Melancholy in the Multiverse

 

It was late afternoon when the shimmer occurred, walking down my favorite fiction aisle in our local library, framed by rows and rows of books.

My head was down and my thoughts were exploring various possibilities that only existed between my two ears.  I suddenly felt very wobbly.

My perception was that the bookshelves on either side of me were extending in either direction an absurdly long distance.  I was utterly alone.

But not quite alone.  I sensed movement in the two aisles adjacent to me, one to the left and one to the right.  It took me a moment to reorient.

Peering to the left I saw myself or someone nearly identically so with his head down and a pained somber look, prematurely aged, defeated almost.

I turned away to my right and peered through the books on that side.  Again, a doppelgänger but this one with a bright and cheery countenance.

What decisions had they made to be here?  More importantly, what decisions had I made?  I seemed to be literally and figuratively between the two.

To myself on the left I felt compelled to reach through the stacks and give him a reassuring pat on the shoulder, maybe a squeeze of encouragement.

To myself on the right I wanted to crawl through the space and sit at his feet to learn how he had found his peace, his joy, his apparent contentment.

The shimmer returned but this time it was the from the welling up of tears.  I rubbed my eyes vigorously and then the crown of my head to self soothe.

I once again found myself alone in the finite space of books which tell tales of struggles and triumphs in a life of things both chosen and unchosen.  

***

The Longing

The days are long,
longer than they should be.

The nights are strong,
stronger than they would be

if only I could see you.

A deep depression.
A severe regression.

Scorn for myself 
stuck on a shelf.

My heart an in-
animate object.

A block of wood
if only I could…

get beyond the thing
that has ceased to be.

***

Truly Timeless

 

The beauty of the Divine Liturgy and the sacred architecture/iconography of an Orthodox Church is such that no matter where I am in the world my immediate feeling upon seeing one or entering one is “I know this place!”  

And I had just such an experience when I saw this photo.  I got excited because I mistakenly thought it was the parish where my wife and I were married and our son was baptized almost twenty years ago in Indianapolis, Indiana.

On closer inspection it is a photo from a parish in Tennessee.  To me, this phenomenon is indicative of a Faith that connects through time and space reaching back 2000 years.  It’s like a time machine because it is truly timeless.

***

Pascha 2024

It is May 4th and on this particular day in this particular year in the Orthodox Church we are approaching the great feast of Pascha.

At the present moment it is 9:30pm and the paschal service begins in two hours, so the waiting begins.  I typically would be preparing to go to bed in the next hour or so but sleep will not come until early tomorrow morning for me.

Between then and now something wondrously peculiar happens with everyone meeting in what will become a darkened church just prior to the midnight hour.  All the lights will be extinguished and we will capture glimpses of our fellow shadows that breathe and sway in place, like being in a mass grave that is expectant rather than morose or morbid.

Inside the altar a candle is lit and flickers as the priest begins to chant and the royal doors are opened so the light can come out to meet us.  The shadows become faces of people we know that illuminate one by one as the flame is passed from the priest to others and moves person to person.  

When all the candles are lit we exit the side door and process singing solemnly around the outside of the church and to the back doors that are closed to us.  There is meaning in everything.  I sometimes wonder what it looks like or how it is experienced by those out and about on this Saturday evening coming from or going to campus parties in the area when they stumble upon such a scene.

At the stroke of midnight the doors to the church are thrown open and all of the lights are on inside as we re-enter the church and begin exclaiming for the next few hours “Christ is Risen!  Indeed He is Risen!” Throughout the course of the service it is repeated in a fashion that I can only describe as “exuberant”.  And at the end of all of this processing, singing, and proclaiming we go upstairs for a feast of the bleary-eyed but satisfied.  

The drive home in and of itself is a surreal experience as the streets and roads are empty but we are full.

***

NO EXIT

 

Find the room with the black door.  There you will find a man posing as a psychiatrist.  Do not make eye contact with him.  He will be breathing but otherwise motionless.  He will ask “What is your business here?” but his lips will not move.  His eyes will not blink. 

You will respond “I need grease for my gray cells”.  

Turn in place thrice and he will then proffer a pill in either hand.  “You must choose one.”  You will see a white pill in his right hand and a black pill in his left hand.  The right choice is on the right which will be his left hand.  The pill color should match the door.

If at any time his lips move or his eyes blink you must immediately leave the room even if you do not have a pill.  Failure to do so within three seconds time will result in the black door disappearing and you will find yourself alone in a room with no exit.  

***

My Personal Eclipse

 

April 7^th, 2024

Tomorrow is the big day: Eclipse!

and still no poem or story about 

“My Personal Eclipse” though I

I have made half-hearted attempts

at fleshing out the Nurse’s words.

I’ve thought about the moon, the

sun, the earth, and what they

might mean in metaphor but I 

got nuthin’ other than the title 

that I find so utterly compelling.

Maybe my writer’s block is the 

thing itself, ie, a personal eclipse

blocking my ability to create, but

like the real thing I sincerely hope

it turns out to be transitory!

***

Synesthesia

 

A water spot 

on my patient list

bled to the back

like

a visual equivalent of

the ambient sounds 

of Brian Eno, no?

***

Memory Eternal, Father Matthew

 

An impressionist ascends the hill

in a blurring of reality to see what

lies beyond the blunted senses.

It is a short and hard journey to 

take the Kingdom by storm with

weapons of humility and love.

His backward glance challenges

us to continue our journey and 

fight for what is right and true.

***

Where Grace Finds Me

Sometimes I say or think “I don’t know” 

in a kind of sing-songy defeated way.  

It is a mini-mantra when things just don’t add up.  

So I pull in my emotional shingle and 

close my shutters to a bewildering world.  

Maybe I sit in a semi-comfortable chair 

in a dark room and pretend I am not home. 

The knockers and peekers circle but

they cannot find me in my secret space.

It seems Grace finds me most readily here.

I sit and wait in silence to allow wisdom to

discover me, like a dove alighting on my hand.

***

The Little Prayer Rope That Could

 

About a month or so ago I was tying my shoes in the morning to get ready for work and the shoe string broke.  As I held the broken piece in my hand I was reminded of Kevin’s prayer rope that he’d made out of a boot string all those years ago.  I ended up putting it in my pocket instead of throwing it away and went about my day.

Later when I was home from work the association grew stronger in my head and then in my heart, so I started tying knots into it.  It was long enough to make seven knots in a row with little tails on either end.  A traditional prayer rope is circular and typically includes 33 or 100 knots, but this one would have to do.  

And I couldn’t stop looking at it and moving it around in my hand.  I ended up snipping off the excess part on one end and dabbling some Elmer’s glue to keep it from unknotting which made it harder than the other knots when it dried.  Starting at the knot below it I would say the Jesus Prayer* on each knot, down and back.

This ended up being a cycle of 12 and then the last hardened knot became my “Rejoice…” knot to start the cycle again.  In less than a week I’d lost it which made me sad.  I made another one with 7 knots with some old Army 550 cord I had from back in the day but I quickly lost that one too.  It was very frustrating.   

After a week or two I was getting out of my car in our garage and noticed something on the concrete that turned out to be that original prayer rope smashed flat by my wife’s van’s tires.  I picked it up and brushed it off and worked on the knots to unflatten them.  I promised myself I would be more diligent this time.

But after a few days I once again lost it.  It too easily comes out of my pocket when I pull other things out, like my keys. It is small, narrow, and brown which doesn’t help.  So, at least two more weeks go by and this time I assume I’ve lost it for good.  So silly, anyway, right?  I think maybe God is telling me not to bother.

Then this morning I’m thinking about it again as I pull into the parking garage at work.  It hits me that I don’t necessarily need a prayer rope to say the Jesus Prayer.  I get out of my car and walk past several cars headed for the stairwell.  As I round a corner I start to say the Jesus Prayer and glance down at the ground.

At my feet is the little brown prayer rope once again smashed flat by the tires of cars coming and going from the parking garage and I let out a kind of bewildered laugh.  What are the chances?  I picked it up and started squeezing the knots once again to unflatten them, promising myself to do better this time, again.

________________________

*The Jesus Prayer is a meditative practice in the Orthodox Church typically done with the assistance of a prayer rope.

Survival is Insufficient

 

Too often I find myself just trying to survive

like in those post-apocalyptic stories I love.

But in the pre-apocalyptic world it always

proves to be inadequate and I find myself

once again striving to do something more.

I do not know how this doggedness finds me

but it attacks despair with a focussed ferocity!

***

#STATIONELEVEN

The Imperfection of Memory (writer’s reverie)

 

The imperfection of memory

requires the use of fiction

filtered through the soul

to express the fullness

and beauty of reality.

And so, l’ll truly try.

***

Exit Signs

 

Life is a long 

hallway from 

birth to death

that we walk

oblivious of its 

finite distance

exit signs like 

highway markers

a fair warning. 

***