Tripping Over Joy: You and Your 1000 Serious Moves

Tripping over Joy
by Hafez (Sufi poet, circa 1350)

What is the difference
Between your experience of Existence
And that of a saint?
The saint knows
That the spiritual path
Is a sublime chess game with God
And that the Beloved
Has just made such a Fantastic Move
That the saint is now continually
Tripping over Joy
And bursting out in Laughter
And saying, “I Surrender!”
Whereas, my dear,
I’m afraid you still think
You have a thousand serious moves.

I am indebted, for this poem, to Brother Joe Kilikevice, of the Shem Center in Chicago, and the two dozen-plus men I spent this past weekend with on a Male Spirit Retreat.

Take Up Your Mat and Walk: The Paralytic's Friends

The Paralytic’s Friends

(Luke 5: 17-27)

It was murderous hot

And they must have had it about up to here

With hauling this guy around

On a mat.

But you know they loved him too,

They must have been friends from back in the day.

One of the five—it is always this way,

In your age or ours—has had all the bad luck.

Divorce, debt, and a stupid streak

That overcomes his better lights,

And now he’s just decided

Not to get up.

You might almost think it’s another joke—

He was always the clown—

Except that he’s gone quiet too, all shut down and sad.

The four friends want him back on his feet,

They’ve tried this and that. Dear God!

The snake oil guys that roamed the earth

In those days, a craze or fever,

Every third fellow claimed to be God,

As if earth itself, nervous at what it knew was in store,

Coughed up a swarm of lunatics.

So they’d heard about this one, and rolled their eyes.

But there were the crowds, and more than that

Was how they walked away amazed,

And when they spoke could only say

 “This we have never heard before.”

And as for me, I’d been following too,

Waiting for what I couldn’t tell,

Recording the tremors at every stop.

And here I was in the back of the house, 

He had just begun to speak,

When the roof began to crumble,

Dirt and straw and whatnot coming through.

There was a terrible din and the children laughed,

The old lady shouted and shook her fist

And a local curmudgeon was covered in dust.  

The patch in the roof was lifted off

And in came the torturous sun

Then a shadow followed by

The mat coming through.

No one later could quite agree

Exactly what got said.

Much later, when the torpid spectacle had made the rounds,

Caressed by every broken hearted gossip,

It came down to this:

“Your sins are forgiven.”

This may be true, for all I know,

For who would not rise up,

Freed like a spring from its contraption,

From the cage of yesterdays and ancient wrongs,

The slag run-off of time and its regrets

Or hopes squandered like a drunkard’s coins,

The weight of all that past leaning in

And down on the joints of now,

On the crick in the neck, on the bone that cracks?

Who would not rise up

Were that stone rolled back

And the past revealed as an empty tomb?

Ten thousand, thousand shrieking suns

Have risen and sunk since that blasted day

When a flock of pigeons clattered up the sky

From the soot of the crumbling roof

And the crowds came and went

In the ancient clay.

Take up your analytic couches and walk!

Into your own dull daylight

Of rusted plumbing

And everything falling apart,

Take up your life as you would an ailing old friend

Whose hinges are off, whose limbs are unstrung,

Hoist him up—

Crafty, resourceful, shrewd to the end—

And walk.

Regret Nothing...not the nights sunk like a dog in the living room couch chewing your nails

One of my dearest friends, and the wisest individual I know, sent me for my 51st birthday a batch of poems. How does she know so well what would speak to me? Here is one (I'll share more). God, I needed to hear this.

"Antilamentation"

by Dorianne Laux

Regret nothing. Not the cruel novels you read
to the end just to find out who killed the cook.
Not the insipid movies that made you cry in the dark,
in spite of your intelligence, your sophistication.
Not the lover you left quivering in a hotel parking lot,
the one you beat to the punchline, the door, or the one
who left you in your red dress and shoes, the ones
that crimped your toes, don't regret those.
Not the nights you called god names and cursed
your mother, sunk like a dog in the livingroom couch,
chewing your nails and crushed by loneliness.
You were meant to inhale those smoky nights
over a bottle of flat beer, to sweep stuck onion rings
across the dirty restaurant floor, to wear the frayed
coat with its loose buttons, its pockets full of struck matches.
You've walked those streets a thousand times and still
you end up here. Regret none of it, not one
of the wasted days you wanted to know nothing,
when the lights from the carnival rides
were the only stars you believed in, loving them
for their uselessness, not wanting to be saved.
You've traveled this far on the back of every mistake,
ridden in dark-eyed and morose but calm as a house
after the TV set has been pitched out the upstairs
window. Harmless as a broken ax. Emptied
of expectation. Relax. Don't bother remembering
any of it. Let's stop here, under the lit sign
on the corner, and watch all the people walk by.

Birthers, Truthers, Love of Country, and a One-Sided Conversation about Barack Obama in the Paranoid Style

Over the weekend, I had the opportunity to “converse” with a fellow who told me the following things:

·         the Federal Reserve Bank is unconstitutional and we should return to a gold standard for the issuance of money;

·         Barack Obama hates America, is not a Christian, and was born in Kenya;

·         the uprisings in Egypt, Tunisia and elsewhere in the Arab world are orchestrated, through manipulation of the Internet, by European banks.

Call me strange, but I find blowhards entertaining. For a while anyway.  The secret is to let them talk, defer to them, throw them a question or two that panders to their need to be “expert” on whatever. And they really are expert, ready to call up fact upon fact that the benighted rest of us have missed. Regarding the last, fantastical point about the Arab uprisings, the Bank of England figured heavily. Apparently it “owns” Google. Who knew?

Now, I should say that regarding the Federal Reserve and the gold standard, I am agnostic. And I gather there are “respectable” financial types—though I believe they are in the minority—who favor a return to the gold standard. My companion clearly knew a lot about this topic, and I was happy to play the interested but uninformed one, eager to understand. From there, though, he moved on to the corruption of American politics generally (and especially of the Democratic Party), and to the uniquely lurid character of the current President. Did I mention he believes that Obama is a communist? Or was it a fascist?  

It goes without saying that any attempt to argue these points—the President’s love of country; his birth and citizenship; his religious faith; the difference between a left-of-center establishment American politician and a communist or a fascist—ran up against a wall of certainty. I didn’t really get a word in edgewise, which partly explains why I didn’t ask this gentleman what he thought about 9/11—something I very much wish I had. Because although he was obviously, transparently, a person “of the right” (Tea Party, Glenn Beck) his political alliances with the actual, real world as we know it are beside the point. “Birthers,” convinced that Obama is not an American, and “Truthers,” convinced that 9/11 was an inside job, probably do not in most cases occupy the same political territory, but they have more in common than they know, and what they share in common is a theology of political paranoia.

In the 1988 novel, “Libra,” Don Delillo weaves a fictional (but chillingly believable) account of a conspiracy behind the assassination of JFK involving embittered CIA veterans of the Bay of Pigs, Cuban exiles, mafia types and assorted right-wing lowlifes. In style and content it is very much about paranoia. All of the real life figures who were accessories in the assassination drama and who have figured in various conspiracy theories make an appearance. Among them is the gruesome David Ferrie. In a grim New Orleans bar he gives voice to the theology of Birthers and Truthers (and, for that matter, assassination conspiracy buffs) everywhere.  

“There’s something they aren’t telling us,” he whines. “Something we don’t know about. There’s more to it. There’s always more to it. This is what history consists of. It’s the sum total of all the things they aren’t telling us.”

Of course, skepticism is an entirely healthy and intelligent and necessary stance toward authority, always and everywhere. There is something salutary about the bumptious libertarianism, the don’t-tread-on-me spirit that characterizes American populism. And I think it was Harry Truman who said something about pitying the poor bastard who read the headlines in the newspaper and believed he knew the whole truth about things.

But what is noticeable about Birthers and Truthers is not so much their skepticism as their credulity; after all, it’s not what they doubt  that they assert with such vigor, but what they absolutely ,positively know to be true. Only think about what Truthers must believe, the lengths to which they must go, to accept that 9/11 was an inside job, let alone what you have to believe to think that the Arab uprisings have been orchestrated by European banks, eager to bring about a new world order.

Now the suspicions about the President’s birth and citizenship, however insupportable (see http://www.factcheck.org/elections-2008/born_in_the_usa.html), at least have the merit of being charges that can be objectively fact-checked and refuted. Speaking as one who voted for Obama, likes and admires him, I will say that he is a most ambitious individual and no doubt very narcissistic (but, please, name a successful politician who is not). One can imagine that an uncommonly ambitious and narcissistic individual might try to airbrush out of existence certain inconvenient facts in an “unconventional” background.  Healthy skepticism might allow you that much. But having imagined it, you then move on to the available facts and drop it when the facts exhaust your skepticism.

 Unless you have a willful, entirely credulous determination to believe the worst about the man. Which brings us to the charge that he “hates America”?  Never mind evidence to the contrary, what exactly does it mean to love one’s country and how would this be measured? It’s a charge that exists wholly in the mind of the believer, and is immune to criticism or proof.

Incidentally, a lot of conservative types, who won’t stoop to saying anyone hates America, have taken this cudgel up in the form of “American exceptionalism.” Here is a prediction—this is going to be a theme in the 2012 presidential election. Do you think America has an exceptional role in history? It might not be boring, and could be quite interesting to hear candidates say what they think is exceptional about America (and what isn’t) and what they think being exceptional means, and what kinds of burdens and responsibilities it places on us. (Of course, we could end up in the familiar territory of rigged election rhetoric if the question gets boiled down to “Is America the greatest country in history?” with one permissible correct answer—“Yes! Yes! Yes!”)

There are many people who dislike the President and distrust his vision for this country for entirely legitimate political reasons. But I am convinced there is also a strain—I don’t know how deep and wide—of opposition to the man that is wholly irrational. People on the left are quick to cry racism, as if it were the only form of unreason. But there are other forms as dangerous. There is, for instance, a certain kind of character who cannot stand the sight and sound of someone better, someone who reminds them too vividly of the pedestrian lives most of us live. Listen to this, again from Delillo’s novel, this time in the mouth of the real life right wing agitator Guy Bannister, grinding his teeth about JFK.

“We’re supposed to believe he’s the hero of the age. Did you ever see a man in such a hurry to be great? He thinks he can make us a different kind of society….We’re not smart enough for him. We’re not mature, energetic, Harvard, world traveler, rich, handsome, lucky, witty. Perfect white teeth. It fucking grates on me just to look at him. Do you know what charisma means to me? It means he holds the secrets…..There is not the slightest doubt in my mind but that a movement exists in the executive branch of the government which is totally devoted to furthering the communist cause.”

 It’s tempting to think that political paranoia of this sort is a modern phenomenon. Certainly, the Intenet has helped to diffuse authority, so that anyone can find a “definitive” source for almost anything they want to believe. But there is some comfort in knowing that the “paranoid style in American politics”—as Richard Hofstader’s 1964 article of the same name in Harper’s Magazine points out—has a rich and vivid history.  International bankers, Jesuits, Masons, and munitions makers, to name a few, have been among the targets.  (http://www.kenrahn.com/jfk/conspiracy_theory/the_paranoid_mentality/the_paranoid_style.html). Whether the politically paranoid line up with the right or the left, the messy and ambiguous politics of the known world—where the whole truth is never known—are really beside the point. Indeed, their certainties may be an attempt to escape from a reality that is far too random and incoherent to bear. But it cannot be a painless escape. “We are all sufferers from history,” Hofstader wrote, “but the paranoid is a double sufferer, since he is afflicted not only by the real world, with the rest of us, but by his fantasies as well.”

False Spring

To mark the thaw (sort of) here in northeastern Ohio, and because I have had trouble posting something lately, I'll put this up. Surely one of the most cheerless things I have ever written. I wrote it years ago, when I lived in Washington, DC. It was January or February and we had a freakish day when the sun came out and the temperature got into the upper 70s.

The turf, the earth, the loamy smell of summer grass

Exulting in the mild air

Is what we recall one day in Winter

While still in our great coat and earmuffs,

When false spring turns parks full,

Turns us free, fluid in our unscarving,

Riotously shedding our skin.

This is the day like the dream

We were desperate not to forget

It was so good,

The dream we clasped by a watery rim

And lost when we awoke,

A dream we’ve learned to fear, so painful is the falling off.

You can see then what troubles the dissembling breeze

And humbles our unbundling struts,

What chill tremors pester the leafless trees

With a foretaste of sin,

Little lies curled in our breath like smoke,

Broken promises, regret, arthritic fears

Crippling the dilapidate streets

And all the winter bondage

That frigid winds of our waking require.

Nighthawks

It’s light that tells us how lonely they are,

Bleached yellow and harsh, that light,

Piercing even, turning to white, a pure oblivion

To match their beginnings and ends.

It migrates alive from the corner shop to the shadowed night

Animating blue-green streets, rich red brick,

Corridors of a poor commerce, a corner of time

Revealed in a light more vital than faces.

What are faces in such light but skin and bone?

It’s light that tells us how lonely they are,

That draws them together, that leaves them alone.

The coffee shop is gone. (Now Phillies are a buck.)

A laundrymat maybe, garage or bank, a fake

Has occupied the place, no home to nighthawks.

All four—the woman too, her sultriness, her sex!—snuffed out,

All but incidental, caught as they were in the same bright blast

That migrates alive through our lives

From the first cold hour to the last,

Or any hour where you and I are,

Sleepless in our separate selves.

A cruel glare reveals how alike we are

In our caul of skin and bone,

Lets us know how lonely we are,

Draws us together, leaves us alone

Poem for Tuesday: The Snow Man by Wallace Stevens

A reader (okay, a friend on whom I foisted this blog) recommended the following as another "quintessential winter poem" in response to my remarks about Frost's "Stopping by Woods....."

I'm grateful for this.

The Snow Man
by Wallace Stevens

One must have a mind of winter
To regard the frost and the boughs
Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;


And to have been cold a long time
To behold the junipers shagged with ice,
The spruces rough in the distant glitter

Of the January sun; And not to think
Of any misery in the sound of the wind
In the sound of a few leaves,

Which is the sound of the land
Full of the same wind
That is blowing in the same bare place

For the listener, who listens in the snow,
And, nothing himself, beholds
Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.