The God of Mischief

In two hundred years scavengers will find 

what appears to be the fire-ravaged image 

of a plaid-suited boy with magnificent bangs 

that has miraculously been spared, though 

his smaller sister’s face will have been lost.  

It is a cruel world in which this image is found, 

“hope” - a frayed rope down to just a few strands.  

A cult will be formed to honor this reckless boy  

with his big ears, missing tooth, and freckled nose.

It will be dedicated to Mischief-in-Good-Doing

as its grounding philosophy and touchstone.  

I hope to attain to such a great distinction and

veneration even in this life before the future runs 

with whatever it is that I have been unable 
to achieve in my own misguided way, selah.

***

The Machine

It was considered the highest priority

and they budgeted accordingly,

a machine to smooth the bumps

and clean the air of pollutants.

It roamed the landscape with 

wide tracks flattening the earth,

sucking in the dirty air and 

spitting out clean(er) air.

‘Cept the exhaust pipe propped 

on top, out of sight, put out 

a bit too much and some did 

not want their land flattened.

Regardless, it was the highest priority

and the machine was made bigger

by the year until the hills began

to disappear and darkness spread.

Fuel was consumed at an alarming

rate as the befouling escalated,

but its justification as a solution to 

a problem remained unchallenged.

People felt somehow safer with the machine

prowling around (in other people’s 

plots preferably) making it easier to walk, 

if not for the choking, but always elsewhere.

***

Combat Zone Correspondence

Subj: Another journal entry

Date: 11/19/2006 3:34:01 PM Romance Standard Time

From: zek18376@yahoo.com

To: JHForest@cs.com

8 November 2006

I had an interesting interaction with my colleague Captain H this morning. When we greeted each other in the staff room I said, “well here we are, another day.” She replied with, “yes, just like every other day. It’s like we are in a prison here.” We discussed the fact we wear the same uniform everyday, stay in the same area, live in small windowless rooms, and cannot see our families, etc. I put a positive spin on it (in my mind) by likening it to a monastery instead. It was my attempt at “reframing” her negative assertion as we are fond of doing in the mental health profession. She thought it a novel idea, but not necessarily much of an improvement I’m sure.

Anymore I think a lot in metaphors, especially when it comes to psychiatry and spiritual matters. It seems to me that what we are doing here in our “Combat Stress Control” unit in Iraq somewhat mirrors what happens when a pilgrim visits a monastery. A war is raging all around us and soldiers seek us out or are sent to us as a physical and mental respite, to learn new ways of dealing with the stress of a combat environment, and to refocus on the “mission.” We offer them a program in which they can explore their inner workings experientially through various group therapy settings and one-on-one counseling, as well as receive educational information.

In my experience this is not unlike visiting a monastery. I am in a constant battle with the passions that distract and disorient me. This fight can narrow my vision, constrict my mind, and threaten to overwhelm me as a result. Visiting the monastery gets me away from the routine flow of life for a time to reassess and retool for the job of battling the passions. This is accomplished by being involved in the corporate (or group) activity of worship in the divine services, meeting one-on-one with a spiritual father or mother, and spending quiet thoughtful time in educating myself by reading spiritual materials. In this way I can get back to the “battle” and be more effective.

Both have “healing” at their heart, though the great irony/tragedy of the first is that some are being sent back out to kill or be killed. It is also problematic that in the first case the enemy is external (the other) while in the second case the enemy is internal (the self). Maybe this is why Jesus says our battle is “not against flesh & blood,” to repudiate those who would justify killing those created in his image. And what to do with “love your enemies” and “return evil with good?” Living with this kind of dichotomy in a war zone requires a lot of humility and reliance on the mercy of God. Pray for me a sinner.


***

Third Grade Problems & Solutions

Anya has a new drawing book that I found on the dining room table over the weekend.  It sucked me backwards down the corridor of time to the third grade.  My teacher was an irritable old lady and everyone dreaded getting her class.  This was felt all the more keenly by the fact that the other third grade teacher was so nice.  

She was constantly on me for moving too much or talking too much.  Her way of handling it was so heavy-handed that my Mom and the Principal had to get involved.  There was a meeting of some kind (my memory is clouded by the intervening decades) but I seem to recall the Principal asking me what it was I enjoyed doing in my free time.

I told him I liked to draw.  His answer to the quandary was to have my teacher let me go to the library and find some drawing books to work on when my work was done so that I was not just sitting there getting into “trouble.”  It required some bending on the teacher’s part who expected kids to sit quietly at their desks when they were done with their work and do nothing, like cute little robots in pause mode.  She protested that she would have to let other kids do that too.  The Principal came back with “We’re not talking about other kids.  We’re talking about Aaron.”  My Mom told me she could tell that really got the teacher’s goat and the discussion ended there.    

I learned later that that was her last year to teach and no one else had to sit under her constant scowl after me.  I took credit for being the person who helped her decide it was time to retire.

And here is Anya’s drawing book with pretty much the exact same animals and how to draw them.  For years I had a drawing of a dolphin and shark in the ocean mounted on a sheet of blue construction paper stored away from this time period, but it was lost at some point and forgotten, until now.

***

Disconnected

48 years on this planet 

and to still feel so... 

disconnected.

It is shameful, really.

Where is my gratitude?

Where is the great love

for the life given me?

Where have I poured 

myself out for others 

beyond need or pain?

That is the disconnect

it seems, to be wrapped

in my own skin, trapped

in a self that is untrue 

or at least in part con-

cocted out of a need to

be needed, and the more

I want, the less I’m wanted.


***

The Scarecrow

The wind tousled his hair 

over the tops of the corn,

perched on a long branch

planted deep in the ground,

bending without breaking.

He was a tall man, a straw man,

a fallacy of argument that was 

remarkably apt (to his great shame).

A scarecrow, friend of black birds,

confidant of disparaged creatures,

character too much like kindling,

the spark of love dwindling...

hung, undone, and unsung.

***

Hope for the World

We start out so small,

so vulnerable,

and if it is possible

to protect that

little one inside of us,

there is hope

for the world, indeed.

***

RESIST

Push back 

Your baser desires

Steeped in selfishness

And lack of empathy for others

Push forward

With kind words

Outwardly directed 

Wrapped in a grateful heart

RESIST all that is not life-giving 

RESIST all that is death-dealing

Know that your place in the world precludes no one.


***

Saying Goodbye to Greta

What can I say about our English Springer Spaniel, Greta?  She has been with us for 15 years and I can’t imagine a better companion.  She has beautiful soft fur and her forehead smells like grapes, I kid you not.  She has always played hard and rested easy.  We picked her from a litter of 9 puppies and she was the runt (the breeder’s name for her was “baby”).

She was our first baby, a full three years before we had our first human baby.  She loved to run and wore a dirt track in our back yard in Washington DC.  We’d take her to the park to socialize with other dogs, but she was not interested in other dogs.  Instead she would run a football field-sized loop around all the other dogs and their owners while we stood in the middle and watched her circle for the entire 30 to 45 minutes of time we were there.

She loved to snuggle and chill, but could be quickly coaxed into a more playful mode when we were in the mood for that kind of thing.  And she would never leave the yard without us.  I could let her out the front door and she would do her business and bee-bop around without wandering or running away.  When she was done and ready to come in she would stand at the door and wait patiently for us to reappear.

She was quick to train and eager to please.  For a time she would poop and pee on command.  We hired a teenager once to watch her at J’s parents home and he told the story that he let Greta out and she began running around the yard.  He told her “pee Greta” and she immediately stopped running and squatted to pee.  He was duly impressed!  And Greta loved visits to her grandparent’s house out in the country near Dayton, Ohio.  It was always the same place even though we moved her with us from DC, to Tennessee, and then to Ohio.  

These past few months and weeks have been hard.  She lost her hearing a few years ago and more recently has been losing her sight and also her mind.  She frequently wanders into corners and dead-ends in the house and does not know how to back out of them so that we have to rescue her.  B/c of pain (despite medication) and worsening coordination she must be carried off the porch into the yard and carried back in.  She falls frequently and in just the past day or two she has had less and less use of her back legs.

Tomorrow I will take her to the vet to be put to sleep.  We had her 15th birthday party on Saturday with a cake and candles.  Tonight Jennifer gave her her favorite human food, homemade chicken noodle soup.  She has been a precious member of this family and I can’t imagine we will ever find another dog as “perfect” as our beautiful girl.

Killing the Mouse

My daughter’s eyes were huge

pointing into our garage and 

claiming she saw a mouse.

We thought she’d seen one

scamper across the concrete

but there it was, sitting still,

eyes closed and not moving.

Something must be wrong as

it tolerated our movements 

getting closer and closer to it.

I put the mouse trap in front

of it and pushed it with a stick.

The mouse sniffed it a bit but

did not try and get the food.

Something was definitely wrong

with this mouse, but how were

we to get it out of the garage?

I’d seen its droppings in the 

past few days behind the freezer

like tiny bits of charcoal and ash.

My eyes swept around the garage

and fastened on my combat boots

sitting dusty and unused by the door.

I told the kids to move out of sight

while I put on the boot and tied it up.

The mouse’s back was to me as I

quietly clomped forward in my boot.

It did not seem to know I was there

even as I raised my foot over its

small furry form, lost in some reverie.

I hesitated, my son peeked around

the corner, “Go away,” I said as 

his curious smile receded out of sight.

I hesitated, hoping it would run away.

But when it did not I took a deep breath 

and brought down the boot hard.

I gave it a moment or two and it did 

not move or squirm beneath the sole.

No wonder.  Under my boot I found

intestines and little white bean-shapes 

that I am sure were its kidneys.

This was the second lethargic mouse

in our garage likely poisoned elsewhere.

But it didn’t make it any easier to know

that the mouse was surely on the way out.

Tomorrow I will have to force myself to 
take our dog of 15 years to the vet to be 
put to sleep.  She has suffered long enough.

***

The Porch

It seemed he’d been on the porch for forever, maybe even forever and a day.  He’d claimed a corner of it at some remote moment and arranged his meager belongings around him like the walls of a home that he did not have.  

The roof kept the rain off but provided no heat.  The door was too low for him to enter upright, though he’d seen others bow or crawl through it in his dreams (or were they nightmares?).  It just seemed so undignified.

He was resourceful, clever even, finding twigs and trash to make a little fire that he could warm himself with.  But then there was the smell of flowers that would waft through the door on the wave of a tripartite tune and so move him that his tears would extinguish his pitiful pyre leaving only damp ashes to contemplate.  

But this place was his and his alone, after all.  He would not leave it for another to claim.  Still, it seemed he’d been on the porch of the temple forever, and yet another day had passed.

___

It wasn’t until I’d finished writing this poem that I realized it was echoing a scene from the life of St. Mary of Egypt in Jerusalem.  Like her, I’ve found my way onto the porch of the temple but it seems I can go no further without repentance.

___

The Molotov Cocktail

I’ve decided to riot today. 

I’m totally fed up with myself.

Someone will pay for my 

insecurities, let me tell you.

I’ve made a molotov cocktail

that I’m afraid will not work

but still, it feels good to imagine 

I could heft it at my foibles

and fathomless failures

setting them aflame in a 

glorious display of defiance.

***

This Tapestry of Life

Hello, world.

This is me saying “Hi.”

I am simultaneously

terrified and thrilled

about this particular day

that lies before me

full of surprises and 

chance meetings

confined as it is within the 

lattice-work of routine.

I am under no compulsion

to do or say the right things

but my willingness to do so

will strengthen and beautify

this tapestry of life

that we are all woven into.

Wish me luck…

***

Rain Faith Others

It rained today

of that I am certain.

It rained today

behind the curtain.

I took it on faith

when told it was true.

I took it on faith

what else could I do?

Dependent on others

in so many ways.

Dependent on others

for all of my days.

***

Listening to the Voices

It's like the words are whispered into my ear, 

voices that I pull onto paper and then cock my head 

to listen for more while perched on the front porch.

I am no great font of wisdom, no mystic crow

or seer of mysteries and so I wonder, 

where in the world are these words coming from?  

All I know is…

if I write them down I feel better,

less burdened, less bowed

by the weight of what I do not understand.

***