If you follow me
You will see nothing seen be-
fore, yourself unmasked
Commenting on Trump’s strategy regarding COVID-19, the author writes:
Oscar Wilde reportedly said the following about religion, “Religion is like a blind man looking in a black room for a black cat that isn't there -- and finding it.”
(—Excerpt from: "Only I Can Fix It" by Wendell Blue. Scribd)
I'm afraid circumstances are such that neither Trump nor republican followers nor democrats of any stripe have the savvy, will-power, or moral energy to dissuade a re-continuance of his presidential ambitions in next election.
The quotient of emotional or intellectual intelligence required to slow the descent of the United States into degraded status in world stature and corresponding decline in quality of life or soul among its population is lowering and glowering across the nation.
This is not about God. This is about what is not. It’s not that God is not great, rather, it is about the unimaginative and intemperate people who wish that man and the know-nothing subservience surrounding him to be the face and misfortune of America.
I’ll be dead. Nor do I suspect there’s more than a dark room with soundproof non-resonance to follow. (Gott sei dank!) But some will still be here. And it will not be pretty.
About religion, my only belief is becoming what in essence and existence we already are. It is faith in what is here and now our true nature arcing toward wholeness and kindness of the good. Toward that direction I am a follower of clear inner light, the intuition of imagination and creative regard.
There is where I greet you.
There is where I watch with apprehension the foolish degeneration of responsible acts and effort.
There is where, if prayer has any efficacy or innate purpose or benefit, I pray for each being passing in front of me.
This from Sojourners:
Verse of the day
Love one another with mutual affection; outdo one another in showing honor.
- Romans 12:10
Voice of the day
If we surrendered / to earth’s intelligence / we could rise up rooted, like trees.
- Rainer Maria Rilke, “How Surely Gravity's Law”
Prayer of the day
Look with compassion on the whole human family; take away the arrogance and hatred which infect our hearts.
- The Book of Common Prayer
The author writes (if I recall hearing correctly):
God, the one who dwells in the midst of it all here on earth. (--Diane Butler Bass, in Grounded: Finding God in the World - A Spiritual revolution)
There is something attractive about calling God "the one."
"One" at the center of it all. It echos comfortably inside the question I hold for every description/depiction of God, namely, "Do you believe in or behold God?"
I resonate with "the one." This suggests there is no two, or that the two we manufacture is not the truest reality. There might be differences within the one. There might be others within the one. But no one is excluded from the one. No division made by rational thinking can escape the wholeness of being enwrapping everything.
Elsewhere Bass writes:
Everything has a center.
What that center is called has various names. Still, it is the center. Despite arguments as to whether your depiction of center is better than your neighbor's depiction of center; whether your description of 'one' is better that your neighbor's description of one -- center is center, one is one.
Can we face such inquiry?
Will we face one another in this investigation.
The zen proverb still reverberates wisdom:
Better to see the face
than to hear the name
I keep watch.
If I understand the Texas legislature and governor, they have decided the following:
A fetus will have a gun inserted into its mother’s vagina so that it could shoot through uterus to kill host body so that said fetus, when it becomes a human being, gun in hand, can vote for limiting the ability of poor and persons of color to exercise any right to vote, and to preserve the gun-toting state-given right to become a bounty hunter against any woman and anyone else assisting women in the eventuality of having had an abortion, collecting ten thousand dollar bounty for each rat-out and catch.
Do I have this, right, Texas?
When I first read Miller's play it was as though I was a character, I was Bert. Miller wrote about my experiences following an unconscious first semester in collage, dropping out, and working in a mailroom of an insurance company.
Even now the haunting recollection of each character in his play mirrors the characters in my daily workplace. Nothing in any classroom could have provided me with the anthropology of personalities moving past bins and tables, conversations and kibbitzing, flirtations and gross innuendo as those seasoned and randy few did their work and skirted supervisor's hearing. They were retirees and city fellas, hard experienced with closely kept autobiographies whose resumees and sidetalk were strewn with outlandish tales and subdued revelation.
I was, then as now, an oblivious adjunct to the main course of working cant and jowl unregulated chatter in backroom slipped manners. It was my curricula of universalized studies. I majored in being a tolerable listener and a better third baseman on the company softball team.
Patricia enters and crosses past Bert, looking out through the windows. Tom gets up and bumbles through a pile of goods on the table, checking against an order in his hand. It is as though Bert wished it could stop for a moment, and as each person enters he looks expectantly, but nothing much happens. And so he gradually moves -- almost is moved toward an exit, and with his book in his hand he leaves.
(--Just before curtain, final narration of Arthur Miller's A Memory of Two Mondays, A Play in One Act, c.1955)
It stays with me. Each of them. Sixty years later.
I never made it into mainstream. Periphery, adjunct, alternate, walk-on, outsider.
Still, I remember each teacher. I learned from them. A lingering affection. A nodding gratitude. Like Bert, I wished it could stop for a moment. It didn't. Nor has it ever.
It just goes on and goes sideways and goes into a side pocket bank shot, whether called or not.
Even on smaller treks in familiar locales, I have known this:
Somewhere between Onioshidashi-en and the hostel, you take a wrong turn, or several. It would not be hard to do—few of the road names are posted, and the arrows on the signs point in directions that make no sense to you, even if you could read them. You stumble on for an hour for two, for four.
Now dark is falling, and you are nowhere near anything you recognize. At times you catch glimpses of Mt. Asama through the trees, each time in an unexpected direction. You grow frustrated, you curse the hand-drawn map you made this morning. Anger drops you into sadness, and sadness into that slow sinking that you have never learned to pull yourself out of.
(--Craig Arnold, Journal)
And still do.
Meditation on a Grapefruit
POEM BY CRAIG ARNOLD
To wake when all is possible
before the agitations of the day
have gripped you
To come to the kitchen
and peel a little basketball
To tear the husk
like cotton padding a cloud of oil
misting out of its pinprick pores
clean and sharp as pepper
each pale pink section out of its case
so carefully without breaking
a single pearly cell
To slide each piece
into a cold blue china bowl
the juice pooling until the whole
fruit is divided from its skin
and only then to eat
precisely pointless a devout
involvement of the hands and senses
a pause a little emptiness
each year harder to live within
each year harder to live without
... ... ...
Although humans from all cultures or ages share hopes and struggles, worldly aspirations pale when put into context of topic cycles of destruction and creation. These cataclysmic occurrences became a fascination for Craig, and “the volcano became an emblem of geology’s indifference toward humanity.” The title of the proposed work itself, An Exchange for Fire, comes from the Greek philosopher Heraclites, “whose mystic notions of change and impermanence comes closest perhaps, to the insights of Zen Buddhism, blurring our conceptions of what constitutes Western, what Eastern thought.”
(--from, An Exchange for Fire—, The Final Pilgrimage of Poet Craig Arnold, Excerpted from My Postwar Life—New Writings from Japan and Okinawa Chicago Quarterly Review Books, 2011, By Christopher Blasdel)