I was watching an episode of "American Experience" on PBS the other night, which was about the Mayflower Pilgrims and their journey to the New World, and how their story became the beginning of the legend of the birth of America. Mark was beside me on the sofa, his eyes glassed over as he silently endured the searing boredom of a two-hour PBS program, but that's what happens when you hand Paulie the remote and say, "Find something."
To be honest, the only reason I began watching the program was to see whether they were going to get it right and mention the fact that the Pilgrims came ashore here In Provincetown first, before eventually moving on to Plymouth. They did get it right, as a matter of fact, although the name of "Provincetown" was never mentioned in favor of "off the shore of Cape Cod." That was acceptable, though, considering the spot had no English name at the time, and the first Tea Dance wouldn't be held until the arrival of Cher, years later in 1687. I kept watching, though, because it was pretty interesting; and I do secretly enjoy those times when Mark has been mesmerized into a kind of anesthetic silence.
The story was just reaching the point of what came to be known as "the first Thanksgiving". Hanging, as I do, on language and words, I was struck by something one of the commentators said. "But part of the reason that they were grateful was that they had been in such misery, that they had lost so many people, on both sides." Interesting, I thought to myself; bit of a contradiction in terms. She continued, "So, in some way, that day of thanksgiving is also coming out of mourning; it's also coming out of grief."
Thankful, because they had lost so much.
Sometimes, when we hear about history, it all just seems like a bunch of dates and numbers, names of monarchs and battles. But sometimes, if we really think about it, apply the dates and the numbers to things we can really relate to, it can give history a little bit more relevance. I began to think about these "Pilgrims" a bit, what they had been through and what had brought them to that feast, that moment of thanks.
The Mayflower Compact was signed in Provincetown harbor on November 11, 1620. November 11 - that is just a few weeks ago. Have you ever spent a November in Provincetown? It's usually pretty cold, in the first place, and not a whole lot going on in the way of abundance. So, what that means is that these people were setting foot for the very first time in a land they had never seen before, now, at this time of year. They had no growing season, no glorious summer, no time to "put aside" for the leaner seasons. They had maybe a month, if they were lucky, to find or build shelter, gather some food, and figure out how to keep warm for the next six months. It takes me at least a month to figure out what to pack for a two-week vacation in Cabo, for God's sake. And these were not superhuman, civil engineering, loaves-and-fishes miracle workers. They were a rag-tag assembly of religious nuts, sailors, and Dutch profiteers who didn't necessarily know more about building a house, or a road, or a mill, than you and I do.
45 of the 102 immigrants died during the first winter.
So, no wonder a year later, when they looked around themselves and saw how far they had come, when they saw the corn and the squash and the firewood they had put by, they prepared, as Edward Winslow said, "to in a special manner rejoice together, after we had gathered the fruit of our labors."
Thankful, because they had lost so much.
They had been hungry, so they were thankful for the harvest. They had been cold, so they were thankful for a house, no matter how humble. They had been alone, so they were thankful for an ally, even if their skin was a different color and they prayed to a different god.
So, what's the lesson here? Jason Mraz sings "Son sometimes it may seem dark, but the absence of the light is a necessary part." Today, while we're counting our blessings and basking in the warmth of families and friends and buttery Chardonnay, remember that the reason we are grateful for all those things we find precious, is that none of it is given to us without conditions.
And perhaps also remember that some day in the future, and that day will come, when we mourn, when we hunger, when we find ourselves on the shore of some unknown world, that the time will come again, through the grace of God, through the love of friends, and through our own inner strength, when we will be filled with gratitude.
Friday, November 27, 2015
Tuesday, November 24, 2015
ON THE VERGE
Well, here we are, on the far side of "The Verge". Costumes have been hung up, scripts are being forgotten as we speak, and I saw pictures on Facebook today of that spectacular set being dismantled and relegated to history. I've been trying to figure out how I want to tell the story of the last couple of days, because there is a story to be told there. I'm just not sure how to go about telling it. The usual Facebook post, which would read something like, "Fantastic performances from the cast and crew of "The Verge" for the past couple of nights! Great houses, good energy, and we managed to leave it all out there for our final show on Sunday despite a few minor obstacles..." somehow doesn't quite tell the story.
I considered telling it in one of my first-person, observational essays. It would have started with a little background about how I don't really drink alcohol very much any more, at least not enough to actually get drunk. The proverbial "glass of wine at Christmas", as it were. Then it would segway into a description of how disoriented I felt when I got out of bed before dawn to go to the bathroom, before I realized exactly how dark it was in the house and exactly how wobbly I was at that moment, ending with a spectacular face-first dive into the pillows, safe, as if I had just completed an arduous climb of K2. Then, I had thought up a couple of fairly droll turns of a phrase to describe my condition the following day, such as, "While my misery on Sunday mercifully registered a mere 3 on the Richter Scale of Hangovers, it was sufficient enough to prevent me from ingesting anything more substantial than coffee and bottled water all day; and sufficient enough to warrant that arched-eyebrow, sideways sneer from my husband which very clearly was meant to say, 'Suffer, idiot.'"
But that was pretty much all I had, and I couldn't come up with a good way to actually conclude an essay like that, so I thought I'd have to try something else. So, I thought I would try to fictionalize the events, and tell the story that way. I came up with some fairly promising characters: Veronica, the leading actress "of a certain age", who abandoned a mercurial career as a hard-driving, trash-talking, tough-as-nails district attorney from the mean streets of Ann Arbor to pursue her dream of a life on the stage; Betty, the wide-eyed ingenue who descends into a sordid life of boxed wine and one night stands; Ralph, the crotchety stage manager with a heart of gold and a secret; and Monty, the dashing yet sexually frustrated heterosexual leading man (well, it is fiction after all). The story would begin as Anthony, the narrator, walks in through the stage door of the Fillmore Theatre, a dowager, Gilded Age theater in a small town called something like Oakville or Maple Falls, something like that. It is the last night of a six month run of a play called "The Edge", about the moral dilemma of a female scientist, responsible in part for the invention of Round-Up. Anthony sees Ralph, the ornery but lovable stage manager sitting in the corridor, an unlit cigarette dangling from his lips, a copy of the Racing Form open on his lap and still wearing sunglasses. "Oh, my god," Ralph would hack, "I feel like shit."
Anthony would respond by saying something like, "You too? I'm glad I'm not the only one." The story would then flash back to the previous night, a blurry montage of Korean cars filled with marijuana smoke, vodka stingers and shots of $30 French brandy. The reader would be drawn back into the present when Ralph removes his sunglasses, rubs the bridge of his nose, and says, "Yeah, well, wait until you see Monty." The rest of the story could be a humorous yet poignant reconstruction of the events which led up to Monty, the leading man, a complex character, rich with contradictions, waking up in a hospital three hundred miles away while a surgeon is gingerly reattaching a severed thumb.
But there's the problem on how to portray Anthony, the narrator. Should he be presented as the Tragic Talent: an immensely capable character actor whose name no one can ever seem to actually remember, or the Heroic Everyman: someone who basically lives a fulfilled life and is happy just to draw a paycheck doing something he loves? Either interpretation would draw scoffs and sneers from a certain percentage of the people who think they know the writer, despite the fact, once again, that it is fiction.
And, as always, there is the quandary of how to end the story. Something amusing yet somehow resonant, so that the reader doesn't end up asking himself, "OK, so what was the point of that?" I couldn't really come up with anything, so I abandoned the idea of fiction.
And I've already done a few posts about this production, the kind filled with glowing prose about the Theatre Experience, which inevitably end up using words like "craft", "talent", and "process", so I didn't want to do that over again. So, what am I left with? Journalism class, I guess. Who, what, where, that sort of thing.
So: The cast and crew of "The Verge" descended on a local watering hole on Saturday night for an impromptu and probably somewhat premature "cast party". A number of us, myself included, got, well, hammered. The next day, the last day of the production, was, of course, a matinée. Many of us, myself included once again, were somewhat "fragile" (that's a euphemism). One of us (not me this time) spent the morning getting sick and wondering whether he would be able to make it to the theater at all, and another cast member, somewhere between said watering hole and home, had managed to acquire a number of stitches, as well as other contusions and abrasions, which he was trying rather unsuccessfully to conceal with pancake. Nevertheless, the show did go on, and we were fabulous, I must say; leaving it all out there on the stage as one is wont to do for the last night. Or afternoon, as it were. By the end of the play, we all felt sufficiently human enough to convene at the swank Red Inn, where we were able to toast to one another and enjoy the last moments of an incredibly satisfying project. Not surprisingly, though, a few of us, myself included, were clinking glasses filled with iced tea or Coca Cola.
So, another production under the belt. Another family of friends, another script full of lines which will soon be all but forgotten. This one, well, this one was a really good one; the kind of experience that makes me want to do it again.
And one day, who knows, maybe I'll write that story. And wouldn't it be awfully amusing, or ignominious, if you were to find yourself in it?
I considered telling it in one of my first-person, observational essays. It would have started with a little background about how I don't really drink alcohol very much any more, at least not enough to actually get drunk. The proverbial "glass of wine at Christmas", as it were. Then it would segway into a description of how disoriented I felt when I got out of bed before dawn to go to the bathroom, before I realized exactly how dark it was in the house and exactly how wobbly I was at that moment, ending with a spectacular face-first dive into the pillows, safe, as if I had just completed an arduous climb of K2. Then, I had thought up a couple of fairly droll turns of a phrase to describe my condition the following day, such as, "While my misery on Sunday mercifully registered a mere 3 on the Richter Scale of Hangovers, it was sufficient enough to prevent me from ingesting anything more substantial than coffee and bottled water all day; and sufficient enough to warrant that arched-eyebrow, sideways sneer from my husband which very clearly was meant to say, 'Suffer, idiot.'"
But that was pretty much all I had, and I couldn't come up with a good way to actually conclude an essay like that, so I thought I'd have to try something else. So, I thought I would try to fictionalize the events, and tell the story that way. I came up with some fairly promising characters: Veronica, the leading actress "of a certain age", who abandoned a mercurial career as a hard-driving, trash-talking, tough-as-nails district attorney from the mean streets of Ann Arbor to pursue her dream of a life on the stage; Betty, the wide-eyed ingenue who descends into a sordid life of boxed wine and one night stands; Ralph, the crotchety stage manager with a heart of gold and a secret; and Monty, the dashing yet sexually frustrated heterosexual leading man (well, it is fiction after all). The story would begin as Anthony, the narrator, walks in through the stage door of the Fillmore Theatre, a dowager, Gilded Age theater in a small town called something like Oakville or Maple Falls, something like that. It is the last night of a six month run of a play called "The Edge", about the moral dilemma of a female scientist, responsible in part for the invention of Round-Up. Anthony sees Ralph, the ornery but lovable stage manager sitting in the corridor, an unlit cigarette dangling from his lips, a copy of the Racing Form open on his lap and still wearing sunglasses. "Oh, my god," Ralph would hack, "I feel like shit."
Anthony would respond by saying something like, "You too? I'm glad I'm not the only one." The story would then flash back to the previous night, a blurry montage of Korean cars filled with marijuana smoke, vodka stingers and shots of $30 French brandy. The reader would be drawn back into the present when Ralph removes his sunglasses, rubs the bridge of his nose, and says, "Yeah, well, wait until you see Monty." The rest of the story could be a humorous yet poignant reconstruction of the events which led up to Monty, the leading man, a complex character, rich with contradictions, waking up in a hospital three hundred miles away while a surgeon is gingerly reattaching a severed thumb.
But there's the problem on how to portray Anthony, the narrator. Should he be presented as the Tragic Talent: an immensely capable character actor whose name no one can ever seem to actually remember, or the Heroic Everyman: someone who basically lives a fulfilled life and is happy just to draw a paycheck doing something he loves? Either interpretation would draw scoffs and sneers from a certain percentage of the people who think they know the writer, despite the fact, once again, that it is fiction.
And, as always, there is the quandary of how to end the story. Something amusing yet somehow resonant, so that the reader doesn't end up asking himself, "OK, so what was the point of that?" I couldn't really come up with anything, so I abandoned the idea of fiction.
And I've already done a few posts about this production, the kind filled with glowing prose about the Theatre Experience, which inevitably end up using words like "craft", "talent", and "process", so I didn't want to do that over again. So, what am I left with? Journalism class, I guess. Who, what, where, that sort of thing.
So: The cast and crew of "The Verge" descended on a local watering hole on Saturday night for an impromptu and probably somewhat premature "cast party". A number of us, myself included, got, well, hammered. The next day, the last day of the production, was, of course, a matinée. Many of us, myself included once again, were somewhat "fragile" (that's a euphemism). One of us (not me this time) spent the morning getting sick and wondering whether he would be able to make it to the theater at all, and another cast member, somewhere between said watering hole and home, had managed to acquire a number of stitches, as well as other contusions and abrasions, which he was trying rather unsuccessfully to conceal with pancake. Nevertheless, the show did go on, and we were fabulous, I must say; leaving it all out there on the stage as one is wont to do for the last night. Or afternoon, as it were. By the end of the play, we all felt sufficiently human enough to convene at the swank Red Inn, where we were able to toast to one another and enjoy the last moments of an incredibly satisfying project. Not surprisingly, though, a few of us, myself included, were clinking glasses filled with iced tea or Coca Cola.
So, another production under the belt. Another family of friends, another script full of lines which will soon be all but forgotten. This one, well, this one was a really good one; the kind of experience that makes me want to do it again.
And one day, who knows, maybe I'll write that story. And wouldn't it be awfully amusing, or ignominious, if you were to find yourself in it?
Wednesday, November 18, 2015
"On Friday night you stole away the life of an exceptional being, the love of my life, the mother of my son, but you will not have my hatred. I do not know who you are and I don’t want to know, you are dead souls. If the God for whom you kill so blindly made us in His image, each bullet in my wife’s body would have been a wound in His heart.
Therefore I will not give you the gift of hating you. You have obviously sought it but responding to hatred with anger would be to give in to the same ignorance that that has made you what you are. You want me to be afraid, to cast a mistrustful eye on my fellow citizens, to sacrifice my freedom for security. Lost. Same player, same game.
I saw her this morning. Finally, after nights and days of waiting. She was just as beautiful as she was when she left on Friday evening, as beautiful as when I fell madly in love with her more than 12 years ago.
Of course I'm devasted with grief, I will give you that tiny victory, but this will be a short-term grief. I know that she will join us every day and that we will find each other again in a paradise of free souls which you will never have access to.
We are only two, my son and I, but we are more powerful than all the world's armies. In any case, I have no more time to waste on you, I need to get back to Melvil who is waking up from his afternoon nap. He’s just 17 months old; he’ll eat his snack like every day, and then we’re going to play like we do every day; and every day of his life this little boy will insult you with his happiness and freedom. Because you don’t have his hatred either."
– ANTOINE LEIRIS
Therefore I will not give you the gift of hating you. You have obviously sought it but responding to hatred with anger would be to give in to the same ignorance that that has made you what you are. You want me to be afraid, to cast a mistrustful eye on my fellow citizens, to sacrifice my freedom for security. Lost. Same player, same game.
I saw her this morning. Finally, after nights and days of waiting. She was just as beautiful as she was when she left on Friday evening, as beautiful as when I fell madly in love with her more than 12 years ago.
Of course I'm devasted with grief, I will give you that tiny victory, but this will be a short-term grief. I know that she will join us every day and that we will find each other again in a paradise of free souls which you will never have access to.
We are only two, my son and I, but we are more powerful than all the world's armies. In any case, I have no more time to waste on you, I need to get back to Melvil who is waking up from his afternoon nap. He’s just 17 months old; he’ll eat his snack like every day, and then we’re going to play like we do every day; and every day of his life this little boy will insult you with his happiness and freedom. Because you don’t have his hatred either."
– ANTOINE LEIRIS
Monday, November 16, 2015
I've been pondering something all day today. I'm not sure if I'm going to be able to articulate my thoughts very well, but I guess I'll have to try. I may come off sounding somewhat un-PC, or worse, but I want to be honest and candid and I think I come from a good place.
It didn't take long yesterday, as people posted their feelings about the terrorist attacks in Paris, and started to change their profile pictures to the colors of the French flag, for the memes to appear, and for individuals to begin making their case; admonishing us, wondering where was our grief and outrage over the attack in Beirut just one day before? Or for the hundreds of innocent victims of the Russian airliner, blown up by ISIS on their way home from vacation? Baghdad, Syria, on and on... Where were their flags on our Facebook newsfeed?
Compelling arguments. At first, I chided myself a little. "Where is my outrage? Where is my grief?" Almost protectively, I began to dial back my empathy for Paris just a little bit. Do you know what I mean? It was as if I had to save some of my outrage and grief for all those others.
Then it began to dawn on me that if anything is inappropriate for this day, this time, it is that.
It seems to me that every single one of those tiny gestures, each profile picture tinted bleu blanc et rouge, every eloquently composed comment or simple "pray for Paris" indeed amounts to a type of prayer. A tidal wave of good intentions, of sympathy and empathy. Is there anything really wrong with that? Do we really need to dial it back at all?
Intellectually, one can begin to argue about the fact that six corporations control 90% of the media, and therefore they control not only how we receive information, but what information we receive in the first place. I for one, had never even heard about the twin suicide attacks which had taken place in Beirut just one day before Paris. How can I react at all to something I know nothing about? But is this really the discussion we need to be having right now? Should the names on our lips right now be "Time Warner" or "Viacom"? No. They should be Nohemi Gonzalez, or 33-year-old Aurelie De Peretti, or the dozens of other nameless, faceless victims: kids out for a concert, or an old, somewhat surly married couple drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes at a sidewalk café. Lets think of them, at least for today. It could have been us.
Then, I began to really examine myself, and I asked myself the question, "If I had indeed known about the attacks in Beirut, would I have felt as strongly about it as I do about Paris?" Would I? Probably not. And it's hard for me to answer that way, because I like to think of myself as someone who takes people as people, regardless of what they look like or where they're from. Obviously, I am imperfect in that goal.
I think a part of it has to do with familiarity. It is easier, I think, for humans to relate emotionally with things which are familiar to them. I have been to Paris; I spent my 50th birthday there at a restaurant in the Marais. But even people who have never been to Paris, I would venture, have a picture of it in their minds: the Eiffel Tower, sandstone buildings lining wide boulevards, lovers embracing on the banks of the Seine in autumn. The same, sadly, cannot be said for Beirut. Ask me to draw a mental picture of Beirut, and to be perfectly honest, all I see is bombed-out buildings. That's probably awful and it's probably not right, but it's the way that it is.
But familiarity goes to more than just knowing what a place looks like, or what the people who live there look like. We begin to think about values. The big ones, like Freedom. Freedom to think for ourselves, to express ourselves freely, to love whom we choose and worship as we see fit. In this respect, the French are our close brothers. And who doesn't grieve for a brother?
In some ways, I think that we in the West feel a bit indignant, for lack of a better word, when the battle spills over and ends up being waged on our own streets. Now, this is where I can seem way more un-PC than I intend to, but I don't know how else to explain my thoughts. It's almost as if the Arab world is going through an evolutionary process right now. They are in the midst of determining which way their culture will go: towards so-called "Western" values of individual freedom and secular government, or towards theocracy and conformity to a religious ideal. They're killing one another over it, and I for one can do little except wait and hope that love will win and that history will eventually unfold the way it ought to. It's almost as if we in the West feel like we've already had these growing pains. We've fought these battles already, in the brutal Middle Ages, in 1776, at Gettysburg, Omaha Beach, and at the Bastille in Paris. We get angry and resentful when their fight spills over into cities and against values for which plenty of blood has already been spilled.
Fucking bastards, we think. And we circle the wagons, at least for a time.
So, some time later, when I'm walking the dog and my mind is wandering, I will think about that again. I will be angry that information is owned. I will try to work on my own imperfect humanity, and remind myself that the world is "falling apart in all corners
and not simply in the towers and cafés we find so familiar."
But for today I will remember the man on the sidewalk, and the two towers in Manhattan, and someone just like me who won't have a husband snoring beside him tonight. I will wrap myself in the flag of France and grieve for them.
It didn't take long yesterday, as people posted their feelings about the terrorist attacks in Paris, and started to change their profile pictures to the colors of the French flag, for the memes to appear, and for individuals to begin making their case; admonishing us, wondering where was our grief and outrage over the attack in Beirut just one day before? Or for the hundreds of innocent victims of the Russian airliner, blown up by ISIS on their way home from vacation? Baghdad, Syria, on and on... Where were their flags on our Facebook newsfeed?
Compelling arguments. At first, I chided myself a little. "Where is my outrage? Where is my grief?" Almost protectively, I began to dial back my empathy for Paris just a little bit. Do you know what I mean? It was as if I had to save some of my outrage and grief for all those others.
Then it began to dawn on me that if anything is inappropriate for this day, this time, it is that.
It seems to me that every single one of those tiny gestures, each profile picture tinted bleu blanc et rouge, every eloquently composed comment or simple "pray for Paris" indeed amounts to a type of prayer. A tidal wave of good intentions, of sympathy and empathy. Is there anything really wrong with that? Do we really need to dial it back at all?
Intellectually, one can begin to argue about the fact that six corporations control 90% of the media, and therefore they control not only how we receive information, but what information we receive in the first place. I for one, had never even heard about the twin suicide attacks which had taken place in Beirut just one day before Paris. How can I react at all to something I know nothing about? But is this really the discussion we need to be having right now? Should the names on our lips right now be "Time Warner" or "Viacom"? No. They should be Nohemi Gonzalez, or 33-year-old Aurelie De Peretti, or the dozens of other nameless, faceless victims: kids out for a concert, or an old, somewhat surly married couple drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes at a sidewalk café. Lets think of them, at least for today. It could have been us.
Then, I began to really examine myself, and I asked myself the question, "If I had indeed known about the attacks in Beirut, would I have felt as strongly about it as I do about Paris?" Would I? Probably not. And it's hard for me to answer that way, because I like to think of myself as someone who takes people as people, regardless of what they look like or where they're from. Obviously, I am imperfect in that goal.
I think a part of it has to do with familiarity. It is easier, I think, for humans to relate emotionally with things which are familiar to them. I have been to Paris; I spent my 50th birthday there at a restaurant in the Marais. But even people who have never been to Paris, I would venture, have a picture of it in their minds: the Eiffel Tower, sandstone buildings lining wide boulevards, lovers embracing on the banks of the Seine in autumn. The same, sadly, cannot be said for Beirut. Ask me to draw a mental picture of Beirut, and to be perfectly honest, all I see is bombed-out buildings. That's probably awful and it's probably not right, but it's the way that it is.
But familiarity goes to more than just knowing what a place looks like, or what the people who live there look like. We begin to think about values. The big ones, like Freedom. Freedom to think for ourselves, to express ourselves freely, to love whom we choose and worship as we see fit. In this respect, the French are our close brothers. And who doesn't grieve for a brother?
In some ways, I think that we in the West feel a bit indignant, for lack of a better word, when the battle spills over and ends up being waged on our own streets. Now, this is where I can seem way more un-PC than I intend to, but I don't know how else to explain my thoughts. It's almost as if the Arab world is going through an evolutionary process right now. They are in the midst of determining which way their culture will go: towards so-called "Western" values of individual freedom and secular government, or towards theocracy and conformity to a religious ideal. They're killing one another over it, and I for one can do little except wait and hope that love will win and that history will eventually unfold the way it ought to. It's almost as if we in the West feel like we've already had these growing pains. We've fought these battles already, in the brutal Middle Ages, in 1776, at Gettysburg, Omaha Beach, and at the Bastille in Paris. We get angry and resentful when their fight spills over into cities and against values for which plenty of blood has already been spilled.
Fucking bastards, we think. And we circle the wagons, at least for a time.
So, some time later, when I'm walking the dog and my mind is wandering, I will think about that again. I will be angry that information is owned. I will try to work on my own imperfect humanity, and remind myself that the world is "falling apart in all corners
and not simply in the towers and cafés we find so familiar."
But for today I will remember the man on the sidewalk, and the two towers in Manhattan, and someone just like me who won't have a husband snoring beside him tonight. I will wrap myself in the flag of France and grieve for them.
Saturday, November 14, 2015
PARIS EST À PLEURER
So it seems that while I was inside the theater tonight, creating a fantasy world with some new friends and some dried flowers and some smoke and mirrors, the lives of hundreds of innocents were being ended or forever altered in a city half a world away; combatants in a war for which they never enlisted.
For most of us in this world, the "struggle" consists of the daily battle to just get through the day; to feed our families and ourselves; to be able to end the day in the same safe, comfortable bed where we started it. We couldn't care less which God our neighbors worship, whether they are Sunni or Shia, Methodist or Presbyterian, Coke or Pepsi; we still say "good morning" as we're picking up the newspaper and "nice weather we're having!" on that first warm day in May. It is not fair, and it is not right, and it simply cannot be the Will of God, any God, that an innocent man, woman, or little child should lose their life in the simple act of trying to live it, so that some religious, or political, or militant group can "make a point".
Forgiveness. Love. Compassion. Tolerance. Kindness. We are One People.
Pray for Paris.
For most of us in this world, the "struggle" consists of the daily battle to just get through the day; to feed our families and ourselves; to be able to end the day in the same safe, comfortable bed where we started it. We couldn't care less which God our neighbors worship, whether they are Sunni or Shia, Methodist or Presbyterian, Coke or Pepsi; we still say "good morning" as we're picking up the newspaper and "nice weather we're having!" on that first warm day in May. It is not fair, and it is not right, and it simply cannot be the Will of God, any God, that an innocent man, woman, or little child should lose their life in the simple act of trying to live it, so that some religious, or political, or militant group can "make a point".
Forgiveness. Love. Compassion. Tolerance. Kindness. We are One People.
Pray for Paris.
Friday, November 13, 2015
SWEET SERENDIPITY
Years ago I read something in a book. If my memory serves me properly, it was "Another Roadside Attraction", by Tom Robbins. It is about what could be fairly described as a hippie couple, who, among other things, own and run a small restaurant and "museum", a roadside attraction, as it were. There is a passage which describes them as they walk through the rain, and how they never really seemed to mind it or worry about it, how it never really seemed to get them wet; because they simply didn't fight it. The story, by the way, takes place in the Pacific northwest, so there's plenty of rain. Anyway, Tom Robbins has always been for me somewhat more than just an author. His books are not just novels, they are psychedelic mushroom-induced parables, they are stories which tell you to shift your consciousness, to try to look somewhere other than where the magician wants you to look. So I've always tried to walk in the rain like the hippie couple in that novel: without tensing my shoulders or hunching over and hightailing it for the nearest shelter. Just walk in it. It's only water.
So, tonight, I was heading over to the theater, on foot, and it was raining. Not like holy-crap-where's-the-ark pouring, but definitely more than just a drizzle. I had no umbrella. I rarely do because I always use them for 15 minutes and then end up leaving them someplace.
I was listening to "Sweet Serendipity" by Lee DeWyze on my iPod, an infectiously cheerful and boppin' little song, and as it played I was thinking how the lyrics pretty much describe my life perfectly: "I can't say what's next - and I got nothin' up my sleeve - but I don't lose my head - 'cause it ain't really up to me." The music was practically taking over my body, I found myself smiling at the happy absurdity of it all and the miracle, or miracles, that brought me to that exact moment in time. I was one step away from breaking into full-on Gene Kelly Singin'-In-The-Rain dancing with streetlights and puddles. Thankfully for my dignity's sake, the street was pretty much empty anyway. So I made this half-hour walk through the rain, when most people would be gathering their coats around them and grumbling about the weather, just feeling, well, kind of happy, for lack of a better word.
And I'll tell you something. When I arrived at the theater, aside from a little dampness in my shoes, I was dry.
So, tonight, I was heading over to the theater, on foot, and it was raining. Not like holy-crap-where's-the-ark pouring, but definitely more than just a drizzle. I had no umbrella. I rarely do because I always use them for 15 minutes and then end up leaving them someplace.
I was listening to "Sweet Serendipity" by Lee DeWyze on my iPod, an infectiously cheerful and boppin' little song, and as it played I was thinking how the lyrics pretty much describe my life perfectly: "I can't say what's next - and I got nothin' up my sleeve - but I don't lose my head - 'cause it ain't really up to me." The music was practically taking over my body, I found myself smiling at the happy absurdity of it all and the miracle, or miracles, that brought me to that exact moment in time. I was one step away from breaking into full-on Gene Kelly Singin'-In-The-Rain dancing with streetlights and puddles. Thankfully for my dignity's sake, the street was pretty much empty anyway. So I made this half-hour walk through the rain, when most people would be gathering their coats around them and grumbling about the weather, just feeling, well, kind of happy, for lack of a better word.
And I'll tell you something. When I arrived at the theater, aside from a little dampness in my shoes, I was dry.
"Don’t look fate can only find you
You can’t choose for something to surprise you
Set sail without a destination
Just see where the wind will take you
You never know when you're gonna fall
But I'm not worried
No I'm not worried
at all"
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)