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.