Hot June Afternoon

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

Mowing my yard
on a hot June afternoon
listening to Neil Young.
Belting out my
best tortured falsetto
over the drone
of the electric motor.
Discovering a dip
under the fence
where a rabbit
has gained access
to my backyard,
Peter Rabbit
munching on my
butterfly bushes.
Searching for
a heart of gold
and I'm getting old.

Muir Woods

We escaped the city, rickety split,
in a beat up hoopty-of-a-car
trundling across the Golden Gate Bridge,
winding through the hills of Marin County.
At the crest of a hill we caught a peek of
the Pacific Ocean winking in the fading light.

A descent was made into the hidden valley
of Muir Woods where Redwoods grow
to impossible heights for improbable years.
Abandoning our car for the foot trails,
we wound through the trees like ant people,
the air fresh as the first day of creation.

The serenity cleared and cleaned our
city-corrupted organs of perception,
the sound of our footfalls like Adam
walking with God in the cool of the day,
a soft breeze moving across the ear
whispering a wordless wisdom.


***

What Rose Mary Sees

What MaryAnn Sees, a photo by []Aaroneous Monk[] on Flickr.

___________

What does Rose Mary see when she is looking up with eyes closed, palms together in front of her face, like a child in prayer? Do the heavens open up as she rocks back and forth murmuring to herself during the Liturgy or is she escaping some private hell conjured by mental illness? The third heaven of St. Paul or the third hell of Dante, literally or in metaphor?

She is a mystery.

Her stories have elements of the impossible or, at the very least, the highly improbable. When she turns her head away she forgets you are there, seeming to attend to other matters. No matter how many times you introduce yourself she looks at you as if it is a first meeting, that you are a new visitor to her church. She teaches humility like few can.

__________

Matins of Great & Holy Friday

Great & Holy Friday, a photo by []Aaroneous Monk[] on Flickr.

An ancient liturgical hymn sung at the Matins service of Great & Holy Friday, here sung by Archbishop Job of Blessed Memory.

**********

Today is suspended on a tree He who suspended the earth upon the waters.
The King of the angels is decked with a crown of thorns.
He who wraps the heavens in clouds is wrapped in the purple of mockery.
He who freed Adam in the Jordan is slapped on the face.
The Bridegroom of the Church is affixed to the Cross with nails.
The Son of the Virgin is pierced by a spear.
We worship Thy passion, O Christ.
We worship Thy passion, O Christ.
We worship Thy passion, O Christ.
Show us also Thy glorious resurrection.

**********

Nighttime Conversations

Nighttime Conversations, a photo by []Aaroneous Monk[] on Flickr.

___________________

murmuring wind
airs things
we cannot
or will not
share
constrained
by pride
locked out
of love
a prisoner
of our self
a stranger
to light
a withering
of life
___________________

Lenin Lurking

The figure drags deep on a Marlboro Red and sends a cloud of smoke out into the light from within the shadow where he stands.  A bright dusk illuminates the outskirts of Moscow as evening approaches.  It is another listless night for the man whose time has come and gone, left to wander the city, ignoring those around him and being ignored in return.  A cold breeze finds its way down the neck of his tattered London Fog overcoat triggering a shiver and a curse.  He flips his cigarette disdainfully, watching it bounce on the cracked pavement with a shower of sparks before crushing it under the heel of his Doc Martens.

Shadows suit him as does the cover of night, but in Moscow this time of year the light seems interminable and depresses him.  With no one around to observe his movements he leaves the shadow, like Cain cursed to roam the earth, and ventures northeastward closer to the heart of the city.  Thoughts of his former resting place come unbidden and unwelcome.  He no longer sleeps on Red Square upborne by veneration in a God-free dream state.  It is only an artificial semblance of the man he used to be.  Instead he has become a shade, a feeling of unease in those who pass too closely. 

A Chef Boyardee can rolls into his path and he kicks it with disgust, "Capitalist trash!"  The can bounces off a large wooden gate with a clang scaring off some loitering cats.  The balding scowl-faced man looks left, then right, high stone walls running off in either direction.  His curiosity piqued, he is surprised to find the gate moving inward to his touch.  A surge of disappointment and then a good deal of anger wells up as he realizes he has entered a walled monastery in the midst of the city.  Quickly turning to leave, the gate no longer responds to a push or a pull.  Howling does him no good.  He is trapped in this Soviet-forsaken place. 

How had things come to this?  Churches reopening everywhere!  Monasteries flourishing!  Lost in grief, he is startled to feel the weight of a hand on his back.  "Vladimir, why do you kick against the goads?"  A thickly bearded man with gentle eyes stands at his side. 

Conflicting emotions rack him as he recognizes his old nemesis, expecting gloating but feeling a warm flow instead.  His shoulders sag, head down as he rubs his hairless crown in despair.  "You have won, Vasily Ivanovich."

The Patriarch pulls the weeping man to his chest.  "We have all won, Vladimir Ilyich.  Christ is risen!"

***

The next morning church bells peal calling people to prayer at the main cathedral of the Donskoy Monastery.  A little girl with her parents pass the sleeping form of Vladimir Ilyich Lenin on a bench, laid out as if in state.  The father senses the uncanny resemblance and blanches a bit.  "Can I give him a flower, Papa?" the little girl asks, already picking a wild one by the path.

"Yes, but let him sleep, Little One.  Let him sleep."

___________________________

* Information regarding St. Tikhon of Moscow

___________________________

Meeting St. Innocent

***

His earthly remains,

sanctified in life

by the indwelling 

of the life-giving Spirit,

lie in a church

onion-domed blue and gold

surrounded by the sights 

sounds and smells

of a heavenly host

funneled through 

earthly channels.

I was drawn to his form

lying in a glass-topped casket

under a shroud

directly in front of me

unaware of whose

company I kept.

I solemnly venerated 

the relics but then

openly wept when

a Russian friend

found me standing there 

and whispered in broken English

"Innokenty of America, you know?"

My shoulders began 

to shake uncontrollably

as his words sank in.

Gratitude came in waves

for this loving 

“Enlightener of North America”

setting me adrift 

on a sea of wonder.

Prayers for my family

filled my heart to overflowing

pushing me to the stone floor

of a church in the heart of Russia.

***

Play-doh's Cave

Plato's Cave, a photo by []Aaroneous Monk[] on Flickr.

my shadow
projected on
a wall

behind me
the glow of
a gladsome light

becoming a child
to learn
to turn towards

so much meaning
in so simple
a picture

My New Literary Agent

Last night I read Elias a snippet from my short story “Hospitocalypse” at his request. He listened intently, but after I was finished he asked, "So where's the part that explains how everyone gets to be a zombie?" I told him that an explanation was not in the story, only the cure. His response was, "Oh, you're a bad writer Daddy." He then went on to "help" me by brainstorming ideas to explain how the people in the hospital became zombies in the first place. "Maybe there's a bottle of medicine that is "Zombie Medicine" but someone gets confused and takes it thinking it's regular medicine." It appears I have a literary agent now.

Room 909

It was Friday afternoon at the end of a long work week and I was finishing up at the hospital documenting my last encounter of the day.  The beeping sounds coming from a bank of monitors at the nurse's station were distracting me, causing me to type and retype words to the point I wanted to start pulling plugs.  Worse yet, the nurses were starting to change shifts and multiple conversations were beginning to buzz about like pesky mosquitoes in my ear which no amount of swatting could silence. 

When I clamped my hands over my ears in frustration a nurse playfully slapped me on the back, "Are we bugging you Dr. Monk?"  I wanted to say something witty and biting but just gave a good-natured smile and nodded my head instead.  Many were simply passing on the gossip of the day, but at least one pair was actually discussing patient care.  It was from this conscientious couple that I heard the name "Roy" mentioned and it caught my attention. 

I think it must have been the way she said it.  It's not something I can explain now in retrospect, but it caught hold of me in some way.  My grandpa's name was Roy but we called him "Poppy".  He died well before any of my children were born and even before I was married 15 years ago.  I paused in writing my note and tried to tune into their conversation a little better by closing my eyes and bowing my head.  

"Are you praying we'll go away Dr. Monk?" the same nurse snorted.  I seriously wanted to strangle her but once again I just gave her a goofy grin with clinched teeth hidden behind closed lips. 

The last snatch of conversation I was able to hear mentioned room 909.  I made mental note of it and finished up my work.  I looked at my watch and was pleased to find it was just shy of 4 pm which meant my weekend was starting earlier than usual.  Pushing my chair back from the computer the name "Roy" squeezed its way back into my conscious awareness again.

Room 909 was at the end of an adjacent hallway, single occupancy, and I seemed to recall that it had a nice view of the eastern half of the city.  On a whim I pulled my chair back up to the computer, logged back in, and did a patient search using the 9th floor as my search criteria.  I scrolled down to 909 and then scanned over to the patient's name.  At first I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me.  It appeared to be the name of my grandpa, even down to the correct middle initial.

A twisting sensation began to take hold of my stomach and I felt my connection with reality thinning a bit, like a tether had pulled tight and was threatening to snap.  My eyes pierced the screen looking through the name plainly sitting there, trying to understand its origin, to glean its secrets.  I closed my eyes and rubbed them vigorously but after the flash bulbs subsided I was still looking at the same name.

Trying not to get too freaked out I reasoned that there could be more than one person in the world with the same name.  But that middle initial carried with it some portent that I couldn't get past.  I knew one thing for sure.  There was no way I was leaving the hospital without visiting room 909.  

***

Walking that long hallway brought back a particular memory of Poppy, a man who loved steam locomotives and long walks.  On his 70th birthday he challenged himself by walking six miles on the railroad tracks through the country to an old abandoned train trestle and then six miles back.  Oddly enough I have the worn out leather boots he wore that day in the back of my closet.  I imagined myself walking beside him, an invisible visitor from the future, hearing the birds sing and watching critters scurry along the forest floor, even seeing them cross the tracks at a respectful distance.  He could have had a stroke or heart attack or even tripped and broke an ankle with no one around for miles to help, but he was fiercely independent and would have had it no other way.

Another memory was jarred loose as I passed a homeless man in a hospital gown sitting in a chair in the hallway.  He'd probably been admitted after being found unconscious on the city streets which was a common occurrence at this inner city hospital.  His raggedy and unkempt appearance reminded me of stories Poppy would tell about riding the rails when he was a young man.  It was the Great Depression and he traveled throughout the western United States from his home in Ohio by catching rides on boxcars.  I guess you could say he was a hobo, or at least played the part for a time. 

He liked to explain that he always had two belts during that time, one he wore around his waist and one looped through that one and the catwalk to keep him from falling off if he fell asleep.  He traveled with a friend working odd jobs for food and shelter, sleeping in barns and whatnot.  I remember him sharing a story about the time a man paid them to do some work for him and then invited them in to have dinner with the family around the table.  He assured me that the Great Depression was the greatest time in the history of this country because people “looked out for one another”.

Rounding the corner to the next hallway I passed two physical therapists standing on either side of an elderly patient with the shuffling gate and blank stare of advanced dementia.  Again my mind wandered back to a time when I visited Poppy in the nursing home after he'd begun to develop dementia.  He liked to sit near the nurse's station and watch people come and go.  I'd bring my physics and organic chemistry textbooks with me in the evening hours and sit with him doing homework.  There was some occasional small talk and he liked to share the random fact, but mostly we just sat together in silence while I tried to chase electrons through a chain of organic molecules.

During one particularly dark time he had become overmedicated to the point he had an acute decline in his functioning.  Within a few week's time he went from wearing buttoned shirts, slacks, and shoes to baggy sweats and slippers.  He made no effort to communicate and had a hard time lifting his feet to walk.  Something was definitely wrong and my parents made their concerns known to the head nurse who passed it on to the doctor who eventually stopped the offending medication.  Poppy came back to something a little more resembling normal after that, but it was during this period of rapid decline that I hatched a plan to get him down to a railway museum a few towns south of us that included a train ride.  I figured it couldn't hurt and it might do him some good.

I recruited a friend from college to help and we wheeled him out to my car.  He was very difficult to transfer from the wheelchair into the car but we managed it somehow and threw the collapsed wheelchair into the trunk after buckling him into the front seat.  He said nothing on the trip down.  At the railway museum we got him up the high steps into the train with some effort and seated him between us to keep him steady. 

The train whistle gave a  shrill burst and it was like someone flipped a switch.  Poppy sat up straighter and his eyes became more focused.  "That whistle is the conductor's way of letting the engineer know the train is ready to move," he said in a clear voice.  He then went on to explain what the  different number of whistles meant as well as some other information pertinent to running a passenger train.  This was the first time he'd spoken since we'd picked him up from the nursing home.

***

I straightened up and became more focused myself as I approached room 909.  It seemed strange that there were no nurses around, but it was shift change after all.  I suddenly felt terribly alone.  The cold sterility of my surroundings began to transform into a kind of physical sensation.  It was all very melodramatic and I was sure to be disappointed but I felt compelled to see it through.  I flattened out my palm on the door of room 909 and leaned into it with my head down.  "Count to three" I heard myself say.  "When the person who is not really my long dead grandpa sees me I'll just apologize and say I've got the wrong room.  But if it's Poppy... Lord have mercy."

My hand grabbed the door handle and on the count of three I pushed it down, gave a push, and let it swing open on its own.  Despite it being an overcast winter day, the room was awash in a warm glow.  Dust motes flashed in the rays of the sun slanting down through the windows like lazy sparks floating in the air.  The room appeared empty.  I walked in and gave my eyes some time to adjust.  I became aware of a figure sitting in the corner of the room looking out a large  window which stretched to the ceiling as well as the width of the room.  I once again became aware of a sensation like being untethered from reality. 

The figure was an elderly gray-haired man who appeared dressed to leave the hospital.  His back was to me and he was sitting on the edge of the bed leaning slightly forward with his hands on his knees gazing out the window expectantly.  As silly as it sounds I felt as if I were floating above the scene in one of those near death experiences.  I noticed he was wearing a worn brown corduroy overcoat with a dusting of dandruff on the shoulders like a sprinkling of snow on a freshly plowed field.  A plaid fedora was perched on his head with a tattered feather poking out from the band.  These were unmistakable parts of Poppy's limited wardrobe. 

At this point all thoughts of introducing myself and trying to normalize the situation was completely gone.  There was no protocol that I knew of to handle this kind of situation.  I kept a respectable distance as I came up beside him and stood still.  The brim of his hat covered his eyes in shadow but his large nose protruded out into the light.  All doubts completely evaporated when I saw the large single hair growing out from the bridge of his nose, a misplaced follicle that had always intrigued me by its location and isolation.  I had no idea what to do or say so I looked out the window to see what he might be looking at.

***

It shouldn't have surprised me at that point but I was surprised nonetheless to find I was not looking out over the city, but over an expanse of rolling mountains covered with trees as far as the eye could see.  It appeared to be summer and devoid of signs of human habitation.  I detected the slightest bit of movement out of the corner of my eye and turned to see that Poppy's mouth had formed into a smile.  I looked back to those ancient mountains and noticed a break in the uniform green texture.  It looked to be a white line forming around a mountain bend to our extreme left, a line that was lifting up off the ground as it grew, losing its shape as it went.  I leaned in towards the window and placed my hands on the window sill to steady myself.  I squinted to see the growing object more clearly and a glint of sunshine flashed off its side.  As it drew closer it became clear to me why Poppy had smiled.  It was a tremendous steam locomotive belching great clouds of smoke.  It appeared to be following an arc that had us alongside its trajectory.  Glancing down I saw that a platform extended from the other side of the window to a set of railroad tracks.

Poppy reached down to grasp something I could not see beside the bed.  He held it firmly without taking his eyes off of the approaching train.  I once again thought to say something fearing that if I waited too long I would lose my chance.  But there was something sacred about that silence.  Somewhere deep inside I knew that speaking would shatter this vision into a million dream shards and my heart with it.

Poppy stood up with a battered carpetbag firmly in hand.  The movement was so sudden it startled me.  He reached forward and wrapped his large hand around an ornate doorknob that I had not noticed before.  I looked out to the platform which had disappeared in a great cloud of steam and in that moment I heard the door knob click.  Poppy stepped through the door and disappeared.  In a panic I lurched for the door to keep it from shutting.  The next thing I knew I was standing alone in an impenetrable fog.  I was so overcome with emotion that tears began to flow from my eyes.

"Poppy, please," I sobbed, my hands covering my face.

The cloud of steam dissipated and I felt the sun warming the backs of my hands.  When I lowered them he was standing directly in front of me with the sun at his back making it almost painful to gaze at him.  The locomotive was resting at our side pulsing with a fearsome energy, like some great panting beast.  Poppy sat down his carpetbag and embraced me.  An exchange occurred that was a kind of communion, as true a communication as there can be with no words spoken or needing to be spoken.  A whistle from the train blew sharp and loud.  The scene around me was drawn up like a snatched cloth and I once again found myself standing in room 909 looking out on a bleak winter cityscape.

***

"Are you OK Dr. Monk?" a voice behind me asked.

I turned to find a nurse standing in the doorway.  I was still dazed from what had just happened and didn't answer right away but I immediately recognized her as the nurse that I had found so annoying earlier.

"I followed you when I saw you going into an empty room.  I thought maybe you got your room numbers mixed up."

I finally managed to say, "Thanks for looking out for me... I'm sorry, what is your name?"

"Becky.”

"Thank you, Becky.  I was looking for someone who is not here anymore."

"Was he discharged?" she asked. 

"You could say that.  I think he's headed home."

_______________________________

The Silly Siberian Story

Proposed Church Building Project, a photo by []Aaroneous Monk[] on Flickr.

I've decided on a new strategy for writing. Instead of trying hard to write well and failing, I will start out writing as poorly as I can with the reassuring thought that I can only improve. This story in particular is dedicated to my friends at the Orthodox Writer's Guild. May you stay warm and write well.

Aaron
_______________________________________

It was a dark and stormy night in deepest Siberia. The church was encrusted with snow and ice obliterating all trace of color to the point it looked like a white cardboard architectural model in a church fellowship hall. The worshippers in their big furry Russian-looking hats scurried inside like homeless mice looking for bread crumbs. They would not have batted a frozen eyelash if Dr. Zhivago himself had pulled up in a horse drawn sleigh with his girlfriend named Lara.

Inside the church-cum-ice palace they huddled in a shivering mass looking for all intents and purposes to be a giant sleeping bear which was ironic because this region of Siberia was known as Ursa Somnolus. The walls might as well have been made from cardboard in trying to keep out that ultra-severe bone chilling cold, but as I mentioned earlier this was not an architectural model in a church fellowship hall somewhere in the MidWest, but a bona fide Russian Orthodox peasant church from deepest Siberia in which this story is set, OK?

So, where was I? Oh yes, the figurative sleeping bear was waiting for the service to begin. The mighty Russian deacon tromped out onto the solea but not before the bell ringer's mallet shattered the brittlely frozen bell into a million little singing pieces signaling the service to begin. Nonplussed, the deacon bellowed out with a deep basso profundo voice that set the church's foundations to shaking. The huddled mass of wooly worshippers began to awaken as large cracks began to spread through the floors, like what happens in movies when they try to really ratchet up the suspense. With nary a whimper the colorless structure collapsed into a heap of sanctified rubble.  KA-RAAASH!  BOOM!  *secondary explosions*

Within minutes a supersonic helicopter zoomed in overhead and a lone figure erupted from its innards like a black condor giving birth. With only feet to spare the figure deployed his parachute at the last possible second and pounced on the pile of ruble. It was none other than Vladimir Putinovich himself who promptly ripped off his shirt and began throwing large beams of wood off those trapped below. His torso steamed with sweat and super human effort. Within minutes everyone was freed, had been given CPR, and were communed with the reserve host from the altar which had been left miraculously untouched by the cataclysm.

Dr. Zhivago never did show up, but they all lived happily ever after anyway.

Zombie Story by Elias

On a typical day when Elias is unable to play outside due to inclement weather or being sick he will spend an inordinate amount of time on our computer creating worlds on Minecraft.  When the computer is unavailable he will sometimes fire up my old laptop that he has inherited and use the word processing program to write letters to me and his mom, journal about some recent activity, or write a story.  

Below is a story he wrote a month or two ago.  The photo is something I did for fun on Photoshop when he was three and we were living in Tennessee.  I hope you enjoy this very short story:

One day this guy was going to play with the neighborhood kids and when he was going to play with the neighborhood kids they were all zombies and skeletons and then I ran away. Then I ran to my house but my mom and dad were zombies and then I saw a guy with mind control and I fought him and I won and all the people were not zombies and skeletons. It was safe.

"Aaroneous Monk"

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

The past few summers my family and I have made several trips to see a doctor who practices in a quaint little town near Cleveland. As part of these trips we frequent a putt putt golf course that is situated in the middle of nowhere about 5 miles from the doctor's office. It is a melancholy place surrounded by forest and with few patrons, or at least the day of the week and the time of day we visit there is rarely anyone there but us. The strangeness of its isolation sparked an idea for a story last summer which in its most basic form involves a monk living alone on an abandoned putt putt golf course. Over the course of this past year the story has grown in complexity and made some very strange twists and turns in my head eventually giving me an opening scene, a climactic scene, and a scattering of events in between.

There is one small problem. I am not a writer. Ever since Elias was born I have satisfied myself with telling stories by taking photographs. This has given me a great deal of pleasure but it is not the same thing as using words to tell a story. The closest I've gotten to writing are the poems I've penned in conjunction with particular photographs I've taken. This practice of pairing poems with photographs proved to be most poignant for me when I was deployed to Iraq. Whatever pain I was feeling at being separated from my wife and two year old son or the intense conflict I felt about being a reluctant participant in a war could be bound up in a photo-poem and released in a kind of creative catharsis.

But this idea has continued to grow in my head sending out shoots in odd directions to the point I feel compelled to at least take a crack at it. My first step toward this goal was to pull my old copy of Strunk & White's "Elements of Style" off the shelf and start to look at the basic mechanics of writing. Next I ordered Stephen King's "On Writing" as an e-book to see what a popular and prolific author might have to say in the way of crafting fiction. A few months ago I e-mailed author Jim Forest asking for advice. He basically said to "keep putting sentences together until it makes sense." Working from that I've been trying to blog more and even wrote a Short Story inspired by a weekend call at the hospital in which I mingled coffee with the apocalypse. It clocked in at ~7500 words which is probably the most I've written in a single project since my senior thesis 20 years ago.

Just last week I found "The Nighttime Novelist: Finish Your Novel in Your Spare Time" by Joseph Bates at Half Price Books. It has helped me start to think about what I need to do to pull this beast of an idea together in order to make a cohesive novel out of it. The analogy that came to mind today was that I want to build a house, but I've never built a house before and I don't have all the tools I need.  Worse yet, the materials needed to build it are scattered about in random piles.

It is easy to become overwhelmed with the thought it could take years to bring to fruition ("Pre-order now with expected publication in 2025!") and with no guarantee that it will ever really go anywhere. So, to make it feel more real I have created the book cover to my unwritten novel to psych myself out. It is a picture of Elias and me that gives a feel for what the overall theme of the book might be. The working title is the name of the protagonist, Aaroneous Monk, which will likely change before publication (think positive thoughts, think positive thoughts). The use of "A. Wesley Haney" was something I thought of years ago as a pen name when I wanted to write but wasn't. Wish me luck!

The Mystery of Dragon Valley

Soyo San, a photo by []Aaroneous Monk[] on Flickr.

Miracles are funny things. In the Eastern Orthodox tradition there is a prayer that begins, "Heavenly King, Comforter, Spirit of Truth who is everywhere present and filling all things..." In light of this prayer and in the experience of the Saints there is a sense that miracles are not rare but in fact continuous, albeit mostly unnoticed. Sometimes even those of us who are not pure in heart can see them. By this I mean catching a glimpse of God at work in a way that can be experienced as something extra-ordinary. It is one of these obvious miracles that came to mind this past week while posting pictures online of my son jumping snow ramps on his sled.

The story goes back to 1992 when I was 23 years old and an infantryman in Korea. The year previous I'd been a senior at Indiana Wesleyan University but when the first Gulf War broke out I made an impulsive decision to join the Army. An opportunity arose to join a group led by our Chaplain to go skiing over a three day weekend and I jumped at the chance. We caravanned South to YongPyeong or "Dragon Valley" which is a famous ski resort in South Korea. I had only skied a handful of times before but considered myself quite the accomplished skier. This was partly the braggadocio of youth, partly a superman complex, and partly the fact that I had always picked up sports quickly and with a sense of ease.

Well, YongPyeong Ski Resort was *not* Paoli Peaks in Southern Indiana where I'd learned to ski. It had actual mountains with some very treacherous spots. One of my friends who came along on the trip had relegated herself to the bunny slopes which earned her my light hearted derision. We had heard that a Korean girl had died earlier in the season by going off the trail and into the trees which should have given me some pause, but I was no girl! I was Superman flying down mountainsides without a cape!

Over the course of the three days at YongPyeong I skied from sunup to well into the evening hours. My daring-do escalated day by day with the growing certainty that I was a world class skier able to accelerate down the slopes at eye watering speeds. At one point there were some older Korean men off to the side of a run standing around and talking. Beside and above them was a wall of snow and ice whose angle was not much off of vertical. I was going at a high rate of speed and impulsively decided to go up that wall and over them by about fifteen feet or so. I was not content to be Superman but had to be Spiderman as well. My skis were shaking violently with one leg folded up under me and the other extended fully to maintain contact with the wall. As I passed above the men one of them was yelling at me and shaking his fist with an angry expression. At the time I was mystified by his reaction but now as an older adult myself I realize he was angry because what I was doing was extremely foolhardy and was endangering myself and others.

On a different run another young enlisted soldier and I found more ways to push the envelope. Two slopes that weren't particularly steep ran parallel to each other and you could choose one or the other by which direction you got off the ski lift, left or right. By choosing the lower slope we could build up enough speed by half way down to hit a small connecting incline up to the higher slope. This patch of steep ground was not made to ski on. There were several sizeable rocks peaking out above the snow and the ski lift towers ran up through this area. With enough speed (while avoiding the towers) we could throw sparks from our skis when hitting the rocks and then catapult up onto the higher slope catching some air. Thank goodness my Mom did not know what I was up to in Korea!

The last day of skiing at YongPyeong found me sore and starting to feel the drain of the previous two days. My friend was still on the bunny slopes that morning and she asked me to take her camera so she could have some pictures from the top of the mountain. I readily agreed and put the camera in the side cargo pocket of my pants. I made my way up to one of my favorite runs which included a switchback. The first few times I went down it I noticed some young male Korean skiers in flashy ski gear and goggles hotdogging the switchback. The trail was quite wide and circled around the side of the mountain until making a 180 degree turn before continuing down again going the opposite direction. On the upper part of the switchback you couldn't see the lower part because the earth between them was a raised lip with trees growing all along it. Right at the point where the inside of the trail made its 180 degree turn the lip was treeless and formed a hump. I saw these Korean skiers shooting across the trail at such an angle that they could ramp over the hump and down onto the lower part of the switchback from the upper part. Lining the outside of that curve were iron poles with orange mesh strung between them to keep anyone from careening over the edge and into the trees if they couldn't make the turn.

There I was in my Army issue all-green wet weather gear and cheap aviator sunglasses thinking I could pull off what these flashy (and experienced) Korean skiers were doing. The next time down I hugged the mountain side of the trail waiting to cut across and hit that hump. My heart was racing and I started thinking that maybe I was going a bit too fast. This thought was quickly replaced by "It's gonna be awesome!" I dug the edge of the ski closest to the hump down hard to make the sharp turn and found myself rocketing towards it as planned. What was not planned was encountering someone on the lower trail in my line of travel. I crested the hump and there she was, a female Captain from my group skiing lazily down the slope. I immediately perceived that continuing my arc would end in a collision with her and likely result in broken bones and maybe even a concussion for us both.

A split second decision was made and I allowed myself to fall over instead of continuing on my trajectory down the trail. The laws of physics assured that I immediately beelined for the orange mesh fence since my skis were no longer cutting a hard turn. The mesh was upon me almost instantly and I remember a very hard hit, flipping high up into the air, and then an abrupt stop on the other side. I wasn't exactly sure what had happened. When I opened my eyes I was looking at the trees that grow down the mountainside, but they were upside down. I realized the top of my head was just touching the snow on the ground but the rest of my body was directly above me defying gravity. I bent my neck forward to look up and discovered that the cuff of my pant leg had snagged the top of one of the iron posts that I had hit at near full speed. I started laughing just as a wide-eyed Korean man with a panicked look on his face peered over the mesh fence not knowing what he'd find.

"You OK? You OK?" he panted.

"Yeah, I'm OK. Could you just lift up on my boot", I pointed to where I was caught fast on the pole. He looked skeptical because on my side of the fence the ground fell away sharply and I was practically dangling in space. I convinced him it was OK and another Korean man joined him. With some grunting and lifting they were able to pop it free and I immediately collapsed into a pile on the wrong side of the fence. I flipped over so that my head was now uphill and slid down a foot or so. By flattening out my body I was able to stop sliding and climb back up to the fence. The two Korean men got me hoisted back over and I thanked them in what little Korean I knew. They just kinda shook their heads in disbelief and then skied on.

Sitting on the snow I could not believe I had just smashed into an iron pole, flipped end over end into the air, and then been snagged by the cuff of my pant leg as my body was headed off down the side of the heavily forested mountainside. My pant leg was partially pulled out of the boot and when I went to pull it free something fell out onto the snow. I looked at the two small objects in confusion. I took off my gloves and picked them up. They were batteries. For the first time since going over the fence I realized my right leg was very sore right in the middle of my thigh. I went to rub it and discovered the bulk of something in my cargo pocket right where it hurt. I opened the pocket and found my friend's smashed camera. It had squarely taken the brunt of my leg hitting that pole and most likely saved it from being broken. After getting myself together I continued skiing for another hour or two until it was time to leave. My leg was killing me but I couldn't bring myself to end the trip prematurely. When we got back to base that evening after a long drive I gingerly took off my pants and found a large rectangular bruise perfectly shaped like the camera on my thigh.

So, this could be a kind of miracle, one for someone who is nearly blind and deaf to such things, a sequence of highly improbable if not impossible events that would require CGI effects for Hollywood to replicate. A deeper mystery might be why the Korean girl died and I lived. I cannot bring the incident to mind without thinking of her. As we say in the Orthodox Church, "May her memory be eternal."

Mary was Missing

Elias and I say our evening prayers together each night before bed in front of his self-constructed icon corner in his room. These include the Trisagion Prayers, a kind of free form whatever-comes-to-mind part, and then we finish up with singing "To Thee the Champion Leader." Some time last week we were singing this song and it struck me that there was no icon of Mary present to whom the song is addressed. I pointed this out to Elias and we agreed that this must be rectified as soon as possible.

The weekend came and went with the celebration of Theophany and the blessing of waters. Elias was able to acquire his very own bottle of Holy Water to put in his icon corner. He was sipping it frequently and I reminded him it had to last a whole year until next Theophany. He informed me he just wanted to use it to keep himself from getting sick. I left it at that with the assumption that kids oftentimes simply know what is spiritually appropriate when I do not with my jaded existence and repetitive stumblings. I figured if the bottle empties sooner rather than later we'll just cross that bridge when we get to it. Who knows? Maybe there will be more Holy Water under the bridge.

So then I got home from work today and found wrapping paper strewn throughout the kitchen. Elias came downstairs with something behind his back. He said, "Remember Daddy that we don't have Mary in our icon corner?" Yes, I told him I was aware of that. He then revealed what was in his hands, a beautiful little icon diptych of Mary and Jesus. As it turns out my parents were unable to attend his birthday a week and a half ago because everyone had gotten sick and so they did not make the trip. She couldn't wait for some undetermined future date that we would see them again and so she mailed his gift, the diptych.

We talked a little about how God uses others to show his love in a way that binds us all together.

I am a Lighthouse

Spring Break '90, a photo by []Aaroneous Monk[] on Flickr.

____________


I am a lighthouse
beam of light
pointing outwards
throwing all into
stark relief
revealing every foible
and inconsistency
illuminating what is hidden
judging what is revealed
but inside this bricked tower
it is black as night
where the light
does not penetrate
I am a lighthouse


***

An Unexpected Movie

I took my 8 year old son to see The Hobbit tonight for his birthday. Truth in advertising should have required some kind of warning like "very loosely based on the novel by JRR Tolkien". I was willing to suspend judgement and let it go where it would for the sake of artistic license, but the "art" was incredibly sparse, replaced instead by an unbelievable amount of unnecessary and over the top filler that made it look like a clone of The Lord of the Rings movies and distorted the original story almost beyond recognition. I say this because the kind of movie making Peter Jackson does well, IMO, is a closer fit to LOTR than The Hobbit. Those who have read both The Hobbit and LOTR books are aware that the tone of each is very different and within this difference of tone is a consistent story that is true to its respective tone.

In this context it seems to me that The Hobbit movie has been (Peter Jackson) LOTR-ized to the point I recognized very little of the original book in it. There are whole elements in the movie that do not even exist in the book and distort the characters, disconnecting them from themselves and their place in Tolkien's overall story. I found myself liking many of them simply because I associate them with their vastly superior brethren in the book. This was most true for me in regards to Gandalf who I feel is sacrosanct in Tolkien's books and I was saddened to see him acting very unGandalf-ish at times. His interactions with the Goblin King were particularly troubling to me. The only scene that I felt was done extremely well (ie, in the full spirit of the book) was the song of the dwarves in Bilbo's hobbit hole. The riddle game with Gollum was probably the second best, but was changed somewhat from the book in a way that I felt was unnecessary.

Another criticism I have is that many elements from the book were sensationalized to the point of being utterly ridiculous. One of many examples is when the protagonists are treed by the wargs after escaping from the Goblin Kingdom. They are not just trapped in trees, but they are trapped in trees that are precariously growing on a precipice, and as if that were not enough each tree ends up falling into the next such that they leap from one to the next until all are on the one tree that happens to be at the very tip of the precipice, but it is not enough that it is on the tip of a (overhanging!) precipice but it must fall too, except it stops just where the ground would be if it weren't at the edge of a cliff so that they are all dangling out in space. It reminded me of the Scooby Doo cartoons my son loves to watch. Unfortunately there were many more scenes like this one that stretched the suspension of disbelief well beyond any reasonable breaking point.

So, if you loved what Peter Jackson did with LOTR you may very well enjoy this one as well. There are many of the same cinemagraphic techniques used to keep the heart racing and make you feel like you're on a roller coaster ride, but if you want the profound story telling of Tolkien's beloved book I'm afraid you will likely be disappointed.

A Christmas Miracle

Peace in a Box® (detail), a photo by []Aaroneous Monk[] on Flickr.

A peculiar memory found me today and I wanted to write it down before it left again. In college I had a Serbian American friend who I first met at the local Orthodox Mission. I had only just become Orthodox and was enjoying making friends with students from Greece, Russia, Eastern Europe, and the Middle East among other places. This Serbian American girl was shy, soft spoken, and of very few words. It was at least a few months before I figured out she spoke perfect English and had actually lived in American since she was a young child. She did not appear to be particularly pious and did not commune at our parish when she visited off and on the first several months. This perspective had more to do with my own misguided piety and knee jerk judgmentalism than the state of this sweet girl's soul.

As I got to know her better we became friends and I met some of her family members. Her parents spoke with a heavy accent and had grown up in Communist Yugoslavia before immigrating to the United States. My friend told me that growing up they would go to church on Pascha and on St. Sava's Day, that most famous and popular of Serbian saints, but not much else besides. My experience was so very different in that my father was a Protestant minister and we attended church up to three times a week every week for as far back as I could remember. She was very gracious in our conversations about faith which was in stark contrast to my own more obnoxious approach fueled by a convert's zeal. Over the course of time she began participating more fully in her Orthodox faith, probably in spite of my influence if I am to be painfully honest.

It was within this context that she shared with me a story her father told her when she was home over Christmas Break. He was aware of her burgeoning interest though he was not a very religiously minded person himself having grown up in a country where such things were actively discouraged. What he shared surprised her because it was not like anything he'd ever talked about before. The story was about something remarkable that had happened in their village in Serbia when he was a young man.

During the course of a cold and dreary winter day someone in that village noticed something peculiar about the frost that had formed on a window near the center of town. Upon closer inspection they were shocked to find the image of the Theotokos and Christ Child (as depicted in icons) distinctly formed in the ice crystals. Word spread quickly and a large crowd grew around the window. My friend's father pushed his way to the front to get a look for himself. It was something inexplicable but undeniable. It didn't take long for the local authorities to catch wind about what was happening but they did not know what to do about it at first, not wanting to get the villagers too upset. After just a few days too many people were coming to see and venerate this miraculous image and so they were forced to act. Soldiers came and broke the window.

My friend was taken aback by how matter-of-factly he told the story, a story he had never shared with her before. It was like the miracle had a second run in their home in the retelling, a shared moment between father and daughter.

Tai Chi for Sixty Plus

shadow of a man, a photo by []Aaroneous Monk[] on Flickr.

The poster caught my attention as I prepared to enter the elevator after a workout at the fitness center: "Tai Chi: moving for better balance". It included a blurb from the CDC which asserted that it was an "evidence-based fall prevention program that helps participants aged sixty and older to improve functional balance and physical performance." My interest was piqued because I'd been thinking of taking a Tai Chi class in the community for quite some time but never seemed to have the time or money to make it happen. As a member of the fitness center I could take this biweekly three month course for free during my lunch hour.

I wondered about the "sixty and older" part though. I'm a forty three year old father of two and husband of one in relatively good health if you don't count an intermittently bum knee that I got when deployed to Iraq six years ago. My enthusiasm for Tai Chi actually came from my time in Iraq. While living on a base outside of Tikrit I participated in some Tai Chi classes at night in the inner courtyard of a building located about a mile from our clinic. It was a winding path mostly traveled in near pitch blackness with stars shining hard and cold overhead. I learned the path at night and probably could not have found it in the daytime.

I only learned the first ten of the sixty plus moves but it was enough in repetition to find a source of solace and stress relief in the flowing motions. Our rustic clinic building had its own internal courtyard that was open to the sky, a common feature in the Middle East. A wide ladder-like structure made out of metal tubing slanted up one side of it and allowed access to the roof. When possible I'd clamber up it and onto the roof as the sun was setting and go through my movements facing the breathtaking spectacle of a desert horizon exploding with color. I don't know that I've ever experienced anything quite like that before or since, like getting a taste of some exquisite and exotic dish with flavors never before imagined.

So, by the time I'd gotten back to my office from the fitness center I decided to go back and see if the "sixty and older" thing was a deal breaker. I talked with one of the managers who was quite sure I could participate and she put me on the list and took my number if that was to change. I felt well on my way to inner peace even with the start date still 2 weeks away, a kind of placebo effect.

On the way back to my office I had a Walter Mitty moment imagining a scenario where a purse snatcher was running towards me from behind, purse in hand, leaving a little old lady crying and purseless on the ground. Before I could turn to see what all the hubbub was about he would slam into me. As I fell forward my training would kick in with the swan-dives-for-bread-crumb move*. Quickly regaining my feet I would swiftly transition into the sweeping-bug-under-the-rug move* ending with the purse snatcher falling flat out on his back and staring up at me stunned. Standing over him and with a bit of swagger I'd say, "Just be glad I'm not over sixty, 'cause then I'd have a cane."


*These are not the names of any actual Tai Chi moves that I know of but a product of my fevered imagination.

The Little Man

__________________________

He is staring at the wall mounted TV when I enter the hospital room and it is not clear to me that he knows I'm there.

"Hello, Mr. Smith.  I'm Dr. Haney."

His head slowly swivels in my direction and nods.  "Hi."

"How are you feeling today?"

A pause, "OK."

"What brings you to the hospital, Mr. Smith?"

A long pause, "A stroke?"

A question from a question.

I see many people with cognitive deficits in my line of work.  It could be dementia or delirium, psychosis or stroke, intoxication or withdrawal.  Mr. Smith is typical, that is to say he is elderly with multiple medical problems and on multiple medications.  He doesn't fully hear, see, or understand what is going on around him, yet there he is, talking to me in his own limited way.

Looking at him and allowing my mind to wander a bit (he doesn't seem to notice or care) I imagine there's a little man inside his head.  He sits in a little chair somewhere just back from the eyes and maybe in line with the ears.  It is dark all around him but to the front some light gets in through the eye holes.  Sounds come to him from a distance, muted, like in a heavy fog at night.  If too much sensory information reaches the little man he becomes overwhelmed and confused.  He is tiny after all.

The scene repeats itself, but now I am able to share the little man's perceptions as he sits there patiently in the dark.

A shadow passes the eye holes but is ignored.  Then a sound comes slow and low like speech in a slow-mo reel.  The little man leans forward to see what is making the noise.  Out of the corner of the eye hole something is blocking the light from the window.  The head rotates and he can see someone standing there.  "Hi."

Now that he sees it is a person next to him he leans towards that ear.  "How are you feeling today?" the shadow person asks.  His answer is automatic, socially conditioned, short, but it still takes some time to be expressed, "OK." 

Another question makes its way through the cognitive ether and he's prepared to give it his full attention this time.  "What brings you to the hospital, Mr. Smith?"  When it finally gets to him sitting in his little chair it requires some sifting through recent memories.  They're jumbled and not well organized, like things accumulated pell mell over the years and stored in the attic.  The lights of an ambulance flash in the darkness around him as a result of his search and he answers unsure of what he's found, "A stroke?"

I bring myself back into my own present reality and am relieved to find I am inhabiting my body fully and to its extremes.  The muddle and delay are gone, my senses are sharp and the grasp of my situation is immediate once again.  I realize my mind and body may very well be burdened with these limitations in the future, but instead of becoming somber or morose about it I remember my grandma's voice from childhood saying, "How's my little man?"

______________________________

Published as “The Little Man: Through the Cognitive Ether” Psychiatric Times, March 2013.