A Visitor in the Vineyard

As I sit here listening to the General Assembly of the United Nations regarding the resolution to recognize Palestine, I notice I have a visitor to my blog from Palestinian Territories and this phrase in my stats, associated with this visitor: "Theresa and I were in the vineyard between the flowering apple trees and had lot of fun :)."  Yes, the smiley face was part of the search. Now, I don't spell my name with an 'h,' but even good friends forget sometimes, and I have never been in a vineyard with anyone, an orchard, yes, but not a vineyard. I have to say, the idea is very intriguing and I am not opposed to it, not at all. This is the post that his search led him to, whether he was heading there or not:
http://www.teresaevangeline.blogspot.com/2010_07_01_archive.html

Thank you for visiting my blog, however inadvertent it might have been. I am honored.

And the vote to recognize Palestine as a non-member observer state was just announced:

138 Yes
 9 No
42 Abstain.

Yes. This is a good day. A good step forward.




Image: my grapes, vintage 2010

She Had Angela Davis Hair

"The life that I could still live, I should live, and the thoughts that I could still think, I should think." ~ C.J. Jung







Image: me, in third grade, waiting for the school bus

In the Currach of Thought

Currach. Isn't that a lovely word?  It's Scotch and Irish for a type of boat, canvas with a wooden frame. It's new to me, and I love almost nothing more than a new word, especially one that rolls so gently. This love of words sustains and elevates my days, nourishing my heart and soul like nothing else can. They transport my thought, like the currach, moving towards the hearts of others who are willing to meet mine and, in that meeting, find the "invisible cloak" of home.


"Beannacht / Blessing"

On the day when
the weight deadens
on your shoulders
and you stumble,
may the clay dance
to balance you.
And when your eyes
freeze behind
the grey window
and the ghost of loss
gets in to you,
may a flock of colours,
indigo, red, green,
and azure blue
come to awaken in you
a meadow of delight.

When the canvas frays
in the currach of thought
and a stain of ocean
blackens beneath you,
may there come across the waters
a path of yellow moonlight
to bring you safely home.

May the nourishment of the earth be yours,
may the clarity of light be yours,
may the fluency of the ocean be yours,
may the protection of the ancestors be yours.
And so may a slow
wind work these words
of love around you,
an invisible cloak
to mind your life.

~ John O'Donohue, from Anam Cara: A Book of Celtic Wisdom.





Painting by my beloved Winslow Homer

Red Rubber Ball and the Summer of '66

In the summer of '66 many afternoons were spent at the bakery just down the street from my parent's cafe. The pinball machine was in the corner by one of the front windows and the jukebox in the other. We'd spin on stools of gaudy red plastic which sat in a row in front of the counter while penny candy lined the shelves on the other side. We must have driven the baker half mad as we slowly made our choices, but what I remember is his infinite patience. I was 13 that summer and knew good girls didn't buy candy cigarettes. I was not, however, adverse to bumming one off a friend. Jimmy J, the reigning pinball wizard, tried in vain to help me develop my timing, polish my wrist action, but I kept wandering over to the jukebox, the place where the secrets to life were kept, each one revealed in less than three minutes. Many songs had to have been played that summer but for the life of me I can recall only one: "Red Rubber Ball."

Note: "Red Rubber Ball" was co-written by Paul Simon.




Copyrighted image courtesy of Cletis Stump.

The Empty Clothesline

"Sometimes I have loved the peacefulness of an ordinary Sunday. It is like standing in a newly planted garden after a warm rain. You can feel the silent and invisible life. All it needs from you is that you take care not to trample on it." ~ Marilyn Robinson, author of Gilead

There are mornings that seem to require a softer step, a quieter entrance to the growing day, a time to let storms dissipate and fall into the nothingness from which they come. There's so much to be found in the "silent and invisible life," where anything is possible. Though the calendar tells us it's Monday, it's really just another "ordinary Sunday," deserving of all the gentleness we can bring to it, perhaps even a purer understanding of where each one of us might be on our own peculiar journey to remembering who we really are.


"Meeting the Light Completely"

Even the long-beloved
was once
an unrecognized stranger.

Just so,
the chipped lip
of a blue-glazed cup,
blown field
of a yellow curtain,
might also,
flooding and falling,
ruin your heart.

A table painted with roses.
An empty clothesline.

Each time,
the found world surprises—
that is its nature.

And then
what is said by all lovers:
"What fools we were, not to have seen."

~ Jane Hirshfield





Photo: my clothesline in summer

Remembering Charles Doss

Surely we all have stories inside of us, waiting to be told. Some of them need to be told, some of them will never be told and some are still waiting their turn. This morning, I knew it was time for me to tell you about a man named Charles Doss, someone with whom I shared a connection many years ago, beginning in the late 1970's. I never had the privilege of meeting him in person, exchanging emails, nor speaking with him on the phone. It arrived through letters and a shared love of poetry. My oldest sister sent one of his books of poetry to me and in a desire to tell him how much his words meant to me, a correspondence began. His address: Box B - 32823, Florence, AZ. 85232, a federal penitentiary where he spent several years, waiting on death row. Some of those years were spent in solitary confinement, awaiting appeals, where he began to write.

Did I spend a lot of time researching his case? No, I did not. That was not my concern, nor was it my place to judge. The state of his heart and soul was my only concern. And someone whose life had changed so dramatically, as evidenced in his poetry, deserved nothing less. His initial letter stated: "Thanks for your kind words. I'm glad you like my book. I agree with you at least 1,000% that  "Divine Love is the true source of all creativity," and I am always grateful for the opportunity to produce a poem or an essay."

It was one particular poem, contained within an essay, that struck me more deeply than the others. The essay was titled, "The Philippines of Our Soul."  I'd like to share a few excerpts from that essay along with the poem:


One of the many things that perplex me is the striking fact that I am happy...How can such a man be happy? I feel serenely confident that I can provide an answer. Let me commence by giving you a poem I wrote the other morning in the deep hours. It is called "Zamboanga."


There is an island in the Philippines,
or perhaps it is a province,
called Zamboanga.
I know nothing but its name, 
do not wish to know more.
It is pronounced with four syllables,
Zam bo AHNG ah,
and the sound to my ears is beautiful.

I don't know why it calls me so.
But I shall sojourn there one day,
and when I do I shall not be gray and old.
I shall be lean and hard, laughing and gay,
Filled with hope for the whole human race.
We should all have a Zamboanga,
lush, exotic, and beckoning,
Anchored brightly in the Philippines
                                   of our soul.



...there can be no walls in this universe high enough, no prisons tight enough, to prevent my journeys to Zamboanga. I need only to shut my eyes and make a slight wish, and there is no power on earth that can keep me from sailing away. Therefore it has communion, either in person or through the mails, with other souls that understand mystical islands that lie in perpetual tropics... What are we doing, you and I, when we speak searchingly of this magic island that shimmers in the non-existent sunlight? Where is the hemisphere that contains this place of such crucial significance in all our lives?
Can we not say simply that Zamboanga is love? 

I do not know the answer. I am simply a man who struggled to keep his sanity in a universe suddenly gone mad and tumultuous, and who was fortunate and blessed enough to discover his version of Zamboanga, which indeed was love - or shall we say Love?


Eventually, Charles Doss won a reprieve of sorts, his death sentence was commuted, and he returned to the main prison population, serving out the remaining years of his life. I'm sorry to say, my correspondence with him did not last that entire time. My life moved in new directions and our correspondence trailed off until it was no longer. In the last sentence of his last letter he wrote: "Good luck, my dear. I hope life is good to you," and then signed it, "Best love, Charles."

Even from inside those prison walls he knew that Love is the answer.

So, why did I decide to write about Charles today?  While looking at the stats for my blog this morning, I noticed that an unusual visitor arrived at almost the exact same time I got out of bed: 4:36. This visitor was from Zamboanga, Philippines.








Addendum: http://paper.li/TheJoyOTL/1306015089    
Thank you, Cletis.

The Sparrow in the Rafters

Having exhausted the pages of yet another notebook, and now on the verge of putting it to rest, I am, as usual, inclined to look back over it and see what made the cut, what didn't, and what might still be fodder for rumination and/or a blog post. Here are some samples chosen at my discretion. Parenthetical phrases shall be used in yet another miserable attempt at clarification and elucidation:


ensconced in reality  (whatever made me think that was a good idea?)

"i do love you thats why i'm leaving" (a keyword entry in my stats a few months ago)

a love poem for Tony Hoaglund (I went through a brief enchantment with this poet earlier this year from which I have since recovered)

Most life is what humans can't see.

Quote by Rilke: "This is the miracle that happens every time to those who really love; the more they give, the more they possess."  (what a bunch of hooey that is)

"The Chrysanthemums," by John Steinbeck ( a short story recommendation from a friend)

"Garanimals." Zac Galifianakis' reply, when asked at the Oscars, "What are you wearing?"

Quote by Goethe: "As soon as you trust yourself, you will know how to live." (more hooey)

Gary was in love with Shari, Stan was in love with me, I was in love with a man I hadn't met yet, and Shari wasn't in love with anybody. (the start of a short story that should probably never see the light of day, some principal characters still alive and all)

pinochle and smelt (see above).

Dusk was deep, the air electric, the view extraordinary.  (notes on pink lightning)

Humans have a very poor record.

We shouldn't rate ourselves. Let giraffes do the rating.

"Sometimes I still miss being human. My god, it's all so beautiful." (what Jack told me one morning)

Quote by Bill, at PracticingResurrection: "If we buy products made with slave labor, we contribute to the profits of slave masters and we announce that we prefer the stuff they make to the freedom of slaves, who are usually children."

"Nil desperandum." (never despair)

The Odditorium

The Dead Relationship Scrolls (attribution goes to my friend, Diane)

The sheep's in the meadow, the cows are in mourning.

"Cook the potatoes like twenty minutes or so. Well, until they're cooked really." (cooking instructions from "Two Fat Chicks," a great cooking show on the cooking channel - don't judge me)

My mind is like a dog without a master.  (did I steal that from somebody?)

It's gonna get crowded under the bridges.

In 1881 Tolstoy took a walk in the woods and found God.

You're really quiet until someone pushes your on button. (what a friend told me)

bragging rights to who knew what pre-internet

Quote from Walker Evans: "Stare, pry, listen, eavesdrop. Die knowing something. We are not here long."

pasture and back field  (words I love)

a long and tangled friendship (could be anybody)

"Senator, don't piss down my back and tell me it's raining." (I think it's from Hunter S. Thompson, but I'm not certain)

What seems perfect, sooner or later becomes less than.

Quote from Charles Bukowski: "Bad luck for the young poet would be a rich father, an early marriage, an early success or the ability to do anything well."

from the railroad tracks to the ocean

I cannot resist a burning bush.

the I of the storm

Quote of unknown origin: "He vibrates one wing...to make what one assumes is a pleading sort of noise. Females can sing, too...but their brains tell them not to."  (since when?)

Many people are having a hard time getting their eyes adjusted to the light.

dreams as avant garde plays

They create money out of nothing and charge interest on nothing.

Ghosts doing the Orange Dance (I have no idea and neither do you).

Jesus was a quantum physicist.

where meth meets myth  (lottery winner found dead from OD)

a lock of hair on barbed wire

Richard Pryor and Khalil Gibran

"The Encyclopedia of Games, Idiocy, and Disaster" (title for a book on relationships a friend and I agreed could be written by either one of us).

"Never stir the fire with a sword." ~ Pythagoras

"Hear a funky noise, the tightening of the screws." ~ from lyrics to the latest Stones song.

Beer Run at the Old Schoolhouse (a blog post I should write someday).

blackberry blossoms in autumn

"Your relationship software is incompatible." (another quote I must attribute to Diane)

a director for the movie of my life: somewhere between Wes Anderson and Tim Burton.

quote from Leonard on The Big Bang Theory: "Sometimes crazy looks like sad so it sucks you back in."

quote from Cletis Stump: "If you're a character in a Raymond Carver story, don't answer the phone."

At the end of my life, I don't want anyone to say, "She played it safe."  (and neither should you)

no more Cherry Garcia  (upon finding out Ben and Jerry's is a subsidiary of Unilever)

up on the roof as opposed to under the boardwalk

She's so close to the bottom her chin is scraping the rocks. (someone I know who's struggling more than she should be, and no, it's not me).

the sparrow in the rafters




Photograph, "Home Before Dark,"  by Eudora Welty, just because I like it.

Half Moon Over the Meadow

Late yesterday afternoon, as a half-moon rose in a still-blue sky, Buddy and I went for a walk in the meadow. Intersecting paths used by all the creatures who live nearby are woven now across it. Here and there, depressions in the grass show where they have lain. Buddy stopped to sniff each one, sometimes burrowing his nose deep into the tufts of grass, savoring every last scent. As always, he ran from place to place with a big smile on his beautiful face, just so darn happy to be alive. One cannot remain passive in the presence of it. It calls for joy in equal measure, and I always return to the house better than when I left it.

I'm so grateful for his companionship, and for yours.


"Hope is like a road in the country; there was never a road, but when many people walk on it, the road comes into existence."  ~ Lin Yutang

A Girl with Kaleidoscope Eyes

While wondering through a shop in New Orleans, I was reminded of my first glimpse inside a kaleidoscope. It was a birthday gift from my grandparents, just an inexpensive little thing, nothing like those I saw in the shop, but I still recall turning it over and over, watching those colored chips fall into pattern after pattern, a stained glass window in slow motion.

The shop in New Orleans was a kaleidoscope lovers paradise. They sat atop glass shelves and across the counters in every possible type of wood and in a variety of metals. They each had their own stand to cradle them, and each one I held to my eye offered something unique, with different configurations and varieties of colors.

I didn't go home with a kaleidoscope that day. Instead, I came home and bought one for myself and one for each of my sons, made of cheap cardboard, much like the one I had as a child. So much potential for beauty inside a small cardboard cylinder filled with tiny bits of colored glass.

This song popped into my head today so I went on a search and came across the most perfect video, which conjured up my love of kaleidoscopes. I think it's time for a bit of happiness:

Children of the Light

Though first recorded in 2009, this is, unfortunately, as relevant today as then, perhaps more so...  It's time to raise our voices against this and all forms of oppression and genocide, against all forms of tyranny and manipulation, against all measures that would make us believe we are anything less than Children of the Light, that we are One.

https://youtu.be/dlfhoU66s4Y

I found the video, with the words to the song, on CoyotePrime's site: coyoteprime-runningcauseicantfly.blogspot.com

The Dolphins Under the Bridge

A few days ago, while visiting on the phone with a friend, we started talking about family, not our tribe, but the one we were born into, the one that all too often drives us nuts. You know the one. I guess with Thanksgiving approaching, it entered our minds as she was dealing with a self-inflicted invitation to the Family Fun House. We both like to think we are at least on the path to possible enlightenment and have found a way to move through these events unscathed. Then I reminded her of what Ram Dass says about that: "If you think you're enlightened, go spend a week with your family." She responded with a recent talk she'd watched by Joel Osteen (there's room for everybody at this table) who alluded to Noah's time on the ark, surrounded by nothing but family for days on end. No wonder his sons found him drunk with his clothes falling off. Given the extended family time, I told her I probably would have taken my chances in the water, flood or no flood, then she added, "...and pray for dolphins."

Dolphins have come to the rescue of humans more than once, not for me personally, but I've read of these rescues and I'm always taken with how compassionate and loving they seem to be, completely without judgment and open to us in ways that simply amaze me. Their behavior seems far superior to many humans.

My favorite dolphin story of all time is found in a documentary titled, "The Bridge." If you haven't seen it, I hope you will. It's a tough one to watch at times; the subject is not a happy one, but an important one, nonetheless. For a year, a film crew set up cameras near the Golden Gate Bridge, just to watch and record those who came to walk it, and, ultimately, those who came to end their lives there. Their job was not to interfere, it was to record the movement on the bridge. The story that unfolded was the story that unfolded.

We watch as their cameras find a variety of people, both young and old, who have lost their ability to make sense of life, who have come to end their personal nightmare.  And, we watch as some of them climb up and over, and drop to the water below. Some climb up on the railing, stand there for a few seconds and then fall backwards into eternity. Some hesitate and a person arrives just in time to prevent them from doing so. One young girl was literally pulled back from the edge, held onto by her rescuer as they waited for help to arrive, then taken away, along with her choice in that moment. We listen as family and friends talk, trying to make sense of it all, what and where it all went wrong for the person they loved so much. These are the stories of helplessness.

But, one of those stories was told by a survivor. He described how, after he had leaped, on his way down to the water, he felt remorse for his choice, and realized he wanted to live. More than anything. Not long after hitting the water and being pulled down into it, he found himself being raised up by a force he could not see. Something was working to bring him up to the surface until his head emerged above the water. What came to his rescue, what buoyed him to the surface? Dolphins. Dolphins came and formed a circle beneath him. They continued swimming in a circle, which created a buoyant force, and then swam him to the surface, holding him there, within their circle, until help arrived. It's a story about love, it's a story of how the universe works when we fully open ourselves to it, and it's a story I hope I never forget.

Silence is Not Golden

No, I haven't fallen into a deep dark hole. I'm just becoming more aware of the power of words to hurt or heal, and right now I would like to participate more fully in the healing, but there are things that cannot be ignored. We have ignored them for far too long. There comes a time when silence is complicity and I cannot remain complicit. I will write again about my love of nature. It hasn't gone anywhere. I still walk with Buddy and step outside every chance I get. But, this morning, I have returned from a video search through the music of Bruce Cockburn, who speaks out and has for years against tyranny and injustice and all things that matter.

I was first introduced to his music probably twenty five years ago, and have had the great privilege of seeing him live in small venues three times. They are the true nights to remember.

I woke up this morning to a Cockburn song emailed to me by a longtime friend, which led me on this journey through Cockburn country. That is one journey well worth taking. He sent another song, which helped to lift me above all the ludicrous ways we are lied to and led into believing things that aren't true. One of these is the history of how we stole this country away from the native people. I know there are people who will say that that's just the way it's always been. And they would be right, but that doesn't make it Right, and why are we still saying that?

A few weeks ago, I sat down to watch a program on PBS about how the government literally took Indian children from their homes, as young as 5, and put them in government schools so that they would be stripped of their language and their culture, indoctrinated into the white man's system, forced to adhere to the white man's agenda, the same system, the same agenda into which we have all been indoctrinated. Watching and listening to those who were taken from their homes as they told their stories was heartbreaking. The juxtaposition between how they had lived and how they became forced to live, leading to what they experience to this day.... there are no words.

Bruce Cockburn has a few songs which deal with this issue of being stripped of your land, your homes, even your children. I've chosen this video, which is a live performance, with images that deliver the message as strongly as Bruce does with his song. It's a powerful combination, only the more powerful because it continues to this day all over the world. Palestinian children are being killed indiscriminately right now on the Gaza Strip, this very morning, and I cannot sit by in silence. I cannot go for a walk in the woods without first honoring their lives and their families...  Yes, a story old as time, but turning away in silence cannot continue.

For a look at events leading up to this current attack on Gaza: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2qoMyV3jzjA

Thank You, RZ.

Living Among the Vampires

When I woke up this morning, I was planning to write about the beautiful evening I had last night, listening to Canada geese flying under the Milky Way and across the Big Dipper, as it lay cradled in the trees at the end of my drive. A friend and I had been talking about the wild horses of Assateague Island, off the coast of Virginia and Maryland, when I stepped outside and looked up in astonishment. No other word for it. Pure astonishment.

Yes, that was my intent, but then the Writer's Almanac delivered a poem by George Bilgere, whose poetry never fails to speak to me on some deeper level, and my subject had to change. Please understand, I'm trying to not be angry. Anger is such a wasted emotion, but right now it's hard to see that. How are we going to wrest control of our lives?  And I say 'our' because that's the only way to see it.  How are we going to take our lives out of the hands of the warmongers, the Masters of War, as Bob Dylan so aptly sang of them, and get them to wake up out of the deadly sleep into which they have fallen? Are they never going to tire of their war games? We are not talking about little packages of green plastic soldiers that can be brought out of a drawer the day after Christmas to be played with at will. When do they realize that they are dealing with real people and real lives, sons and daughters, fathers and mothers?

Now, "soldiers" sit in control rooms with their fingers on remotes and detonate bombs as though playing a war game on a computer. Cognitive dissonance doesn't begin to describe the bizarre direction these bloodthirsty bastards have taken. It's vampirism. No, it is. Remote vampirism. And there won't be any new memorials, because we're too busy killing to erect any new ones. Where would we begin? And how do you erect a memorial to the hundreds of thousands dead at our hands in countries buried beneath rubble?  We've literally destroyed the cradle of civilization. How's that as a metaphor for our times?

I'm sick to my stomach.


"At the Vietnam Memorial"

The last time I saw the name Paul Castle
it was printed in gold on the wall
above the showers in the boys'
locker room, next to the school
record for the mile. I don't recall
his time, but the year was 1968
and I can look across the infield
of memory to see him on the track,
legs flashing, body bending slightly
beyond the pack of runners at his back.

He couldn't spare a word for me,
two years younger, junior varsity,
and hardly worth the waste of breath.
He owned the hallways, a cool blonde
at his side, and aimed his interests
further down the line than we could guess.

Now, reading the name again,
I see us standing in the showers,
naked kids beneath his larger,
comprehensive force—the ones who trail
obscurely, in the wake of the swift,
like my shadow on this gleaming wall.

~ George Bilgere



I was hoping Iris DeMent's song would become a part of our history, but that's not to be....

Singing In the Dark Meadow

"Horses at Midnight Without a Moon"

Our heart wanders lost in the dark woods.
Our dream wrestles in the castle of doubt.
But there's music in us. Hope is pushed down
but the angel flies up again taking us with her.
The summer mornings begin inch by inch
while we sleep, and walk with us later
as long-legged beauty through
the dirty streets. It is no surprise
that danger and suffering surround us.
What astonishes is the singing.
We know the horses are there in the dark
meadow because we can smell them,
can hear them breathing.
Our spirit persists like a man struggling
through the frozen valley
who suddenly smells flowers
and realizes the snow is melting
out of sight on top of the mountain,
knows that spring has begun.        



~ Jack Gilbert  (February 18, 1925 - November 11, 2012)



For Jack's poem, "Forgotten Dialect of the Heart," my previous post: http://teresaevangeline.blogspot.com/2012/01/not-language-but-map.html

Escape Pods and Sacred Places

This love affair with automobile as escape pod seems to have begun inside a Model A (or was it a Model T? I'm never certain which is which) some time back around 1959. Someone had parked it in the meadow behind the corn crib many years before I turned the metal handle and hopped inside, looking for a ride around the world. From inside that car anything seemed possible. I had no specific destination in mind, but the West began calling my name pretty early on, especially the Southwest, a place of deserts and canyons and perpetual blue skies. My earliest books told the tale, with titles like, Honey Bunch: Her First Trip West. I signed and dated them even then.

When I was 14, my friend, Rusty, who came up from Des Moines every summer to visit, taught me how to drive behind the wheel of his turquoise and white '57 Chevy. With wheels beneath me and the road ahead, spooling out into the wild blue yonder en route to Roosevelt Lake, my training began.

When I got my license at 16, the car became my escape pod and remains so to this day. If there's a need to get my head on straight, and walking doesn't quite cut it, I get behind the wheel and drive, no destination in mind, just the road melting away anxiety and shaking off any blues trying to get attached. It's always been that way. I used to spend time feeling guilty about it, mainly because others saw escaping as something to be frowned upon. But I say, a little escape can be good for the soul and others no longer decide what I'm supposed to feel guilty about, I do, and it's pretty much next to nothing, and never for very long.

Lately, my time behind the wheel seems less needed. But, like an emergency plan, my car is always ready, waiting for me to turn the key in the ignition. And, apparently, I have not been alone in this need for an escape pod, this sacred place of solitude. For many of us, this need starts early.


"The Sacred"

After the teacher asked if anyone had
    a sacred place
and the students fidgeted and shrank

in their chairs, the most serious of them all
    said it was his car,
being in it alone, his tape deck playing

things he'd chosen, and others knew the truth
    had been spoken
and began speaking about their rooms,

their hiding places, but the car kept coming up,
    the car in motion,
music filling it, and sometimes one other person

who understood the bright altar of the dashboard
    and how far away
a car could take him from the need

to speak, or to answer, the key
    in having a key
and putting it in, and going.

~ Stephen Dunn, from Between Angels

Dancing While the Coffee Perks

Yesterday, in a phone conversation with a friend, we were talking about how there's nothing quite like music and literature to bring people together, the perfect conduits through which we can experience our connection to Source and to each other. Art, absolutely, but our reactions to a painting tend to be quite individual and the creation of it a more solitary activity. There is a place, if not a need, for personal accomplishment, that individual expression of creativity, but we were looking at the energy that forms around a collaborative effort and how that energy can expand through the light that's emitted in that effort. There's something about a good song, or a good poem shared between two or more people that gets the energy moving more easily than anything else. At least, that was the conclusion we drew.

He sent this video to me, knowing I would have the same reaction he did. Are any of you aware of Daryl's House? That's Daryl Hall, of Hall and Oates. He's been doing these informal jam sessions for about five years, apparently. They include a wide range of musicians, all performing at his house. It's sort of a live music blog that takes garage band to a whole new level. I've heard this song many times, you probably have too, but I had not heard of Patrick Stump. What a great version of this classic R & B song. Shortly after 6:00 this morning, it was still fairly dark, the light was just barely breaking through the trees, and I was dancing in the kitchen to "What Becomes of the Broken Hearted"  while the coffee perked. Not a bad way to begin a new day. I highly recommend it.

Painting by Wassily Kandinsky. For more images and quotes: http://teresaevangeline.blogspot.com/2012/01/listening-to-inner-need.html

Louis and Mark: Nice Fish

This poem, "The Bear's Money," by Louis Jenkins, just knocks my socks off. Jenkins is a prose poet living in Duluth, Minnesota and I'm a big fan. Two of his poems have served as Mark Rylance's acceptance speeches for Tony Awards he's won as best actor. I've written before about my fondness for these men. They are currently collaborating on a play based on Mr. Jenkins poems, which have more than a touch of Minnesota in them. They're about the real world, with a smidgen or two of the mystical thrown in for good measure. Their play, "Nice Fish," will be opening at the Guthrie Theater in Minneapolis in April of next year. I think tickets are in order, or perhaps I should say, will soon be on order.



"The Bear's Money"

Every fall before he goes to sleep a bear will put away
five or six hundred dollars. Money he got from garbage
cans, mostly. People throw away thousands of dollars
every day, and around here a lot of it goes to bears.
But what good is money to a bear? I mean, how many
places are there that a bear can spend it? It's a good
idea to first locate the bear's den, in fall after the leaves
are down. Back on one of the old logging roads you'll
find a tall pine or spruce covered with scratch marks,
the bear runes, which translate to something like
"Keep out. That means you!" You can rest assured that
the bear and his money are nearby, in a cave or in a space
dug out under some big tree roots. When you return in winter,
a long hike on snowshoes, the bear will be sound asleep....
In a month or two he'll wake, groggy, out of sorts, ready
to bite something, ready to rip something to shreds ... but
by then you'll be long gone, back in town, spending like a
drunken sailor.

~Louis Jenkins





Some info. on their friendship and collaboration:

http://artsbeat.blogs.nytimes.com/2012/04/16/mark-rylance-play-written-with-a-favorite-poet-is-coming-to-the-guthrie

And my earlier post on them:

http://www.teresaevangeline.blogspot.com/2011/06/poems-of-acceptance.html



That wonderful photo at the top is the poet, and one more picture of Mr. Rylance can't hurt....

Dancing on Broken Bed Springs

When I was very young, I attended a church that suddenly began to have a call to the altar every single Sunday. For the unenlightened, a call to the altar is where you repent of your sins, accept Jesus as your personal savior and become "born again." Even then, it left me cold and disturbed, something I've posted about before. I couldn't understand the need for it. I was somewhere around six years old when it started. How bad could I have been?

Perhaps it was the time I spilled nail polish remover all over my sister's 45 records, erasing any hint of artist or title. Hey, accidents happen. Or, it could have been the summer I didn't want to take the time to walk to the outhouse and so went behind the house, and when confronted with the evidence I lied. I suppose I could have been a tad more sorry about running through the living room, through the doorway of our bedroom, jumping on the bed until the springs broke. The picture tells how we dealt with that. Yeah, that's me sitting on the broken bed springs with sisters Jane and Chris above me.

Perhaps I've divulged too much.

Eventually, we learned the reason for the incessant altar calls; the truth was revealed but didn't necessarily set anyone free. Unless it did. Turns out, the pastor's wife was having an affair with the head deacon, so the pastor decided to make us all pay for their "sins." But, a call to the altar every single Sunday, holding up closing time? That was payment enough for this country kid.

Since then, I listen to Leonard Cohen instead. He's the only preacher I need. Now, some might think repentance is in order when they hear this song. What can I say, it makes me want to dance. To paraphrase what he says at the end, "Cheerfulness keeps breaking through."  Here's Brother Leonard with "The Future."

He wrote this song in 1992. Sounds pretty prophetic to me.

Storms Never Last

We were experiencing a mid-November thunderstorm this morning, starting with a soft rain that escalated into lightning and a low rumbling off in the distance. I often see the world's weather patterns as mirrors of where we are in the world. I don't mean geographically, I'm referring to our thoughts if not our fears. Yes, it can be seen in something as large as Sandy, when just before the election the entire nation seemed to be waiting in fear for whatever storm would soon be realized. Perhaps it's in the wind which will sometimes arrive in gale proportions, blowing up dust that almost obliterates the emotional landscape causing confusion about which direction our lives should take. Or it arrives with the rain, either torrential or softly falling, depending on our outlook, literally. In my neck of the woods it can arrive in a snowstorm. Let me give you an example out of my own life.

Many years ago (a lot of my stories seem to begin this way now), in the late 1970's, after my first divorce, I was traveling as a salesperson around the upper mid-west selling Native American jewelry, made in the southwest, to jewelry stores who were just becoming aware of the resurgence of interest in this type of jewelry. Fashion magazines had caught on to it and sales were rapidly improving.

I was in the southern part of the state in early March, staying overnight at a motel along the interstate, filled with anxiety and uncertainty about a relationship I had become involved in. Our relationship began in the summer, having met in the library in this town where I now live, but he always went to Minneapolis to work for the winter and the winter had been long. Trying to maintain a long distance relationship, particularly before the advent of cellphones or email, was problematic, to say the least.

I had already come to see signs and symbols in life, and so that night in the motel became sort of a not-so-fun House of Mirrors. The fact that the light switch, which was also a flourescent  night light, had a family praying around a table with the mother's head missing was a bit unnerving. I tried not to read too much into it and fitfully fell asleep.

Sometime overnight, a snowstorm blew in that quickly developed into blizzard proportions. I was supposed to be in Minneapolis for an appointment with a well-known jewelry store and a date with my boyfriend to see "The Deer Hunter," a film we were both looking forward to seeing. I decided to go ahead and make an attempt at Minneapolis, which was about two hours away normally. As I was leaving town in the storm, a state trooper stopped me and told me that if I insisted on leaving town no one would come out to rescue me. I would be on my own.

Fairly young and overly foolish, I left town, heading north into the heart of the storm. It didn't take long before I started praying. Cars had slid under semi-trucks and several others were sprawled in the ditches on both sides, which was not exactly encouraging. Visibility was pretty much zero. I was flying almost on intuition, as weird as that might sound. Then, right in front of me was a UPS truck. I could barely make out his taillights. I followed them, hoping he would remain on the road, as he was my only hope (dare I add Obi Wan Kenobi?)

This went on mile after endless mile. After a while, I could see that this was really a ground blizzard. The snow was viciously blowing across the open prairie, but blue skies were shining right above me. I could see them, but not experience them. It was this ray of hope that kept me going. There was no going back, I had to keep moving forward, see what unfolded, and expect a positive outcome. The expectation of good had become a spiritual practice for me. Practice being the key word.

Not long after that affirmation, it was as though a veil had lifted with a line drawn across the entire landscape. The snow not only had stopped, but there was no evidence it ever existed. If it was behind me, I couldn't see it. There were beautiful blue skies and clear roads without even a hint of ice or snow. I drove into Minneapolis in gratitude.

I didn't make it to my appointment with the jewelry store that day. We rescheduled, with a substantial sale as the outcome. The date with my boyfriend was another matter. Yes, we did go to see "The Deer Hunter" that evening. What we were not prepared for was the emotional assault the movie would inflict on us, and so, afterwards, not being fully aware of what happened, we got into a terrible argument and the relationship, already balancing rather precariously, was derailed. We made several attempts to get back on track, none of them successful.

I'm not even sure what my original point was, but maybe it's this: sometimes, and maybe always, the weather seems to be an indicator of my emotional landscape and it might serve me well to look around and see what's happening out there that's indicative of what's happening in here, in my mind and even my heart. And then remember that I can control the "weather" through my thoughts and my desire to find peace and contentment in life as I move forward with greater assurance of a positive and healthy outcome.

Anyhoo, this whole train of thought probably should have been derailed before I let it leave the station, but it all started because I couldn't get this darn song out of my head. About the same time this story took place, I was also singing in a country and western band on the weekends and I would often sing the songs of Jessi Colter. This one hopped on board my train of thought yesterday afternoon and now I'm stuck with it for a while. Here's Jessi and her hubby, Waylon Jennings, who passed on in 2002:

"And every road we took, God knows, our search was for the truth...."



The photo of my back yard was taken a short time ago, after the storm, a light rain still falling....

Mysteries Not Found in Dictionaries

My love of language has followed me around all my life. Or, perhaps I've been chasing after it. Either way, it has informed my path like nothing else. Whether written, spoken, or sung, the word itself is what gives my life direction, maybe even purpose, and a depth of meaning that is now becoming more apparent and more deeply rooted.

My love of dictionaries has played a major role in all of this - finding the right word and discovering its etymology - but this can only take us so far into meaning. There are things that cannot be found in a book; some things can only be discovered through experience and circumstance, and some things remain elusive as though the mystery itself is the meaning.

Take the red fox I saw early this morning running down the road past my house, a car following it very slowly, not wanting to harm it in any way, almost shepherding it along the road. It ran on, the car continued to follow it slowly until they were both out of sight. I wanted so badly for the fox to run into the woods, to find refuge there. Why wasn't it willing to leave the road?  Why didn't it run into the woods or the field beyond, its natural habitat?

Though I have looked at this image and its implications - the symbolic nature of it, ripe with metaphor - the whole scene has left me feeling a bit unsettled. Sometimes there are no answers, only questions. And that's okay.


"Inheritance"

At my elbow on the table
it lies open as it has done
for a good part of these thirty
years ever since my father died
and it passed into my hands
this Webster's New International
Dictionary of the English
Language of 1922
on India paper which I
was always forbidden to touch
for fear I would tear or somehow
damage its delicate pages
heavy in their binding
this color of wet sand
on which thin waves hover
when it was printed he was twenty-six
they had not been married four years
he was a country preacher
in a one-store town and I suppose
a man came to the door one day
peddling this new dictionary
on fine paper like the Bible
at an unrepeatable price
and it seemed it would represent
a distinction just to own it
confirming something about him
that he could not even name
now its cover is worn as though
it had been carried on journeys
across the mountains and deserts
of the earth but it has been here
beside me the whole time
what has frayed it like that
loosening it gnawing at it
all through these years
I know I must have used it
much more than he did but always
with care and indeed affection
turning the pages patiently
in search of meanings


~ W.S. Merwin, from The Shadow of Sirius




Painting by Winslow Homer

The Last Child Into the Ship

One of my favorite books throughout the vast number of years it seems I've been reading now, continues to be A Canticle for Leibowitz, by Walter M. Miller, Jr.  A science fiction classic, I was first introduced to it in a literature course in college taught by my beloved professor, Dr. Milowski. * It was during this course that several writers came into my personal canon. This one stands out among them still. For several years I enjoyed collecting the many different editions, each one having a different cover, if not format.

It's a post-apocalyptic story revolving around a religious order that springs up after nuclear devastation. The world is a barren desert with all knowledge gone. Out of this hellish landscape hope springs from what amounts to a simple grocery list scribbled by the Blessed Saint Leibowitz:

pound pastrami
can kraut
six bagels -
bring home for Emma

This and other "important documents" have been discovered in a "fallout survival shelter" by one Brother Francis, around whom this story revolves. Brother Francis is a seven year novitiate at the abbey who has become proficient in the imitation of wolf calls, amusing his brethren by calling the pack nearer the abbey after dark. Of course, as history begins to repeat itself, as it's wont to do, all sorts of politically based motives develop around Brother Francis, Saint Leibowitz, the discovery of his papers (which include a blueprint for circuitry design), and the powers that be.

It is, however, the very first paragraph of the book that drew me in, as is usually the case: "Brother Francis Gerard of Utah might never have discovered the blessed documents had it not been for the pilgrim with girded loins who appeared during that young novice's Lenten fast in the desert." And so the story begins....

But, this isn't a book review. What intrigues me about this book and always has, is how the simplest shred of hope becomes the very thing a large number of people create and even develop a story around that may or may not be true. Facts are not what is important, what is important is the shred of hope.  Now, as you might well know, I'm a big believer in hope, but hope is a tricky thing and can cause us to create "truth" rather than be willing to look with clear eyes at what actually is. As a momentum builds we overlook many very blatant facts in order to hang onto that hope. It can be a rather frightening scenario, and so we don't willingly look at it with open eyes. It's easier to look through the fingers we've spread across our face and pick and choose what we want to see, want to believe, and accept that as reality.

However, it's not healthy for us, or for this planet. So, maybe we need to get outside our comfort zones, look around, and see where we really are, and then start creating the life we really want. This is true for us as individuals and it's especially true now, for all of us, collectively.

From the final pages of A Canticle for Leibowitz: 

"They sang as they lifted the children into the ship. They sang old space chanteys and helped the children up the ladder one at a time and into the hands of the sisters. They sang heartily to dispel the fright of the little ones. When the horizon erupted, the singing stopped. They passed the last child into the ship...

The last monk, upon entering, paused in the lock. He stood in the open hatchway and took off his sandals. "Sic transit mundus," he murmured, looking back at the glow. He slapped the soles of his sandals together, beating the dirt out of them. The glow was engulfing a third of the heavens. He scratched his beard, took one last look at the ocean, then stepped back and closed the hatch."

And for reasons that the book itself reveals, this song, "After the Goldrush," written by Neil Young and performed here by Dolly Parton, Emmylou Harris, and Linda Ronstadt, seems to fit perfectly:

https://youtu.be/4CoM9rMQuXE

For a good description of this novel: http://www.en.wikipedia.org/wiki/A_Canticle_For_Leibowitz


* Dr. Raymond Milowski, the professor I have referred to here and in a previous post, has recently passed on. His son, Alex, was kind enough to inform me. I'm very sad at his passing, yet so grateful for all that he brought into my young life. When I was so very eager to gobble up everything I could in the way of good literature, he most kindly obliged. I will write about him again in a future post after the memorial service.

The Tilting Barn of Memory

"At the Post Office"

The line is long, processional, glacial,

and the attendant a giant stone, cobalt blue

with flecks of white, I’m not so much

looking at a rock but a slab of night.

The stone asks if anything inside the package

is perishable. When I say no the stone

laughs, muted thunderclap, meaning

everything decays, not just fruit

or cut flowers, but paper, ink, the CD

I burned with music, and my friend

waiting to hear the songs, some little joy

after chemo eroded the tumor. I know flesh

is temporary, and memory a tilting barn

the elements dismantle nail by nail.

I know the stone knows a millennia of rain

and wind will even grind away

his ragged face, and all of this slow erasing

is just a prelude to when the swelling

universe burns out, goes dark, holds

nothing but black holes, the bones of stars

and planets, a vast silence. The stone

is stone-faced. The stone asks how soon

I want the package delivered. As fast

as possible, I say, then start counting the days.

~ David Hernandez

I took the photograph at a farm that has since disappeared into memory.

Homeland Security Pays a Visit

Apparently, they have nothing better to do. But, Red Green as an entry point?  Yeah, he's pretty subversive alright. They must have enjoyed my site, as they spent over 37 minutes here. Hope they liked what they saw/read!

Directly from my Stat Counter Page:

Page Views: 4 Entry Page Time: 6 Nov 2012 16:48:31 Visit Length: 37 mins 28 secs Browser: IE 8.0 OS: WinXP Resolution: 1280x1024

Total Visits: 1 Location: Washington, District of Columbia, United States IP Address: Department Of Homeland Security (216.81.81.80) [Label IP Address] Search Referral:  www.google.com — red greenImage Search Entry Page:  teresaevangeline.blogspot.com/2010/08/great-philosopher-red-green.html Exit Page:  teresaevangeline.blogspot.com/2010/08/great-philosopher-red-green.html

"Questionnaire" by Wendell Berry

For the first time since I started blogging, I am adding an additional post in the same day. I found this poem at: practicingresurrection.wordpress.com/2012/11/06/lesser-evils/ and am posting it in its entirety here, although I encourage you to make the link. Thank you, Bill, for publishing it today.

"Questionnaire"

by Wendell Berry

1. How much poison are you willing
to eat for the success of the free
market and global trade? Please
name your preferred poisons.

2. For the sake of goodness, how much
evil are you willing to do?

Fill in the following blanks
with the names of your favorite
evils and acts of hatred.

3. What sacrifices are you prepared
to make for culture and civilization?
Please list the monuments, shrines,
and works of art you would
most willingly destroy.

4. In the name of patriotism and
the flag, how much of our beloved
land are you willing to desecrate?
List in the following spaces
the mountains, rivers, towns, farms
you could most readily do without.

5. State briefly the ideas, ideals, or hopes,
the energy sources, the kinds of security,
for which you would kill a child.
Name, please, the children whom
you would be willing to kill.










Image: Wendell Berry at his home in 2011.

Eugene V. Debs: Joy Cometh with the Morning

I have long had a deep appreciation for those who have struggled on our behalf, among them this man, Eugene V. Debs. Great speeches by great people do not go out of style. Here is his statement before a judge in federal court on the day of his sentencing for violating the Sedition Act of 1917. Its relevance remains:

"Your Honor, years ago I recognized my kinship with all living beings, and I made up my mind that I was not one bit better than the meanest on earth. I said then, and I say now, that while there is a lower class, I am in it, and while there is a criminal element I am of it, and while there is a soul in prison, I am not free.

I listened to all that was said in this court in support and justification of this prosecution, but my mind remains unchanged. I look upon the Espionage Law as a despotic enactment in flagrant conflict with democratic principles and with the spirit of free institutions…

Your Honor, I have stated in this court that I am opposed to the social system in which we live; that I believe in a fundamental change—but if possible by peaceable and orderly means…

Standing here this morning, I recall my boyhood. At fourteen I went to work in a railroad shop; at sixteen I was firing a freight engine on a railroad. I remember all the hardships and privations of that earlier day, and from that time until now my heart has been with the working class. I could have been in Congress long ago. I have preferred to go to prison…

I am thinking this morning of the men in the mills and the factories; of the men in the mines and on the railroads. I am thinking of the women who for a paltry wage are compelled to work out their barren lives; of the little children who in this system are robbed of their childhood and in their tender years are seized in the remorseless grasp of Mammon and forced into the industrial dungeons, there to feed the monster machines while they themselves are being starved and stunted, body and soul. I see them dwarfed and diseased and their little lives broken and blasted because in this high noon of Christian civilization money is still so much more important than the flesh and blood of childhood. In very truth gold is god today and rules with pitiless sway in the affairs of men.

In this country—the most favored beneath the bending skies—we have vast areas of the richest and most fertile soil, material resources in inexhaustible abundance, the most marvelous productive machinery on earth, and millions of eager workers ready to apply their labor to that machinery to produce in abundance for every man, woman, and child—and if there are still vast numbers of our people who are the victims of poverty and whose lives are an unceasing struggle all the way from youth to old age, until at last death comes to their rescue and lulls these hapless victims to dreamless sleep, it is not the fault of the Almighty: it cannot be charged to nature, but it is due entirely to the outgrown social system in which we live that ought to be abolished not only in the interest of the toiling masses but in the higher interest of all humanity…

I believe, Your Honor, in common with all Socialists, that this nation ought to own and control its own industries. I believe, as all Socialists do, that all things that are jointly needed and used ought to be jointly owned—that industry, the basis of our social life, instead of being the private property of a few and operated for their enrichment, ought to be the common property of all, democratically administered in the interest of all…

I am opposing a social order in which it is possible for one man who does absolutely nothing that is useful to amass a fortune of hundreds of millions of dollars, while millions of men and women who work all the days of their lives secure barely enough for a wretched existence.

This order of things cannot always endure. I have registered my protest against it. I recognize the feebleness of my effort, but, fortunately, I am not alone. There are multiplied thousands of others who, like myself, have come to realize that before we may truly enjoy the blessings of civilized life, we must reorganize society upon a mutual and cooperative basis; and to this end we have organized a great economic and political movement that spreads over the face of all the earth.

There are today upwards of sixty millions of Socialists, loyal, devoted adherents to this cause, regardless of nationality, race, creed, color, or sex. They are all making common cause. They are spreading with tireless energy the propaganda of the new social order. They are waiting, watching, and working hopefully through all the hours of the day and the night. They are still in a minority. But they have learned how to be patient and to bide their time. They feel—they know, indeed—that the time is coming, in spite of all opposition, all persecution, when this emancipating gospel will spread among all the peoples, and when this minority will become the triumphant majority and, sweeping into power, inaugurate the greatest social and economic change in history.

In that day we shall have the universal commonwealth—the harmonious cooperation of every nation with every other nation on earth…

Your Honor, I ask no mercy and I plead for no immunity. I realize that finally the right must prevail. I never so clearly comprehended as now the great struggle between the powers of greed and exploitation on the one hand and upon the other the rising hosts of industrial freedom and social justice.

I can see the dawn of the better day for humanity. The people are awakening. In due time they will and must come to their own.

When the mariner, sailing over tropic seas, looks for relief from his weary watch, he turns his eyes toward the southern cross, burning luridly above the tempest-vexed ocean. As the midnight approaches, the southern cross begins to bend, the whirling worlds change their places, and with starry finger-points the Almighty marks the passage of time upon the dial of the universe, and though no bell may beat the glad tidings, the lookout knows that the midnight is passing and that relief and rest are close at hand. Let the people everywhere take heart of hope, for the cross is bending, the midnight is passing, and joy cometh with the morning.

I am now prepared to receive your sentence."




He was sentenced to ten years in prison.


Here is what the Writer's Almanac shared yesterday in honor of his birthday: "He continued to speak out from an Atlanta penitentiary on labor issues, and ran yet another popular presidential campaign from behind bars. Now in his early 60s, he refused any special treatment in jail and won over his fellow inmates by constantly fighting on their behalf. When he was pardoned on Christmas Day in 1921, the warden opened every cell block and allowed more than 2,000 inmates to gather at the gates and bid farewell to Debs. As he turned the corner and began to walk the gauntlet of prisoners, Debs opened his arms to the men and began to weep as the crowd roared."


For more information: debsfoundation.org

Dreaming of the White Rhinoceros

On this cold November night darkness came early, calling for a quiet, solitary celebration: a warm bath, candles, and a glass of wine. As the water covered me, my eyes closed temporarily and in that brief, transcendent moment I saw a white rhinoceros. I don't know what it means. It doesn't matter. It only matters that I saw him.

Living on Standard Time

Happy Sunday, Everyone!  And Happy Back to Standard Time!

Rise, let us see you,
Dawning is the day,
Miss, misty meadow,
You will find your way,
Wake up in the morning to
yourself and leave this crazy
life behind you.
Listen, we're trying to find you.

Flow to the sea,
You know where to go,
Still we are free,
No one tells the wind which way to blow.

Wake up in the morning to yourself,
Open your eyes and start to be you.
Listen, we think we can see you.
Baby there's no price upon your head,
Sing it, shout it.
Now the angry words have all been said.
Do it, don't doubt it.

So rise, let us see you,
Dawning is the day,
Miss, misty meadow,
You will find your way,
Wake up in the morning to
yourself, open your head and
look around you.
Listen, we think we have found you.