Them

If you took a cross section slice out of my time, there is a good chance that you might just cut into a moment of me on the trail. I am a hiker, biker, and XC skier. I follow blue blazes and rails to trails through meadows, over mountains, and by meandering brooks. Without a grand elaboration, I do it because it feels right and it helps me, I believe, be right. I like the movement, the beauty, and the quiet. There are many of us who find well being in the outdoors. And it is a good thing, I so decree!

However, we do not all move our way down these trails in similar manners. I prefer to park my car at the trailhead and try to move through nature creating as little disturbance as possible. I carefully chose to leave most of my noise and stink behind. Not so for some of those who ride ATV’s. You’ve seen them. You’ve heard them. You’ve smelled them: Four big knobby dirt digging wheels, ear-shattering whine, two-cycle oil rich exhaust. They are a bane on the land, and an affliction on our sensibilities. And they are also very popular, and they are not going away. I have campaigned, complained, and have physically tried to restrain them from riding on trails, where they are, by law, not permitted. Are you surprised that those who uphold such laws have better things to do, and very little time to do anything about my concerns? So I basically grit my teeth, complain some to my friends, and try to co-exist. In darker moments, it seems just another small example of a much bigger problem. The ship is slowly sinking. There are big holes and we have small buckets. Some bail while others water ski. Hmm.

So it was on this most recent snowy Wednesday that I was cross-country skiing on a lovely piece of land in my town managed by the local land trust and the Nature Conservancy. It has meadows, woodland, ponds, wildlife, and a beautiful river. And it has trails, set aside for hiking, skiing, and ATV’s with handicapped permits. It was not more than 20 minutes or so into my visit when turning a corner in the laurels appeared two ATV’s. I had seen them earlier this winter on a nearby trail, that time there were five of them. I complained to my friend Karen then, questioning whether they all had permits. So as they approached I gritted my teeth and stepped out of my hard-earned ski tracks, trying not to seem too irritated. I was looking down when the first guy yelled, "That’s OK, we’ll pull over." My head spun, as it was clear that we were about to chat. Hmm. Could I keep a civil tongue? Could I not look too obviously for some kind of handicapped permit?

"Beautiful day," we both offered, as simultaneously we started with a safe neutral remark. This was followed by a long silence, which was followed by a large ham-like hand offered as a true greeting with the introduction, "My name is Charlie Johnson, I live up on Hagan Rd." I pulled of my glove and stammered a brief self-introduction. "I’ve got to ride this, he went on, pointing to his machine, since I lost my leg, pointing to an empty jeans leg." I looked and I must have blushed with embarrassment, mortified for not only looking, but by the fact that my attitude clearly spoke saying "I don’t like your ATV and I wonder why you are riding it. Explain yourself." It got worse. He went on to explain, in a very friendly, pleasant manner, that he had explored and roamed these woods for the past fifty years, and that currently, he was helping do what he could to keep the trails open, clearing downed trees, branches, and the like. We talked a little more, sharing small stories about deer, "fisher cats", the weather, and the beauty and enjoyment we got from being on the trail in this lovely forest. Another silence, this one much less awkward, set us both on our ways. As I skied on, and he and his partner slowly drove of in the opposite direction, I couldn’t help but notice that his ATV actually ran quietly, and didn’t smell at all. Hmm.

As I skied away, I noticed that my ski tracks fit quite well in the space between the tracks made by their ATV’s. I slid down a short hill, then stopped in a clearing, and thought about the lesson that had come to me. I thought about Charlie’s friendly manner, and realized that he was a bit like my father, Ernie; always quick with a handshake and a pleasant word. I thought how I had met one of "them" and learned a lot. I also had come to hear my own words speaking. I have often said that our enemies have much more in common with us than we might at first realize, making them not our enemies at all, but our kin. They work hard, suffer some, love their families, hope for a better future, and love the time that they can find to spend on a peaceful trail on a cold Connecticut afternoon. Thanks Charlie. Hope I see you again.

Levantate

In December of 2004, Judge Juan Guzman nudged the collective Chilean conscience a step closer to what some might see as closure, but what I interpret as the nature of justice.
With the statement: “Pinochet has been declared mentally fit to undergo criminal investigation” it seems that karma is as slow as New York traffic during the holidays, has finally started to come around on that wheel.

It was thirty-one years ago, September 11th , when the democratically elected government of Salvadore Allende was overthrown by forces led by General Augusto Pinochet with CIA backing.

Chileans have long memories and the clock is running out on seeking justice for a nation against the man who has come to represent the suffering and horror of that time. They are hoping to catch him on tax evasion, the same crime they locked up Al Capone on.

Still, the country’s leaders exercise due process, not like in 1973 when it was believed the Chilean judiciary was complicit in illegal detentions, torture and disappearances.

One would think there would consensus about this man in Chile. One would think the issue of national psychic healing would be a monolithic fait accompli, but this is not the case. When I was there visiting in 1986, I started an argument, trying to evade some very difficult political questions some locals were asking me. It was in a social setting, and I was visiting the poblacion (barrio) of La Victoria.

One thing I will say is that even among the poorest of the poor in Chile, everyone seems to have an interest and a knack for global international politics. No discussions were off base. I found the Chilean people more knowledgeable about U.S. foreign policy than most Americans.

I derailed the discussion by asking one of my guests what he thought of the Pinochet government, still in direct power at that time, before the plebescite in 1989 that ostensibly removed him from power. That started vigorous discussion among my guests. My point being, that even here, in La Victoria, a plot of land that was originally created by what the locals called a “toma!” - a land take by the poor of government property - there was no consensus. Why should there be now?

To its credit, the current military has acknowledged its part in the suffering. An average compensation of $190 per victim claim is the suggested financial remuneration.
Yes, it’s laughable by U.S. standards, but that is not the point. “Justice is the principal method of reparation,” Pedro Matta, a survivor of the Villa Grimaldi torture camp insists. But how justice? When justice?

Commander in Chief Gen. Juan Emilio Cheyre has taken the difficult and almost unheard of task of forging through the guilt and complicity of his military during this dark period of Chilean history.

When I was there, I went by the National Stadium. I was driven by friends, speeding through the streets of Santiago in open-air jeeps, probably in the same the same manner that many of the victims who were taken by the police; in the dark of night, the frenetic speed and blackness ahead, I saw it all lit up. The light cast cavernous shadows and its history made it seem sinister, even some 15 years after the events. After the detention and torture of 5,000 men; after the madness that turned this place from a sporting area, to some collective neurons of pain for a whole nation, this place seemed nightmarish dressed in its shadowy face.

Folk singer Victor Jara was one of the 5,000 brought here, tortured and then executed. My brother who lived in Santiago for years, later bought me a “genuine Chilean guitar” and the chords and lyrics and a tape so I could listen to his songs and learn them.

“Plegaria a Un Labrador” – was the only song I attempted. Levantate, y mira la Montana – Rise up, and look at the mountain! and then finally he sings: Levantate, y mirate las manos – rise and look at your hands.

The first supplication asks us to look at the power of the mountains, the land, nature as a force and then he asks us as farmers, workers, as tenders of the land, and makers of things to look at our hands which unlock the power of objects around us, of the land and ultimately of our own destiny.

The first line was as far as I got.

Somehow, I didn’t feel worthy of singing these songs, or playing this guitar, or even sharing in any way in the misery or hope of these people. It was sort of like white guys singing the blues, or rap. I didn’t seem to have the “props” to pull off such humanity.

Still, there is denial by some segments of Chilean society. And even among those like Cheyre who want to make some sort of accounting and begin the healing process, no one is talking about accountability. Everyone involved is waiting for that other shoe to drop, and the thoughts of human rights trials, years after the events has everyone nervous. But can there be justice if some of those who committed these abuses are still in office?

Pinochet is 89 and is approaching the end of his life. They say for the last few years he has been a pariah within his own country and even abroad. Still, that is hardly consolation for the suffering this man – and others – has caused. Not that I would like to see anyone executed, but it seems to me, if you are a nation of laws, and if a law has been broken, there should be some consequence beyond the civil restitution of a few pesos in some poor victim’s pocket.

If Pinochet only spends one day in jail, and then dies, it will have sent a message to tyrants everywhere (are you listening George W.?) that no matter how much time passes, there is no statute of limitations for human rights.

But the accountability issue – who will be punished after all these years – is likely to stir up some debate. As much as I want accountability, what is the likelihood that the evidence to ensure fair trials is preserved and can be unbiased after all this time? Can witness’s testimony be trusted after all this time? How do we keep this from becoming a witch hunt and does this, in the final analysis, create healing?

Still, these goons perpetrated enough of the abuses on such a wide cross section of the population surely some of the testimony can be corroborated. And here’s the thing: if justice implies necessary accountability, are the victims of this regime comfortable knowing that some will never be held accountable? If they can imprison a percentage of those responsible, using due process and rules of evidence that are tried and true in democracies everywhere, will that be enough?

Ironically, we share September 11th with Chile as a date of infamy. This was the same date it seems that democracy here was pitched over the side for the security of a Patriot Act in this country. And also ironically this country, has been engaging in all sorts of revisionist thinking, (think, “we never lost Vietnam, we were just never really in it all the way and oh by the way, here is Iraq, which we will do right”). There are some here who are reconsidering the CIA’s role in the September 11th overthrow of Chile’s democratically elected president.

I refer you to Kenneth Maxwell, Senior fellow at Harvard University’s David Rockefeller Center for Latin Studies, now well documented dispute with the editors of a December issue of Foreign Affairs, who says that his claims about Kissinger’s role in the overthrow inflamed some statesman close him. He says that Kissinger himself exerted pressure on the editors of Foreign Affairs not to publish Maxwell's studies. The editors of course denies this. Kissinger, true to form, says nothing.

Here are the links for specifics.
http://drclas.fas.harvard.edu/uploads/images/104/maxwell_working_paper.pdf
http://hnn.us/roundup/comments/8919.html

Clearly, the intellectual ground is fertile enough in this country now to start planting those seeds, what with terrorism and Iraq occupying the greater portion of most people’s frontal lobes.

But while we in this country struggle with moral amnesia and a case of seeing a naked emperor who we swear wears the most expensive Armani hand tailored suits, those in Chile hold on to memories of loved ones. Photographs and the hope of justice, whatever that means, are all that sustain them. That, and that if Pinochet dies, we hope there will some sort of cosmic justice for him.

Sometimes that’s all we have to go on.

M C Biegner
Jan 2005

The Lady In the Boat

The Lady in the Boat

I glanced over my shoulder. At first, it looked like a dark spot hovering over the murky riverbed in fog as dense as a burial shroud, a curtain that quieted the landscape, even the crickets and loons, and left my footfall alone to accompany the tune that keep circling around in my head, something from Mozart I think. I had the feeling that something important was about to happen, a feeling I have often experienced, sometimes for reason but more often, not. Perhaps it was the eerie feel of it all and I was late. I placed my rucksack a little higher on my back and continued my journey along the river bank, no time to linger here thinking about impossible impressions, and focused my attention on the smell of smoke from someone’s fire as it mixed with the fog. Apple wood? Yellow birch? No time to dwell on silly thoughts. As the day closed, I had many miles of my journey ahead. I tried to shake off the feeling and continue.

It’s narrow bow poked at me like an arrow as it pierced the dense cloud. Brilliant lacquered red and deepest ebony, its slick approach was silent and startling. Overpowered, I hesitated. Slowly, like the drops of mist that floated around us, it consumed my gaze, and though I wanted to look away, I was mesmerized by the site of the glistening paint, the sleekness of the vessel, as an eel gliding through the water without sound, ready to strike. And then, as I looked up, the figure appeared, sitting in the middle, eyes straight ahead, guiding the boat. I turned away, not wanting to be rude, not wanting to stare, and wishing only to continue my journey, light growing short after all, and this, no business of mine.

But my gaze returned to the traveler. At first, I couldn’t tell, but soon realized it was a woman who, with delicate hands, held her oar high in the water and looked almost like a conductor ready to guide a symphony. The long braid of her hair curled up at the end and was fastened with a golden clip, like a musical clef at the beginning of a staff, and I laughed to myself that in one sheltered glance I would see music in her very being, since music had been playing in my head from the start of my journey, though I don’t know why, not being particularly inclined myself. She too carried a pack on her back, and I wondered what was inside. Notes to a song, perhaps, I thought, laughing again to myself, but maybe, more likely, notes to a lover, and then her eyes caught mine
. I lowered my gaze and hurried along, muttering a quick “Good evening.”

“A beautiful night for a journey,” she said, her voice lilting and engaging, one who could sing like an angel, I’m sure.

“Yes,” I said. “although you cannot see far ahead.”

The boat bobbed up and down gently, as the water splashed in rhythm against the rocks on the bank. I found that comforting, although the fog continued to give me distress and I needed to continue on.

“No, not far ahead, but as far as you need,” she said, almost in song. She turned her head and smiled, and for the first time I saw the face of a young woman, one who looked familiar, although I could not place her. Perhaps a distant relative, I thought. Her eyes were clear, bright, intense in their gaze, and her hair glowed with streaks of light as it streamed down her slender back. He skin was as translucent as the mist, and I found myself wondering if I had ever seen a more beautiful woman. Her dress was a vivid red silk with purple and gold trim, and her feet were bare.

“You would like to travel with me, yes?”

How strange a question, I thought, but she seemed foreign, and perhaps this language was not her own.

“I am confident with my journey here on land. I have places to go. But thank you for your offer,” I turned away, made my step a little faster along the path, but then tripped on the moss. “So silly, I am forgetting the new darkness it seems.” I silently cursed my own lack of agility, and blamed my age for taking away some of my sharpness.

“The darkness is not to be forgotten, it is to be embraced,” she said, waving the oar over her head and placing it silently in the water again. “We move with so much effort, but the water continues with ease on its own deliberate course, do you see that?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you are talking about,” I said, not wishing to startle this stranger, but needing to explain my own annoyance. “I tripped. That is all. But I am fine and must continue on my way.” I righted my sack, and my stance, took a deep breath and started out. But barely had I moved when she sang again, calling me back.

“What do you carry?” The boat now stopped, her oar in the water planted firmly in the thick mud of the river bottom while her body swayed gently from side to side, embracing the oar as it moved, keeping time with the challenge of the water, like a pendulum.

She is hypnotizing me, I thought; I watched her rhythmic movement, side to side, feeling both intrigued and also tired of this encounter. What did I carry? I carried much, but was not sure I wanted to get into the minor details of my life with one I did not know. I decided I needed to go on, and leave her with her questions. I forced myself to blink and look away.

“I carry nothing of substance,” I said and excused myself, turning about, checking my footing on the moss-covered path.

“That is good, and your journey?” she asked. I hesitated, looking from her to the path ahead.

“I am not sure where I am going, but I’m searching, a wanderer I guess,” I said, wondering at the sudden ease of my tongue with this stranger. I was annoyed at myself for letting her engage me, and yet speaking to her was comfortable. “But time being what it is, I would like to continue on, it is already dark and I know I have far to go. And it grows cold.” I shivered, then looked into her eyes again unable to break our communion. “By the way, what is it you carry?”

“All my earthly loves,” she said, without hesitation, “All my earthly claims.”

“That sounds like quite a large burden,” I said, noticing the fog was clearing a bit and the crickets were starting to sing, everything was swirling around me again, and I had hope of moving about.

“Oh no! The load is light,” she said.

She looked at me, smiled with what I can only describe as enchantment, then cast her eyes downward and started to hum, so softly at first that I didn’t realize what I heard was her voice, more a vibration like a violin that is touched in the gentle way of a master producing a sound so low it seems to come from the ground or the air or the sky. She seemed in a trance, her sounds, guttural, primal, with the rhythm of the waves as it grew louder. Her voice released a captivating melody in time with the loons and with everything around us, even the silent mist, and the rolling fog, and the clouds and the river moving by us, and I realized it was a lullaby, my first and only lullaby and it pulled me and it tormented me and it coaxed me and it left me stunned. I could not move.

“You will come with me now.” She crooned, both arms open.

“No, I wish to continue.” I said, but even as the words spilled from my mouth, I dropped my rucksack and turned toward her, empty of hand. She nodded, continued to hum and I absorbed the sound of her delicate, floating notes and the sound of the crickets and the sound of a leaf falling hard against a tree stump and the sound of my lazy heartbeat vibrating in my chest. I watched my foot move in slow motion toward her, and then my unsure hand grab the side of the boat as I slipped in beside her, feeling light as the night air, lighter than I’d felt since a child running in the fields by my home, as light as a silver beam from the moon as it hands itself to the magic of night. The silk slap of the waves swirled around the boat and then grew quiet, and the smell of the earth and the leaves and the trees and the smoke and the moss filled my nostrils, and I inhaled the glorious perfume, let it overpower me, let it go; the sweet taste of the mist, and the salt of my tears, more flavorful than any wine placed on my lips, and it too was done.

I glanced back at the riverbank as the world dissolved into the luscious velvet of the fog and mist, its scents and tastes and sounds and textures, all left to settle on the deep water, as she and the loons and the crickets sang me to delicious sleep.

Dot Read

The Type

The Type

I know your type
(But not your font)
And I am casting about
To see past the hair
And the clothes
And the age
And gender,
Because
I am lonely too,
And I want to fall
Into your love.

You are the one
Working your way
Through school,
Slicing one too many bagels
Trying to really smile
At the next person in line,
While at the same time
Attempting to live with a dignity
Somewhere beyond
"Have a nice day!"

Did we just make eye contact?
And flash for a second
On each other in a way
That moved a step beyond
Judge and jury?
And moved perhaps,
Beyond this life
And circled round
To recognize
And humanize this moment?

Maybe you were the one
Who drew the peace symbol
In the hallway
By the bathrooms?
I know that type…

Arise My Love

Arise My Love


Sometimes his whole day was spent walking by the river, his one strong leg leading the way for its weaker counterpart. His limping way was measured and slow on the stones of the path – strong foot planted firmly – weak foot moving in a sudden burst to catch up. The weak foot never passed the strong foot. It needed it there, always in its sight, always ahead as a guide and never behind. With each step, the strong foot showed the weak foot what to do so that the weak foot didn’t need to remember. It could put all of its bit of strength into each movement, always in the present moment, always living in the struggle of now.

The man lived in a hut set back from the river path. He woke each morning to the sunlight pouring over the distant hills and dancing across the river until it reached his shore and finally his door. Once he had risen for the day the man never yawned. He was busy every moment from the sun’s bright hello to the calming blue of the evening sky. First he had to dress himself. He wore slacks and a tunic made of linen that seemed to hang about him without actually touching his body. When he walked, it was as if he were moving through the clothes and the clothes just happened to be moving in the same direction at the same time. After dressing, the man ate a simple breakfast. Next he combed any errant crumbs from his beard as he peered into the small mirror that hung above his little table. The sight of the mirror hanging on the yellowing wall always brought a smile to the man’s weathered face. It was all he had of her. It was delicate like she had been, with graceful lines – pretty but not showy – and like her, it spent its life as an offering for others. Before stepping outside into the day the man would take his peaked cap from the hook by the door and place it precisely on his head.

On this day the man’s hat was lying on the floor just inside the door. The man did not think twice before steadying himself on his strong leg and bending it slowly, bit by bit, letting his weak leg slide out to the side. Once he was down - strong leg bent - weak leg extended – he reached slowly for the hat and placed it on his head before attempting to rise. The act of picking up his hat meant that he might not reach the village today. Each day it seemed that he had just enough in him to make his way down the river and just enough time to sit and rest in the village square before making the journey home. Any extra expense of strength, any moments spent on an irregular task, and he might not have enough strength or time to complete his daily journey and that journey was his life. What was he if not the man who limped and sat in the village square and limped home again? Each moment lived knowing what he was to do and doing it.

The man set out this day a little later than usual and a little more spent. He made his way down the river path – strong foot planted firmly – weak foot following behind. He could not try to go faster. He always moved in the fullness of his present capabilities. Strong foot – weak foot – strong foot – weak foot. Something did not feel right in the man’s back and he bent his arms behind him, palms resting on either side of his spine, as if to push himself along. Strong foot – weak foot – strong foot – weak foot. A light breeze blew off of the river and wrapped the man in the scent of sweet white blossoms that stirred over his head. He was usually acutely aware of his surroundings, only they were always just what they were, nothing else… but today, this smell, this softness, the sweetness… it had to be her perfume carried to him by an obliging wind. The man stopped on the path. He had never thought of her on his walks before. He always left her safe with his reflection in the mirror. Now he had brought her out into the world and the world was not her friend. He had not gone far. Perhaps he would return home. Strong foot – weak foot. As the man turned, the weak foot gave way beneath him and he crumpled to the ground. As he lay on the path, dust in his eyelashes - a stone beneath his cheek, he heard a bird burst in joyful song and it reminded him of her voice. His eyes fluttered, spilling dust, and the bird song grew stronger. The bird must be coming his way. The man managed to raise his head from the path. Just coming into sight on the river was the pointed bow of a boat hovering over the water. It moved swiftly, softly, until the boat’s passenger came into view.

The man felt no surprise. He was not shocked to see her gliding on the water dressed in purple and holding a dove in her lap. Somewhere in the quiet corners of his heart he had expected her. This must be why he walked along the river every day. He had known that she would come for him, of course he did. She used no paddle or rudder to steer the boat. It slid like a sliver of the moon over the water and right to the shore. As she rose, the folds of her purple velvet fell like water down her body and she stood straight and tall. The dove flew easily to her shoulder where it perched and continued to sing. She walked along the boat and stepped softly to the shore. She was everything he remembered and everything he knew she had become. She moved like the boat, seeming to skim the surface of the land. She knelt before him and he lay his weary head in the velvet nest of her lap. She began to sing with the bird and it seemed to the man that their voices were one and different at the same time. He could not understand her words, but he knew what she said. “Arise my love and walk with me on silver water and frosted seas. Arise above the stones of earth, be born of light and give it birth. Arise my dear one, come now arise.” Then lightly, gently they stood together – the woman – the man – on the path by the riverside. She took his hand and led him to the doorway of his hut.

The man lay on his bed, the woman seated at his side. She smoothed his brow with her delicate hand and the man watched her steadily. There was no disbelief in his gaze, rather his eyes showed contentment and his mouth peace. As he drifted off to sleep she brought her lips close to his ear and whispered “It will not be much longer. Soon we shall be together my love….” When he awoke with the dawn she had gone.

That next day the man did not rise from his bed. On the second day he did. Once he had dressed himself in linen he moved towards a long undisturbed corner of his hut. Strong foot – weak foot – strong foot – weak foot. He bent himself to open the wooden chest that was hidden in the shadows. Reaching in, the man drew out a roll of heavy fabric and a bundle that was wrapped in paper and tied up with string. He closed the chest and brought his treasures to the table. First he unrolled the fabric and turned it so that it curved over the edges of the table. He set his bowl on one end and his cup on the other to keep it flat. Next he untied the package with the string. Out spilled an assortment of brushes and blocks of pigment that were dry and cracking in some places. The man glanced up at the mirror on his wall and smiled. He stood and, taking the wooden bowl in his hand, he made his way to the river. After drawing water, the man moved slowly back to his table. Strong foot – weak foot – strong foot – weak foot. Once he was seated again the man began to paint. It had been years, but he was an old friend of the way the colors moved through the water on the canvas. Just as with any task, the man painted with economy, purpose and skill.

On the third day a small crowd from the village arrived looking for the man. They had missed him in the village square and they came to see if all was well. Once the bravest among them had peeked in through the window and assured the others that the man was alive and seated at his table, the crowd pushed through the doorway and then craned their necks around each other to see the painting with which the man was occupied. The crowd praised the man’s talent. The canvas showed a series of pictures flowing in and out of each other. In each picture there was a woman dressed in purple. Along her journey she was joined by a man in a peaked cap. The last bit, that the man was still finishing, showed the woman in purple holding a dove on her lap. She was seated in the middle of a delicate and ancient boat that seemed to hover over the water of a river. Just from looking at the painting the crowd felt that they knew this woman and her history intimately.

The man knew that before long he would be with his loved one but that first he had a job to do. When he had lost her, he locked her memory up inside himself and in the mirror on his wall and in the chest in the corner. The world had taken her away and so the world could not be trusted with her. But now that he had seen her, he understood. She was beyond the pain of this world and they could do her no harm. The floodgates he had so carefully constructed were now flung wide. There was so much to say. There were stories to be told, paintings to be made, tears to be cried and smiles to be shared. Bit by bit the man opened himself and shared the story of the woman he loved with all who would listen. And all who chose to listen were blessed.

-Alia Williams

Why I Miss George

I finally watched the Concert for George on DVD last night, having received it for Christmas and it jogged my memory that he died on November 29th. My wife reminded me that Carey Grant also died on that date. She also reminded me this was her mother’s birthday.

I wondered if there are there zodiac signs for the deceased? I mean we attribute personality characteristics to the living predicated on what month they are born. Are there characteristics of the dead, predicated on what month they died? Do the dead exchange clichéd lines at post mortem bars, “Hey, what’s your after life sign?” And what of those who are one sign during life, but a contradictory sign after life? What if you are an Aries or Leo in life (fire signs) but say a Cancer or Scorpio in death (clearly, water signs). Do we need to make any adjustments to such a change?

After watching the DVD I am awash in a grave sense of loss, years after the event. His music reminds me of what we have lost. I miss George Harrison. Terribly. And the funny thing is, I am not entirely certain that I can put into words why.

As I listened to his music and watched these people who clearly loved him singing his words I was comforted. Certainly, seeing his son Dhani onstage looking like his very clone was both comforting and spooky at the same time. You could still see the grief in the back of Eric Clapton’s eyes – even on the DVD. He was the musical coordinator of this concert, and as he wrote in the liner notes for the DVD, this was something he needed to do to facilitate the grieving process. Clapton knows grief.

George as the “quiet” Beatle, was anything but, it turns out. He had a lot to say, and by God, much of it had depth, girth and weight. Where John Lennon spent years running away from the pressures of being a Beatle, George embraced a view of the world that at once removed him from these pressures and also engaged him in the world. Where McCartney ran to wealth and a comfortable country family life (himself, struggling with the loss of his wife Linda to cancer), George made music extolling the spiritual life.

Before benefit concerts were chic, does anyone recall that George raised money for those struggling in Bangladesh as they were dealing with the worst imaginable drought? But this was not out of a sense of “responding from privilege” as we get from many rock stars today. George did this, I surmise, because it rose from his sense of the spiritual.

I listen to Ringo sing “Photograph” – a song he co-wrote with George – and am frozen by the eerie prophetic lyrics.

Ev'ry time i see your face
It reminds me of the places we used to go.
But all i got is a photograph
And i realise you're not coming back anymore.
I can't get used to living here,
While my heart is broke, my tears i cried for you.
I want you here to have and hold,
As the years go by and we grow old and grey.
Now you're expecting me to live without you,
But that's not something that i'm looking forward to.
I can't get used to living here,
While my heart is broke, my tears i cried for you.
I want you here to have and hold,
As the years go by and we grow old and grey.
Ev'ry time i see your face,
It reminds me of the places we used to go.
But all i got is a photograph
And i realise you're not coming back anymore.

Sad and creepy.

I was impressed when Ringo announced to the crowd, "I loved George and George loved me." It was that type of bold imperative statement that seems unshakeable. It doesn't equivocate. It was the statement a brother and only a brother could make. That sort of certainty put me at ease.

Remember when George went off to study with the Maharishi, how we’d all thought he’d flipped? And that was in the sixties when things like this were normally considered cool. Seems he was right all along, doesn’t it? Seek spiritual growth, and the rest will follow I guess.

I remember watching a Beatle tribute not too long ago on TV and Paul made the comment about all of their songs in some way being about love. How much did George’s world view about love influence Paul and John to write about this subject? How much of George’s peaceful and spiritual demeanor was the oil that lubricated the friction between John and Paul during those tumultuous years? It’s speculative at best. But it is conceivable that in his “quiet” way, in his humble way, he brought the kind of energy the “Beatles” as a group needed to write such life affirming songs. You won’t see his name on the songs but I believe his influence was there anyway, in typical George style, underplayed, undervalued, and unseen.

I suppose it is somewhat telling that his favorite chords on the guitar, and ones he loved to use most in his music, were diminished chords. George’s sense of the diminished self, of seeking truth over ego permeated the man wherever he went, and you can see that in the friends that showed up at this concert. You could even feel that in the audience, yes, even through the DVD.


Yet George wrote lyrics like:

“Beware of sadness, it can hit you, it can hurt you,
Make you sore and what is more,
That is not what you are here for.”



These lines illustrate that he knew what it was to be in the world but he puts it into context: you are meant for greater things. It’s this sense of the transcendent in the guise of this seemingly diminished soul that I think resonates with me, and perhaps, this is why I miss him and his music so much. We need this today, more than ever.

In an industry that exalts the self, and wealth, and faux artistry, this man joined art and spirit with the gentle passion of his own spirituality. He didn’t force anyone to listen; he didn’t push his ideas down. They bubbled up from his integration of spirit with body, in humility. This intensity may not have translated into many top 10 songs during his solo career (though he did have quite a few) and many in my time felt his “Indian” slant to music was hard to listen to, he did what all the greats do and he ran to himself.

He honored his own vision of his art, and people saw this and flocked to his message. Thank God, is all I can say!

They felt his gentleness. They felt his commitment to peace. Like me, years after his death listening to his music, these feelings reverberate in all of us, affirming what it is we all really want. George embodied this in his living and in his art. This is what makes him genuine.

Maybe this is why I feel like I am missing a friend for in a real sense, though we have never met, I am. His songs were uplifting in the most subtle sort of way, and that is what friends do for each other.

This is how we take in the most critical information that we assimilate to our very core. This is how we learn to become spiritual.

Prostrate Before the Holy Virgin

“God works in mysterious ways. You think you have a plan, but God has His own plan.”
It was the weekend and time for my theology lesson from my mother, the patron saint of finding something good out of the deepest, darkest pile of shit life has a way of throwing at you. After a million years as her son I was used to it. Still, I could tell something was different in her voice that made her proselytizing different, more urgent than before.

“Want to tell God a good joke?” she said over the phone. “Tell him you have plans.”

“Yeah, ma, yeah.” I was barely listening still there was something in her voice that was different. I could not put my finger on it – it was just a feeling. I was having a hard time of it lately, and she knew it, though I don’t know how she knew it.

“Ma, I really do believe everything works out in the end. I know I need to keep believing, but can’t you let me keep faith in my own way?”

I could hear her deflate over the phone. “He knows what’s best for you,” she said, “even if you don’t. Oh I know you and your brother laugh at me and how you used to laugh whenever your Father and I took you to church.”

This was somewhat true. My mother was a Catholic witch, and we did laugh at her adherence to the rituals, spells, incantations and the patriarchy, but I could not tell her this. “Your Father is turning over in his grave,” she said.

“When did we make fun of you?” I complained. I heard the defensiveness in my own voice going into the handset of the phone.
“Oh you know, laughing at the priests and the people who attended mass, you always laughed at the readings. Then as you got older you brought all that godless literature into the house, Nietzsche and Marx. Would it have killed you to read some Thomas Aquinas? Some St. Augustine? How about some Papal Encyclicals?” In point of fact, I had read some Aquinas and some Augustine and the all Vatican Council II documents but I was in no mood to argue.

I thought of my Dad.

“Well, I’m sorry, Ma. Kids should never treat their parents that way – especially mothers. You know how you held us together. You know, especially after Dad died.”

“Oh, I know,” she consoled “You were just kids. What did you know?”

But I could still feel the sting in her voice. It never occurred to me until just then how painful parenting could be. I knew it was fraught with perils and dilemmas and all sorts of trade offs, but no one ever talks about the pain of parenting.

“You’ll come back to God, just you wait. You are still young.”

“Yeah, I know, there are no atheists in foxholes and on deathbeds.”

“That’s right, dear, and even if you never go back to Him, I had you baptized you are His whether you like it or not.”

I felt like I was part of a cult; like I was part of some X-files episode where the alien ships would return and claim what was theirs and I would be among them.

I heard the loon clock go off in the background over the phone. I always hated that clock, but my Dad had bought it for my Mom.

“Still got that Loon clock, huh?” I asked her.

“Isn’t it wonderful? You father bought that for me the year before he died.”

I interrupted her. “Yeah Mom, I know, you’ve told me before.”

“It’s such a sad sound, don’t you think?” she said after a slight pause. “I know how much you boys hated it – still your Father and…”

I stopped her there. I didn’t want her to finish the thought. “I know, Ma, I know.”
“Still”, her voice rebounded as though she had been asleep and was suddenly awakened, “that reminds me – it’s almost time for Mass. Do you want to make an old lady happy and come take me to Mass? There is a Mass over at Our Lady of Perpetual Guilt and Father Donally is saying the Mass. You remember him, don’t you? If we get there early we can get a good seat and be the first to receive communion.”

I stifled a chuckle. She didn’t realize what she had said. “Our Lady of Perpetual Guilt?” I asked.

“No, I meant Peace – what did I say?”

“You said ‘Guilt’ – you said ‘Our Lady of Perpetual Guilt.” I was laughing now and I felt the same way as when my brother and I would make fun of people in Church, and the priests and even the statues. Like the time someone broke off Jesus’ first finger while cleaning the statue. His right hand was held up to his heart with the first two fingers extended, only with the broken pointer finger it looked like Jesus was flipping us the bird. This kept my brother and me laughing for months until they fixed it.

“You know what I meant,” she said, “Don’t be a weisenheimer!”

Weisenheimer? That was something my Dad used to call us. I never understood where he got that expression. My Dad was a strict German Lutheran with family from upstate New York. How did words like “weisenheimer” creep into his vocabulary?

“Did Dad really believe in all this, Ma? I mean the religion and all,” I asked her out of the blue. It caught her square and unready and she flailed for a response.

“Oh, why, I suppose – you know he converted to Catholicism, don’t you?”

“Yeah, I knew that,” I responded. This always made me think of my Father in a different way – sort of a romantic way – a man willing to forgo his own Lutheran faith for the love of a woman. Still, this was not a great leap of faith, was it? I mean he converted from being a Lutheran to becoming a Catholic. It was not quite like him needing to get circumcised or anything.

I had to change the subject. All this talk about “Our Lady of whatever” made me think of our trip down to Santiago de Chile, years ago, when I took my mother to visit my brother. My brother had been living in one of the worst barrios in Santiago with Maryknoll Missioners and I went with her to visit him.

“Remember the time we were in Santiago, and we went to visit the Lady of Santiago?”
The Lady of Santiago was this huge statue in the center of Santiago that tourists flocked to from all over. It was not quite as large as the famous statue of Jesus that overlooked Rio de Janerio, but it was still pretty big and just as imposing.

“You know, if you ask Mary to bring things to Jesus she will. She will intercede for you.” My mother was still teaching.

“Yes, Ma, I know that. Do you remember when we went there and you were so busy looking up at the statue, you fell over in a small ditch?”

She started to laugh and it made me feel it was okay to start laughing as well.

“Yes, yes, I was laid prostrate before the Holy Virgin,” she tried to get out between huffs of laughter. That is what we told people. We were made prostrate before the Holy Virgin. It was our own personal, private miracle though it was less of a miracle and more of just an act of clumsiness. Still we thought it was pretty funny.

I thought of how she raised eight children, and supported five of them alone without her husband after my Dad died with no income. I thought of those Christmas evenings, the house decorated as best as she could, and how we never went without during that whole time growing up –I remember those times when she sat there with the lights out in the dark, crying and me, playing Christmas carols on my guitar as a teenager, incapable of even reckoning such grief and loneliness let alone being able to do anything about it.

It was at this moment that my faith crystallized. I don’t know if Mary was a Virgin or if God was one person in three. I don’t know if I believed in a first coming or a second coming. But I did believe in the strength of the woman on the other end of this line. I did believe in that sort of resiliency and bounce to life’s misery. I did believe that this is the power that moves the world, no matter what the cynics say and if this is faith, then yes, I believe. And it didn’t matter how I expressed it, but, as in my Mother’s case, all that mattered is that I lived it.

We talked some more about that trip to Santiago, and I glanced up at the clock.
“Ma, let me hang,” I said. “Let me come over and pick you up and we can go to Mass together.”

I heard an audible gasp on the other end of the phone, then silence. I don’t know for sure, but I suspect she was crying.

“God does work in mysterious ways,” she said.

“Just think of it as just another soul made prostrate before the Holy Virgin,” I said to her.

I heard her giggle, and for the very first time that I can ever recall, she sounded like a little girl.

Resolution

The day has an edge like a ruler and is as inviting
As an open clearing in the woods.

I have resolved to walk among these shy hills New Year’s Day;
I seek resolution in the roads that push and pull me .

There is order and beauty in everything -
Even in the litter that lines the roads –
Orphaned cigarette packs, flattened juice boxes
Beer pack rings, all the dullness of road salt.

I follow the Sacred Silence into the New Year.

Winter’s voice is a series of wind chimes
When I am greeted by disembodied voices
Carried on the wind like insects –
“It’s so nice out!”
and without seeing anyone
I make human contact.

A pair of ponies and chestnut brown mare
Turn their heads and want to know what I am about.
How do I answer them?

Still, I follow the rock path,
Upward, like Ezekiel in his chariot of fire,
Into the hills.

Into the Sacred Silence of the New Year.

The jays have marked their territory
With darting, nervous eyes –
They flit just above the brown grasses
feathered by the Wind.

Ashen cedar bat boxes line the barbed wire
That protects a local reclamation project –
These are the legacy of an ex-brother-in-law
Who loved the environment of earth
But could not reclaim the environment of his own heart
And soon, left his wife and the area.

But I am not here to judge today.

Today, I march upward over lazy, slothful oaks;
I count rings in trunks that seem like open faces
and try to relive the life of a Tree.

Can anyone do that?

Speckled green and white lichen
decorate mortally wounded trees,
Resting with ears pressed against the soft
Brown autumn carpet.

I see bare blueberry bushes,
Denuded and frozen in hardened sunlight
Purple in the quiet and stillness,
They suggest a New Years Eve Celebration –
When the ball has dropped
And the champagne is popped
And confetti flies –
Limbs flagrant and spontaneous,
Locked into positions,
Calling me;
Waiting for me to pass by and take notice.

The thickness of wrinkled tree bark,
Bent and splintered, twisted and gray
Is like some Civil War battlefield,
Evoking ghosts of something wild,
Some bravado of nature at her very worst;

“Something courageous has happened here,” I think.

There, up ahead, an Irish Setter the size of a small bear
chases a tennis ball tumbles
down the path to greet me –
the dog’s owners descend
As I ascend, and we meet
To discuss the plight of wounded deer in the woods
And trapped, injured animals
And writing and poetry –

They tell me to be on the look out for an owl
With a heart shaped face –
So I watch
My breathing stills
So that I may see such a creature –

My heart is lifted
When we part,
And a newer, larger nearly yellow dog approaches -
I am his brother.

I do not stare at him directly,
For I do not want to challenge him –
This land is his and I am the stranger;
I intrude with every breath.

Still, I look for the owl
With the heart shaped face,
But do not see her.

There is now a boastful wind among the Pines
That stand so erect,
With no idea of correction;
The dull waving of evergreen
Announces the wind like royalty.

For the wind, too, is my brother
And I do not want to look into its eyes either;
I stand by broken pine and the wood
Mourns soulfully;
The wind coaxes sad songs
From the pine:
“I am broken and used”.

And the sad melody moves me
With the compassion of a mystic.

Crows as dark as pitch
Wrap cold air around themselves
And slide down among the shadows,
Expanding the distance of the demur rolling hills.

Apple trees with rickety twisted arms
Sneer and make fun of me
As if holding their hands to their ears
And taunting me the way children do.

Playful streams
Full of meandering spirit,
Are stopped dead
On their backs, flat and serpentine
Willy-nilly, like kids playing freeze tag –
Like Lot’s wife, turned to salt –
These are turned to Ice
With a single glare of Winter’s stare.

Suddenly, there is the embrace of stillness.

The flaxen grasses unfold before Mt. Tom’s head held upright
Aloof and does not care a whit what goes on below.

I pass the tired Oldsmobile hubcap
And wonder if it will be missed –
Does anyone know it sits here at all?
Even the trash seems so sad now.

The downhill road now spills me out
Like a giant black tongue
Back down to where I started.
As I pass an angry red “POSTED” sign
Which warns:
“Keep out!” “You don’t belong” “No Hunting”

I hunt only Beauty.

Surely I do not need my hunter’s orange cap for this.

But I hunt beauty in reverse. I let Beauty stalk me quietly,
I let her kill me
And make me into a holiday dinner –
A feast for everyone,
The way I am changed when I walk among these hills

The bragging wind shrieks around a telephone wire –
And asks me what is it I seek in all this emptiness
And I respond,
“Yes! That is it! That is it!”

I have made a New Year’s Resolution
That I should walk these shy hills
On the first day of each New Year.

I have not asked you to walk with me,
But perhaps you will.
For though we are men,
Today we are gods.

There is much yet to suffer,
I will be courageous;
There is much yet to build,
I will be industrious;
There is much to forgive,
I will be gracious;

For it would be a shameful thing to pass another year
Without making something new for my children.

It would be shameful to die
Without leaving something behind.


Jan 2005