bedside of more than one person in the process of dying … dealing with reality based christians? I’m comfortable giving it a try) But words like: legalistic hang ups, guilt issues and doctrinal differences such as defined in Vatican Two documents, began to be quite deftly and calmly brought into the conversation. I was even asked “do you read the Bible in your daily faith life?”. Hello. In Catholic circles this is a standard joke … but to have it posed as a serious concern, is quite another matter. This from a Christian pastor from a church advertising itself as nondenominational (who also took the time to explain what the word Protestant means …. have to say, I was having a difficult time keeping a pleasant look on my face at this point). I restated that I would not be providing pastoral counseling or spiritual direction, that any doctrinal issues would obviously be referred back to him as the Pastor, and that while not a Scripture scholar, I do – even though I am a fisheater - read the Bible regularly. (ok, I left out the fisheater part, darn)
I had not encountered overt anti catholic sentiment until I was an adult with children living in rural Iowa. When approached by this organization, one of the first issues I brought up was that I wondered/doubted/feared that some protestant churches in that area would have a negative bias towards a catholic counselor. But these two men, both protestants, couldn’t imagine such an issue as we are all christian and while the differences are indeed great, in my role, the broader family of Christianity was sufficient to quell any concern on their part.
It’s 2011. Oh my.
Iraqi Catholic Christians …. are there any Catholics, any Christians at all, left in Iraq these days?
“the bridge is love”
Not that I am obsessive or the least bit anal retentive… but I try to keep a list, among other lists, of the books that I’ve read each year. It is my way of tracking where I have been, literarily (?) speaking; it makes me stretch in different directions when I find I am reading in one vein exclusively (Agatha Christie) or have fallen into a rut of easy reading and need to give the little grey cells a more strenuous workout (couldn’t help myself).
I try to read works that are beautifully written and therefore essential (to my way of thinking) or are either informational/educational in some area of interest; and then there are fast reads for enjoyment to be mixed in with the real sloggers; and the, usually slogger, thought-provoking non fiction, and then there is serious fiction not in the gratuitous commercial sense with the requisite blood, sex, more blood (ok, I admit I read the Twilight series) or just authors that make me chuckle or otherwise think and I cannot wait for their next work: To Kill A Mockingbird, The ABC Murders, Clinical and Diagnostic Interviewing, The Great Gatsby, Murder On The Orient Express, Defiant Joy: Biography of G K Chesterton, Whose Body Is It, Writing Down The Bones, Change Your Brain Change Your Life, A Room With A View, and A Walk In The Woods … in that order (painful to admit but true, can check my, um, list).
Bill Bryson will make me laugh out loud. Harper Lee strikes me in the heart then the gut then the heart (every time; she wrote only one book and I have reread that book yearly for … a number of years). I am resigned however to reading the letters and speeches of Flannery O’Connor because her fiction remains too awfully deep for my mind (it is out of my depth and therefore awful … but she was a fascinating woman, fiercely gifted and so I keep on trying – there is real guilt that I just am repelled by her stories, however with Walker Percy I draw a hard-line – there is no way and happily no guilt even though I do not doubt he is as great as he said to be). Agatha Christie: where did she come up with these characters? And what about the sheer volume of her writing? Sick, as one college kid I know would say and I must agree. Sick.
That same college kid drew my attention to a book that I should have read eons ago (picking up a guilt theme here): The Bridge of San Luis Rey by Thornton Wilder. So I read Luis Rey this summer, fiction for grown ups (sorry Peter Mayle, but I love your Year In Provence). And, honestly, I am still thinking it over ( Wilder not Mayle). I detest wordy writers and I seem too dim for deep abstraction or symbolism … call me concrete :) when it comes to fiction which explains my Ernest Hemingway “phase”: lean spare writing of the world around him worked into a tense honest story. For this reader Hemingway writes a poetic prose that gives the reader a visceral experience. No excess but nothing left out. Love it. Unfortunately once I read more about his life, his themes, his wives, it took the shine off of his work for this reader. ( but every now and then I return to The Big Two- Hearted River and just, well, love it.)
But, back to Thornton Wilder and the reason for this post. Yes, I am still mulling the book, but I can fudge a lot when there is poetry in the words – with good poetry, truth is always found. So let me share the final line to this Pulitzer Prize winning book that is listed in the top 100 books of the 20th century:
“There is a land of the living and a land of the dead and the bridge is love, the only survival, the only meaning.”
Good grief. Sorry, but you pretty much have to love this line.
I have decided to be judicious in my exploration of Mr. Wilder as a person, because I so love this line.
PS: and I didn’t even mention Jules Verne ………..
You become what you do:
“Karol Wojtyla taught that in making an ethical decision, a moral agent does not only give rise to a particular act, but he also contributes to the person he is becoming. Every time I perform a moral act, I am building up my character, and every time I perform an unethical act, I am compromising my character. A sufficient number of virtuous acts, in time, shapes me in such a way that I can predictably and reliably perform virtuously in the future, and a sufficient number of vicious acts can misshape me in such a way that I am typically incapable of choosing rightly in the future. This is not judgmentalism; it is a kind of spiritual/moral physics, an articulation of a basic law. We see the same principle at work in sports. If you swing the golf club the wrong way enough times, you become a bad golfer, that is to say, someone habitually incapable of hitting the ball straight and far. And if you swing the club correctly enough times, you become a good golfer, someone habitually given to hitting the ball straight and far. “
The above is a quote of our former Holy Father found on www.wordonfire.org Fr. Robert Barron’s website. It is an essential principle to understand: our physical self cannot be separated from our spiritual/intellectual self. Our “character” is affected, formed, by the acts we choose to engage in.
Something for all of us to think on.
PS. to previous post on Walter Pigeon, Admiral in the Royal Navy, RIP.
To clarify, the old hound was not a coward – I once watched him race towards an invader into the back yard to defend his territory (meter reader whom I assumed Walter would not be bothered by, much to my surprise Walt went on what might be described as the attack, basset hound style). The fascinating thing, was to see Walter’s propensity for self-preservation struggle with his desire to protect his turf and you could see it in the way he raced, cringing (think army crawl) low, and oddly quiet towards the unknowing meter man, letting out a surprisingly vicious low growl when close to the poor guy. I saved the meter man that day from Walter Pigeon then showered him (Walt) with treats – no hypnosis needed.
Anyway, Walter was exceptionally brave in spite of his better instincts or mental calculations … and he was always calculating. :)
Oh a good dog he was.
Walt the wonder dog
Listening earlier today, as I tortured myself up a treadclimber, to a priest of whom I am a regular listener, he said in his weekly homily “we’ve been surrounded by death around here this week”…. and went on to count out the number of funerals in their parish, losses in his personal life etc.
I have been surrounded by death recently too. Won’t go into details, but I do want to say something about our basset hound Walter Pigeon (Admiral in the Royal Navy). He was 10 years old (yes, makes him 70 blah blah) and lived a dog’s life – as hounds do in their particular way; went from sleep to death while riding on the floor of our family van, as recounted in a previous post.
His eyes were velvety brown, deep and amazingly expressive … which you would know if you were ever on the receiving end of his hypnotic attempt to guide you with his eye gaze over to the treat jar, eventually resorting to turning and pointing his whole head if one wasn’t swift enough to pick up on his meaningful gaze. Or his feigning injury to fake out another dog in order to swoop in and snatch that poor beast’s treat; he was all about the treats by the way … not balls, toys, and certainly not a dumb stick. Not sure if it was because of his six-inch legs, but the diner was always open in Walter Pigeons world and food was never a need to be questioned or put off. Thus the well-practiced and almost hypnotic eye gaze to treat jar routine.
Thunderstorms were Walter Pigeon’s Achilles heel. He would wake you at night, politely, with a restrained woof as he sat on the floor next to the bed. Once all were up, he went through his regular routine of heading to the basement with person in tow, sometimes he went under a piece of furniture, other times he was satisfied with just having you next to him. My husband says it was because Walter knew that lightning would strike the tallest thing around, so if he laid next to an upright human …. well, surely he hadn’t thought it out that much. Another thing, Walter had an extraordinary sense of self-preservation. Trouble? RUN in the opposite direction, or more usually he would be seen crouching and trying to silently exit the area, while drawing as little attention to himself as possible. It was an amazing thing to see a dog exhibit such self-control. We had long decided that if we ever saw him heading out in his crouch position we should just go along with him and if Trouble occurred while we were sleeping we knew we’d be in trouble because Pigeon would be long gone.
I had a dream about Walter Pigeon last night: he was lying there on the floor as usual and I was so happy to see him that I woke up … then realized he was gone. I don’t care what anyone says, dogs are in heaven too. His ashes sit on my bedside table. Have thought about putting them under the table, you know, in case of thunder?
White tipped tale waving
Above the tall grass at me
Walt patrols the pond
what fresh hell is this?
August 19.2011
We were preparing for this for well over a year. The first college visit our academically blessed son made was in the 9th grade. A state school had already picked him out and was trying to coax him to enter early, honors programs/housing/funding, etc. Quite exciting, but not for us. So on with the profusion of mailed and now emailed college info, invites, offers, etc. And on with the examination process … of colleges and universities; visiting campuses, informally as we tiptoed around on our own or escorted by amazingly congenial school reps, sometimes just hours and once for an extended stay; twice, a drive by alone was sufficient to rule out a candidate in spite of impressive websites and hallowed lists of recommendations. Finally a winning school was agreed upon, and fortunately the school agreed too. The boy is going to college.
As Life goes for all, we too we have had some unexpected events occur in the years leading up to this day – some cataclysmic, some sad, some screwball, you might say, thrown into the living: the slipping away of a big sister (words are inadequate until one reaches heaven); seismic job change (thank God a promotion, especially in this … no, no, – why go there:) and an uprooting relocation as a result … during the boy’s senior year of high school.
After 22 years planted in one small town (no we did not live in a cave, but yes, culture shock is an accurate phrase and not to be overused) we began looking for a house, and eventually moved from our so lovely small acreage to American Suburbia in a city nearly 100 times the size of where we had lived. Somehow, in the middle of all the changes, events and planning, I decided my only coping skill left was one foot in front of the other …. one day at a time. Literally.
Without warning really, the winding down of the senior year speeds up into an alarming amalgamation of endings, celebrations, ceremonies and the neccessary arranging, coordinating and planning; and all of this is aside from the emotional tsunami that is the norm for any graduating senior and his family. Our graduating senior and family added on the fairly mind-boggling tasks of finding temporary living quarters in our town, while simultaneously looking for a “new” home in the new city. Preparing for graduation for the first and only time, although inspiring and momentous, did devolve at times, only at times, into what can be called some fresh new level of hell ….. so much to do, coordinate, connect, and of course MAKE PERFECT (as if). Which makes one so grateful for the friends who helped navigate through what was for this mom the best and worst of times. (only at times :) Truly, words of gratitude or appreciation fall far short of the kindness, the invaluable help and amazing shrewdness of the moms who worked to pull this off. How does this happen every year to millions of graduates and Nobody prepared me? Oh my. And in retrospect, it was not all gnashing teeth and negotiating with what seemed uncannily like the devil again and again. There was also much laughter among the occasionally pursed lips, surprises – planned and unplanned, and then what eventually turned into a continuous stream of events: parties, awards, dinners, and finally The Ceremony. Then the rapid fire pace of diplomas and pictures, punch and cake, numbered cookies and beaucoup cupcakes, food upon food, endless photos snapped, gifts exciting to give, receive – even better to open, laughter and silliness among kids who’ve known each other as far back as they can remember, rock band, double stuffs and yes, even one cigar.
Joys really, if one (read Me) chooses to focus on the good and beautiful things flying around in the gale surrounding us on that day in a small southern Iowa town. And, it must be mentioned, the finding of a kindred soul that although living close we had passed unseeing for all these two decades. (which we finally agreed was perhaps safer for the entire town)
Graduation was a big day, a minor D Day in our family panorama. It was wonderful, and we are fortunate, grateful and so proud of the boy. Then, the next morning bright and early we loaded the last of our belongings and the boy and I moved to the new city finally reuniting with dad, leaving behind us the small Iowa home town and not least, the last marker of our girl.
Moving from 3+ acres to a lovely suburbia. With suburbia comes people and compared to living next to a pond on a little back road, suburbia means a lot of people. The proximity to strangers, the stimulation of city life and her advanced age all pointed to one place for our sweet, massive neopolitan mastiff, Magnolia Magnifique (an Italian princess, so she said). And it was a crappy place; we all agreed it was best, and all agreed it was really crappy. So now our girl’s marker is well guarded by the ashes of a magnificent, delightfully frightening, Italian princess.
We three went on along with 10 yo Walter Pigeon, basset hound extraordinaire and a scottish terrier, Lily MacDuff, Lover of Ponds – now in a home with barely a backyard. One day at a time. Weeks passed. We rescued a surprisingly snooty gray cat from the Nebraska Humane Society, but she fell in love with the boy which was terribly sweet so we incorporated Robiceaux into this house we try to call home. Too soon the day came to load and drive towards Virginia but first a couple of family stops.
Again the unexpected, screwball, fresh hell – whatever one might call it – arrived when we were about 2 hours into the trip.
Walter Pigeon, basset hound extraordinaire (did I mention he was an Admiral in the Royal Navy) died. Died. The old dog just DIED. In the van. At the feet of the boy. I was already asleep and propped up on coats when I heard the cries; once we realized the … reality…. of what had happened, we found a small town vet and after saying our goodbyes (tears, tissues, puking, moaning ….. we don’t lose the ones we love easily, even old hounds) we just had to drive on. (Again one ……. day at a time)
The remainder of our trip out to Virginia was comparatively uneventful. We saw family, celebrated birthdays, welcomed new members, hugged, laughed, ate too much and said good byes. Then the van turned east and we drove on to Virginia……
Oh, life is a glorious cycle of song,
A medley of extemporanea;
And love
is a thing that can never go wrong;
And I am Marie of Roumania.
D. Parker
“we must be hatched”
In three days our son will graduate from high school.
Now… having graduated from high school myself and likewise not a complete idiot, I know this is happening millions of times around the country each year at this time. And … I really do know (read hope) that all moms and dads probably go through it: the surprising realization that the child that they still see wearing a sand bucket on his head as he runs around with a diaper slipping off of his little backside, will soon be walking across a stage with a diploma in hand. But as usual, (hmm, is it narcissist or histrionic) I find these changes highly surreal, shockingly so. Once again Life is taking a right turn as I hang on for dear life – and this a turn that I saw coming, have prayed hard for some days, and am immensely proud (read relieved) that my son is indeed graduating. And yet …. somehow my vision tends to dim which leads to an incident several days ago.
I was calling a dear friend, filled with parental angst and just raw panic (a situation which, sad to say, we have been through more than once, which could explain the tears on her part – I did say she is a dear dear friend) she gave me strict instruction, through her own tears to pray that I/we/our family enjoys every single moment from that time until the end of the graduation party. The evil one, she reminded me, wants nothing more than to steal joy … everyone’s joy – yours, mine, the young men and women who will be crossing that stage this Sunday afternoon. It was a reality check, forcing me out of my own free ranging anxiety attack and back down to what’s real, what is important.
C.S.Lewis said “ You don’t have a soul. You are a Soul. You have a body.” And this kind woman was calmly, via a frantic cell phone call, verbally shaking me back to this essential reality. It is a spiritual journey we are on, and what joyous moments we are so blessed to have during this life are rare things that we should hang on to tightly and with both hands; refusing to allow them to be, however slyly and regardless of one’s shock, pulled away. Moments of joy, both mundane and mountaintop, are blessed glimpses of the goodness of God.
So may God bless our son this Sunday as he graduates from high school; may He bless and shine His face upon Daniel as well as every child who walks across the stage to arrive at this new turn in life’s road, holding them in His hand always.
Blessed Mother Mary, Mother of God, Mother of Mercy, pray for the 2011 graduates of Centerville High School.
It may be hard for an egg to turn into a bird: it would be a jolly sight harder for it to learn to fly while remaining an egg. We are like eggs at present. And you cannot go on indefinitely being just an ordinary, decent egg. We must be hatched or go bad.
C. S. Lewis
C. S. Lewis
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like the dove in the cleft of the rock
Like the Dove in the Cleft of the Rock
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Father Markon February 7, 2011 8:38 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)
The Open Side of Jesus Crucified
Look at this remarkable painting of Jesus Crucified. The focus of the composition is the wound in His Sacred Side. An angel holding a chalice is hovering just beneath it to receive the outpouring of His Blood. There are also angels stationed beneath His wounded hands. A fourth angel stricken with astonishment and grief looks on.
Saint Francis of Assisi
At the foot of the Cross, close to the wounded feet of Jesus, kneels Saint Francis of Assisi, embracing the saving wood. Saint Francis is closest to the feet of Jesus because he was called to walk in lowliness, poverty, and humility, in imitation of the Son of Man who “had no where to lay His head” (Mt 8:20).
Saint Benedict
On the left is Saint Benedict with his hands crossed over his breast. This is the ritual gesture of the monk when, on the day of his profession, he sings the second part of the Suscipe me, Domine: “Let me not be confounded in my expectation” (Ps 118:116). Saint Benedict is gazing at the Face of the Crucified with an extraordinary intensity of compassion and love. One could draw a direct line from the Face of Jesus to the face of Saint Benedict. This is what he means when he says in his Rule that one desiring to become a monk must “truly seek God” (RB 58:7).
Saint Romuald
On the right one sees Saint Romuald, whose feast we celebrate today. He is seated — rather like Mary of Bethany in Luke 10:39 — with his hands hidden in the sleeves of his cowl. These are subtle allusions to the hidden life in which Saint Romuald sought the Heart of Jesus, not by much doing (the hidden hands) but, rather, in much listening (the “Marian” posture). You will notice that Saint Romuald is not looking at the Face of the Crucified; he is focused on the wound in Jesus’ Sacred Side. Therein he seeks to hide himself like the dove in the cleft of the rock.
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nobody, not even the rain
somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond any experience,your eyes have their silence: in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me, or which i cannot touch because they are too near your slightest look easily will unclose me though i have closed myself as fingers, you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens (touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose or if your wish be to close me, i and my life will shut very beautifully ,suddenly, as when the heart of this flower imagines the snow carefully everywhere descending; nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals the power of your intense fragility:whose texture compels me with the color of its countries, rendering death and forever with each breathing (i do not know what it is about you that closes and opens;only something in me understands the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses) nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands ee cummings
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all the roses
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no one ever told me
“No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear. I am not afraid, but the sensation is like being afraid. The same fluttering in the stomach, the same restlessness, the yawning. I keep on swallowing.
At other time it feels like being mildly drunk, or concussed. There is a sort of invisible blanket between the world and me. I find it hard to take in what anyone says. Or perhaps, hard to want to take it in. It is so uninteresting.”
A Grief Observed, CS Lewis
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2010
Non nobis, non nobis Domine
Sed nomine tuo da gloriam.
(Not To Us O Lord Not To Us But To Your Name Give Glory)
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2010
“Mother, now the bells of heaven are ringing,” said the child; “Mother, the sun is going to rise.”
She acknowledged the goodness of God, she acknowledged the duties she had to perform, and eagerly she returned home.
- Hans Christian Anderson 1859
Elizabeth’s poem
i carry your heart with me
i carry your heart with me (i carry it in
my heart) i am never with out it (anywhere
i go you go, my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing, my darling)
i fear no fate ( for you are my fate, my sweet) i want
no world (for beautiful you are my world, my true)
and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you
here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life, which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart
i carry you heart (i carry it in my heart)
ee cummings
2009
Juliet.
When he shall die, take him and cut him out in little stars, and he shall make the face of heaven so fine that all the world will be in love with night and pay no worship to the garish sun. act III, scene II
2009
“See that you despise not one of these little ones: for I say to you, that their angels in heaven always see the face of my Father who is in heaven.” (Matthew 18:10)
elizabeth
Christmas 2008
sweetest daughter lovely child
Blessed be your God
for bringing you to us
daughter
Tobit 11:17
make the face of heaven so fine
When he shall die, take him and cut him out in little stars, and he shall make the face of heaven so fine that all the world will be in love with night and pay no worship to the garish sun. act III, scene II
three months
mass was difficult for our family this week.
the first reading, old testament – the book of Wisdom
“God did not make death”
then from Mark’s gospel the story of Jesus bringing a dead girl back to life. He tells the mourners she is just sleeping, is promptly ridiculed then he shoos everyone out but her parents and those with Him. He goes in to her room and tells her to get up. which she does. then Jesus says among other things, and i love this so much, that someone should give her something to eat.
Jesus
my 16 year old son, my husband and i were at a vigil mass yesterday. the reading of this particular gospel brought so much emotion to the surface as to have to leave the sanctuary. i have not seen my son as visibly shaken since we were all gathered around the bed of his beautiful sister as she lay dying. three months ago.
three months.
my son is tall and lean. (surely the grace of God in spite of his genetic code) he has large eyes that i have always thought see too much; there is a searching there as his constantly turning wheels are barely hidden behind his big dark eyes. in the last three months he has held up with a composure that does not come naturally at sixteen years of age. he was beside his sister as she died. he wanted to recite tennyson at her wake. he wanted to carry her casket, beside his cousins and uncles. he wants his mom and dad to be okay, not be sad.
it is such a lesson about this life when one learns that you cannot control, let alone even affect, so much that happens in it. in this life that is “yours.” i don’t think he has learned this lesson fully.
he is just 16 years old.
our daughter was beautiful, blessed with a sweet countenance from moments after her birth. could she get angry or upset? yes she could. but not often, or often enough, in my opinion.
the list of what she couldn’t do is long: she couldn’t speak, couldn’t eat by mouth, couldn’t swallow well, couldn’t grasp anything but my finger, at times, couldn’t walk or sit up, couldn’t even hold her own head up, and it took alot, alot to make her cry.
she was twenty years old.
she had seizures, she had breathing problems, she needed intervention to do the most basic of bodily functions, she got sick alot. alot.
five days before she passed into paradise, the stainless steel rods fused to her spine were breaking through her skin … leading to the surgery, leading to the “catastrophic event” (as one very good, and very kind, doctor in the intensive care unit slowly explained to me) that without warning ended Elizabeth’s journey on this earth.
she was twenty years old.
the first three months of her life were a delight. our first born sweet baby girl. between three and six months one tried not to see that something might be wrong. at six months we began seeing specialists and finally at nine months, after doctors in four states, we had our diagnosis: rare, life ending. not quite real to us all.
unreal or not, time passed.
days. weeks. years. a decade. then two.
we had home health care. we had doctors, we had nurses, we had therapy at home and away. we had medical suppliers, we had insurance, we had wheelchairs, vans, ramps, assistive devices, suction machines, oxygen concentrators, nebulizers, feeding pumps and on and on.
we had hospice care for one night.
it’s been three months without her.
my heart is broken. beyond caring about repair. i have known loss in my life, i thought i would have at least recognized this pain. but this comes as a complete stranger and empties the entire place when it strolls into the room.
she should not have lived past the age of two, we’ve literally had years of illness, struggle, fighting for her life to continue, so it is shocking to me that her loss should be so completely surprising. but what i know is this:
being without Elizabeth is much more difficult than the daily battle of her life.
for me.
for her dad.
and for her serious, seeing, sixteen year old brother.
“talitha koum“ ” little girl, I say to you, arise“
christmas 2008
this is the wonder
i carry your heart with me
i carry your heart with me (i carry it in my heart) i am never with out it (anywhere i go you go, my dear; and whatever is done by only me is your doing, my darling) i fear no fate ( for you are my fate, my sweet) i want no world (for beautiful you are my world, my true) and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant and whatever a sun will always sing is you here is the deepest secret nobody knows (here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud and the sky of the sky of a tree called life, which grows higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide) and this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart) ee cummingslady dressed in white
“Today marks the first apparition of the Blessed Virgin Mary in 1858 to fourteen-year-old Marie Bernade (St. Bernadette) Soubirous. Between February 11 and July 16, 1858, the Blessed Virgin appeared eighteen times, and showed herself to St. Bernadette in the hollow of the rock at Lourdes. On March 25 she said to the little shepherdess who was only fourteen years of age: “I am the Immaculate Conception.” Since then Lourdes has become a place of pilgrimage and many cures and conversions have taken place. The message of Lourdes is a call to personal conversion, prayer, and charity. “ http://www.catholicculture.org
In September of 1991 we went on a healing pilgrimage that included a three day visit to Lourdes. Thanks (so much, beyond words) to the Make a Wish foundation, a kind woman named Ann Lindley and St Mary’s parish here in Centerville, my husband and I traveled with our daughter to Bernadette’s grotto in Lourdes. Elizabeth was not quite three years old. We were first told she would not live to the age of two, then not to the age of seven … Elizabeth turned twenty last November.
We should all go to Lourdes. There, surrounded by so many many sick, disabled, dying people, the greatest mood was one of hope. It was palpable … and joy, strangely enough. It was amazing then and seems more strange to me as I recall that visit. I sometimes wonder if it was not a distant meager glimmer of what waits for us in the delight of heaven.
thing of beauty: william bouguereau
“In 1900 at the Universal Exposition in Paris, it is reported that Degas and Monet were approached by a newspaper reporter who asked who, in their opinion, would most likely be considered the greatest 19th century French artist in the year 2000. After a brief debate, both agreed on one man – William Bouguereau.” www.artrenewal.org
Let me start by very loosely paraphrase from the writing of Jean-Jacques Rousseau when he said: ‘Artists are born free, but everywhere they are in chains.’ Whether we are talking about the chains of the conceptual,…or the dungeons of deconstruction….the leg irons of irony…. or the shackles of shock,…All “have been forged link by link and yard by yard,” …paying lip service to composition and design while long ago having Abandoned all of the parameters of fine art where paramount was the need to harmonize great subjects and themes with drawing, modeling, perspective, color, and tone, and expert manipulation of the paint. Subjects and themes which more often than not are a form of …dare I say the word out loud…”storytelling.” (quote from a speech presented by Fred Ross Keynote Address at the Oil Painters of America Meeting, May 5, 2006.)
self imposed book club
I have wanted to be in one of three things for several years now: 1. book club 2. writing group 3. wine club and any combination of the three sounds entirely doable and possibly quite enjoyable. Learning, creating and imbibing kind of go together anyway? or am I wrong. I was part of a writing group once. Briefly. Very Briefly.
A creative writing instructor had suggested it for the usual “feedback, support, stimulation of your own creativity (ie. productivity)”. Lovely. He did fail to mention the makeup of the group as well as any suspected mental illness that might crop up as we each shared our pieces. After enduring a gripping if not outright frightening poetic reading in which the reoccurring chorus was a screamed out “Blood, Blood, Blood” which continued to build in it’s graphic tension (really not sure as I was quietly making a mental check for all the exits) I was suspecting this might not end well. But I did go back once more, unfortunately. The seminal event came when at this second get together, with an impromptu cook out going on as we were meeting, a totally wired, amazingly hairy and quite unkown to me crazy man drove up the steps of this decaying old stately house on his bicycle, and in one seamless direct line, threw his bike to the ground, walked right up to me and without missing a beat or saying a word took something out of his mouth – and then gently set it in my open palm. (I know, I know, at this point my husband always groans “how could you just hold your hand out there” and I don’t know but I think I was hypnotised by the wierdness of it all) Honestly I still don’t know if I hadn’t wandered into some kind of odd Iowan performance art project …. but you know, for me personally, having a nonverbal wildly hairy crazy guy lock onto you as a source of fascination to the extent that he begins to share things from his mouth …. yes well….. I slowly and as inconspicuously as possible (not) found the door and was through it, down the steps and in my car with amazing speed. Never looked back.
Not withstanding my memorable experience with that group and the difficulty I’ve found in getting an interesting group of folks to agree on an interesting roster of books (did I mention I was picky :) I did finally come up with a great idea this past Christmas: our first annual family book club. Three of us are in it, and the goal is one book a month. We each contributed 4 titles and meet on the last Sunday night of the month over dinner to discuss what we’ve read.
January: Wise Blood by Flannery O’Connor General concensus by my husband and I …. difficult to read period, tough to read deep enough to get O’Connor’s message (the grotestques and debauchery, the dark tone of the overall book puts me off …. my husband way off). It was my 16 year old son who sailed through it and summed it up pretty well (to us anyway because we’re still not sure what the heck is going on in the story other than sadness, sin, darkness and misery). Essentially Dan says “well, Motes is running from God until in the end he realizes God exists, so then Motes repents and does all of that wierd penance, then he dies – which was kind of sad.” Wow. Okay. Dan arrived at a sense of sympathy for the main charactor whom I found totally repugnant, obviously I’ve missed something. I’ve read this book twice now, will go back to it again because I really do want to get O’Connors meaning … but I suspect she might chuckle in agreement with Dan’s literary criticism and approve of his sympathy of her dreadful Hazel Motes.
Anyone reading this post, please read the book. And do get back to me. I think Danny has it right. By the book’s end one does feel a pity for the – up to that point – repugnant Jesus hating back woods man in his funny suit and big white hat.
FLANNERY O’CONNOR
“Everybody who has read Wise Blood thinks I’m a hillbilly nihilist,
whereas I would like to create the impression over the television that I’m a
hillbilly Thomist.”
“Later he saw Jesus move from tree to tree in the back of his mind,
a wild ragged figure motioning him to turn around and come off into the
dark where he was not sure of his footing, where he might be walking on
the water and not know it and then suddenly know it and drown.”
The mind in question is that of Hazel Motes, the central figure in
Flannery O’Connor’s Wise Blood, who can stand for all her characters who
are haunted by Christ and convey to the reader the wild mystery of the
human person. (Ralph McInerny, 2005)
Book for February: Martian Chronicles by Ray Bradbury (guess who picked out this one :)
Elizabeth Alexander’s Inaugural Poem
Tuesday January 20, 2009
Each day we go about our business, walking past each other, catching each others’ eyes or not, about to speak or speaking. All about us is noise. All about us is noise and bramble, thorn and din, each one of our ancestors on our tongues. Someone is stitching up a hem, darning a hole in a uniform, patching a tire, repairing the things in need of repair.
Someone is trying to make music somewhere with a pair of wooden spoons on an oil drum with cello, boom box, harmonica, voice.
A woman and her son wait for the bus.
A farmer considers the changing sky; A teacher says, “Take out your pencils. Begin.”
We encounter each other in words, Words spiny or smooth, whispered or declaimed; Words to consider, reconsider.
We cross dirt roads and highways that mark the will of someone and then others who said, “I need to see what’s on the other side; I know there’s something better down the road.”
We need to find a place where we are safe; We walk into that which we cannot yet see.
Say it plain, that many have died for this day. Sing the names of the dead who brought us here, who laid the train tracks, raised the bridges, picked the cotton and the lettuce, built brick by brick the glittering edifices they would then keep clean and work inside of.
Praise song for struggle; praise song for the day. Praise song for every hand-lettered sign; The figuring it out at kitchen tables.
Some live by “Love thy neighbor as thy self.”
Others by “first do no harm,” or “take no more than you need.”
What if the mightiest word is love, love beyond marital, filial, national. Love that casts a widening pool of light. Love with no need to preempt grievance.
In today’s sharp sparkle, this winter air, anything can be made, any sentence begun.
On the brink, on the brim, on the cusp — praise song for walking forward in that light.
So …. whaddaya think? Me? I like it. The spareness of the prose, love the use of common objects to convey the universality of our connectedness (spare prose, right :) In all honesty, was hoping for something more soaring, grippingly inspirational … instead Ms. Alexander stealthily pushes towards the promise of the ordinary. No tingle factor, or monumental expression of the moment but I enjoyed it very much. (lukewarm praise? …. no, really I did like it)
Now that I have reread Ms. Alexander’s piece, several times, I take back the no tingle factor comment. I love the poem. Some favorite lines: “… each one of our ancestors on our tongue” “Praise song for every hand-lettered sign. The working it out at the kitchen table”. It is an anticipatory relish that slowly builds as one reads on in this piece – this a point of change, we’re moving forward into whatever future we make of it. A wonderful compliment to the occasion.
Belated kudos to Elizabeth Alexander from a slow reader.
St. Columba: Pray for us.
Born: December 7, 521 Died: June 9, 597 Feast Day: June Patron Saint of: poets, Ireland
“the dead cannot cry out for justice …
it is the duty of living to do so for them”
The truth is never taken
From another
One carries it always
By oneself.
Giko
I know a man who at the age of nearly 17 years, brutally and with deliberate planning, murdered his mother and his 13 year old sister. In the light of day he disabled the telephone collected a baseball bat and aquarium plastic tubing and waited for them to return to the house. He attacked his mother as she walked in beating her, strangling her, returning to her battered body several times to continue the attack. He rummaged through the kitchen drawers and found two steak knives; he walked back to where his mother lay helpless, probably already dead and he stabbed them into her neck in a crisscross pattern. At some point his little sister entered to see her brother killing her mother. She screamed out his name and began to run. He tackled her, beat her with the bat and also strangled her with the plastic tubing.
He shoved her body into a small half bathroom and shut the door, only a few feet from the entryway where her beaten, strangled, and stabbed mother now lay dead .
He goes upstairs to shower and pack his things, while the bodies lay downstairs. Once freshly showered, he comes back down the stairs and rifles through his mother’s purse taking money, credit cards, and car keys. He then calmly walked out to the garage, jumped into the family car and drove away; leaving the garage door up and the door open into the house. His stated plan was to drive down to Texas and visit friends. He made stops along the way, buying candy, pop, music cassettes; he stayed a few hours in a motel before getting back on the road. The Highway Patrol finally picked him up on the interstate within 24 hours of the killings. He didn’t hesitate to confess to the murders of his mother and little sister.
The sentence from the US criminal court system: 1st degree murder in the killing of his forty-three year old mother and “reckless” second degree murder for the death of a beautiful thirteen year old girl. He received 15 years to life for his mothers murder. 77 months for killing his sister. This man spent the first 10 years of his incarceration in a psychiatric penal system, a hospital setting as I understand. Much liberty was granted in his daily routine. He had at least one sexual relationship with an aide who worked on site … as did her husband and mother. This ended only after the aide was removed. In 2003 he was finally moved into the jurisdiction of the DOC (department of corrections) ie: prison. So he is now in his sixth year of incarceration in the prison system.
Fifteen years have passed. For the families of the victims, they first passed moment by agonizing moment, reality literally ticking by. Continually before the eyes of the family left behind are the beautiful daughter and big sister, the sweet grand daughter and dear niece …. as well as crime scene photos of swollen gray faces, broken bones, pools of black blood. In looking back, it seems as though time just slowed down and in a continual loop all of these events slowly scrolled by in front of one’s eyes. At some point time must have resumed a relatively normal pace, gradually the remaining family reentered their lives and began to walk through them. And eventually a new life was being lived, one where the abhorrent slaughter of their beautiful and beloved girls was just the neverending backdrop to daily life. It has never gone away for a single day – I’m tempted to say moment, but no one would believe that – unless they’ve lived through the murder of one they love.
And now there comes a new phase to this grotesque show of horrors. This man is eligible for parole. After only 15 years if he gets paroled his time will have been entirely served by the brutal murder of his mother.
So the concept of justice comes to be at the forefront of my thoughts all of a sudden…and all the while the smiling faces and wide eyes of two beautiful girls no more, blue eyes, strawberry blond hair , laughter, silly smiles all scroll incessantly along in the background though intermixed with visions of strangled swollen faces, puffed and gray, blood filling the floor, hair solid with blood … all of these images I see everyday as now when I contemplate what justice really means.
It is my duty.
look back and laugh
“If you don’t read the newspaper, you are uninformed. If you do read the newspaper, you are misinformed.”
— Mark Twain
Dave Barry’s “The Year in Review” – read it and if you don’t laugh, go see someone … really, call someone and just make an appointment.
http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2008/12/19/AR2008121901343_pf.html
a couple of quotes:
“January: On the Republican side, the winner is Mike Huckabee, folksy former governor of Arkansas, or possibly Oklahoma, who vows to remain in the race until he gets a commentator gig with Fox. His win deals a severe blow to Mitt Romney and his bid to become the first president of the android persuasion. Not competing in Iowa are Rudy Giuliani, whose strategy is to stay out of the race until he is mathematically eliminated, and John McCain, who entered the caucus date incorrectly into his 1996 Palm Pilot.”
“November: Barack Obama, in a historic triumph, is elected the nation’s first black president since the second season of “24,” setting off an ecstatically joyful and boisterous all-night celebration that at times threatens to spill out of the New York Times newsroom.”
really … thank you Dave Barry.
Miranda:
O wonder!
How many goodly creatures are there here!
How beauteous mankind is! O brave new world
That has such people in’t!
Prospero:
‘Tis new to thee.
in with the new
Resolution defined as:
1. The state or quality of being resolute; firm determination.
2. A resolving to do something.
3. A course of action determined or decided on.
Most beautiful word in the english language: mother.
Some of my favorites: gossamer, twilight, golden, hush, lithe, ethereal, quintessential, epiphany.
“She could never be a saint but she thought she could be a martyr if they killed her quick”
- Flannery O’Connor
“i love elections. even when i lose them”
I have some thoughts to follow but for now offer this from www.dirtyharrysplace.com to which the only thing I could add is a “ditto” … thanks harry.
“It’s impossible not to be touched by the history that unfolded tonight. Just the vision of a President Obama, his First Lady and their two beautiful girls inhabiting the White House goes so far beyond politics I confess to looking forward to it, if only because of what it says about America.
Of course Barack Obama will be my President. And I wish him all the success in the world in bringing prosperity and security to America. Nothing would make me happier than for him to leave office remembered as one of our greatest Presidents.
When it comes to what’s best for this country, I will recognize when he does right, never celebrate his failures (much), and should he ever decide to put American men and women into a foreign conflict I consider unwise, that disagreement will become a cry for victory the moment boots hit ground.
I was sure the most difficult part of defeat tonight would be in knowing that haters like Keith Olbermann, Chris Matthews, Jeffrey Wells, Bill Maher, John Cusack and their ilk in the unholy HuffPo, liberal Hollywood, corrupt media crowd would have a good night. Even as I write this a gang of jerk-off college kids, flush with victory, are taunting President Bush in front of the White House. But when I watched the crowd celebrating in Chicago’s Grant Park, I realized most of Obama’s supporters are no different than me. As Vice President-elect Joe Biden might say, God love ‘em.
Certainly I’m disappointed by tonight’s outcome and tomorrow it’s game back on in the war of ideas. But for now I take a breath and recognize that the great and grand wisdom of the American people has spoken. There’s no doubt our history is about to lurch off in a new direction and if nothing else the ride promises to be an exciting one.
I recognize many of you are disappointed, some bitterly so. But I remind you that like all elections, 2008 is but a battle in an unending, bloodless war of passionate ideas. Sure, we lost this one. We lost in ‘64 and ‘76, as well. The other side lost in ‘02. In other words: comebacks are inevitable.
This is America. And I remain as excited and optimistic about the future as I was yesterday, and last year, and the year before that. This evening a center-right country gave a relatively unknown, liberal black man the keys to its future. Whether or not that was the right decision, time will tell. But what’s worthy of recognition tonight is what that decision reveals about the character of America.
All the passion, anger, frustration, anguish, hope, fear, and loathing that went into this election, and yet tonight power transferred without a drop of blood being spilled.
I love elections. Even when I lose them.“ a la dirty harry’s place
And
one more bit of unapologetic plagarisim from www.rachellucas.com (how cute is this beast anyway and ms lucas’ thinking on the political state of things also resonates – hate that word – around here today)
Sad yet hopeful. Defeated yet stalwart.
think on these things
that said, here are some other things to think on as we all go to the voting booth:
- Politics ought to be the part-time profession of every citizen who would protect the rights and privileges of free people and who would preserve what is good and fruitful in our national heritage. – Dwight D. Eisenhower
- I believe the states can best govern our home concerns and the federal government our foreign ones. – Thomas Jefferson
- A wise and frugal government which shall restrain men from injuring one another, which shall leave them otherwise free to regulate their own pursuits of industry and improvement, and shall not take from the mouth of labor the bread it has earned. This is the sum of good government. – Thomas Jefferson (1801)
- If you can cut the people off from their history, then they can be easily persuaded. – Karl Marx
- [On ancient Athens]: In the end, more than freedom, they wanted security. They wanted a comfortable life, and they lost it all – security, comfort, and freedom. When the Athenians finally wanted not to give to society but for society to give to them, when the freedom they wished for most was freedom from responsibility, then Athens ceased to be free and was never free again. – Edward Gibbon
- To compel a man to furnish contributions of money for the propagation of opinions which he disbelieves and abhors, is sinful and tyrannical. – Thomas Jefferson
- The national budget must be balanced. The public debt must be reduced; the arrogance of the authorities must be moderated and controlled. Payments to foreign governments must be reduced. If the nation doesn’t want to go bankrupt, people must again learn to work, instead of living on public assistance. – Marcus Tullius Cicero, 55 BC
- The broad masses of a population are more amenable to the appeal of rhetoric than to any other force. – Adolf Hitler
This election cycle is come to an end just as the rhetoric and reporting have turned to … well … just noise at this point. It’s tempting to question that anyone can see clearly through this fog of political promises, smoke and mirrors; so a parting thought on this Presidential Race of 2008:
“Hope is a thing with feathers, that perches in the soul”
- emily dickinson
born again of water October.11. 2008
Our Lady of Lourdes, Arizona. October 11, 2008
halloween in the desert
ever wonder what Halloween looks like in the desert?
#4′s first halloween costume is Squirt the Turtle from the Finding Nemo movie … what? no tumbleweed or baby saguaro? not even a lizard? (this is the desert after all …. ) oh well, here is the cutest little candy eating 7 month old turtle this great aunt has ever seen!!!
A few Halloween words from William (MacBeth):
A dark cave. In the middle, a boiling cauldron.
Thunder.
Enter the three Witches
First Witch
Thrice the brinded cat hath mew’d.
Second Witch
Thrice and once the hedge-pig whined.
Third Witch
Harpier cries “‘Tis time, ’tis time.”
First Witch
Round about the cauldron go;
In the poison’d entrails throw.
Toad, that under cold stone
Days and nights has thirty-one
Swelter’d venom sleeping got,
Boil thou first i’ the charmed pot.
All
Double, double, toil and trouble;
Fire burn, and cauldron bubble.
Second Witch
Fillet of a fenny snake,
In the cauldron boil and bake;
Eye of newt and toe of frog,
Wool of bat and tongue of dog,
Adder’s fork and blind-worm’s sting,
Lizard’s leg and howlet’s wing,
For a charm of powerful trouble,
Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.
All
Double, double, toil and trouble;
Fire burn and cauldron bubble.
Third Witch
Scale of dragon, tooth of wolf,
Witches’ mummy, maw and gulf
Of the ravin’d salt-sea shark,
Root of hemlock digg’d i’ the dark,
Liver of blaspheming Jew,
Gall of goat, and slips of yew
Silver’d in the moon’s eclipse,
Nose of Turk and Tartar’s lips,
Finger of birth-strangled babe
Ditch-deliver’d by a drab,
Make the gruel thick and slab:
Add thereto a tiger’s chaudron,
For the ingredients of our cauldron.
All
Double, double, toil and trouble;
Fire burn and cauldron bubble.charm is firm and good.Hecate, to the other three Witches]
Second Witch
Cool it with a baboon’s blood,
Hecate
O well done! I commend your pains;
And every one shall share i’ the gains;
And now about the cauldron sing,
Live elves and fairies in a ring,
Enchanting all that you put in.
Second Witch
By the pricking of my thumbs,
Something wicked this way comes.
Open, locks,
Whoever knocks!
"Where you used to be, there is a hole in the world, which I find myself constantly walking around in the daytime, and falling into at night. "
edna st.vincent millay
"May priests commit themselves, with prayer and good works, to obtaining from Christ the Eternal High Priest, the grace to shine with Faith, Hope, Charity and the other virtues, and show by their way of life, but also with their external conduct, that they are dedicated without reserve to the spiritual good of the people something that the Church has always had at heart."
