Vigil

Today, woke up and wrote this for Ray. There’s a lot wrapped up in it.

Vigil

Your breath

is my companion

in the still

space of night.

We traverse

dreams and darkness

by faith

not sight.

In the day,

we stall and stumble,

waste precious

air to fight.

Side by side,

it does not matter

who is wrong,

who is right.

Just your steady

respiration

helps me hold on

to the light.

 

What if there were a genuinely scientific faith, – an infinite, replicable, unassuming experimentation of the workings and evolution of love?

Human Chain

Today is 32 years since the birth of our firstborn; a fine lad, indeed, who brings us much joy.  At the time of Daniel’s arrival in earth atmosphere we were living in Bethesda, Maryland, a neighbor state to Pennsylvania.  Just over one week after Dan was born, came news of the accident at Three Mile Island, a little over ninety miles to the north.

Through all we’ve been doing this week at work, at home, has run the awareness of both the great challenges in Japan and the struggles in North Africa and the Middle East, including our own nation’s continuing reliance again on war to end war.  Like a counterpoint to days of sunshine, birdsong, spring planting, laughter with friends and students, tasks accomplished, and new plans made, has been the awareness of sorrow and suffering concentrated in these two regions of the world.  Of course, I don’t have to look far from home for suffering, nor are these the only parts of our world presently in turmoil.  “Man made” and “natural” upheaval is plentiful and our attention is always being drawn to the next disaster, and the next, and the next, so that oil spills and massacres slip from memory.

One video clip stayed with me more than all others, as people who have just escaped the roiling waters of the tsunami themselves, turn and rescue a woman barely balanced on a wall, a man in a tree, and a father and his two children from the top of their submerging car.  They use a fire-hose as a rope to secure first, the woman, then, the man as each crawls over a metal roof, which has now become a bridge, while aftershocks continue to imperil them.  Later, as snow and darkness fall, they form a human chain across the slippery “bridge” and washed up packing crates to lift each child to higher ground.  So, too, we must form a human chain.  See old things (the roof over the gateway, a fire-hose) in new ways.  Refuse to let circumstances overwhelm us.  Take a risk when help comes our way.  Say “thank you” for our own second chances and turn around to give someone else another chance.  Do whatever it takes to lift the children to higher ground, to take care of the future.

The old cry used to go up, “Sauve qui peut!” – save yourself if you can, run for your life, every man for himself.  When we’re newly converted to a great solution it’s easy to believe we can save the world.  Somewhere between the survivor and the messiah is the true neighbor not refusing to do what they can for those closest to them at any given moment.

Holding our governmental leadership in the light as we take military action again.  Here are two poems.  The first came out of hearing News Hour anchor Jeffrey Brown comment that when President Obama came in he had Iraq on his plate and he had Afghanistan on his plate.  The second just followed; it’s for the Secretary of State.  May both be read with compassion.  No one ever said it was easy to be part of the human chain.

The first:

CONDEMNED

He came in and had a rock on his plate,

The leftovers of another’s meal;

A stone, a pit from bitter fate

For which he could say nothing real.

The bill, when it came, had to be read

By candle flame in a smoky glass,

And crimson, crimson unnumbered dead

Edged about his unwanted repast.

The man he saw as he washed his hands

Had never desired to dine alone.

He yearned to be home in an honest land,

Not feasting late on blood and bone.

But law and love and the possible deed

Will lead a prince to climb and climb

Until he learns that no others feed

On this salty bread of relentless time.

The second:

Holding the Baby

You want the job,

don’t you?

It’s the only job you

can get right now.

So, suit up.  Smile.

Shake hands.  Choose your words

with very great care.

It’s all yours.

You’ll fly around

lucky to catch

an hour’s sleep

here or there;

hard pressed to snatch

a moment;

caressing, cooing, cajoling

face to face,

but it only wails and grows

beyond your wildest

dreams.  Look!

Teeth!  Tiny, sharp,

hungry teeth,

when it opens its maw.

Be careful

what you wish for.

Just Enough Power

Today, I write as rain pours and thunder and lightning intensify the day.  It’s a day to be grateful for my laptop, which can operate for a decent spell on battery power and it’s also a day to alternate between being plugged in during spells of steady rain only and unplugged when the thunder is overhead and the lightning is brighter than my desk lamp, still much needed at 10:20 a.m.  From time to time, I’m checking the tiny battery power icon at the base of the screen.

Yesterday, we attended, participated in, and supported the Michener Lecture hosted at Orlando Monthly Meeting for Southeastern Yearly Meeting. It was both a deep and a light-hearted experience.

Lloyd Lee Wilson, our lecturer, spoke out of great quietness and out of a lifetime of listening, learning, and discerning to people who were open to hear.  His lecture, “Evolving Quakerism”, spoke of our Quaker roots, the nature of Quakerism as a faith and practice, and considerations for present pruning and new growth.  His message predominantly addressed corporate Quakerism, but also clearly spoke to our evolution as individual Quakers and he continued to address both communal and individual evolution in his responses during the two open question sessions that followed the lecture.  Among my own “aha” moments as a listener was the processing of his quotation, almost as a dropped punchline, of Tagore’s verse in “Fireflies” – “Emancipation from the bondage of the soil is no freedom for the tree” to call forth our understanding of our vital connection to the earliest Quakers and what they themselves identified as their “primitive Christianity revived.”    My own heart was warmed by his query whether it was time to lay down the practice of formal membership through clearness committee process and instead practice (as recollected)  “a radical hospitality of the open table where all are welcome to be warmed by the fire.”  This evoked a fruitful discussion of how individual and community could travel together to retain the benefits of time now spent with clearness committee for discernment regarding formal membership.  Do monthly meetings nurture learning and discernment for newcomers with an interest in more fully participating in the life of the meeting, whether through clearness committee, though mentoring, or through other emerging means?

Lloyd Lee spoke of Quakerism as a religion for the second half of life, “a spirituality of subtraction”, when the hero’s journey, which is the much needed path for the first half of life, is set aside and we make the descent, surrendering accumulations that are not eternally useful.  As such, being and becoming a Quaker is counter culture in present day U. S. society, which is so exclusively focused on the ascent.  This certainly rings true personally, though I would qualify this by saying that many young people are dedicated to shucking off bits of dominant culture that have weighed us all down whether it be racism, nationalism, consumerism, or -isms in general.  Still, there is a felt difference between the heroic voluntary doing without of a youthful spartan struggle or wilderness quest and the unavoidable and often reluctant renunciations of aging.  The interesting thing is that I am finding this surrendering, while involving pains and griefs, is not joyless.  The willingness to surrender makes possible enjoyment of the continuing journey, particularly the willingness to surrender the illusion of self-sufficiency.  (This brings to mind my travels in the Rockies this summer with an entire support team of family and dogs, encouraging and assisting me, frankly, both up and down!)  So often, in social work  and education, individual and family self-sufficiency are established as the supreme goal, but while individual and family capability and willingness are much needed, it seems to me that self-sufficiency is a mythic target.  Are we not all bound in a web of interdependence?  Do we not need greater honesty regarding our interdependence and greater commitment to those given to us and we to them in life?  And here I speak of all sentient beings.

So now it is noon and the current status is unplugged as we have just had a pretty splendid display of sound and light from the clouds.  I’ve been able to write.  That’s what we need, to be plugged in through daily and frequent quiet times, through family, f/Friends, and community, paying attention to each other, to our natural surroundings, and to “the immediate and perceptible guidance of the holy spirit” so we all have just enough power to run.

On a Clear Day

Today is a clear day, 77 degrees, 36% humidity, and I am reminding myself that this is November 14th.  It was a day like this in November 1984 that precipitated the great relocation from North Carolina to Florida the following year.  Ray and I are enjoying the front porch with laptop and Sunday paper after a fine pot luck lunch at the Meeting House around midday.

There were many joyful things this week and even the sad things gave opportunity for closeness to others.  Particular personal pleasures included several conversations with Rachel as she continues her strong recovery and having my administrator come in to do a walk through, then stay to enjoy some of the class, a very rare occurrence.

Among all the unfolding of work and home life this week, I saw Steve Jacob’s movie “Disgrace” based on J.M. Coetzee’s Booker Prize winning novel and finished reading Giles Foden’s most recent book, “Turbulence.”  No doubt, I should now read Coetzee’s novel and can await the release of the D-Day movie.  Interestingly, a review of Coetzee’s novel includes the following: “political and historical forces blow through the lives of individuals like nasty weather systems, bringing with them a destruction that is all the more cruel for being impersonal.” Foden’s book is, of course, all about the prediction of nasty weather systems and clear days, not to mention the random impact of impersonal historical forces.  I really appreciated both works.  Despite the pacing and spacing issues commented on by some reviewers in both Jacob’s movie and Foden’s novel, I found myself completely absorbed, finding in both the film and the book swirls and layers of rich meaning in the way each story was revealed.  I was disappointed to see a reviewer, for example, dismiss the ending of “Turbulence” without considering what it does to the story to have the narration shift to the quirky language of the German who learned English in America after the war; nor did the reviewer acknowledge the resonance of the joke in the final sentence.

We try so hard to predict the weather ahead and good predictions have saved many a life.  Still, we are subject to seasons, which are both predictable and endlessly evolving.

Here’s a poem from yesterday evening.

Knitting

There is no end

to the yarn

that winds

and unwinds

off the worn couch,

and rolls, rolls, rolls

under the feet of all

who pass by, and round

the corner, down the hill, beyond

the meadow that is

no more

nor less than mist and silent beasts,

breathing their own knowledge

into the child,

who runs ever

after the dwindling

ball.

Loaded and Blessed

 

Today, a little catch up on the sleep debt, followed by a very satisfactory brunch with a friend, and then time for basic stuff like grocery shopping and laundry after a week with multiple twelve hour days at work; I even had time to get the grime encrusted car washed, since the rain has not obliged for over a month now.  I’m very grateful to the lady who stood on a stool to get the little tricky bit around the radio antenna that most folks miss.

This week was another in which the daily or rather, nightly, decision was to sleep rather than write, given the early rising and late homecoming, combined with the constant need to be in top form.  On Monday, we had a fine buffet welcome for our Accreditation Team at Orange County History Center and all enjoyed getting there en masse by riding the Lymmo from right outside the school to the museum.  On Tuesday, it was a thrill to share some of the students’ work with the team member responsible for scrutinizing our department and see her genuine and undisguised surprise at the high quality marketing materials produced by some of the management level students.  It really makes me appreciate how technology empowers the students when I recall what even the best students were able to produce nine years ago and see what is possible now.  A good crafts-person never blames their tools, but it sure helps you look good when you have the right tools!  On Wednesday, I had a chance to watch colleagues lead an orientation for their program.  I’m going to help with about ten students from their very large group (well over 100).  It’s always helpful to watch colleagues teach and see things they emphasize that you might miss.  Gloria teaches with great clarity and, at the same time, always with warmth, a sense of fun, and with music!  Thursday was the classroom day for the wonderful group of student-teachers that I’m training this semester.  Once again, they showed their stuff by all “being there” in every sense of the phrase.  The best part is they are applying what they are learning when they are with the children.  Thursday evening, Ray and I went out for a small celebratory dinner since the accreditation results had been announced (literally, we got the “small plates” at Houlihan’s.)  It was also the first time we’d had more than moments together since last weekend.  We scoured some tough topics, not exactly a romantic conversation, but valuable.  Friday was “Teacher Workday” and once I had done my quarterly paperwork, I focused on updating my teacher website so I can use it for more communication with prospective, current, and past students.  It’s pretty primitive and there are still some kinks to work out.  Some things look okay on my work computer, but words disappear on my home laptop.  Still it is fun to play with and keeps me in learning mode, which may be the most important thing, so I don’t lose touch with the students’ experience.  Finally, Friday evening brought one of my favorite things, sitting on the front porch doing nothing, but drift.  A neighbor came by and shared not so great news, which was still a chance to be connected.  It made me think of the old song “Friends and Neighbours”

“Although you’ve not a penny

and your house may be tumbling down

with friends and neighbours

you’re the richest man in town.”

A front porch is a great encourager of this kind of wealth.  It is also a great encourager of noticing the wealth of light around us.  This is the time of year for Keats lovely and ambiguous  “maturing sun.” Even in Florida, the sun matures and we would be foolish to think warm days will never cease.

Resume Play

Today was brilliant both literally and figuratively.  Woke up, put dog out, saw alarming, yet hilarious rhyming message on Ray’s note board, had bath and ruminated, replied in rhyme to positive effect.  Had class with students so creative and connected with both verbal and engineering problem solving.  Came down to my office to find that Gloria won our Teacher of the Year!  Went in to work this morning with clear skies and low humidity and came out with same, now sitting on the porch with our good neighbor, Michelle and birdsong all around.

Yesterday was International Walk to School Day, so I did, at least in part, walking to the observation site for one of my students and then catching the Freebie from the courthouse the rest of the way.  It was another perfect day for Florida weather and a joy to be out in the early morning as the water birds celebrated life in the lake.

Last weekend was the FLAEYC conference, Gloria and I sat outside at Marriott World Center relishing the golden evening after some days dedicated to workshops in windowless rooms.  Took the laptop with me to the conference, but by the end of each day’s sessions wanted to cozy up in my room rather than take it down to the free wireless areas or pay for the in room service.  Felt very out of touch and when I got home, Ray was doing mystical things with a new router, which made for more days in the old world.  How quickly we adapt to a certain way of processing life and almost forget what we did only a short while ago.  Now, I can play again.

How good it will be for Rachel to resume play eventually.

The miners in Chile may be able to be brought back to the light early next week.  They have to be brought up very carefully after such a long time in the dark.  Sometimes, you can’t just push a button or simply pick up where you left off.

 

A Kind of Resurrection

Today, I realized that this blog would be better titled “Weekly Waverings” than “Daily Decisions.”  Without question, the main difference between hand-written journal and blog has been that it is much harder to sit down and write a few sentences about the day when, instead of pen and spiral notebook laid out instantly ready on the desk, the process involves plugging in, powering up, and then getting on-line and not responding to update prompts, not looking at the e-mail box, weather report, or news headlines, not checking Facebook, but just finding inward clearness with a blank mind and a blank page both gradually filling as needed.  The return of the school year schedule is no excuse.  Last school year, I wrote nearly every morning with the journal.  It’s just more of a production and a more ensnaring path to the door of the writing space.

Nevertheless, the daily decision is to keep returning to the ethereal room of one’s own and notes are stored and treasured for the moment the door opens.  So this week brought, among many other joys, jobs, and concerns, a wonderful few minutes in conversation with several four-year-olds about sauces, specifically apple sauce, barbecue sauce, hot sauce, and jump sauce.  Being four-year-olds, of course, it was no leap at all to a discussion of swimming pools – in which you jump!

For several days this week, we’ve had rouged sunrises with dark bars of cloud; they always make me think, “Hurricane Sky,” though, in fact, Earl and Fiona stayed far to the east of Florida.

Meanwhile, on Tuesday evening, I sat after class in our school commons and watched President Obama give his end of combat in Iraq speech.  Here’s a war that will end at least three times, May 1, 2003, August 31, 2010, and some distant time when lions lay down with lambs, (or when Sunnis lay down with Shiites), when no wolves prowl, and all eagles have flown home.  No wonder the President looked and sounded tired and sad.  He kept talking about the “predawn darkness.”  Perhaps, he should have stuck to the cliche of “darkness before the dawn;” at least that turn of phrase culminates in “dawn,” instead of ending in “darkness.”  Most striking was the specific accounting for 4,400 American service persons killed to date, with only a passing reference to “Iraqis and coalition partners who made huge sacrifices of their own;” a sacrifice indeed, around 100,000 Iraqi civilians alone.

On Thursday evening, came the pleasure of Skyping Judith and Mike, who were online courtesy of their netbook in their bed and breakfast in North West Wales.  Their travels are taking them to territory I traveled in the Seventies with David and mum.  Very exciting to see that their B & B was in Dyffryn Ardudwy, a place that Dave and I had a hard time leaving all those years ago, even though it was a very inhospitable day.  Just like the trip to the mountains this summer, even a vicarious pilgrimage to familiar grounds bring back so much.  Most treasured is not so much the memory as the return of long abandoned possibilities.

For Judith, here is the poem from April 10th, 1978.

DYFFRYN ARDUDWY

Along the coast road in December

Mist wet winds sting from the West,

We drive through a salt, sea-lit air.

We round the bend.  In the numb village

New brick houses with iron windows

Are a broken wall on the cliff edge.

We stop by the sign with a rusted face.

Between the fences and raw backyards

We tread the path to the burial place.

They robbed the sea to build their cairn,

A tumbled pyramid of storm-ground bone,

Bleached stones brought to balance there.

On the green hill above the bare road

Is a place with no exit, no entry,

Silent throughout time; the portal closed.

Stilled, we wait.  Nothing goes by below.

Only a wren starts her song, hops

From stone to stone.  We turn and go.