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My journal's been a pretty damn gloomy place lately. Lots of wailing and gnashing of teeth. A few people have called in the past few days, and when they ask how I am, I respond, "Fine." And there's a confused silence at the other end. Gotta love the reflexive answer.
At any rate, I'm going to try to brighten things up around here. With a little Robert Fulghum.
Yeah, the Kindergarten guy. But he's written so much more since then.
He's got a website. The header on it says this:
This journal contains a wide variety of stuff -- complete stories, bits and pieces, commentary, and who-knows-what else. As is always the case these days, the material is protected by copyright. On the other hand, I publish it here to be shared. Feel free to pass it on. Just give me credit. Fair enough?
Behind cuts, I'm going to put his two most recent peices. Partly to brighten up the ol' journal. But also to share. 2006 seems to have been a hell of a year for most people I know. For myself, the only decent thing to come of it has been a wee person born to two of my closest friends. So read. Share if you'd like. Just give Mr. Fulghum credit. Fair enough?
The original posting can be found here.
October 16, 2006
Written Monday, October 16, 2006
Kolymbari, Crete, Greece
BLESSING
In Switzerland there is a city. Geneva. In that city there is a river. In that river is an island. On that island is a restaurant. And in that restaurant is a man. Me, looking out a window at a stormy day. October 11, 2006. Outside, tall plane trees are being thrashed by a blustery wind. Their dry yellow leaves are launched out onto the River Rhone as it races by on its way to the sea at Marseilles. The leaves float like a brave regatta of sailboats, floating and whirling in unison.
The rain fills them and they swiftly sink into the current of the river.
Evanescence is the word that comes to mind – the inevitable brevity of life.
In the room where I stand are three tables, well set for a fine lunch. White linen, crystal glasses, silverware, and roses. Just sitting down together are thirty people gathered for a meal before an afternoon awards ceremony to honor two defenders of human rights.
As the guests settle into place, I consider them. There is Arnold Tsunga, a black African lawyer from Zimbabwe who gave up his private life and practice to work for those who are wrongly arrested, tortured, and imprisoned. He himself was beaten and tortured. And there, at that table is Akbar Ganji, a journalist from Iran, who was arrested and tortured and imprisoned for daring to criticize his government. Both men have been hounded into exile by the vicious dogs of repression.
Sitting around them are friends, colleagues, and fellow activists. There, a woman from the International Red Cross; there, a man from the United Nations High Commission for Refugees; there a woman from Amnesty International; here, a man who has worked in nine countries for five agencies committed to helping those who cannot help themselves.
My eye moves on from face to face, recognizing those who have made it their life’s work to defend human rights, and to work for justice and peace in the world, at the sacrifice of their own well-being. If you passed them in the streets of Geneva, you would not know. If you could see into their hearts and minds you would never forget the fire that is there.
My thoughts are interrupted by the master of ceremonies, calling my name, saying that since I am an ordained minister, I will offer a blessing for the meal. In deference to religious custom, the guests begin to bow their heads.
Wait.
This blessing does not require that you close your eyes or bow your heads.
I ask that you keep your eyes open, your head up.
Listen.
The finest blessing a meal can have is great companionship.
Look around this room. Take notice of those who sit with you.
Look around you. Look at these men and women.
Consider who they are, what they have done, and what they stand for.
Consider that you are not alone on your Way in the world.
Consider that you have the honor to break bread with such as these.
Look.
And know that this meal and each of us is abundantly blessed.
Amen.
_______________
I pass this blessing on to you. That you, too, may know that, despite the evanescence of life, such people are still at hard work in the world - as if even the shortest moment and smallest person counted. I pass this blessing on to you. That you, too, may keep your eyes open and your head up. That you, too, may see and know. That you, too, may bless and be blessed.
The original post can be found here.
October 25, 2006
Written in late October 2006
From Kolymbari, Crete, Greece
LETTER FROM CRETE AT OCTOBER’S END
Finally, finally, the elections are over. For most of Greece these regional and local contests were settled a week ago. But in the western end of Crete, the results were too close to call – especially for Mayor of Kolymbari. And that meant a runoff between the top two vote getters: Mr. Rosemaris, the incumbent – and Mr. Polychronitis, the challenger. This was not their first joust. The latter beat the former by one vote several years ago. Then the former beat the latter in another close race. This time Mr. Polychronitis re-unhorsed the incumbent by less than one percent of the vote.
It is said that a certain level of corruption always goes along with Greek politics. And since Mr. Rosemaris has always lived alone with his mother in a small house in the village and has always driven a modest car, he must be very clever in his corruption – so they say. And a man that clever is suspect – so they say. Thus Mr. Rosemaris was not exactly thrown from office. Nudged would be the word. Either too corrupt – or not corrupt enough – so they say.
Being in a small village to see voting taking place in the home of the democratic process was instructive. Many Cretans, no matter where they live and work now, continue to be registered in their home village. And that means elections are homecoming reunions. Like Easter without church. It’s a long weekend ingathering of families and friends, who spend the time talking politics, eating, drinking, and talking more politics.
They come and go from the village schoolyard in earnest conversation, and then, having made up their minds, go into the school to be acknowledged, to get their ballot, to go into the booth and mark their choices, and drop the folded paper into the clear plastic ballot box. The last act is to return to the schoolyard and tell terrible lies about how they voted. So I’m told.
Greeks are required to vote. Voting always takes place on Sundays. Go to church. Eat. Vote. A sacred right, a sacred responsibility, on a sacred day.
A MAJOR STORM passed through last week. The best kind. The slashing rain kept the tourists inside the stores shopping. It cleaned the dust and dead leaves from the olive trees to make the harvest easier. And it gave the trees one last burst of water to make the olives fat. All over Crete the nets are being laid under the trees, the oil factories are being readied, and as soon as the last big herd of tourists is shipped off the island at the end of the week, the workers will shift to the olive groves, where the trees are hanging heavy with fruit. The oil will be the best this year. So they say. And so they said last year. And the year before that. It is Cretan olive oil, after all.
AT LUNCH with the Metropolitan of Athens – a Bishop of the Orthodox Church - here at the Academy to address a conference on bio-ethics. A sizeable man – PhD – world traveler – lecturer at Harvard for several years – both thoughtful and light-hearted. I asked him if the Greek Orthodox Church was as dogmatically positioned as American Christians about abortion, stem-cell research, the death penalty, and the right to die. His answer surprised me. He said that in such complex matters, it is the role of the church to support the spiritual strength of those who must make difficult decisions. How sane.
CRETAN FRIENDS MADE their first baby. Most babies look like Winston Churchill. Even the best ones look like Winston Churchill after a face-lift. This one looks like the daughter of Barbie and Ken. Perfect. I wonder what the baby thinks when it stares back at me? Another big weird-looking thing. No wonder babies scream and cry a lot.
This child will not have a formal name until it is baptized. And that event takes place somewhere between one and two years of age. A child is carried into the church, stripped naked, handed over to the priest - a stranger in a black dress - and lowered into a cold bath. The child is terrified, goes red and rigid, screams, and often pees. Much to the amusement of the Greeks. It’s not as bad as it seems. It’s worse. I have seen this with my own eyes.
Ah, but what right have I to speak critically of such things? Me, a heathen, heretic, and certainly neither Greek nor Orthodox.
I speak with authority. For one thing, once upon a time, I was baptized. According to the Book. Not sprinkled like the Methodists as if you were going to be ironed. Not just dipped in an indoor pool for the sake of convenience. Baptized according to scripture - outdoors in a river, following the example of John the Baptist and Jesus. My mother was a serious Southern Baptist. And her cousin from Muscle Shoals, Alabama, urged her to take no chances and do it right. The cousin, it seems, was a “Two-seed-in-the-spirit, foot washing, Flowing Water Baptist.” When she sang the old hymn, “Shall We Gather At the River” it wasn’t about a picnic.
The summer I was 12, dressed in white shirt and pants, I was properly baptized in the Brazos River – more formally named by the Mexicans, “Brazos de Dios” - the Arms of God. My mother was pleased. I was not. I was scared. My uncle Roscoe had told me to stay out of the river because there were alligators and poisonous snakes in it. But I lived. Was thereby “saved.” And was told I would therefore be going to heaven.
When I tell the Greeks about my baptism, they are impressed. Like I’ve got a platinum membership card. An insurance policy that can’t be canceled.
I don’t believe one can save one’s soul. I don’t know what that means.
I believe one can only live one’s life, saving nothing, spending it well.
But it’s comforting to have my after-life contingencies covered.
And. If it should prove to be the case that there is a heaven and I go, I imagine my mother pointing me out in the great golden hall. “Look, there’s my boy, Bobby. He may have lost his mind when he grew up, but he was properly baptized and so he gets to sit very close to the front. The dippers and sprinklers and child-washers are way back there –up in the bleachers.”
I know. Baptism is a spiritual ritual. And harmless enough, I suppose. And even meaningful if it makes you think about keeping your path on this earth a righteous one. And that’s a good thing, no matter which religious club you join. There are many ways. Some wet. Some dry. Some lost. Some found.
The great Law of the Conservation of Matter and Energy says nothing is ever lost. It only changes form. We exist in the flow between mud and light.
That I believe.
Quite a way from holding hands when you cross the street, right?
Part of the reason I read Fulghum for inspiration is that he's not a peaches-and-cream kind of guy. He's been Depressed with a capital D. His life has sucked for extended periods of time. But it got better. He's like the friend in the story that Leo tells Josh at the end of Noel. He hops down into the hole with you and says, "I been down here before, and I know the way out."
Now if you'll excuse me, I think I need to go listen to Beethoven's Ninth.
At any rate, I'm going to try to brighten things up around here. With a little Robert Fulghum.
Yeah, the Kindergarten guy. But he's written so much more since then.
He's got a website. The header on it says this:
This journal contains a wide variety of stuff -- complete stories, bits and pieces, commentary, and who-knows-what else. As is always the case these days, the material is protected by copyright. On the other hand, I publish it here to be shared. Feel free to pass it on. Just give me credit. Fair enough?
Behind cuts, I'm going to put his two most recent peices. Partly to brighten up the ol' journal. But also to share. 2006 seems to have been a hell of a year for most people I know. For myself, the only decent thing to come of it has been a wee person born to two of my closest friends. So read. Share if you'd like. Just give Mr. Fulghum credit. Fair enough?
The original posting can be found here.
October 16, 2006
Written Monday, October 16, 2006
Kolymbari, Crete, Greece
BLESSING
In Switzerland there is a city. Geneva. In that city there is a river. In that river is an island. On that island is a restaurant. And in that restaurant is a man. Me, looking out a window at a stormy day. October 11, 2006. Outside, tall plane trees are being thrashed by a blustery wind. Their dry yellow leaves are launched out onto the River Rhone as it races by on its way to the sea at Marseilles. The leaves float like a brave regatta of sailboats, floating and whirling in unison.
The rain fills them and they swiftly sink into the current of the river.
Evanescence is the word that comes to mind – the inevitable brevity of life.
In the room where I stand are three tables, well set for a fine lunch. White linen, crystal glasses, silverware, and roses. Just sitting down together are thirty people gathered for a meal before an afternoon awards ceremony to honor two defenders of human rights.
As the guests settle into place, I consider them. There is Arnold Tsunga, a black African lawyer from Zimbabwe who gave up his private life and practice to work for those who are wrongly arrested, tortured, and imprisoned. He himself was beaten and tortured. And there, at that table is Akbar Ganji, a journalist from Iran, who was arrested and tortured and imprisoned for daring to criticize his government. Both men have been hounded into exile by the vicious dogs of repression.
Sitting around them are friends, colleagues, and fellow activists. There, a woman from the International Red Cross; there, a man from the United Nations High Commission for Refugees; there a woman from Amnesty International; here, a man who has worked in nine countries for five agencies committed to helping those who cannot help themselves.
My eye moves on from face to face, recognizing those who have made it their life’s work to defend human rights, and to work for justice and peace in the world, at the sacrifice of their own well-being. If you passed them in the streets of Geneva, you would not know. If you could see into their hearts and minds you would never forget the fire that is there.
My thoughts are interrupted by the master of ceremonies, calling my name, saying that since I am an ordained minister, I will offer a blessing for the meal. In deference to religious custom, the guests begin to bow their heads.
Wait.
This blessing does not require that you close your eyes or bow your heads.
I ask that you keep your eyes open, your head up.
Listen.
The finest blessing a meal can have is great companionship.
Look around this room. Take notice of those who sit with you.
Look around you. Look at these men and women.
Consider who they are, what they have done, and what they stand for.
Consider that you are not alone on your Way in the world.
Consider that you have the honor to break bread with such as these.
Look.
And know that this meal and each of us is abundantly blessed.
Amen.
_______________
I pass this blessing on to you. That you, too, may know that, despite the evanescence of life, such people are still at hard work in the world - as if even the shortest moment and smallest person counted. I pass this blessing on to you. That you, too, may keep your eyes open and your head up. That you, too, may see and know. That you, too, may bless and be blessed.
The original post can be found here.
October 25, 2006
Written in late October 2006
From Kolymbari, Crete, Greece
LETTER FROM CRETE AT OCTOBER’S END
Finally, finally, the elections are over. For most of Greece these regional and local contests were settled a week ago. But in the western end of Crete, the results were too close to call – especially for Mayor of Kolymbari. And that meant a runoff between the top two vote getters: Mr. Rosemaris, the incumbent – and Mr. Polychronitis, the challenger. This was not their first joust. The latter beat the former by one vote several years ago. Then the former beat the latter in another close race. This time Mr. Polychronitis re-unhorsed the incumbent by less than one percent of the vote.
It is said that a certain level of corruption always goes along with Greek politics. And since Mr. Rosemaris has always lived alone with his mother in a small house in the village and has always driven a modest car, he must be very clever in his corruption – so they say. And a man that clever is suspect – so they say. Thus Mr. Rosemaris was not exactly thrown from office. Nudged would be the word. Either too corrupt – or not corrupt enough – so they say.
Being in a small village to see voting taking place in the home of the democratic process was instructive. Many Cretans, no matter where they live and work now, continue to be registered in their home village. And that means elections are homecoming reunions. Like Easter without church. It’s a long weekend ingathering of families and friends, who spend the time talking politics, eating, drinking, and talking more politics.
They come and go from the village schoolyard in earnest conversation, and then, having made up their minds, go into the school to be acknowledged, to get their ballot, to go into the booth and mark their choices, and drop the folded paper into the clear plastic ballot box. The last act is to return to the schoolyard and tell terrible lies about how they voted. So I’m told.
Greeks are required to vote. Voting always takes place on Sundays. Go to church. Eat. Vote. A sacred right, a sacred responsibility, on a sacred day.
A MAJOR STORM passed through last week. The best kind. The slashing rain kept the tourists inside the stores shopping. It cleaned the dust and dead leaves from the olive trees to make the harvest easier. And it gave the trees one last burst of water to make the olives fat. All over Crete the nets are being laid under the trees, the oil factories are being readied, and as soon as the last big herd of tourists is shipped off the island at the end of the week, the workers will shift to the olive groves, where the trees are hanging heavy with fruit. The oil will be the best this year. So they say. And so they said last year. And the year before that. It is Cretan olive oil, after all.
AT LUNCH with the Metropolitan of Athens – a Bishop of the Orthodox Church - here at the Academy to address a conference on bio-ethics. A sizeable man – PhD – world traveler – lecturer at Harvard for several years – both thoughtful and light-hearted. I asked him if the Greek Orthodox Church was as dogmatically positioned as American Christians about abortion, stem-cell research, the death penalty, and the right to die. His answer surprised me. He said that in such complex matters, it is the role of the church to support the spiritual strength of those who must make difficult decisions. How sane.
CRETAN FRIENDS MADE their first baby. Most babies look like Winston Churchill. Even the best ones look like Winston Churchill after a face-lift. This one looks like the daughter of Barbie and Ken. Perfect. I wonder what the baby thinks when it stares back at me? Another big weird-looking thing. No wonder babies scream and cry a lot.
This child will not have a formal name until it is baptized. And that event takes place somewhere between one and two years of age. A child is carried into the church, stripped naked, handed over to the priest - a stranger in a black dress - and lowered into a cold bath. The child is terrified, goes red and rigid, screams, and often pees. Much to the amusement of the Greeks. It’s not as bad as it seems. It’s worse. I have seen this with my own eyes.
Ah, but what right have I to speak critically of such things? Me, a heathen, heretic, and certainly neither Greek nor Orthodox.
I speak with authority. For one thing, once upon a time, I was baptized. According to the Book. Not sprinkled like the Methodists as if you were going to be ironed. Not just dipped in an indoor pool for the sake of convenience. Baptized according to scripture - outdoors in a river, following the example of John the Baptist and Jesus. My mother was a serious Southern Baptist. And her cousin from Muscle Shoals, Alabama, urged her to take no chances and do it right. The cousin, it seems, was a “Two-seed-in-the-spirit, foot washing, Flowing Water Baptist.” When she sang the old hymn, “Shall We Gather At the River” it wasn’t about a picnic.
The summer I was 12, dressed in white shirt and pants, I was properly baptized in the Brazos River – more formally named by the Mexicans, “Brazos de Dios” - the Arms of God. My mother was pleased. I was not. I was scared. My uncle Roscoe had told me to stay out of the river because there were alligators and poisonous snakes in it. But I lived. Was thereby “saved.” And was told I would therefore be going to heaven.
When I tell the Greeks about my baptism, they are impressed. Like I’ve got a platinum membership card. An insurance policy that can’t be canceled.
I don’t believe one can save one’s soul. I don’t know what that means.
I believe one can only live one’s life, saving nothing, spending it well.
But it’s comforting to have my after-life contingencies covered.
And. If it should prove to be the case that there is a heaven and I go, I imagine my mother pointing me out in the great golden hall. “Look, there’s my boy, Bobby. He may have lost his mind when he grew up, but he was properly baptized and so he gets to sit very close to the front. The dippers and sprinklers and child-washers are way back there –up in the bleachers.”
I know. Baptism is a spiritual ritual. And harmless enough, I suppose. And even meaningful if it makes you think about keeping your path on this earth a righteous one. And that’s a good thing, no matter which religious club you join. There are many ways. Some wet. Some dry. Some lost. Some found.
The great Law of the Conservation of Matter and Energy says nothing is ever lost. It only changes form. We exist in the flow between mud and light.
That I believe.
Quite a way from holding hands when you cross the street, right?
Part of the reason I read Fulghum for inspiration is that he's not a peaches-and-cream kind of guy. He's been Depressed with a capital D. His life has sucked for extended periods of time. But it got better. He's like the friend in the story that Leo tells Josh at the end of Noel. He hops down into the hole with you and says, "I been down here before, and I know the way out."
Now if you'll excuse me, I think I need to go listen to Beethoven's Ninth.
