The 5th Beatle

The last time I'd glanced at the clock on the mantel it had been after 11 pm.  Greta, my beloved black & white Springer Spaniel, had fallen asleep with her muzzle on my slippers just out of my line of sight, nestled between the couch and floor.  I was watching  a documentary on PBS about John Lennon that had piqued my interest.  In my younger years, when my glasses were round and my hair was long, I was sometimes told I looked like him.  The early parts of the documentary focussed on his time with the Beatles and when the musical clips came up I couldn't resist participating in some late night karaoke.  Greta's head would pop up above the cushions and look me in the eye.

"It's OK, girl.  Daddy's just singin' along with the TV. "  I rubbed the full white mane on her chest until she calmed and laid back down.

It was both fascinating and heartwarming to see this man's transition from egotistical pop-star to doting father and all around Mr. Mom once Sean was born.  I was transfixed watching him romp in the YMCA pool with the small boy, feed him in a high chair, and chase him around their apartment while Yoko dutifully took care of the business side of things at the dining room table.  I found John's comment, "It was the happiest time of my life" endearing to say the least.

The documentary was winding its way towards tragedy when I found myself beginning to nod off.  On some subconscious level I could not bear to see that man and boy separated.  The remote control lay loose in my hand and my awareness seemed to be hovering a bit above the scene.  Somewhere in my half asleep mind I knew that Lawrence Welk was soon to make an appearance and I needed to move my thumb only an inch to the left to turn the TV off before he a-one-and-a-two'ed.

***

The screen suddenly collapsed into a small dazzling white spot, like a star in the blackness of space.  A thin glowing line shot out above and below the spot splitting the TV into equal halves.  I'd seen this phenomenon before on older TV sets when I was younger, but I didn't remember shutting it off and the glowing vertical line was not fading.  I felt myself lean forward to get a closer look and it appeared the glowing line was growing longer in the darkness of my living room, extending beyond the borders of the TV screen.  At this peculiar sight I stood up and discovered Greta was no longer on my feet.  The darkness was complete except for the glowing line which now stretched from floor to ceiling.

Out of curiosity I stepped forward to approach it and found I was wearing a suit which in the faint glow appeared to be completely white.  Another step forward and the line began to thicken and I heard a faint strand of familiar music.  I started walking towards it and felt a hand grasp the inside of my right forearm and was startled to find a stunning woman walking beside me.  She didn't seem to notice my surprise but instead kept looking straight ahead with a playful smile on her lips.  She had full wavy black hair that cascaded down her back and was wearing a shimmering gown that was white in the front but black on the sides and back.  Around her neck and flowing down over her chest was a white feather boa.  Her overall appearance was so very familiar but I couldn't quite put my finger on it.

We continued to walk as the light ahead continued to broaden.  I cleared my throat, "Excuse me.  Do I know you?"

She was now the one who looked at me with surprise.  "Really, Winston.  Ten years together, are you joking?"

The sparkle in her eye triggered a feeling of familiarity that was almost maddening in its intensity.  My brain rifled through any number of possibilities without success, but when I dipped into my heart the truth hit like a thunderclap.  "Greta?  It's you, isn't it?  My god!  You're my dog!"

She pretended to pout and appear hurt, insisting I pipe down before I got bit.  "We've a wonderful evening ahead.  Don't ruin it by calling me a dog, Dear."

"No, no, of course not," I stammered.  It all made perfect sense while at the same time making no sense at all.

The light had now widened out to the point I was able to recognize it for what it was, double doors were opening at the end of a dark hallway.  Two doormen in coattails bowed on either side of us as we stepped through.  Their free arms were extended in perfect symmetry towards the room beckoning us to enter.  Greta pulled closer to me with both of her hands now grasping my arm as we entered what appeared to be a grand ballroom.

***

The music immediately washed over us in lovely waves.  The ceiling was almost too high to see and shimmering chandeliers floated above us refracting light in countless crystal shards.  The people in this immense room were dressed in formal attire, the men in tuxedos and the women in opulent gowns.  Our entrance did not go unnoticed.  In almost a choreographed motion everyone turned our way and fixed their gaze upon us.  I felt extremely uncomfortable but Greta leaned close to my ear without turning in my direction and whispered, "Just smile, Dear."  

I forced the corners of my mouth upward and lifted my hand to chest level and gave a little wave.  As if a signal had been given, several of the people broke away from the crowd and rushed towards us.  We were quickly surrounded and everyone was talking at once, "Winston... how are you Winston... jolly good to see you old boy... you look fabulous tonight Winston.." and so on.  The women were giving Greta the once over.  

I blinked hard a few times and then offered a simple, "I'm fine".

"He's fine... of course he's fine... a fine fellow indeed... a witty soul, that one..."  The words and looks were intensely fawning and I didn't quite understand what was going on.  My ear picked up the music once again and I looked about the ballroom to see where it was coming from.  The melody was a beautifully melancholic one and was being performed by a string quartet that I spotted off to the side on a small raised platform.  It started bringing words to mind and I began singing softly to myself, "Aaaah, look at all the lonely people."  Of course, it was Eleanor Rigby.

The group surrounding me was still trying to gain my attention but I was too busy exploring the room with my eyes trying to get my bearings.  I noticed that there were at least four other large clumps of people in the room surrounding four other men in white suits.  I caught the eye of the similarly dressed man closest to me and he nodded in recognition.  He placed his forefinger on his forehead and then whipped it up and away towards me in a kind of salute.  His hair was long and he was sporting a thick mustache.  I instantly recognized him as George Harrison of the Beatles.  I quickly looked to another clump of people and saw Ringo double pump his eyebrows and give me a wry grin.  The third clump nestled Paul in its center. He was too busy sharing a funny story to notice me and was jumping up and down like an overly excited little boy in its telling.  That left one more to find.  I spotted his circular wire rimmed glasses and knowing look amongst those in the fourth group.

The mathematics of my situation brought on a strange epiphany; the inescapable conclusion that I was, in fact, the fifth Beatle. 

***

It should have been a thrilling discovery, but all I could think about was John.  My senses became fixed on him and I felt a tingling sensation throughout my entire body.  The noise in the room became muffled as I stood there transfixed.  I watched him intently, his every gesture and facial expression.  Somewhere in the back recesses of my mind I knew he was either dead or going to die and so I was afraid of taking my eyes off of him, afraid he might disappear.  Greta noticed my intense stillness and asked if I was alright.  I looked at her as if in a daze and then gently took her hand and began leading her through the crowd towards John.  

My heart and thoughts were racing as I shortened the distance between us.  I did not know what I was going to do once I got to him.  All I did know was that he was my friend and I had to do something.  The crowd parted for me as I pulled Greta in my wake.  When I finally got to him I dropped her hand and placed my right hand on his shoulder, looking him in the eye.  He had a bemused grin on his face as he placed his right hand on my shoulder as well.  "Well Winston, here we are," he playfully offered in response to my silence.  Deep in those eyes I saw that he knew the gravity of his situation but it didn't seem to bother him.  I pulled him into a tight embrace  and whispered in his ear, "It's going to be alright, John."   

***

The music from the string quartet transformed into an annoying jingle.  I found myself clutching a couch cushion with a feeling of wetness on my cheeks.  An infomercial was touting something for "only $19.95!" and I realized I was back in my living room and had fallen asleep.  I sniffed up some snot and Greta's head popped up from my feet and looked at me with concern.  I leaned forward and gave her a hug while rubbing her belly.  "You looked wonderful tonight".

The Fall

Almost 10 years ago this Fall I learned that the bishop over my former parish where I'd first become Orthodox had been removed from his duties and put into alcohol treatment, among other things.  I spent a lot of time walking and lost in thought that day, feeling it was terribly sad, but not without meaning somehow.  After returning home from the park I wrote this poem as a kind of therapy and search for healing.

_______________________________

I read about the fall of a bishop today.
It makes me sad and prone to wander.
I took my dog to the park and let her run.

He was my first Archpastor in a new-found Faith.
He is a lonely old man with an alcohol problem.
I imagine he’s been feeling pretty small these days.

I hear a voice pick up the leaves like wind and say,
“Bless God for the coming of a fall…”

Why do I use such shoddy materials to build a life?
I build indiscriminately, pell mell, without much thought.
It is a poor strategy, short-sighted, a flim flam thing.

How long does it take for something so precarious to topple?
I need something to come and shake it daily, a test.
Otherwise its collapse becomes inevitable, a matter of time.

I hear a voice pick up the leaves like wind and say,
“Bless God for the coming of a fall…”

I think of a story of the foolish building on sand.
Of a myth where a boulder need continually be pushed up a hill.
Of the Golden Mouth praying for help to make a good beginning.

The Sacraments as stones and the Spirit as mortar.
My structure shaken without bringing despair.
The grace of God to start again, more humble, obedient, and careful.

And I hear a voice pick up the leaves like wind and say,
“Bless God for the coming of a fall…”

***

Election Day Blues

Untitled, a photo by []Aaroneous Monk[] on Flickr.

My alarm clock went off an hour earlier than usual this morning to account for a side trip to vote at our local Rec Center before work. It was one of those odd experiences of being somewhere and somewhen that is completely outside of a well oiled routine, not unlike the feeling when I was a kid and an evening school Open House found me in my classroom with my parents at night.

Walking into the building I followed the "vote today" arrows which quickly brought me to a line of my neighbors, many of whom I recognized from our recent block party. We nodded at each other as eye contact was made and faces were recognized and maybe even a "good morning" exchanged but mostly we just stood there waiting our turn to sign in and vote in silence. Maybe something solemn was taking place, maybe it was just too darn early.

From where I stood I could see through a large glass window into a gym where women were doing some kind of an aerobics workout together. In another instance of odd out-of-placeness I recognized the leader as an exercise physiologist at the hospital exercise facility where I work out during my lunch hour. She was doing what I frequently see her doing at the hospital but at a place I've never seen her do it before.

When it was my time to sign in a gruff gentleman next to me said to one of the workers, "May I ask a question?" When he was encouraged to do so he began complaining that ID wasn't asked for at another voting place in the city and "shouldn't everyone follow the same set of rules?" The worker stammered a bit and said that he didn't make the rules. It was more of a rhetorical question anyway and had more to do with a busybody's need to impose their will on the universe. And why had he been at another voting place anyway?!

Upon leaving the premises I ran into a neighbor who we have not had the best relations with over the past year or two. He is normally quiet and somber but this morning he greeted me with a hearty "Hi, how are ya?" and seemed very excited to be there. Maybe voting jazzes him, who knows?

My mind then started to imagine a "what if" scenario that was in line with my own feelings of being out of place and off balance. I saw in my mind's eye someone in a tweed jacket with slacks and a stylish t-shirt wearing a rubber Barack Obama mask entering the building and approaching people, shaking their hands, and simply saying each time, "I'm Barack Obama and I approve this message." What possible motive could there be for such a thing? A prank? Mental illness? Bath salts? Whatever the motive it would probably unnerve some and tickle others. The front desk staff would likely call the police who would then explain to them that nothing illegal was being perpetrated, but if he pulls out a weapon of any kind to let them know.

My overall experience this morning is what happens when you go to vote and you don't have anyone you want to vote for. It's a sad, strange, experience that is hard to explain.

I Was Your Friend

Today is the 15th anniversary of the death of singer-songwriter and all around ragamuffin Rich Mullins.  His music was a touchstone for me in my college days and I consider his album "A Liturgy, a Legacy, & a Ragamuffin Band" a bright star from my past that continues to cast light forward into my 40's.  His lyrics were penetrating, honest, and beautifully sculpted.  The music he set them to was of a quality I'd not hither-to known possible in what has been called "Contemporary Christian Music".  I don't want to disparage other artists in that genre, but for me Rich was a singular artist and a profound human being whose influence moved well beyond his music making.

Sitting here writing this I can still feel the exhilaration I experienced when "A Liturgy, a Legacy..." was released in 1993 as I sat in my apartment listening to it for the first time.  At that time I had only recently returned to Indiana Wesleyan University to finish my senior year after having served two years as an infantryman in Korea.  I was starving for some spiritual sustenance and this music was feeding my weary soul.  When it was finished playing I snatched it out of the CD player and sprinted across campus to a friend's house and excitedly told her she *had* to hear it as I stood there panting and out of breath.

Prior to my leaving IWU for my stent in the Army I had attended a concert of his in a small chapel where he played in front of about 50 students.  It was just him and his bestfriend/traveling companion, "Beaker".  Rich rotated from guitar to piano to hammer dulcimer over the course of the concert and afterwards he came to the lobby of our dorm for a small pizza reception.  He looked pretty scraggly and had dirty bare feet.  I talked with him a bit and probably asked him a few questions that I don't remember.  What I do remember is that he was delightfully peculiar and had a loving acceptance that surrounded him like an invisible hug.

Fast forward to 1997.  It was September and I'd just started my first year of Medical School.  I had a one room attic apartment a few blocks from IU's campus and my parents had come for a visit.  We chit chatted for awhile and at some point the conversation kinda died down into silence.  I remember sitting in a green recliner that had been my grandma's while my Dad sat on a metal table chair and my Mom sat on my futon.  Almost as a "by the way" my Mom suddenly remembered something she had wanted to ask me.  "Did you hear about the singer who recently died?  I think he was someone you've talked about before."

I got  a very strange sensation that moved from my head down into my body and back up again.  Just a few days prior in my Infectious Diseases class I had caught a snippet of a conversation between two other students who were talking after class.  The words that had caught my attention along with their tone was "Rich Mullins" but I'd paid no further mind to it.  With a sinking feeling in my gut I asked my Mom in a kind of forced voice, "Was it Rich Mullins?"

"Yes!  That's who it was, Rich Mullins.  He was killed in a car accident."

I put my head down in my hands and felt absolutely numb for a moment or two.  Then I took a deep shuddering breath in and sobs started leaking out.  The more I tried to suppress them the stronger they got.  My parents just sat in silence and let me cry.  It seemed strange that I was feeling such strong and overpowering emotions about someone I'd never really known personally.  It wasn't until that moment that I realized what his life and legacy had meant to me in college and subsequent decisions that had led me down the spiritual path I am now walking.

We were both lost and lonely, looking for something beyond ourselves, wanting to be found by love and in communion with the source of that love.  It brings to mind his song "What Susan Said":

And we both feel lost
But I remember what Susan said
How love is found in the things we've given up
More than in the things that we have kept
And ain't it funny what people say
And ain't it funny what people write
And ain't it funny how it hits you so hard
In the middle of the night
And if your home is just another place where you're a stranger
And far away is just somewhere you've never been
I hope that you'll remember, I was your friend

Shed a Little Light

"Shed a Little Light" is a sermon in a song.  I can think of no other artist that has captivated me for so much of my life as James Taylor.  There has not been a single year gone by since my mid High School years that I have not listened to his music, whether his ubiquitous Greatest Hits, new albums as they've been released, or my treasured 2CD live set.  I was lucky enough to see him in concert with my younger sister during my college years sitting on a blanket in the grassy area of Deer Creek.  Now in my 40's I'm finding his early albums at Half Price Books and sharing them with my children.  I met James, figuratively speaking, in the summer of 1986. 

That summer I spent two weeks on the Indiana State University campus for a Summer Honors Seminar that focussed on Chemistry.  My best friend was also participating and it was nice to have someone along I knew and who I could share the experience with.  When it came to roommate assignments that first day of orientation we were paired up with people we didn't know though we were just down the hall from each other.  My friend wanted to ask our respective roommates if they'd do a switcharoo so we could be together but I convinced him it would be a good way to get to know more people in the two short weeks that we would be there and he agreed to stay put.

Turns out it was much easier for me to remain in place than my friend.  His roommate was a real oddball, obnoxious and frequently inappropriate over a wide range of contexts.  I remembered his name for years afterwards but only now cannot recall it.  I don't know if my friend has ever forgiven me for not making that switch the first day but I can't help but think it was somehow meant to be.  I make this strange assertion because of what happened in my friend's room that first week.  I went down one evening on a study break to see what he was up to.  His roommate was playing a tape on his boom box.

The song I heard was James Taylor's "Carolina on my Mind".  I was completely mesmerized and whatever I'd come down to do or say was forgotten as I simply sat down and listened to it.  It was sweet, heart warming, gentle, soulful, and had a richness about it that transported me to I do not know where.  I just know that I had a hard time coming back to the sweltering evening heat of that college dorm room from my reverie.  It was inexplicable to me how my friend's roommate in all of his vulgar glory could be listening to something so pure and sweet.  It was a mystery and in retrospect a testament to James Taylor's wide ranging appeal as a singer-songwriter.  So...

_______________________

let us turn our thoughts today

to Martin Luther King

and recognize that there are ties between us

all men and women

living on the Earth

ties of hope and love

sister and brotherhood

That we are bound together

in our desire to see the world become

a place in which our children

can grow free and strong

We are bound together

by the task that stands before us

and the road that lies ahead

We are bound and we are bound

There is a feeling like the clenching of a fist

There is a hunger in the center of the chest

There is a passage through the darkness and the mist

And though the body sleeps the heart will never rest

(Chorus)

Shed a little light, oh Lord

So that we can see

Just a little light, oh Lord

Wanna stand it on up

Stand it on up, oh Lord

Wanna walk it on down

Shed a little light, oh Lord

Can't get no light from the dollar bill

Don't give me no light from a TV screen

When I open my eyes

I wanna drink my fill

from the well on the hill

(Do you know what I mean?)

- Chorus -

There is a feeling like the clenching of a fist

There is a hunger in the center of the chest

There is a passage through the darkness and the mist

And though the body sleeps the heart will never rest

Oh, let us turn our thoughts today

to Martin Luther King

and recognize that there are ties between us

all men and women

living on the Earth

ties of hope and love

sister and brotherhood

__________________

Thanks James.  You're a one-of-a-kind gent.

To Simeon and those who love him

Thinking of Little Simeon and his parents this morning., a photo by []Aaroneous Monk[] on Flickr.

in the secret place
you were stitched
by dark fingers
hidden from light

the thread spun long
but not long enough
leaving my heart
to unravel itself

the Weaver's skill
to mend in love
and communion
we grow together

You are There

I sometimes escape
into the realms
of the fantastical
as refuge from
a troubled reality
I cannot control.

I have accessed
this secret door
off and on
for 40 years
to obtain a
degree of solace.

Some people scoff
"it’s not real"
though they live
a fantasy of
their own making
deceived and deceiving.

I cannot explain
what I find
in imaginary places
but I know
even in the
depths of Sheol

You are there.

_______________________________

Out of Context

Attending a conference
a straight shot
from the Mid West
to the East Coast
having navigated the mountains
of Pennsylvania and invested
heavily in the turnpike

I am out of context

Each day my schedule is set
the night previous
sitting in my hotel room
unable to sleep
the daytime filled with
meetings and lectures
but afterwards I am lost

and out of context

Wandering the streets
of Philadelphia humming
that Springsteen song
taking pictures
of people and places
eating cheesesteaks and chinese
because taking pictures

gives me context

It makes me feel connected
showing the street vendor
the photo I took of her
in an exploding sun flair
giving the homeless man
a dollar to take his picture
ventriloquist dummy in lap

connections creating context

***

The Road to Damascus

Road to Damascus, a photo by []Aaroneous Monk[] on Flickr.

I snapped this photo of Anya today while we were playing on her brother’s bed. He has a mobile of the planets suspended above it which fascinates her. At this point she was lying on her back and starting to extend her arm towards it. I saw the gesture, I saw the light, and with only seconds to spare I used my phone to take the shot. Cropping and processing came later and it wasn’t until I posted it online that the significance of the photo hit me.

The photo is divided into three sections by two diagonal lines that are parallel to each other. The first section is Anya’s face. The middle section is the darkened wall and headboard. The third section is the sunlit window. Her arm dramatically cuts across these three sections extending through the darkness and into the light  with her finger pointing the way. Just behind the headboard and partially hidden is a carved cross that’s still there from when her brother had no bed but just a mattress on the floor. To the right of Anya’s arm you can see some paper icons he has in his window sill from Church School. The most noticeable one is in the bottom right hand corner and is of St. Paul. The rest are partially hidden or blown out from the sunlight.

So there it is, the story of “The Road to Damascus” in a photo where Saul-soon-to-be-Paul has fallen to the ground blinded by a great light that  is Christ himself speaking to him. The partially hidden cross represents Christ and St. Paul is there as well in his icon. This is what I love so much about taking pictures. I don’t always know why I take them and oftentimes I don’t consciously think about how to frame the shot, but once in awhile a story sort of forms after the fact and completely surprises me. It is like a little blessing or gift from the “Giver of all good things.”

[fill in the blank] Worldview

Reality floated into view:
an inexplicable undulating mass
pulsing and sparking, 
pregnant with mystery.

Scared out of my mind
I seized upon my stamp
neatly columned and lined
black with ink.

A white surface
flat and featureless
lay beneath it
beckoning for imprint.

At just the right moment
with all my strength
I splattered it flat
trapped and grid-bound.

I scribbled feverishly
filling in the spaces
making sense of it all
in a fool’s scrawl.

Now it hangs
limp and lifeless
on my refrigerator door
for reference.


***

In the Garden

Neighbor's Flower Garden, a photo by []Aaroneous Monk[] on Flickr.

On the way out of the hospital today the Muzak playing overhead caught my attention with a familiar melody that I could not immediately put my finger on. I hummed along a bit as I walked and then a few words popped loose in my memory… “walks with me”… “talks with me”… sounded kinda hymnishhh… Yes! “In the Garden” came full bloom in my mind with its pseudo-romantic lyrics and its plodding waltziness. It was strange enough to hear a hymn amongst the normal overhead fare but stranger still was the fact it was being played by an unaccompanied accordion. I decided it was a sign I should call my mother.

Growing up in Southern Indiana in the 70’s my Dad was a minister and my Mom, well, she was a minister’s wife. She had a magnificent red and white accordion that she would play at church from time to time singing alto to my Dad’s lead. When it was at home she kept it in a large black case with silver snap buckles and a velvet lined interior. I remember pulling it out of their closet one day when they weren’t around and hoisting that fascinating contraption up by its wide leather straps onto my boney shoulders. It was huge and heavy. The bottom of it hit me about mid-shin. The right side was the keyboard and the left side had rows and rows of little red buttons, one of which had what appeared to be a diamond imbedded in it. When you pushed down one button several others would mysteriously and inexplicably depress as well. I was secretly impressed that my Mom could even play such a thing!

Once when my older sister was available we decided to take turns shutting each other in the case. I, with more daring than brains, decided to go first. I got into the case and assumed the fetal position. My sister shut it and then opened it a few times for me to get used to it. I then told her to click the snaps shut which she did, including the middle one with the key hole in it. You’ve probably already guessed where this is going. I stayed in the cramped and pitch blackness for as long as I could stand but then told her I was ready to get out. She couldn’t get the middle snap to unfasten. I remember yelling and beating at the inside lid in mounting panic as she ran off to find Mom. I’ve always been a little claustrophobic about tight places and it can likely be traced back to this incident.

So, I called Mom on the way home and put her on speaker phone. I told her that I’d heard an accordion playing “In the Garden” over the speakers at the hospital and took it as a sign I should call. She told me that that particular song had been very popular at funerals when we were growing up and that they’d sang and played it many a time at such. It then struck me as funny that when a baby is born at our hospital they play a snippet of Brahm’s lullaby. I surmised that maybe someone had died and so they played “In the Garden.” We had a good laugh at that (I mostly get my bent sense of humor from her). It’s been 2 years ago this week that she had her heart attack and we very nearly lost her. It was good to hear her voice and her laughter. As the song says,“And the joy we share as we tarry there...”

Here is Alan Jackson singing the hymn: In the Garden

Another World

Have you ever wondered what goes on in little minds that have not yet developed to the point they can effectively communicate what they are experiencing? It amazes me to think that in those little craniums countless neurons are growing, dividing, branching out, and finding connections to other neurons in neighboring parts of the brain at a dizzying rate. The migration of my neuronal paths ended almost 20 years ago and I have to be content with just the general upkeep of cell turnover and pruning while avoiding brain killing substances or falling on my head from high places.

Where did this sudden curiosity about the brain come from? Well, it came from my 7 year old of course. We were driving over to Great Clips to get his hair cut and passed a McDonalds that has one of those large three leveled indoor playgrounds in front. You know, the ones that kids clamor about until you give in and stop or else forces you to make vile threats to shut them up so you can drive on in peace. This time around he simply directed my attention to it and asked if I remembered when we went to one when he was four years old and we were living in Tennessee. I vaguely remembered it, but then he surprised me with what he remembered about it.

The look on his face was one I’d not seen before, like what he was remembering was new and strange somehow. In retrospect, I imagine it was a matter of him remembering an experience of something that had occurred significantly further up the neuronal pathway. Something experienced by a different kid for all intents and purposes. He said, “I remember standing at the top of the slide and I was really scared.” This was that twisty opaque tunnel slide that is the only way back down from the third level. He said we were standing at the bottom and trying to coax him to go down it. “I was really scared because I thought if I went down that tunnel I would end up in another world where I wouldn’t be able to find you or Mommy”.

What a strange predicament that must have been for the little guy! He had negotiated three levels of obstacles, some of which he could not negotiate backwards, and was now stranded high in the air with Mommy and Daddy so far away trying to convince him the only way back was through this dark hole in front of him, a somewhat counterintuitive notion for his little immature brain I’m sure. Not go back the way I came? Enter this hole and trust it goes to the right place? 7 year old Elias in the front seat of the car gave me a kind of embarrassed smile after he shared that as if to say “wasn’t that silly?”

Photographic Memory

Commute Impressionism, a photo by []Aaroneous Monk[] on Flickr.

I've recently come to make a habit of taking pictures on my commute home from work. It provides a kind of antidote for "zoning out" during that 20 minute time frame and forces me to look around at the world passing by and process it a bit. I think this is a good thing because there is a lot of world to experience between where I work and my house. Why should I ignore it? In olden times I would have likely been walking to work or waving and talking to folks while perched on the seat of my horse-drawn wagon. As it is, I speed along in my car but my heart can still take it in, a prayer connecting me to those I see on the way and a picture to remind me...

The Birds

The Birds, a photo by []Aaroneous Monk[] on Flickr.

I saw a "murmuration" over a massive conglomeration of rice paddies in South Korea in 1994 while on a cross country bus trip from Pusan to Seoul. It was not quite as spectacular as this one, but it's been a dream-like image that recurs from time to time in my memory and I initially had to re-remember where it was that I saw it to convince myself it wasn't just something I'd imagined. This video along with its soundtrack looks like something that would be in a Hayao Miyazaki animated film, but it's real!


Murmuration from Sophie Windsor Clive on Vimeo.

The Wizard of Us

The Wizard of Oz , a photo by []Aaroneous Monk[] on Flickr.

While reading some political commentary from a Right-ward leaning friend today about the “real motives” behind the Wall Street protests it occurred to me that those caught up taking sides in a politically bifurcated system can do little more than purvey half-truths and try and foist them off as the whole shebang. In looking back on the earlier phenomenon of the Tea Party Movement with my Left-ward leaning friends’ critiques I see the mirror image.

Using mirror as metaphor, it is like describing half a person, but then putting a mirror up to the edge to give an illusion of seeing the whole person. This half person posing as a whole person allows for pronouncements of nefarious connections and motives that are tenuous at best as well as providing a self-serving and incomplete picture.

Is this the famous “Straw Man” of debate fame? The Scarecrow from the Wizard of Oz longing for a brain? Whatever it is I think this approach does precious little to help solve the problems we face as a society, but is more a symptom of its self-destruction. Maybe we need a Tin Man approach whereby we long for a heart?

Night Swimming

I learned tonight that R.E.M. is disbanding.  The flood of memories that have come with that revelation have been almost overwhelming.  I most associate their music with the two years I spent in Korea as an infantryman from 1991 to 1993, a strange and melancholy time for me.  I remember listening to songs from their album “Out of Time” while swimming in a pool on a lonely hilltop that overlooked the Demilitarized Zone with other members of my squad.  From this hilltop the fake city of “Peace Village” in North Korea could be seen in the hazy distance adding a surreal quality to this rare moment of downtime. 

“Automatic for the People” came out some time after we'd transferred back to our base at Camp Casey, headquarters of the US Army's 2nd Infantry Division.  The song "Losing My Religion" followed me in and out of the PX and shops in the small town outside of our base as well as haunted my trips to Seoul where it played through store front speakers in Myeongdong.  Their music was a kind of soundtrack for that two year tour of duty and that song in particular encapsulated my experiences, thoughts, and feelings of the time.

I remember one night in particular.  I was walking back to my barracks some time after midnight, having just come from hanging out with Korean friends in a coffee shop outside the gate in Dongducheon. Half way there I passed the base swimming pool and found myself staring across the road at the blue glow of the water behind a high security fence. A tremendous wave of melancholy washed over me. My mind began to fill with thoughts of my situation: far from home, far from family and friends, trying to find lasting friendships and relationships in a situation that was impermanent and tenuous at best.

The feeling was so intolerably strong that I suddenly found myself headed across the road while keeping an eye out for the Military Police patrolling in their humvees. I scaled the high fence and squatted at the water’s edge looking into its depths. As if in a trance I stripped down to my boxers and allowed myself to topple forward into the water. 

I wouldn’t say that I was looking for death per se, but it was a longing for a release from the emotional pain of life that is felt in those moments when we feel utterly alone.  In retrospect, baptism would be an apt analogy, wanting to move from death to life in the act of immersion and then rebirth.

I remember the glow all around me, the sensation of floating, feeling detached from my cares. I swam for no more than a few minutes staying mostly underwater. I wanted to continue to do that until the sun rose, but getting caught would have resulted in serious consequences in that environment. I eventually got out and put my clothes back on with my boxers soaking through my pants and walked the kilometer or so back to my barracks where I quietly climbed into bed and fell asleep.

***

Vespers

Vespers, a photo by []Aaroneous Monk[] on Flickr.

I attended the Saturday Vespers service at St. Gregory of Nyssa Orthodox Church last night and brought my camera along. While uploading the photos to my computer later in the evening it sparked memories of the first time I stepped foot into an Orthodox Church in the summer of 1995. A friend from college had an Orthodox publication that I had perused while visiting him which intrigued me. That led to reading more about this ancient Christian church that I knew so very little about.

That reading led to looking for a local Orthodox Church which I found in the phone book of a larger nearby town and I called the priest, Fr. Athanasius. I asked to meet with him and that led to some visits in his office and even a lunch date or two. In those early meetings he patiently answered my (mostly foolish) questions, but also encouraged me to “come and see”. This was difficult because I was teaching a Sunday School class back in my hometown on Sunday mornings. At some point I made the decision to attend a Saturday evening Vespers service.

I arrived early and nervously opened the front door. The first thing that hit me was the smell of incense and then I noticed the flicker of candle flames a few feet away. There was a warm glow about the place and a few people were walking around bowing and kissing icons. The service started and I heard the Psalms being read as well as chanted in a Middle Eastern sounding tone. At some point the priest stood in front of a table (the altar) with a golden censer in hand, quiet and attentive, with his head bowed. As the chanter began to sing “let my prayer arise before You as incense” the priest began swinging the censer which jingled with the sound of small bells… “hear me, hear me, Oh Lord.”

16 years later I still treasure Vespers as the sun sets and "we see the evening light", the candles brighten, the air becomes hazy with incense, and I feel my heart beating “hear me, hear me, Oh Lord.”

Pictures in the Dark

Drawing Pictures in the Dark, a photo by []Aaroneous Monk[] on Flickr.

Most nights I lay with Elias after our bedtime ritual until he falls asleep and then I quietly extricate myself when I’m sure he’s asleep. Tonight he requested his Mom lay with him and was told she would join him after getting Anya to sleep. With this assurance of an eventual bedtime companion I left his room and gave dire warnings of what would happen if he were to be seen leaving his room as he’s wont to do if he is awake and no one is with him in bed.

After some time I was pleasantly surprised to realize it had been several minutes since my exit and he had not left his room despite me hearing him mumbling things like “I’m bored” from his bed while I sat in the office next door doing meaningful work (OK, I was on Facebook). The comments eventually stopped and not sure of what to make of his unexpected obedience I peeked in on him. His bed was empty and scanning the room I caught sight of his small dark silhouette hunched over his desk with marker in hand drawing pictures in the dark.

In the Night Kastle

In the Slanted Lands

where only shadows grow

lies the Night Kastle

Asleep in the parapet
lies little Kramer Krow
high in his perch
between sheets of ice and snow

In the Slanted Lands
where only shadows grow

The cry of the grubble-snout
resounding long and low
awakens the sleeping Kramer
from his dreaming undertow

In the Slanted Lands
where only shadows grow

He rubs his tired eyes
and wiggles his talon-toes
sprouting from his back
two slender black wings grow

In the Slanted Lands
where only shadows grow

Tottering on his tower
a breeze begins to blow
he tumbles into the air
to go where he does not know

Falling feels like flying

Sleeping seems like dying

It sometimes leaves you crying

In the Slanted Lands
where only shadows grow.

They’re gardening boots now...

They’re gardening boots now
Stained only with the dirt
Of my small raised garden

Seeds unsealed from plastic
Await a proper burial
Reminding me of a past

That still weighs on my heart
But gives me hope
For the possibility of new life

Reading Buck's "The Good Earth"

"The Good Earth" comes to mind
As I mow my yard and think of “the land”
This is my land and it’s not much
But I work it with sweat and care when I can

There are more weeds than grass
But I enjoy the variety that my neighbors lack
With their absolute uniformity
Of changeless blades

I add nothing to it that kills or coerces
Things that the liver must clear
To maintain the body’s health
But may revisit with sickness years hence

My son plays here where bunny burrows hide
Strange and varied flowers grow where they will
It’s my land and it’s not much
But I will not subjugate, only steward

Pirates for Hire

Sunday morning I was on call and the workload was mercifully light which allowed me to head home just after the noon hour. At home I was presented with the daunting task of “entertaining” Elias (which basically means keeping him out of trouble) while simultaneously helping J get the house together for the family Christmas get-together that we are hosting for the first time in our 10 years of married life. You can see the challenge I was up against.

Elias helped by picking the theme early, pirates. I dug through my chest-of-drawers to find two old bandanas that we could wear and he located his belt and sword along with a sweeper attachment that he gave to me for my “little cannon”. Now, here is where the parallel tracks of play and work needed to run through the course of the day. Our first task was to dig through a large box full of unpacked framed photos from our previous house with a plan to hang some of them so it looks like we actually live in the current house.

The epiphany came when Elias stumbled upon a small glowing monkey globe that had somehow found its way into that box, a glowing jewel, a treasure if you will! So, boxes were now treasure chests. It was a short leap from there to the idea that our house was a vast pirate ship requiring repairs and other forms of maintenance to keep it sea worthy. The upstairs became the rigging, the downstairs became the main deck, and the basement became the hold. Elias began to really get into this new idea with strange nautical terms and was helping me unpack dishes, carry boxes up and down the stairs, and put books on shelves.

The one bone that I had to throw him periodically involved shooting people that were bullying him with my “little cannon”. I really chafed against this kind of senseless violence, but it seemed a small price to pay for all the work I was getting out of the little guy. He would say something like, “that boy just pushed me down, Daddy Pirate” and I would have to immediately draw the cannon from under my belt and blow the imaginary kid away with a loud explosion sound. All in all a very productive day despite the terrible sight of imaginary bloody kid parts strewn throughout my house.

I Thought I saw the Theotokos

I thought I saw the Theotokos
walking the halls of the hospital
where I work,

her face dark, warm, and
glowing with an inner light,
hair bound up in a colorful wrap,

a veil draped over all
cascading down and
getting lost in the folds

of her ankle-length gown.
Someone told me she was
from the Somali community

here in our Midwestern town,
but I think I saw the Theotokos today
and it made my heart glad.

***

The Country Shed

The Country Shed
Originally uploaded by []Aaroneous Monk[]

Some time in the mid 90’s the so-called “bypass” in Marion Indiana was being widened to accommodate a growing amount of traffic. It was originally built to bypass the downtown area which had grown stagnant and made getting from A to B in a timely manner difficult. Over time it began to attract a multitude of chain businesses. With this kind of proliferation came increased traffic and traffic lights which eventually made it a not very efficient way to get from A to B. A casualty of this widening was a small unassuming brick building known as "The Country Shed”.

It was here that Indiana Wesleyan University students could experience some local-color-realism by breathing in substantial amounts of second hand smoke and eating off of greasy plates while sitting conspicuously isolated from the usual patrons. Kevin grew up in Marion and had befriended many of the unseemly types that frequented the Shed. My impression from the few opportunities I got to hang out with Kevin and the Shed regulars was that they didn’t exactly know what to make of him, but found him strangely compelling and over time even came to love him. At some point Kevin convinced three of these folks, a woman and two men, to allow him to create a painting of them sitting around a table talking and smoking.

I can think of few better expressions of letting someone know they are precious and unique than spending the time and effort to capture them in a fine art piece. And the fact they sat there for such a long time while Kevin worked at his canvas, feeling somewhat conspicuous or at least a little silly as they must have, said a lot about the reciprocal nature of what was being shared.

Before the painting could be finished the Country Shed was closed in order to be torn down for the bypass expansion. Kevin was able to convince the owner to loan him the table and chairs along with glasses, salt & pepper shaker, sugar dispenser, and ash tray. He had them set up in the middle of his small studio apartment so he could invite the three former patrons over to talk, smoke, and joke while he painted. The one man I remember meeting at Kevin’s apartment was likely in his upper 50’s with greasy combed back hair, beard, and a penchant for chain-smoking. He reminded me a lot of the Vietnam vets I would later go on to meet and treat at a Behavioral Health Clinic in Washington DC.

***  

Kevin was a “fool” in the sense that Prince Mishkin was an “idiot” in Dostoyevsky’s “The Idiot”. His straight forward naiveté in loving and accepting others unconditionally was likely incomprehensible to many who only knew calculation, mistrust, and hurt in their own hearts and lives. Now that Kevin is gone I wonder if there are those who now say “didn’t our hearts burn while we were with him?” And by those less gracious, “he eats with publicans and sinners.” May his memory be eternal.

The Haunting

30 April 2009

This past week I’ve been in the process of clearing from Ft. Campbell in order to begin a new life sans military. It is a strange place to be, no clinical duties, no set schedule, like a homeless person or ghost flitting about the base. As a ghost who haunts the places he once knew I have been eating lunch and spending my in-between-clearing-appointments time at the Adult Behavioral Health clinic. It’s nice to continue to connect with my soon-to-be former colleagues and answer the occasional lingering treatment question for patients that will be transitioning to someone else now that I am technically out of the loop.

Today I dropped in and was told that Dr. D’s office was available if I wanted to hang out there. Dr. D is our Clinic Chief and a civilian. We worked together in another building prior to the new clinic being built which now sits half demolished about a block away from here (see photo). Due to his long experience and the need for continuity (military personnel come and go frequently) he was made Chief when we moved into the new building. Almost two months ago he shared in the weekly staff meeting that he had been diagnosed and was in treatment for cancer, but did not want to make it public until now. The reason he wanted to let us know was due to the fact it had spread significantly which meant he would be missing some days for more aggressive treatment and he anticipated there might be complications arising over time.

Soon after that announcement I found myself filling in for him more and more frequently as Chief. The last two weeks of my clinic duties he was not here due to catching a cold of some kind which had progressed to something more incapacitating. Today I read an e-mail from one of the other clinicians who had just visited him at his home and reported that he was doing very poorly. As I write this I am sitting in Dr. D’s chair surrounded by many of the things that made up his life: pictures, books, graduation certificates, a very old “Two Way” radio from General Electric, and multiple post-it notes with various reminders. Despite having terminal cancer he continued to do his job in a very stressful environment helping transition our clinic to a more efficient and effective place of treatment for the huge number of soldiers returning from deployments. He will be sorely missed.

“Lord, Jesus Christ, Who suffered and died for our sins that we may live, if during our life we have sinned in word, deed or thought forgive us in Your goodness and love. All our hope we put in You; protect your servant Dr. D from all evil. We submit to Your will and into Your hands we commend our souls and bodies. For a Christian end to our lives, peaceful, without shame and suffering, and for a good account before the awesome judgment seat of Christ, we pray to you O Lord. Bless us, be merciful to us and grant us life eternal. Amen.”

-from the Orthodox Prayer Book

Everybody needs a little luck

Creche
Originally uploaded by []Aaroneous Monk[]

This is the second year in a row we've visited a Live Nativity at a church down the road from us. It is held in the evenings leading up to Christmas for a few nights and involves driving with your lights off around a very large loop lined by candles in plastic milk jugs. The camels (as advertised!) are a sure draw for Elias with the donkeys and sheep coming in a close second. We drove slowly from scene to scene explaining to Elias what was going on with the actors and admiring the real fires blazing outside prefabricated porticos, inns, and stables.

As we came upon the second scene along the road I saw a pregnant woman and her husband approach the innkeeper looking for a place to stay. I knew from the story that they had traveled far and long to get here and she was very near giving birth. I guess being a husband and father myself with the immediacy of the situation I was caught off guard. As the innkeeper shook his head "no" I began to cry. I must have been making some strange noises because Jennifer turned from the scene to give me a quizzical look. But for those few moments I couldn't help it. It was overwhelming.

Moving on, I got my hormones under control (men have them too ya know) and we rolled past the shepherds, singing angels, and then the manger scene with the three kings approaching one by one to bow and offer their gifts to the Christ-child. That was the last one and as we moved past it I said, "Goodbye baby Jesus, try to stay warm" in a sing-songy voice for Elias' benefit. He quickly added in a similar voice from the back seat, "and good luck!"

WHERE THE WILD THINGS ARE

Recently Elias has become more and more involved with using our vacuum attachments as his “shooter” and wearing his hooded bath towel as a head covering with flowing cape (clothes optional). His grandma dubbed him “Darth Vader” this past weekend which he quickly adopted as “Dark Vader”, much like Max in his wolf costume in the children’s literary classic WHERE THE WILD THINGS ARE. We’ve been working on redirecting his desire to “kill bad people” into destroying “Robots & Monsters” (btw, I think we might just chuck our TV out the window).

While all of this has been transpiring the past several weeks I’ve been working my way through a collection of letters by St. Theophan the Recluse quaintly titled “The Spiritual Life and How to be Attuned to it.” As Elias and I were tearing through the house clearing it of Robots & Monsters room by room my mind made a strange connection. In St. Theophan’s letters, which are simply a modern application of the teachings of the Church and Desert Fathers, he makes clear the real battle we face. Not against “flesh and blood” (read: other people), but against our own evil inclinations and disorderd desires that swirl about inside of us and contribute to suffering in the world.

It seemed to me at that moment our efforts to transform Elias’ enemy from “bad people” to “Robots & Monsters” was just such a thing. “Robots” in his imagination are people-like, but devoid of warmth and love which can make them scary, spiritual imposters, much as the absence of these things in us can do the same thing, ie, dehumanize us. “Monsters” are those spiritually malevolent forces which assail us and which need be resisted. So, here is the lesson of St. Theophan, to direct our efforts at killing those things in us and not at “bad people” who are simply foils for our own inner frustrations and shortcomings which are outwardly expressed in violence and anger towards others.

OK, that was a little heavy, so now LET THE WILD RUMPUS START!

A day of numbers

A day of numbers
Originally uploaded by []Aaroneous Monk[]

nine and eleven equal twenty
which doubled is forty
the number of years the Children of Israel
spent wandering lost in the wilderness
the number of days Christ
spent there being tried and tested
the number of days in Lent
a time for introspection
for cleaning
and for healing

a third of nine is three
the number of persons
in the Holy Trinity
a triangle of love
that has communed
before time was time
time now for
introspection
cleaning
and healing

a number of things I wanted to say
a number of things I wanted to pray

St. Kevin Was Here

st. kevin was here
Originally uploaded by sesame ellis

Thinking about Kevin this morning hurts. A few weeks ago I found his name in my cell phone and tried to call the number wondering if someone might pick up, if I’d hear his voice one more time on the message, or a disinterested recording telling me the number was no longer in service. It was the last one, but I couldn’t bring myself to erase his name and number.

What set off thoughts of Kevin today was seeing a picture on flickr.com from one of my contacts that had been to Glendalough, Ireland a year or two ago and taken pictures of the lake and St. Kevin’s tower. That picture was buried deep in her photo stream, but someone had found it today and commented on it bringing it back to the surface. The title of the photo is “st. kevin was here” and shows her daughter playing on the shores of the lake.

Visiting Kevin was one of those rare treats in life. A time when you know you are about to embark on a journey of unfettered verbosity which can take you to the most far flung places. In those early years much of it was hot air full of strawmen we could easily set up and knock down, but the important thing was that two people were together, communing, and getting goofy if things got too earnest or we got too full of ourselves.

I still feel terrible when I remember the time I lost my cool with him and really cut him down. It was 1994 and we made a road trip to Cincinnati to stay with some artist friends of his on Mt. Adams for the weekend. Prior to leaving Cincinnati we took in a movie. I can’t remember the movie we agreed to see together, but when we got to the theater he discovered that Jodie Foster’s “Nell” was playing and he decided to do his own thing and see it.

Driving back to Marion after the movie Kevin was feeling particularly garrulous and went on at length about the movie, philosophizing and intellectualizing it to the Nth degree with no signs of letting up for the duration of the 4 hour trip. I finally became completely exasperated and asked him, “Kevin, has anyone ever told you you talk too much?” An awkward silence followed that lasted several minutes before he asked me with an irritated edge to his voice, “Has anyone ever told you that?” I so regretted letting that slip out and we spent the remainder of that trip in an agitated quietude.

But that was one of those things about hanging out with Kevin. He could be so exasperating at times. Over the years that I knew him (especially the early years, before the first signs of cancer and before he came into the Orthodox Faith) there were more than a few people rebuffed by his words and behaviors, but the pros far outweighed the cons for me in nurturing our friendship. If one could just bear up a bit under his eccentricities and lack of social graces there was a huge pay off in getting close to him. The transformation that he underwent in his later years with the progression of cancer and spiritual deepening was truly remarkable. Where before there was arrogance and frequent irritation in intellectual wranglings it was more and more replaced by humility, patience, and love. I wish I could hear his voice again.

Kevin as a painting outline

Kevin used to start paintings and then not be able to finish them because it was such a tedious process with his poor eye sight. The "model" (usually one of his friends) oftentimes could not sit long enough or often enough to complete the process. As a result he had many incomplete paintings at various stages of development sitting around his apartment. My favorite was of a faceless young man in a green sweater with the body of an acoustic guitar in his lap and his arm outstretched with unformed fingers wrapping around a nonexistent neck. This Photoshop effect I did on a recent photo of him reminds me of some of those unfinished paintings.

I sat for him twice in our long friendship. The first time was before I left for Europe in 1994. We stayed up all night, me sitting on a barstool and Kevin painting, and we talked and talked and talked...and then we talked some more. He was unable to start on my face before I had to leave for the airport the next morning. It was a painting of a 20-something male with long wavey hair, t-shirt, shorts, sandles, and a backpack with absolutely no nose, eyes, or mouth. He ended up reclaiming that canvas later on for a different painting.

The second and last time I sat for him was just prior to my leaving for Russia in 1998. I sat in a chair with my backpack beside me, hunched over with an open book in my hands and a black prayer rope hanging from my right wrist. The book was that spiritual classic of Russian literature The Way of a Pilgrim. I read it to him out loud as he painted and we made it through the book at least twice in the 14 hours it took to finish the painting (though, in fact, the border where my right arm touches the draped mattress I was leaning against was not finished *in true Kevin fashion*).

I’d like to think , like those paintings, our friendship will continue to develop in some inexplicable way, always growing and never “finished.”

Kevin, the beginning

My first memory of Kevin takes me back to the Spring of 1989 at Indiana Wesleyan University (IWU). I had just turned twenty and was a recent transfer from DePauw University. It was such an odd time for me, having spent almost an entire semester at home after a false start to my sophomore year at DePauw and now at a school affiliated with the church of my upbringing. It was a school that I’d visited on a few occasions in High School for special recruiting weekends with my church Youth Group but had never seriously considered as a college choice in my search for greater independence. My initial enthusiasm for pursuing a career in medicine was beginning to wane with nothing definite to replace it and I felt not a little lost and adrift. It was during this melancholy time that I first encountered Kevin McCarty.

“Encounter” might not be quite the right word, maybe “glimpsed” is more accurate. It was evening time and I was walking along a sidewalk on my way to the library to do a little studying (or was it a night class?). As I passed under the branches of a tree I heard a peculiar whizzing-whirring noise coming from up ahead near the library. I looked up and saw by the light of a street lamp someone approaching on a bike, but not just any bike. It was an adult tricycle, like the ones I’d seen as a kid ridden by old people with the basket on back. I quickly stepped off the sidewalk and deeper into the shadows of the tree. He was coming at quite a clip and did not see me, but what a magnificently weird wonder to behold! He had on a long trench coat whose tales were flapping wildly behind him as he whizzed by oblivious of my presence, like a phantom flitting through the night going who knows where.

I did not see much of Kevin the rest of that year and he remained in my mind just a tall oddly shaped man with very thick glasses that would occasionally materialize somewhere on campus. It was not until the Spring of 1990 when I’d changed my major to History/Political Science that I began to see him more often due to his attending Dr. Martin’s classes. Dr. Glenn Martin was a professor who I had become more and more captivated with over the Fall of 1989 mainly due to the fact I’d begun making friends with people who had come to IWU specifically to study with him. I began attending his Sunday morning class at College Church and was hooked. This was my “intellectual awakening”, an opening of my mind to new ways of thinking and a seminal college experience. It is also what initially bound Kevin and me together and provided a kind of context for the development of our friendship.

8 Point Cross

Almost 10 years ago now I made this cross out of palm fronds in the basement of Ss. Constantine & Elena Orthodox Church with my wife (then fiancé) and our friend Karin. It was Palm Sunday and it is traditional to use the fronds that you are given at the end of the Liturgy to weave into a cross.

As we sat there together, Karin and I entered into a friendly competition to make an "8 Point Cross" in the Slavic tradition (short bar at the top representing the sign placed over Jesus' head and the bottom slanted bar representing the foot board pointing up to the "Good Thief" on Jesus' right). The pussy willow branch is what the Russian's use on Palm Sunday because of the lack of palm trees there.

Karin passed away a few years after that from breast cancer. She was a big woman with a larger-than-life personality, some might say ostentatious, but we loved her very much. I took this photo today because I realized this frail cross will likely fall apart over time and I wanted to capture it in memory of Karin. May her memory be eternal as the Orthodox say.

Going to a "Christmas Celebration"

J found an advertisement for a "Christmas Celebration" at the downtown Methodist Church this evening. It seemed promising and so we spontaneously got ourselves ready which included Kramer and I dressing alike. The church was HUGE with soaring rafters, extremely tall stained glass windows, and a pipe organ whose size beggared the imagination.

I think Kramer was a little overwhelmed by it all. There was a bell choir, then a teen choir singing from the rear, then a little kid's choir followed by the adult choir. At some point they fired up the monstrous pipe organ and Kramer's face looked a little panicky, but who could blame him? It made my teeth rattle in my head.

He asked to go home a few times in a little sheepish voice, though he did seem to enjoy parts of it, especially the little kid's choir. I don't think he really knew what to make of it all. When we got home J asked him if he liked it and he immediately said, "no". When she asked him why he said, "dat music was weir(d)".

The Whale

What causes a man to be led down a path of growing infidelity whose end is the destruction of his marriage and the splitting up of his family? It seems to me it is an insidious process that happens slowly enough that he can justify each step to himself in a way that could not occur if seen cumulatively, all at once, with the enormity of the loss fully realized. At any one moment he perceives his decisions to be non-malevolent, almost reasonable.

Someone dear to me has gone down such a path and it weighs heavily on me. I’m reminded of that line in Proverbs which reads, “There is a way which seems right to a man, but its end is the way of death.” If nothing else it is a reminder to me to be vigilant in safeguarding my own family, to guard my heart. In the midst of such thoughts this week I wrote a poem.


The Whale

A magnificent creature
visible for but a moment
slips beneath the waves
troubling me
that it exists
without access
in a world
only vaguely imagined

The torment begins
a fevered pulse
a need to assess
a need to possess
I find myself again
plying those waters
in excited anticipation
oblivious to troubling signs

When at last
I draw abreast
Harpoon flung
with a furious energy
linked at last
I have it
(or does it have me?)
the slow pull begins

Calm waters turn agitated
treacherous seas
through perilous rocks
before the descent
cold, dark, deep down
crushing suffocating aloneness
far from light & life
far from love.

Für Arvo

“I could compare my music to white light which contains all colours. Only a prism can divide the colours and make them appear; this prism could be the spirit of the listener.”

-Arvo Pärt

I first discovered the music of Arvo Pärt in 1996 through a happy coincidence while living in Bloomington Indiana and attending Indiana University. A Russian friend of mine had off-handedly mentioned his name and thought I might enjoy his music. This friend had studied at the Moscow Music Conservatory and was currently engaged in graduate studies at the Indiana University School of Music. His opinion in this matter had some weight with me, but I did not follow up on the recommendation right away.

A week or two later I was in Roscoe’s, a used CD shop just off of Kirkwood Avenue and a favorite haunt of mine. I spent a good little amount of time going through the Classical music section without any sightings of Arvo Pärt. And that could have very well been the last of that, but then I moved over to the Jazz music section which was my usual hangout. Somewhere in the midst of music by John Coltrane (A Love Supreme, possibly?) I stumbled upon a misplaced CD… Arvo Pärt’s “Te Deum.” If that wasn’t an Augustine-like “take up and listen” command from God, then I wouldn’t know what would be!

Over the years I have acquired many CD’s of Pärt’s music. I cannot listen to it without being profoundly moved. I feel that I somehow acquire senses that transcend the five I was born with. Dostoevsky’s assertion that “beauty will save the world” resonates in my experience of listening to this music. When our son was born we listened to Pärt’s “Für Alina” over and over again those two days in the hospital. It was a precious experience seemingly outside of time and the cares of the world. It was the perfect soundtrack to the miracle of my son’s birth.

We fight not against flesh and blood...

Morning Prayers
Originally uploaded by []Aaroneous Monk[].

October 30th, 2006 - I arrived at the airport with two large duffle bags and a long thin rectangular case housing an M16 A2 assault rifle. At the Northwest check-in counter an attractive middle-aged woman asked me if I had any bags to check. I said, “yes, two duffle bags and a weapon”. That last word felt so strange in my mouth. I’d joked with the rear detachment NCO who brought me to the airport that I felt like a mafia hitman lugging this rifle around in an elongated black case. The proclamation of having a weapon brought me to the attention of the male attendant who asked me to unlock the case. “Please show me that there is no ammunition in the rifle,” he said. I pulled back the charging handle and locked the bolt to the rear sensing that the eyes of other passengers were on my back. I angled the butt of the rifle towards him so that he could see that the chamber was empty. Satisfied he said, “thank you,” and I hit the bolt release mechanism causing it to slam forward with a loud CLACK! It was that sound that drove home the fact that this was not an overseas vacation I was going on, but a deployment to a war zone.

I found the curiosity of the attendant towards my M16 disquieting. “Is it true that the bullets from this rifle tumble instead of spinning in a straight line?” he asks. I tried to dig back more than fifteen years into my memory as a former infantryman and vaguely remembered something about a “tumbling” bullet and I say, “yes.” The female attendant asked why that was significant and the other replied, "it does more damage that way.” She accepted his explanation matter of factly and I quickly walked away from this conversation only then remembering that the bullet only tumbles when it hits its “target”, but I had no desire to return to the counter and clarify this particularly gruesome fact.

In one of the duffle bags I carried was a hand-carved “prayer box” wrapped inside my sleeping bag for protection. It was lovingly fashioned from walnut and banded with hammered brass to include a primitive brass latching mechanism to keep it shut. Affixed on the inside lid are three icons, the middle of which is surrounded by a carved frame. It is a thing of simple beauty, yet somehow exotic and mysterious. It is my true weapon, containing a prayer book, prayer rope, holy water, and a small sealed wooden sandbox for candles. It is a curious weapon, life-giving, unlike what is in the black case. One is hidden and the other is painfully visible, clunky, and cold. It troubles me that I am more proficient with the rifle than in saying my prayers. Lord have mercy on me…