Recently saw “Choice,” a wonderful new play by Winnie Holzman, which asks us to consider: What is a soul? (That the playwright has the most boring and least powerful character of the play pose this question—whereupon he/his question are immediately snickered at and then ignored—strikes me as a brilliant piece of writing!) So I have.

And as these things work sometimes, while searching for something else, stumbled across this ancient poem which attempts to answer that boring man’s poignant, probing, right-on question:

Song of the Soul, by Shankarachary

(788-820 CE, mystic saint of India)

 

 

 

I’ve been thinking about the words beneath the words. About how sometimes what is not spoken aloud is, “I’m sad.” or “I’m scared.” or “If you knew my backstory, you’d understand me so much better! Forgive me. But I can’t/won’t tell you why I am the way I am. Although I wish with all my heart that I could.”

And I’ve been thinking about something a dear Friend, Cathy Whitmire, once told me: “Everyone’s doing the best they can.” ( I immediately replied, “No, they’re NOT!”) But I am slowly coming to believe she was right. Slowly.

forgiving my father

lucille clifton



it is friday. we have come


to the paying of the bills.

all week you have stood in my dreams


like a ghost, asking for more time

but today is payday, payday old man;

my mother’s hand opens in her early grave

and i hold it out like a good daughter.

there is no more time for you. there will


never be time enough daddy daddy old lecher


old liar. i wish you were rich so i could take it all

and give the lady what she was due


but you were the only son of a needy father,

the father of a needy son;

you gave her all you had


which was nothing. you have already given her


all you had.

you are the pocket that was going to open

and come up empty any friday.

you were each other’s bad bargain, not mine.


daddy old pauper old prisoner, old dead man

what am i doing here collecting?

you lie side by side in debtors’ boxes

and no accounting will open them up.

 

 

 

B.K.S Iyengar, a beloved and inspired teacher, and credited by many as the person who brought yoga to this country, died last week in India at the age of ninety-five. According to my teacher, Annie Hoffman, Iyengar’s first East Coast yoga “novitiate” was Patricia Walden—my first teacher. And who has studied—and continues to study—with Patricia? Annie.

So, maybe not surprisingly, I’ve been thinking about lines. About how my connection to a present-day spiritual leader has been elegantly straight and simple. And about how the line between me and, say, Jesus, ain’t. (More a “tangled web,” I’m afraid.) And about how blessed we are whenever we can experience the depth and the wisdom and the Truths of another person in person. Soul Time, not “facetime.” A straight and direct line.

Namaste.

*An ancient Sanskrit greeting still in everyday use in India and especially on the trail in the Nepal Himalaya. Translated roughly, it means “I bow to the God within you”, or “The Spirit within me salutes the Spirit in you” – a knowing that we are all made from the same One Divine Consciousness.

 

. . . and may it be warm and connected and happy and

may the new year be full of joy and wonderful surprises for you.

 

[A quiet place at Frost Valley YMCA Camp, Claryville, NY]

Delighted to announce that beginning this week, I’ll be posting blogs for a new, online publication, First Day Press.

Here’s why:

The First Day is a quarterly journal featuring in-depth articles, essays, and creative writing related to the arts, culture, faith and practice for people of all traditions and beliefs. We are guided by the principles and values of the Quaker tradition, which we think are more relevant than ever in the 21st century. These principles include finding spiritual growth through silent reflection, acting with integrity, practicing nonviolence, and believing there is “that of God” in every human being.

Our mission is to break down walls between faith traditions and cultural backgrounds to form a common space to share individual stories of spiritual struggle and triumph amid all the technology and complexity of a busy, noisy world.

The First Day comes out four times a year, with the first issue appearing in Fall 2013. For both print and web, we accept submissions from people of all faith-traditions and those trying to find a spiritual home in the 21st century. We publish a range of articles about spiritual journeys as well as cultural commentary, creative writing, book and movie reviews, and regular columns.

While this project emerges from the Quaker tradition and will serve a diverse Quaker audience, we are not interested in converting anyone or expressing a creed-based theology. We believe that there are many paths to the divine, and Quakerism is only one. We want to hear stories of hope, inspiration, journey, and discovery, whether you’re Catholic, Jewish, Hindu, Muslim, Atheist, or Confused.

Yes, m’dears, I will continue to post here, too.

 

* [taken from the song, “Green Cathedral”]

“I know a green cathedral,
a shadowed forest shrine.Where leaves in love join hands above
to arch your prayer and mine.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

One a gorgeous night at a baseball game at Coney Island, I sat next to Chris Bonastia, who’s written a book about Prince Edward County (he’s also a friend of my daughter and her husband). Focused on the Brooklyn Cyclones vs. Aberdeen Ironbirds game and our respective family members surrounding us, Chris and I didn’t get to talk about a topic we both know a lot about.* (Of course, even if we’d wanted to compare notes, we wouldn’t have been able to talk above the ballgame din.)

So what does Prince Edward County have to do with shrines? On the day after the Supreme Court dismantled a key piece of the Voters Rights Act and on the same day the shrine to the Marathon Bombings is to be dismantled, I’m thinking about American history. I’m thinking about the stories that rarely get told and the stories we know so well that, despite ourselves, we’re sick and tired of them! I am continuing to think about slavery and its insidious aftermath—like yesterday’s Supreme Court ruling. (Presently reading Doris Kearns Goodwin’s excellent The Political Genius of Abraham Lincoln, BTW.)

But mostly I’m thinking how moved I am, whenever I see a little cross or shrine beside a road or superhighway—or, coming home on Amtrak, beside the railroad tracks—to be reminded that we co-habitate with stories. Unknowingly we move through and past them. They’re all around us. Wherever we go, we walk on hallowed ground.

* As I discovered when I did research for Way Opens, Lynchburg’s African-American community and Prince Edward’s black community were (and, presumably, still are) deeply connected and entwined. When, in 1959 the schools in Prince Edward were shut down for five years and no provision made for black children’s education, for example, African-American Lynchburg families took them in. (But let me hastily add that many, many Prince Edward children never were able to make up for those lost years.)

 

 

 

 

On a beautiful Saturday morning in Union Square, greater Boston Sikhs passed out free, iced, bottled water. It was cinematic: Turbaned men of all ages, women and children in colorful, flowing robes stood at every intersection—three very busy streets flow in and out of the Square—and, reaching into plastic trash cans filled with ice, handed wet bottles sparkling in the June sunlight to anyone who wanted one.

Although this water freebee actually commemorates the martyrdom of a 17th century Sikh guru, Arjan Dev Ji, a present-day Sikh leader, Satvir Kaur, gives this explanation: [“Passing out free water] gives back to the community and raises awareness of the Sikh faith.”

Exactly. Indeed, when I asked the young Sikh mother offering me water why she was doing so, she  handed me a pamphlet which, in maybe the third or fourth paragraph, made this point: Sikhs are not Muslims. Gently, in other words. Subtly. But clear.

A member of another misunderstood sect, on Saturday my mind immediately went to: “What could Quakers pass out gratis to give back to the community and raise awareness?” (Not bottled water, I would imagine!)

But on Sunday at meeting for worship I thought about the story of Jesus and the woman at the well. And about the open and generous gift of iced water on a hot summer day. And how, within all of us, love, Light, compassion can well up.

 

 

 

This week begins a redesign process for this website.

Yes, Friends, after 5 (Oh, my!) Black & White years, it’s time for Color! (Such an exciting concept! So maybe I should say “Colour”?)

Photographs, too.

More frequent posting. More conversations, I’m hoping.

Hope YOU’LL decide to become be a part of this adventure!