Being is the essence out of which all things evolve. This blog is an ongoing conversation of being in various facets and areas of life, including the personal and the professional from which relationships of all kinds are formed and teams built in all communities, virtual or real, at home, at work, in politics and at play.
I doubt not God is good, well-meaning, kind And did He stoop to quibble could tell why The little buried mole continues blind, Why flesh that mirrors Him must some day die, Make plain the reason tortured Tantalus Is baited by the fickle fruit, declare If merely brute caprice dooms Sisyphus To struggle up a never-ending stair. Inscrutable His ways are, and immune To catechism by a mind too strewn With petty cares to slightly understand What awful brain compels His awful hand. Yet do I marvel at this curious thing: To make a poet black, and bid him sing!
Blow, blow, thou winter wind. Thou art not so unkind As man’s ingratitude; Thy tooth is not so keen, Because thou art not seen, Although thy breath be rude. Heigh-ho! sing, heigh-ho! unto the green holly: Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly: Then, heigh-ho, the holly! This life is most jolly. Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky, That dost not bite so nigh As benefits forgot: Though thou the waters warp, Thy sting is not so sharp As friend remember'd not. Heigh-ho! sing, &c.
When we got home, it was almost dark. Our neighbor waited on the walk. "I'm sorry, I have bad news," he said. "Your cat, the gray-black one, is dead. I found him by the garage an hour ago." "Thank you," I said, "for letting us know." We dug a hole in the flower bed With lilac bushes overhead, Where this cat loved to lie in spring And roll in dirt and eat the green Delicious first spring bud, And laid him down and covered him up, Wrapped in a piece of tablecloth, Our good old cat laid in the earth. We quickly turned and went inside The empty house and sat and cried Softly in the dark some tears For that familiar voice, that fur, That soft weight missing from our laps, That we had loved too well perhaps And mourned from weakness of the heart. A childish weakness, to regard An animal whose life is brief With such affection and such grief. If such is weakness, so it be. This modest elegy Is only meant to note the death Of one cat so we won't forget His face, his name, his gift Of cat affection while he lived, The sweet shy nature Of this graceful creature, The simple pleasure of himself, The memory of our cat, Ralph.
My mother passed four years ago, but there isn't a day that goes by that I am not reminded of her words of wisdom. For her, living was showing love and looking at ourselves and making the needed change. I was reminded of this today when I came across a poem she wrote. Honesty in living was paramount for her.
"If Jesus Came to Your House"
If Jesus came to your house to spend a day or two, If He came unexpectedly, I wonder what you'd do. Oh, I know you'd give your nicest room to such an honored Guest, And all the food you'd serve Him would be the very best. And you would keep assuring Him you're glad to have Him there, That serving Him in your home is joy beyond compare. But when you saw Him coming would you meet Him at the door With arms outstretched in welcome to your Heavenly Visitor? Or would you have to change your clothes before you let Him in. Or hide some magazines and put the Bible where they'd been? Would you turn off the radio and hope he hadn't heard, And wish you hadn't uttered that last, loud, nasty word? Would you hide your popular music and put some hymn book out? Could you let Jesus walk right in or would you rush about? And I wonder if the Savior spent a day or two with you Would you keep right on doing the things you always do? Would you keep right on saying the things you always say? Would life for you continue as it does from day to day? Would your family conversation keep up its usual pace? And would you find it hard each meal to say a table grace? Would you sing the songs you sing and read the books you read. And let Him know the things on which your mind and soul feed? Would you take Jesus with you everywhere you'd planned to go? Or would you maybe change your plans for just a day or so? Would you be glad to have Him stay forever on and on? Or would you sigh with great relief when He at last was gone? It might be interesting to know what you would do, If Jesus came in person to spend some time with you.
My mother quoted this poem to us occasionally and I remember thinking, I am sooo not there. Although I had shortcomings, it had just the desired effect. It left me thinking about my actions and words and how I could be better. I am still thoughtful of these words today even though I miss the mark.
Many of you know that my mom raised 12 fiercely independent and successful children alone. We are all in ministry first as licensed pastors, missionaries, chaplains and evangelists and have served nationally and internationally. We are professionals and entrepreneurs second. Early on it was the strength of my Aunt Dorothy, my mom's oldest sister, that meant everything to her. My maternal grandmother died at my mom's birth and it was Aunt Dorothy who was like a mother to her and a second mother to us.
Besides my mom, never have I known a more intelligent, thoughtful, talented (she was a composer, writer and painter) deeply spiritual and compassionate woman. I remember her counseling many mothers Sunday after Sunday and throughout the week. She never married and had no children of her own. But she was over the children at my uncle's church of 10, 000 members, 4,000 of whom were her children. My great-grandfather was the founder.
Aunt Dorothy composed the songs, wrote the Sunday school lessons, painted the paintings, drew the sketches, and designed the series of children's literature that our church produced and sent to the thousands of other churches in our organization around the country and overseas. We had our own separate service in our own mini cathedral off of the main sanctuary. These were grand times that I will never ever forget. We got to participate in our own service: singing, doing drama skits, writing and composing.
This aunt was very dear to me. Early on she must have known that I needed particular guidance. So, every Sunday morning before service she would invite me over for tea and biscuits--just she and I. It started when I was four. She seemed to understand that I came here with eyes to see and sought gently, but firmly to guide me.
Her apartment, spacious and beautifully and tastefully decorated, was on the grounds of our church. There were three very large apartment building complexes on the grounds which before my grandfather bought it in the late 50's was a Jewish synagogue. It was cavernous, rich in color and deeply reverential. But believe me when I say we found ways of cutting through all of that as young people. We had fun and hide away from our parents in all of the many empty hallow crevices.
During tea on Sunday Aunt Dorothy would set the table in the finest setting of silver and we would just talk and talk. She was always so patient and didn't seem to be concerned in the very least that I had so many questions that demanded answers. She allowed me to express exactly what was on my mind. Now, there was plenty of teaching going on too, but it was done in a way that I never felt inhibited. I listened and learned so very much. Many of the lessons learned then I tried to instill in young people when I worked as a substitute teacher for years while in graduate school and when I meet them just about anywhere today.
Aunt Dorothy died when I was seven and my mother wrote this poem in remembrance:
Dorothy I thought that you'd like to hear The thoughts I have of one so dear My heart is bowed so low in grief But there is one thought of blessed relief Of one who truly loved the Lord And served him in a sincere way Who bore your trials in the heat of day You sat like Mary at Jesus' feet Deeming his precious words so sweet You cared not much for earthly gain And felt that deep within you heart Yours was to choose the better part To labor in the vineyard of this dear friend Encouraging others to work for Him You loved to work with little children While their minds were young and bright You gave your strength to this endeavor Putting up a vigorous fight I can't just once recall the time You didn't have the Lord in mind You always felt what could be done Before the setting of the sun You often spoke of the beautiful city And how to miss it you would dread You also spoke of God's requirements How to His spirit you must be led You were a mother one who cared My grief to bear my joy to share My heart is so overwhelmed in me To think that this no more will be I truly say of you Dorothy I'm so glad God gave you to me
Aunt Dorothy gave me the gift of love and patience when I was very young and I seek to forever whenever possible give a bit of what she has given me to others. These many years later I still miss her, even though sometimes I think I can still hear her voice. She is forever with me.
The art of losing isn't hard to master; so many things seem filled with the intent to be lost that their loss is no disaster.
Lose something every day. Accept the fluster of lost door keys, the hour badly spent. The art of losing isn't hard to master.
Then practice losing farther, losing faster: places, and names, and where it was you meant to travel. None of these will bring disaster.
I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or next-to-last, of three loved houses went. The art of losing isn't hard to master.
I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster, some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent. I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.
--Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident the art of losing's not too hard to master though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.
The art of losing seems akin to embracing our fears.
If I told him would he like it. Would he like it if I told him. Would he like it would Napoleon would Napoleon would would he like it. If Napoleon if I told him if I told him if Napoleon. Would he like it if I told him if I told him if Napoleon. Would he like it if Napoleon if Napoleon if I told him. If I told him if Napoleon if Napoleon if I told him. If I told him would he like it would he like it if I told him. Now. Not now. And now. Now. Exactly as as kings. Feeling full for it. Exactitude as kings. So to beseech you as full as for it. Exactly or as kings. Shutters shut and open so do queens. Shutters shut and shutters and so shutters shut and shutters and so and so shutters and so shutters shut and so shutters shut and shutters and so. And so shutters shut and so and also. And also and so and so and also. Exact resemblance to exact resemblance the exact resemblance as exact as a resemblance, exactly as resembling, exactly resembling, exactly in resemblance exactly a resemblance, exactly and resemblance. For this is so. Because. Now actively repeat at all, now actively repeat at all, now actively repeat at all. Have hold and hear, actively repeat at all. I judge judge. As a resemblance to him. Who comes first. Napoleon the first. Who comes too coming coming too, who goes there, as they go they share, who shares all, all is as all as as yet or as yet. Now to date now to date. Now and now and date and the date. Who came first Napoleon at first. Who came first Napoleon the first. Who came first, Napoleon first. Presently. Exactly do they do. First exactly. Exactly do they do too. First exactly. And first exactly. Exactly do they do. And first exactly and exactly. And do they do. At first exactly and First exactly and do they do. The first exactly. And do they do. The first exactly. At first exactly. First as exactly. At first as exactly. Presently. As presently. As as presently. He he he he and he and he and and he and he and he and and as and as he and as he and he. He is and as he is, and as he is and he is, he is and as he and he and as he is and he and he and and he and he. Can curls rob can curls quote, quotable. As presently. As exactitude. As trains. Has trains. Has trains. As trains. As trains. Presently. Proportions. Presently. As proportions as presently. Father and farther. Was the king or room. Farther and whether. Was there was there was there what was there was there what was there was there there was there. Whether and in there. As even say so. One. I land.Two. I land. Three. The land. Three. The land. Three. The land. Two. I land. Two. I land. One. I land. Two. I land. As a so. They cannot. A note. They cannot. A float. They cannot. They dote. They cannot. They as denote. Miracles play. Play fairly. Play fairly well. A well. As well. As or as presently. Let me recite what history teaches. History teaches.
i carry your heart with me(i carry it in my heart)i am never without it(anywhere i go you go,my dear; and whatever is done by only me is your doing,my darling)
i fear no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true) and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant and whatever a sun will always sing is you
here is the deepest secret nobody knows (here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide) and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart
'Tis so much joy! 'Tis so much joy! If I should fail, what poverty! And yet, as poor as I, Have ventured all upon a throw! Have gained! Yes! Hesitated so — This side the Victory!
Life is but Life! And Death, but Death! Bliss is but Bliss, and Breath but Breath! And if indeed I fail, At least, to know the worst, is sweet! Defeat means nothing but Defeat, No drearier, can befall!
And if I gain! Oh Gun at Sea! Oh Bells, that in the Steeples be! At first, repeat it slow! For Heaven is a different thing, Conjectured, and waked sudden in — And might extinguish me!
--Emily Dickinson
Joy does not come without a struggle. In fact, joy often bursts forth in our struggle.
"The poet laureate is an Aunt Sally, to be shied at by all the couplets of philistinism and ponce-bashing that the press like to indulge in. Yet poets are not naturally showmen. Poetry is by nature and convention a secret art.
"Poems are coded messages for your eyes only, left under pillows, behind whisky bottles, tied to roses, written in water. There are no regular poetry reviews in cultural magazines, or poetry programmes on the telly.
"Nobody is televising their awards live. Poets fall a long way behind actors and musicians, artists and novelists, for celebrity."
Poets are seers bound by truth. They see and say what others dare not; their value is intrinsic, aligned with their perceptive selves that do not seek the spotlight.
Emily Dickinson
Poets precisely speak truth; their value is intrinsically profound. Whether soft or deep, in a sonnet or haiku, poets speak to us in ways that none others do.
Jessye Norman wonderfully tells the story of the Erlkong, a German myth about an evil spirit the haunts and threatens humans, especially children. Schubert does marvelously at setting Goethe's poem to music.
The translation below is by Hyde Flippo, but Norman does such a fine job that without knowing the translation the voices can be detected and meaning applied. There are four voices: the narrator, the Erlkonig, the father, and son.
Schubert makes Goethe's text clear with color, tempi and dynamics.
"Erlkonig"
Who rides so late through the night and wind? It's the father with his child; He has the boy safe in his arm, He holds him secure, he holds him warm.
"My son, what makes you hide your face in fear?" Father, don't you see the Erlking? The Erlking with crown and flowing robe? "My son, it's a wisp of fog."
"You dear child, come along with me! Such lovely games I'll play with you; Many colorful flowers are at the shore, My mother has many a golden garment."
"My father, my father, and do you not hear What the Erlking promises me so softly? "Be quiet, stay quiet, my child; In the dry leaves the wind is rustling."
"Won't you come along with me, my fine boy? My daughters shall attend to you so nicely. My daughters do their nightly dance, And they'll rock you and dance you and sing you to sleep."
"My father, my father, and do you not see over there Erlking's daughters in that dark place? " "My son, my son, I see it most definitely: It's the willow trees looking so grey."
"I love you; I'm charmed by your beautiful form; And if you're not willing, then I'll use force." "My father, my father, now he's grabbing hold of me! Erlking has done me harm!"
The father shudders, he rides swiftly, He holds in (his) arms the moaning child. He reaches the farmhouse with effort and urgency. In his arms the child was dead.
This is a dramatic piece and rendition, but how invested are we in telling stories? How eager are we to make things clear at home or work? To what extend will we go to be understood, to tell our stories? We must become brilliant storytellers which require speaking, listening, pausing, inflection, knowledge, humility and confidence.
Her voice is one of sweetness. But her eyes, narrow and searching. He is the beautiful one. Husband of compassion. Father of love. Tall, loving, striking, strong. In one way she is an equal. Perfect ten, beautiful skin. But a motherless mother, a wife of discontent. She will never be pleased. Stripping, small daily deeds. Seething envy. Steadily stealing All that is his. He ultimately gives. Thousands mourn. Enters she. What now remains? Nothing of the same.
Today in my inbox I received a most beautiful gift, the likes that I have never received before. Cynthia of Epiphany:Rebirth wrote the most beautiful poem for me. I would like to share it with you.
"On Seeing Judith"
Her eyes are stars which fell to a velvet lake submersed and returned with spiritual wisdom. There is a rare quality to her beauty, one that transcends time filled with enlightment and Love. She is twilight in a purple gown, scented with enlightment and heavenly jasmine. Each superior word is defined and elegant, her Queenly heritage most evident.
Dearest Cynthia, thank you so very much for this most beautiful gift. You so know how your words move me. To think that you would write such about me is overwhelming indeed.
Ah, thank you, beautiful poet. I shall cherish this poem always.
John O'Leary wrote an excellent post recently on "creative disruption" where he uses The Beatles as an example. I have written here on being disruptive a few times. As brilliant as they are, disrupters are often marginalized and isolated.
While often being maligned, disrupters, in fact, are those who make the difference in business, painting, music, science, education, medicine, poetry, fashion, communities, novels, religion, community philosophy, etc.
Who are these disrupters?
Jesus Christ Martin Luther Joan of Arc Toni Morrison Nassim Nicholas Taleb Jean Paul Gautier Emily Dickinson Friedrich Nietzsche Chuck Berry Tom Peters Oscar Wilde Leonardo Da Vinci Gianni Versace Muhammad Yunnus Bela Bartok Copernicus Henry Miller Malcolm X Jean Paul Sartre Marie Currier Anita Roddick Georgia O'Keefe Nelson Mandela Virgina Woolf Igor Stravinsky Vincent Van Gogh Anais Nin Martin Luther King, Jr. Galileo Nat Turner
History is replete which such ones, yet we seek to allow disruption to be. Perhaps without the struggle it would not find a place or consistency. Perhaps resistance is at the heart of disruption a necessity.
