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| Photo by Richard R. Barron, copyright 2017, all rights reserved |
Your love was like
mist around a mountain
in the early morning light
lovely to behold but long gone
before the onset of the night
Tuesday, December 03, 2019
Mountain Mist
Your love was like
mist around a mountain
in the early morning light
lovely to behold but long gone
before the onset of the night
Imaginary Men
As a father, and as an American male, there are certain avenues of behavior that are closed off to me. All men in this culture are expected to be strong, decisive, and brave. Excessive displays of emotion are considered taboo, and male-male relationships are expected to be masculine in nature: no crying, no whining, no real discussion of emotion. We are expected to be aggressive, determined, and assertive in every arena of life. We are required to act as if we know what we are doing, even when we very much do not. Our children must never know that we have fears; our lovers, partners and wives should never know how vulnerable we really are to their whims. We are taught to believe that we are in charge of our own lives, and that we chart our own destinies. We are the masters of our own souls.
All of it is rubbish. The men I know are every bit as emotionally fragile as any other human. Some are just much more adept and skilled at hiding that fragility. Others actually come to believe the legends they create for themselves. Self-sewn myths about their own prodigious skills, propensities, and physical attractiveness. I have known men like that, guys who are are quite successful with the belief that they are self-made men. It is a life orientation that can work, at least to a point. I have personally witnessed how, at the end of their careers, and toward the end of their lives, men like this come to the sober understanding that the things they ignored -- their children, their health, their families, their friends -- were the only things that really mattered. I have seen men who, at the height of their success and power, are lonely, bitter, frustrated and completely lost human beings. It is as if, all at once, the false gold they had pursued is suddenly revealed for what it is; the ephemera of success, prestige, domination, and wealth, all come to mean nothing unless they are spent entirely in the service of others. Suddenly these men begin to understand the sacrifice that others have made in order to be in relationship with them; they remember, often with shame and guilt, the harsh and selfish ways in which they have frequently behaved. They find themselves wondering how in the hell anyone could ever stay in a relationship with them.
Of course, American men will seldom ever speak with each other about such realities and truths. There is no need to, really. There is an unspoken understanding among men that we are each involved in our individual masculine journeys. We are each the hero of our own real life heroic adventure. It is a solitary journey, one which we must traverse mostly alone. In our own perceptions, we daily do battle against the injustices and inequities that we encounter in everyday life. We walk in perpetual awareness, mentally preparing ourselves for that fateful moment when we are called into physical struggle to protect the ones we love. We spin hero fantasies in our minds eye, where we take out the bad guy, and rescue the hostages, or save our loved ones from terror and harm. Any man who has ever actually faced those situations knows how terrifying they are, and how instinctive your behaviors become. Only with repeated exposure does one build the courage to stand bravely like the movie heroes we believe ourselves to be. I have seen men panic, cry and run from danger. I have seen big strong men faint dead away at the site of blood, or upon seeing a mangled body in a fatality car accident. As the strong, reliable, soldier types we imagine ourselves to be, we should be immune to the brutality that we sometimes encounter in life. We should be unmoved and unshaken when we see the gruesomeness of violence and war. We imagine ourselves willing to stand in the breach until our very last breath, in order to protect our loved ones, our community and our nation.
In this way, we are all imaginary men. We are not as brave, as capable, as we imagine ourselves to be.
At the same time, there is immeasurable depth, unrealized courage and untapped strength in each of us. When called into action, most of us will respond admirably and bravely. It is in those moments that the reality of ourselves as men can be known. Likewise, we can find those true men of strength in moments of love and vulnerability to those we love and cherish. The men who love strongly, love truly and love fearlessly are not imaginary, but in this culture, unfortunately, they are very rare.
All of it is rubbish. The men I know are every bit as emotionally fragile as any other human. Some are just much more adept and skilled at hiding that fragility. Others actually come to believe the legends they create for themselves. Self-sewn myths about their own prodigious skills, propensities, and physical attractiveness. I have known men like that, guys who are are quite successful with the belief that they are self-made men. It is a life orientation that can work, at least to a point. I have personally witnessed how, at the end of their careers, and toward the end of their lives, men like this come to the sober understanding that the things they ignored -- their children, their health, their families, their friends -- were the only things that really mattered. I have seen men who, at the height of their success and power, are lonely, bitter, frustrated and completely lost human beings. It is as if, all at once, the false gold they had pursued is suddenly revealed for what it is; the ephemera of success, prestige, domination, and wealth, all come to mean nothing unless they are spent entirely in the service of others. Suddenly these men begin to understand the sacrifice that others have made in order to be in relationship with them; they remember, often with shame and guilt, the harsh and selfish ways in which they have frequently behaved. They find themselves wondering how in the hell anyone could ever stay in a relationship with them.
Of course, American men will seldom ever speak with each other about such realities and truths. There is no need to, really. There is an unspoken understanding among men that we are each involved in our individual masculine journeys. We are each the hero of our own real life heroic adventure. It is a solitary journey, one which we must traverse mostly alone. In our own perceptions, we daily do battle against the injustices and inequities that we encounter in everyday life. We walk in perpetual awareness, mentally preparing ourselves for that fateful moment when we are called into physical struggle to protect the ones we love. We spin hero fantasies in our minds eye, where we take out the bad guy, and rescue the hostages, or save our loved ones from terror and harm. Any man who has ever actually faced those situations knows how terrifying they are, and how instinctive your behaviors become. Only with repeated exposure does one build the courage to stand bravely like the movie heroes we believe ourselves to be. I have seen men panic, cry and run from danger. I have seen big strong men faint dead away at the site of blood, or upon seeing a mangled body in a fatality car accident. As the strong, reliable, soldier types we imagine ourselves to be, we should be immune to the brutality that we sometimes encounter in life. We should be unmoved and unshaken when we see the gruesomeness of violence and war. We imagine ourselves willing to stand in the breach until our very last breath, in order to protect our loved ones, our community and our nation.
In this way, we are all imaginary men. We are not as brave, as capable, as we imagine ourselves to be.
At the same time, there is immeasurable depth, unrealized courage and untapped strength in each of us. When called into action, most of us will respond admirably and bravely. It is in those moments that the reality of ourselves as men can be known. Likewise, we can find those true men of strength in moments of love and vulnerability to those we love and cherish. The men who love strongly, love truly and love fearlessly are not imaginary, but in this culture, unfortunately, they are very rare.
Monday, June 24, 2019
Competing Universal Truths
I have been thinking a lot lately about our competing realities.Right now in America, it is possible for us to live in completely alternate and parallel universes of truth. Some of us live in a liberal-rational universe of progressive democratic idealism and (mostly) relative truth. Others of us live in a religio-literal universe of scriptural prophecy, apocalyptic foreboding, conspiracy theories and absolute truth.
All of us are victims of the battles raging between these two universes.
Our parallel universes are evidenced by the fact that we have evolved conservative and progressive news networks, and online news sources that aggregate and present information in ways that affirm our prior biases. Different universes of truth need different universes of news. The universe you inhabit is indicated by the news choices you make and information sources you consume.
Each universe has its own apocalyptic mythology. In one universe, the apocalypse is a cascading environmental disaster of man-made climate change, or worse, a total nuclear war and global annihilation. In the other universe, the apocalypse is an imminent supernatural intervention by God that will separate winners from losers, sheep from goats, and a time when faithful believers will be rescued and rewarded. Or worse, a total nuclear war and global annihilation, which the faithful believe they will miss because they hold an acritical belief in the "rapture."
Both universes are founded upon assumptions and beliefs that can't truly be tested. Whether the universe started with a something-from-nothing bang, or was created by an all-powerful supernatural being, there is no way to definitively prove, or disprove, either creation myth.
Those ensconced in the libero-rational reality will likely flinch to hear the Big Bang theory referred to as a myth. A true believer almost always blanches when their sacred ox is gored. However, science-based beliefs are every bit as made up as religious beliefs. They are created in the human imagination, just like all religions. Sciencentrists (a neologism) privilege knowledge they believe to be discovered, or "scientifically proven," much like religious doctrinaires point to scripture and say "thus it is proven."
It is undeniable that scientific knowledge undergirds most of the technological and quality-of-life advancements that the modern world enjoys. It is also undeniable that scientific advancements have given birth to some of the most horrific and terrifying prospects for humanity's future: nuclear wars, biological warfare, and vastly improved battlefield weaponry, to name just a few; not to mention the environmental destruction that industry and technology make possible. Whether science-based beliefs are a net positive or net negative for humankind is an as yet unanswered question.
Libero-rational individuals are likely, at this point in the essay, to comfort themselves with the smug assumption that science is absolutely a positive development in the history of humanity. This response puts the lie to their much proclaimed preference for "objective truth," and "open-minded inquiry," and reveals their prior-bias for what they will accept as "truth" and "knowledge." At every stage of human history, the dominant and hegemonic power has proclaimed itself to be the pinnacle of human achievement and understanding. Thus, in the middle-ages when philosophy was a hand-maiden of the church, it was believed that religious understanding and knowledge were the flower of humanity's best minds, and thus all other beliefs were assumed to be vastly inferior, or dangerously flawed. In other words, much the same smug attitude that many in the libero-rational universe hold in regard to scientific knowledge, and in their utter rejection of religious beliefs and understandings.
Those ensconced in the religio-literal universe are often also offended upon hearing their beliefs described as products of the human imagination. In that universe, truth is revealed to humans by God, and that truth can be found within ancient human writings they believe are divinely inspired by God, another proposition which is beyond human capacity to validate. They willingly turn a blind eye to their own agency in accepting the multitude of rationalizations, explanations and misinterpretations that comprise belief in their sacred texts.
For the libero-rational universe, the truth about reality is discovered through rational thought and scientific experimentation. For the religio-literal universe, truth is revealed by God through manifestation of the supernatural into the natural world. Both universes, however, rely on the same human agency in accepting, believing, upholding and maintaining their ascribed sets of beliefs. Each individual adds his or her own psychic energy to perpetuating and propagating the beliefs they have either chosen or inherited from their socio-cultural ecology.
One big difference between these two universes is their relationship with human agency. The libero-rationalists, supporting the truths of human scientific discoveries, embrace human agency in this life. For the inhabitants of that particular paradigm, humans have the power and responsibility to make changes we deem are good and necessary. For those living in the religio-literal universe, human agency is surrendered to an all-powerful, hopefully beneficent, supernatural being who intervenes in human history to effect its will for the world. A potent symbol of one's affiliation to this universe of belief is how completely one surrenders their life to the whims and influences of this supernatural being. That is to say, when faced with the toils and tribulations of everyday life, when one surrenders their own agency to rely, instead, upon prayer and other religious observations, in hopes that will change the situation or circumstances that are distressing the believer.
Our current political situation in the United States is very much a result of the clash between a religio-literal universe and a libero-rational universe. Many Trump supporters proclaim themselves to be Bible believing Christians -- which means, they believe the apocalyptic script that has evolved over many years of Protestant Fundamentalist groupthink. They view Trump as somehow ordained by God, and think his task is to bring about a resurgence of the nation of Israel, thus paving the way for the second coming of Christ. It is a schizophrenic belief, however, since many of these same people believe they will be spared any end-of-world nightmares scenarios by virtue of being "caught up in the air" by Jesus during a much-feared-but-still-hoped-for Rapture.
Many Trump resisters, however, feel that Trump is nothing more than a demagogic fraudster who trades on the acritical prior biases and beliefs of his self-described Christian followers. For these resisters, Trump is a dangerous and precedent breaking, racist and hate-spewing con artist who threatens the entire American experiment in democracy.
Proceeding, as both do, from their firmly held and diametrically opposed universes of belief, it is unlikely that there can ever be true accommodation between these two groups of believers. As has happened in other countries around the world, religious fervor and blind obedience to religious authority is threatening to erupt in this nation as well. Because each universe holds the other in disdain (although, fairly, the libero-rational camp is open to valuing a diversity of opinion), it is likely that only the total defeat and capitulation of one side to the other will determine which version of reality will prevail.
Robert Frost may have captured this dichotomy of beliefs in his brief but gut-punching poem:
Fire and Ice
Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.
Thursday, February 14, 2019
Every Day Love
Love is not romantic.
Real love lives
in the muddy ditch
of human passion.
Anger, jealousy,
words later regretted;
those are the true
facts of love
and marriage.
Forgiveness,
patience,
reassurances
of desirability,
apologies whispered
in the dark.
Love is proletariat.
no matter which
class it obtains.
Hard working,
ever abiding,
shown in touch
and in deed.
Love persists,
and grows
deep roots.
A family tree
is grown in
the hard sunshine
of every day love.
Real love lives
in the muddy ditch
of human passion.
Anger, jealousy,
words later regretted;
those are the true
facts of love
and marriage.
Forgiveness,
patience,
reassurances
of desirability,
apologies whispered
in the dark.
Love is proletariat.
no matter which
class it obtains.
Hard working,
ever abiding,
shown in touch
and in deed.
Love persists,
and grows
deep roots.
A family tree
is grown in
the hard sunshine
of every day love.
Soul Prison
"We have known this before. We have done this before." He stirred half-and-half into his coffee, turning it a creamy caramel brown. He adjusted his glasses and scratched his nose with his right hand. There was gray stubble showing on his cheeks, and tiny red veins showed on his cheekbones and nose.
"The one story in the Old Testament that is literally true is the Tower of Babel. That is another moment in human history when mankind became aware of its own godly power, and understood that these human forms are really just prisons for rebellious angelic souls."
Outside the coffee shop, it was a cold Oklahoma morning. He pulled a small flask from his jacket pocket, and poured a goodly portion of whiskey into his morning coffee, mixing it in with a spoon. The other people in the coffee shop went about their lives, chatting, enjoying a scone, visiting with friends. No one else paid attention to our conversation.
"So let me get this straight," I started. "You're saying that these bodies, these human forms we walk around in all day, are prisons? Made specifically to harness and restrict the powerful spiritual beings that we truly are? That we all naturally have the power of gods, but these bodies worn by our souls suppress those powers?"
"Exactamente!" he said, sipping from his big, white, coffee mug. "They have good bagels here, would you like one?"
"No thank you," I said, smiling about how he went from profound statements of metaphysical speculation to jabbering about food, and back again.
He sat back down with a toasted sesame bagel and honey pecan cream cheese. "Where was I?" he asked, spreading the cream cheese onto his bagel.
"You were talking about these bodies being prisons for our rebellious souls."
"Right," he said, pointing a cream cheese smeared knife in my direction. "Did you realize that most religions have proscriptions against suicide? You know that because you're a Bible thumper. In Christianity it is a considered a grave sin to commit suicide. Why is that? Have you ever given that any thought?"
"No," I answered truthfully. "But I remember when Gennifer Carn killed herself by sitting on the edge of a bathtub, and shooting herself in the chest with a shotgun. Everybody at work said she was burning in hell forever. I thought, well shit, her old man was screwing around on her, and she was distressed. Why would God condemn her to an eternity in hell for being so heartbroken that she couldn't take it anymore?"
"You get my point, then," he said around a mouthful of bagel. "There is a belief, almost a consensus, that people who commit suicide are committing a crime against God. And that is true. Suicide amounts to a jail break by souls who are trying to shorten their sentence."
A drawn out "ooooohhhhhh" while nodding my head was all I could manage as what he was saying sunk in.
He slurped a shot of whiskey-dosed coffee, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "I am making it sound so dramatic, calling it a prison. In a way that's true, but it's more true that we are living inside a correctional system. This entire world, and all of its inhabitants, are residents of a spiritual penal institution. We are here to have our attitudes adjusted, our behaviors corrected, our understandings expanded, our souls purified through suffering and grief, and also to be glorified by love and sex and close friendships. And dogs. I'm pretty sure dogs make us better, just by hanging around with us."
His service animal, a big yellow lab named Sheffield, looked up at him, grinning. It was like Sheffield understood what he was saying.
Suddenly the coffee shop grew louder as more customers wandered in. He moved closer to the table and leaned across, looking me in the eye. "You ever been dead?" he asked me.
"No, never dead. Had a few hangovers though that made me wish I was dead." He didn't smile.
"I died when I was in the Nam." he said. "I got shot by a machine gun, right through both legs. I remember getting hit, and time just slowed down. I didn't feel any pain. It was like I jumped outside of myself, and watched from a distance as my body went tumbling to the ground. It was like watching a slow motion movie. It felt like I was hovering about four feet above my body, watching as the firefight continued around me. I watched my own eyes glaze over as I bled to death there in a muddy field, with a hot sun beating down on me."
As he described it, I could see the images in my own mind. I could imagine him as a young wounded soldier, laying under a hot sun, dying.
He took another sip of coffee, and his eyes had a smoky, far-away look, as though he wasn't seeing me anymore. "That's when I met the being of love and light. That's how I know what I know."
He went on to describe his experience. First, he said as he watched his body from above, a pinkish gray fog started to surround him, until he could no longer see himself lying on the ground. Then, he said he was rapidly hauled through a long dark valley, which he called "the valley of the shadow of death." At first he was frightened, he said, but then he saw a bright light in the distance rapidly moving toward him. The light grew closer, and brighter. "If I had eyes, I would have been blinded," he said. "But I realized that I was outside my body, and that I was perceiving things without the aid of my body. I could see, but I had no eyes to see. I could hear, but I had no ears to hear."
The bright light came closer until he felt enveloped by it, no longer able to distinguish between where his disembodied self ended, and where the light began. He described a sense of overwhelming peace, and love, and acceptance from the light. He claimed that, without hearing it, the bright light was communicating with him. It told him not to be afraid. "Let's see what you have learned," the light told him. At that moment, his life began passing in front of him very rapidly, and from the time of his earliest memories to the moment he lay dying on the battlefield, he saw every moment of his life. He felt every emotion he had ever felt. Moreover, he said, he could sense the emotions of all the people he had interacted with throughout his life. The hurts he had caused. The pain and anger he had evoked in others by his actions and decisions.
"The being of light wasn't judging me, not like we are told by religion. It wasn't a deal where the being was saying that I sinned, or screwed up, or was evil. Instead, it was like a review of my life with director's commentary. The light was teaching me, telling me what I was learning during each memory we observed. It was kind of like a parole hearing, where the parole board makes you talk about what you have learned, how you have improved, and whether or not you have accepted responsibility for your crimes."
He took another bite of bagel, and I saw the cream cheese smeared on his lips as he chewed. He swallowed and took another drink of his coffee. Breaking a small piece off the bagel, he tossed it toward Sheffield, who expertly snapped the tidbit out of the air as it passed in front of him.
I sat quietly on my side of the booth, waiting for him to resume his colloquy. His eyes had a distant stare, as if he was not aware of my presence. I could tell he was re-living, or perhaps re-dying, his battlefield experience.
Suddenly he looked at me again, and he was present in the moment. "That being of light showed me things, told me things, taught me things, that I never would have been able to know here in this life. Here in this limiting body." He patted his left hand three times over his heart. "It told me that I wasn't ready yet, and that I had more to learn about love. It said I had to go back. I protested that I didn't want to return to my body. I said I wanted to stay with the light, and to continue learning. Believe it or not, the being of light laughed, in kind of a loving and soothing way. It said I would return, and we would be together again. But that my time in this life wasn't finished. All of a sudden, I was back in my body, being dragged through the mud by two of my fellow Marines."
He paused to reach down and stroke Sheffield's head. The dog looked up at him with adoration in its eyes, but also what I sensed to be concern and alertness to my friend's emotions. "Who's a good boy?" my friend said absentmindedly.
"But, how does that lead you to believe these bodies are prisons? That this life is a prison sentence?"
"It's hard to explain," he said. "What I experienced in those few minutes I was dead can't be conveyed in words. Our language is also limiting, just like our bodies. Our language rests upon common sensory experiences that we can all understand. The words we have invented are tied to those experiences of the physical world. What happened to me was not in this physical world, but a world that we would probably call 'spiritual,' except that for me, it was real. As real as you and I sitting here right now. So, without really speaking, the being of light told me, or inserted into my mind, the understanding that this life is like a prison, a school, and a hospital, all rolled into one. We are here being both taught, and corrected. The days we are each allotted are like the term of our prison sentence. We can do nothing to either lengthen or shorten those days. We have to serve our term. We can't escape this."
His plate was empty, save for dozens of toasted sesame seeds that had fallen from his bagel. He stared down at the plate, lost in his own thoughts again. My phone started buzzing in my pocket, reminding me that I had another appointment that I needed to get to. I wished that I could stay and visit with him longer, but he was also becoming restless.
"It was good talking to you, young man," he said, reaching across the table to shake my hand. "I don't often tell these things to people. In fact, you are only about the fourth or fifth person I have ever really talked to in detail about it. But, I feel like I am getting close to the end of my sentence." A wan smile brushed across his lips. "I ain't mad about that."
Just then, Sheffield stood up and moaned, then whined. "Well, my guardian angel is asking to go outside," he said, scooting toward the end of the seat. He reached out and pulled his motorized scooter closer to him. With deft and experienced moves, he lifted himself out of the booth and into the chair. The dog knew how to move out of the way, and once his master was in his chair, the dog stood patiently on the right side of the chair, waiting to leave.
"I appreciate you spending part of your morning with me," I said. "I can say that I have never had a conversation anything like this one, in my entire life."
"You're welcome, son," he said with a smile. "You're going to need that knowledge soon." A little laugh escaped his mouth. "See you around, then," he said, pushing the joystick on his scooter, and motoring quickly away.
I sat stunned, pondering what he meant by his final words.
"The one story in the Old Testament that is literally true is the Tower of Babel. That is another moment in human history when mankind became aware of its own godly power, and understood that these human forms are really just prisons for rebellious angelic souls."
Outside the coffee shop, it was a cold Oklahoma morning. He pulled a small flask from his jacket pocket, and poured a goodly portion of whiskey into his morning coffee, mixing it in with a spoon. The other people in the coffee shop went about their lives, chatting, enjoying a scone, visiting with friends. No one else paid attention to our conversation.
"So let me get this straight," I started. "You're saying that these bodies, these human forms we walk around in all day, are prisons? Made specifically to harness and restrict the powerful spiritual beings that we truly are? That we all naturally have the power of gods, but these bodies worn by our souls suppress those powers?"
"Exactamente!" he said, sipping from his big, white, coffee mug. "They have good bagels here, would you like one?"
"No thank you," I said, smiling about how he went from profound statements of metaphysical speculation to jabbering about food, and back again.
He sat back down with a toasted sesame bagel and honey pecan cream cheese. "Where was I?" he asked, spreading the cream cheese onto his bagel.
"You were talking about these bodies being prisons for our rebellious souls."
"Right," he said, pointing a cream cheese smeared knife in my direction. "Did you realize that most religions have proscriptions against suicide? You know that because you're a Bible thumper. In Christianity it is a considered a grave sin to commit suicide. Why is that? Have you ever given that any thought?"
"No," I answered truthfully. "But I remember when Gennifer Carn killed herself by sitting on the edge of a bathtub, and shooting herself in the chest with a shotgun. Everybody at work said she was burning in hell forever. I thought, well shit, her old man was screwing around on her, and she was distressed. Why would God condemn her to an eternity in hell for being so heartbroken that she couldn't take it anymore?"
"You get my point, then," he said around a mouthful of bagel. "There is a belief, almost a consensus, that people who commit suicide are committing a crime against God. And that is true. Suicide amounts to a jail break by souls who are trying to shorten their sentence."
A drawn out "ooooohhhhhh" while nodding my head was all I could manage as what he was saying sunk in.
He slurped a shot of whiskey-dosed coffee, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "I am making it sound so dramatic, calling it a prison. In a way that's true, but it's more true that we are living inside a correctional system. This entire world, and all of its inhabitants, are residents of a spiritual penal institution. We are here to have our attitudes adjusted, our behaviors corrected, our understandings expanded, our souls purified through suffering and grief, and also to be glorified by love and sex and close friendships. And dogs. I'm pretty sure dogs make us better, just by hanging around with us."
His service animal, a big yellow lab named Sheffield, looked up at him, grinning. It was like Sheffield understood what he was saying.
Suddenly the coffee shop grew louder as more customers wandered in. He moved closer to the table and leaned across, looking me in the eye. "You ever been dead?" he asked me.
"No, never dead. Had a few hangovers though that made me wish I was dead." He didn't smile.
"I died when I was in the Nam." he said. "I got shot by a machine gun, right through both legs. I remember getting hit, and time just slowed down. I didn't feel any pain. It was like I jumped outside of myself, and watched from a distance as my body went tumbling to the ground. It was like watching a slow motion movie. It felt like I was hovering about four feet above my body, watching as the firefight continued around me. I watched my own eyes glaze over as I bled to death there in a muddy field, with a hot sun beating down on me."
As he described it, I could see the images in my own mind. I could imagine him as a young wounded soldier, laying under a hot sun, dying.
He took another sip of coffee, and his eyes had a smoky, far-away look, as though he wasn't seeing me anymore. "That's when I met the being of love and light. That's how I know what I know."
He went on to describe his experience. First, he said as he watched his body from above, a pinkish gray fog started to surround him, until he could no longer see himself lying on the ground. Then, he said he was rapidly hauled through a long dark valley, which he called "the valley of the shadow of death." At first he was frightened, he said, but then he saw a bright light in the distance rapidly moving toward him. The light grew closer, and brighter. "If I had eyes, I would have been blinded," he said. "But I realized that I was outside my body, and that I was perceiving things without the aid of my body. I could see, but I had no eyes to see. I could hear, but I had no ears to hear."
The bright light came closer until he felt enveloped by it, no longer able to distinguish between where his disembodied self ended, and where the light began. He described a sense of overwhelming peace, and love, and acceptance from the light. He claimed that, without hearing it, the bright light was communicating with him. It told him not to be afraid. "Let's see what you have learned," the light told him. At that moment, his life began passing in front of him very rapidly, and from the time of his earliest memories to the moment he lay dying on the battlefield, he saw every moment of his life. He felt every emotion he had ever felt. Moreover, he said, he could sense the emotions of all the people he had interacted with throughout his life. The hurts he had caused. The pain and anger he had evoked in others by his actions and decisions.
"The being of light wasn't judging me, not like we are told by religion. It wasn't a deal where the being was saying that I sinned, or screwed up, or was evil. Instead, it was like a review of my life with director's commentary. The light was teaching me, telling me what I was learning during each memory we observed. It was kind of like a parole hearing, where the parole board makes you talk about what you have learned, how you have improved, and whether or not you have accepted responsibility for your crimes."
He took another bite of bagel, and I saw the cream cheese smeared on his lips as he chewed. He swallowed and took another drink of his coffee. Breaking a small piece off the bagel, he tossed it toward Sheffield, who expertly snapped the tidbit out of the air as it passed in front of him.
I sat quietly on my side of the booth, waiting for him to resume his colloquy. His eyes had a distant stare, as if he was not aware of my presence. I could tell he was re-living, or perhaps re-dying, his battlefield experience.
Suddenly he looked at me again, and he was present in the moment. "That being of light showed me things, told me things, taught me things, that I never would have been able to know here in this life. Here in this limiting body." He patted his left hand three times over his heart. "It told me that I wasn't ready yet, and that I had more to learn about love. It said I had to go back. I protested that I didn't want to return to my body. I said I wanted to stay with the light, and to continue learning. Believe it or not, the being of light laughed, in kind of a loving and soothing way. It said I would return, and we would be together again. But that my time in this life wasn't finished. All of a sudden, I was back in my body, being dragged through the mud by two of my fellow Marines."
He paused to reach down and stroke Sheffield's head. The dog looked up at him with adoration in its eyes, but also what I sensed to be concern and alertness to my friend's emotions. "Who's a good boy?" my friend said absentmindedly.
"But, how does that lead you to believe these bodies are prisons? That this life is a prison sentence?"
"It's hard to explain," he said. "What I experienced in those few minutes I was dead can't be conveyed in words. Our language is also limiting, just like our bodies. Our language rests upon common sensory experiences that we can all understand. The words we have invented are tied to those experiences of the physical world. What happened to me was not in this physical world, but a world that we would probably call 'spiritual,' except that for me, it was real. As real as you and I sitting here right now. So, without really speaking, the being of light told me, or inserted into my mind, the understanding that this life is like a prison, a school, and a hospital, all rolled into one. We are here being both taught, and corrected. The days we are each allotted are like the term of our prison sentence. We can do nothing to either lengthen or shorten those days. We have to serve our term. We can't escape this."
His plate was empty, save for dozens of toasted sesame seeds that had fallen from his bagel. He stared down at the plate, lost in his own thoughts again. My phone started buzzing in my pocket, reminding me that I had another appointment that I needed to get to. I wished that I could stay and visit with him longer, but he was also becoming restless.
"It was good talking to you, young man," he said, reaching across the table to shake my hand. "I don't often tell these things to people. In fact, you are only about the fourth or fifth person I have ever really talked to in detail about it. But, I feel like I am getting close to the end of my sentence." A wan smile brushed across his lips. "I ain't mad about that."
Just then, Sheffield stood up and moaned, then whined. "Well, my guardian angel is asking to go outside," he said, scooting toward the end of the seat. He reached out and pulled his motorized scooter closer to him. With deft and experienced moves, he lifted himself out of the booth and into the chair. The dog knew how to move out of the way, and once his master was in his chair, the dog stood patiently on the right side of the chair, waiting to leave.
"I appreciate you spending part of your morning with me," I said. "I can say that I have never had a conversation anything like this one, in my entire life."
"You're welcome, son," he said with a smile. "You're going to need that knowledge soon." A little laugh escaped his mouth. "See you around, then," he said, pushing the joystick on his scooter, and motoring quickly away.
I sat stunned, pondering what he meant by his final words.
Friday, November 09, 2018
Apocalypse
The word Apocalypse simply means "the revealing."
That is why the Bible story is called Revelation.
Most people think of apocalypse as a cataclysmic event.
The end of the world.
The return of God.
The ultimate triumph of good over evil.
I believe that is incorrect.
Apocalypse is the slow roll of time,
the perennial unveiling of the next moment.
Revelation has become mythology.
People expect it as some future event;
A day to be both dreaded and hoped for.
Instead, we each live Apocalypse every day,
with every passing moment of our lives.
Revelation is ongoing.
The story reveals itself
turning page by turning page.
What is written as revelation
we each determine for ourselves.
That is why the Bible story is called Revelation.
Most people think of apocalypse as a cataclysmic event.
The end of the world.
The return of God.
The ultimate triumph of good over evil.
I believe that is incorrect.
Apocalypse is the slow roll of time,
the perennial unveiling of the next moment.
Revelation has become mythology.
People expect it as some future event;
A day to be both dreaded and hoped for.
Instead, we each live Apocalypse every day,
with every passing moment of our lives.
Revelation is ongoing.
The story reveals itself
turning page by turning page.
What is written as revelation
we each determine for ourselves.
Wednesday, September 19, 2018
Room with a View
In my father's house
there are many rooms.
In every room
is a window.
Outside every window
is a different
view of God.
On earth
the rooms
are different
religions.
© Francisco G. Rodriquez, 2018
there are many rooms.
In every room
is a window.
Outside every window
is a different
view of God.
On earth
the rooms
are different
religions.
© Francisco G. Rodriquez, 2018
Saturday, February 24, 2018
Global Unrest
I know
things that
I do not know
how
I know
They are
whispers
of wisdom
that echo in
my brain
They come
from me
and yet they
do not
begin in me
They are born
out
of my
experience
culled from
my
knowledge and
my mind
They are a
brain
chemistry solution
of fear love
hope
and Apocalypse
They are
echoes
of humanity’s
war torn
history
I do not
invite them
They form
unbidden
in the
darkness of my
collective unconsciousness
They speak
to me
of global
unrest
a whirlpool
of
blood and
violence
They are how
I
recognize our
current state
They are how
I know
what is
about to
be unveiled
Would that I
could
rid myself
of their
dire warnings
and depressing
presence
Instead I
wait
and watch
as they
unfurl
like the
plot
of a too oft’
read
book
We are these days witness
to the
self-fulfilling
prophecies of
hate and
hurt
war and peace
Before the
storm
passes we
will
all be
changed
Wednesday, September 27, 2017
Happiness
Most Americans want to be happy. In fact, we are so keen to be happy that we even sacralized it in our Declaration of Independence.We spend most of our waking hours doing things that we believe are "in the pursuit of happiness." But how many of us are actually "happy"? How many of us can honestly say that we have reached the peak of the mountain, where happiness abides, and we are now permanent residents there?
The truth is, not many people are happy these days. There is perennial and perpetual grousing from Americans at every level of our society. Even those you might imagine would be the happiest among us -- the very wealthy individuals who never have to worry about money, cars, or unpaid medical bills -- seem to be unhappy. They are constantly trying to accumulate more and more wealth, as though their pursuit of happiness requires the never-ending acquisition of ever more money. They are persistently trying to use their fortunes to change our culture into their own likeness, indicating that they are unhappy with the way our nation is evolving. It also means that those of us at the lower end of the socio-economic scale are probably equally happy, or equally miserable, as those at the very tippy-top.
Why is that? Could it be because we treat happiness like it is a destination? Like it is a place that we will eventually move to, and live there forever? Or like it is a material reality, and if we can just own enough of that material, we will own happiness?
Paradoxically, thinking of happiness in those terms is to invite unhappiness, because it is an unrealistic idealization of happiness that can never be attained. Like the Buddha taught us, unfulfilled desires lead to suffering. And there is no greater suffering than the unfulfilled desire to live in a place called happiness. Unless, of course, you move to Happy, Texas, population 647. Even there, though, the population is very tiny.
Perhaps what is needed is to reorient our understanding and expectations of happiness. Maybe happiness is not a place where we get to stay forever. It may, instead, be constituted of rare moments in time; when we are in the loving embrace of the woman or man we love, for example, or giving loud and laughing smoochie kisses to our young children and grandchildren. Or during peak moments of performance, like running in a race, or playing music in front of an appreciative audience, or standing on a mountain enjoying wonderful vistas.
Happiness is, indeed, a rare commodity in a long human life, which is why we are more apt to cherish and remember moments like these. At the end of our lives, perhaps those collective minutes of happiness will be added up and presented to us for review, and only then will we realize that most of our lives were passed in happiness, even though they seemed instead to be filled with heartache and sorrow. It could be that by understanding the very fleeting and passing nature of happiness, and not expecting that it will be a permanent psychological or material experience, we will actually find ourselves to be more happy. Perhaps by appreciating the serendipitous moments in our lives when we feel happy, we will actually find ourselves living a more joyful existence.
The truth is, not many people are happy these days. There is perennial and perpetual grousing from Americans at every level of our society. Even those you might imagine would be the happiest among us -- the very wealthy individuals who never have to worry about money, cars, or unpaid medical bills -- seem to be unhappy. They are constantly trying to accumulate more and more wealth, as though their pursuit of happiness requires the never-ending acquisition of ever more money. They are persistently trying to use their fortunes to change our culture into their own likeness, indicating that they are unhappy with the way our nation is evolving. It also means that those of us at the lower end of the socio-economic scale are probably equally happy, or equally miserable, as those at the very tippy-top.
Why is that? Could it be because we treat happiness like it is a destination? Like it is a place that we will eventually move to, and live there forever? Or like it is a material reality, and if we can just own enough of that material, we will own happiness?
Paradoxically, thinking of happiness in those terms is to invite unhappiness, because it is an unrealistic idealization of happiness that can never be attained. Like the Buddha taught us, unfulfilled desires lead to suffering. And there is no greater suffering than the unfulfilled desire to live in a place called happiness. Unless, of course, you move to Happy, Texas, population 647. Even there, though, the population is very tiny.
Perhaps what is needed is to reorient our understanding and expectations of happiness. Maybe happiness is not a place where we get to stay forever. It may, instead, be constituted of rare moments in time; when we are in the loving embrace of the woman or man we love, for example, or giving loud and laughing smoochie kisses to our young children and grandchildren. Or during peak moments of performance, like running in a race, or playing music in front of an appreciative audience, or standing on a mountain enjoying wonderful vistas.
Happiness is, indeed, a rare commodity in a long human life, which is why we are more apt to cherish and remember moments like these. At the end of our lives, perhaps those collective minutes of happiness will be added up and presented to us for review, and only then will we realize that most of our lives were passed in happiness, even though they seemed instead to be filled with heartache and sorrow. It could be that by understanding the very fleeting and passing nature of happiness, and not expecting that it will be a permanent psychological or material experience, we will actually find ourselves to be more happy. Perhaps by appreciating the serendipitous moments in our lives when we feel happy, we will actually find ourselves living a more joyful existence.
Thursday, September 21, 2017
Scratching Fleas
Humans are like
parasites on mother earth,
sucking her oil like blood,
polluting her sky with our
greed-befouled collective breath.
It is no wonder she awakens
from slumber to start scratching
at her bothersome fleas.
Hurricanes, flooding rains,
earthquakes, tornadoes,
wildfires and the ever
increasing heat of
her fevered infection.
The earth is a self-healing being,
and her irritation with our infestation
increases by the minute.
The spirit of the earth
stirs itself awake,
and we should be very afraid.
© Francisco G. Rodriquez, 2017
parasites on mother earth,
sucking her oil like blood,
polluting her sky with our
greed-befouled collective breath.
It is no wonder she awakens
from slumber to start scratching
at her bothersome fleas.
Hurricanes, flooding rains,
earthquakes, tornadoes,
wildfires and the ever
increasing heat of
her fevered infection.
The earth is a self-healing being,
and her irritation with our infestation
increases by the minute.
The spirit of the earth
stirs itself awake,
and we should be very afraid.
© Francisco G. Rodriquez, 2017
Thursday, September 14, 2017
Will There Be A Trump-Inspired Mexican-American Roundup?
Spic.
Wetback.
Beaner.
Taco bender.
Lawn man.
Illegal.
Light skinned n*gger.
These are all words and phrases that have been applied to me at some point in my life. Starting in high school in the late 1970s, I became aware that being half-Mexican in Oklahoma meant I would be tagged with racial slurs. It also meant that I would endure hearing many "jokes" about Mexicans from white people who were too clueless to realize they were being racist.
White High School Popular Guy: "Hey, Francisco! Are you a wetback? Or a scratch back?"
(They would use my Spanish name when they were about to launch into some off-color joke.)
Me: "What?"
(I was still at the play-along stage then.)
White High School Popular Guy: "Did you swim across the river, or crawl under the fence?"
Never mind that I was born in the United States, as was my father. The fact that I had a Latin sounding name meant the white people who dominated my high school felt free to say shit like that to my face. Not all of them, but a surprising amount. Where I grew up, there were no black people, only a few Hispanics, and quite a lot of Native American people. So, in my hometown of Henryetta, Oklahoma, racist attention was directed at the available minorities.
I spoke with my father about it once. I asked him if I should fight the kids who made fun of my Mexican heritage. He told me to just let it roll off my back. He said fighting wouldn't stop them, and only working harder than them would make a difference. It took me years before I understood what it meant to "work harder," which is about one and a half times more than how hard most white people have to work. When you grow up as part of a minority in America, you start the race behind everybody else, and have to run twice as fast to catch up. Most minority people never do catch up.
My father told me that, one day, there would probably be another Mexican-American "repatriation," like he remembered from the 1930s. A lot of white people don't even know about that sorry chapter of American history, when United States citizens of Mexican descent were forcibly detained and transported to Mexico. This happened between 1929-1936. People who were born in the United States, many of whom were fully legal US citizens, were rounded up and sent to Mexico for the same reasons that we are hearing today: "They are taking our jobs." "They are bringing in crime and drugs!" "They use an unfair amount of public resources!" "Dirty Mexicans are dragging down our neighborhoods!"
It is estimated that during that time period, between 500,000 to 2,000,000 people were rounded up for deportation. Further, as much as 60% of those rounded up were US citizens -- people who were born in the US.
Just like today, the repatriation of the 1930s was supported and egged on by a sitting Republican president, Herbert Hoover. Like Trump, Hoover played on racial and populist sentiments to justify his decisions. And like Hoover, it is highly likely that Trump will go down in history as one of the worst -- if not THE worst -- American president ever to hold office.
With his decision to rescind DACA, Trump and his ever-kneeling suppliant (or suck-pliant) AG Jeff Sessions are sending overt signals to the racists in our nation that say it is okay to harass and even harm those they "suspect" of being illegal immigrants. Like the fat, white dumb ass Oklahoman captured on video telling a woman and her daughter they were "speaking immigrant," and should go back to Mexico, racist people are being emboldened by the "wink and a nod" racists who dominate our executive branch of government right now. I suspect it won't be long before we are reading about calls to "round up" Mexicans and "send them back to where they came from." I won't be surprised if it actually happens. My dark-skinned father saw it coming a long time ago. It is sad to see it all coming true.
Just last night, Trump met with Democratic leaders Chuck Schumer and Nancy Pelosi. After a chummy dinner in the White House, Schumer and Pelosi came out to announce that a deal had been reached to save DACA. Trump followed shortly thereafter to say a deal had not been agreed upon. For Trump, apparently the only way he will agree to a deal is if the Democrats agree to funding his penis-compensating border wall. While Dreamers wait and wonder, politicians haggle over who has the bigger hands and tiniest heart.
Wetback.
Beaner.
Taco bender.
Lawn man.
Illegal.
Light skinned n*gger.
These are all words and phrases that have been applied to me at some point in my life. Starting in high school in the late 1970s, I became aware that being half-Mexican in Oklahoma meant I would be tagged with racial slurs. It also meant that I would endure hearing many "jokes" about Mexicans from white people who were too clueless to realize they were being racist.
White High School Popular Guy: "Hey, Francisco! Are you a wetback? Or a scratch back?"
(They would use my Spanish name when they were about to launch into some off-color joke.)
Me: "What?"
(I was still at the play-along stage then.)
White High School Popular Guy: "Did you swim across the river, or crawl under the fence?"
Never mind that I was born in the United States, as was my father. The fact that I had a Latin sounding name meant the white people who dominated my high school felt free to say shit like that to my face. Not all of them, but a surprising amount. Where I grew up, there were no black people, only a few Hispanics, and quite a lot of Native American people. So, in my hometown of Henryetta, Oklahoma, racist attention was directed at the available minorities.
I spoke with my father about it once. I asked him if I should fight the kids who made fun of my Mexican heritage. He told me to just let it roll off my back. He said fighting wouldn't stop them, and only working harder than them would make a difference. It took me years before I understood what it meant to "work harder," which is about one and a half times more than how hard most white people have to work. When you grow up as part of a minority in America, you start the race behind everybody else, and have to run twice as fast to catch up. Most minority people never do catch up.
My father told me that, one day, there would probably be another Mexican-American "repatriation," like he remembered from the 1930s. A lot of white people don't even know about that sorry chapter of American history, when United States citizens of Mexican descent were forcibly detained and transported to Mexico. This happened between 1929-1936. People who were born in the United States, many of whom were fully legal US citizens, were rounded up and sent to Mexico for the same reasons that we are hearing today: "They are taking our jobs." "They are bringing in crime and drugs!" "They use an unfair amount of public resources!" "Dirty Mexicans are dragging down our neighborhoods!"
It is estimated that during that time period, between 500,000 to 2,000,000 people were rounded up for deportation. Further, as much as 60% of those rounded up were US citizens -- people who were born in the US.
Just like today, the repatriation of the 1930s was supported and egged on by a sitting Republican president, Herbert Hoover. Like Trump, Hoover played on racial and populist sentiments to justify his decisions. And like Hoover, it is highly likely that Trump will go down in history as one of the worst -- if not THE worst -- American president ever to hold office.
With his decision to rescind DACA, Trump and his ever-kneeling suppliant (or suck-pliant) AG Jeff Sessions are sending overt signals to the racists in our nation that say it is okay to harass and even harm those they "suspect" of being illegal immigrants. Like the fat, white dumb ass Oklahoman captured on video telling a woman and her daughter they were "speaking immigrant," and should go back to Mexico, racist people are being emboldened by the "wink and a nod" racists who dominate our executive branch of government right now. I suspect it won't be long before we are reading about calls to "round up" Mexicans and "send them back to where they came from." I won't be surprised if it actually happens. My dark-skinned father saw it coming a long time ago. It is sad to see it all coming true.
Just last night, Trump met with Democratic leaders Chuck Schumer and Nancy Pelosi. After a chummy dinner in the White House, Schumer and Pelosi came out to announce that a deal had been reached to save DACA. Trump followed shortly thereafter to say a deal had not been agreed upon. For Trump, apparently the only way he will agree to a deal is if the Democrats agree to funding his penis-compensating border wall. While Dreamers wait and wonder, politicians haggle over who has the bigger hands and tiniest heart.
Saturday, August 05, 2017
Gratitude
You were good for me.
Good to me.
Because we ended
I didn't get the chance
to say a simple thank you.
You changed me.
Mostly for the good;
some brokenness too.
And for both
I give you gratitude.
The beauty of your body
lingers in my mind.
The taste of your love
is still bittersweet
on my tongue.
I harbor great sadness
that we went our
separate ways.
I deeply regret that
I could not make it work.
I look forward
to the time
when it is pleasant
to remember you.
But right now
it still hurts.
For all of it
I am grateful
and would not
have it any
other way.
Even though
I lost you
you were
the answer
to prayers
that I prayed.
© Francisco G. Rodriquez, 2017
Good to me.
Because we ended
I didn't get the chance
to say a simple thank you.
You changed me.
Mostly for the good;
some brokenness too.
And for both
I give you gratitude.
The beauty of your body
lingers in my mind.
The taste of your love
is still bittersweet
on my tongue.
I harbor great sadness
that we went our
separate ways.
I deeply regret that
I could not make it work.
I look forward
to the time
when it is pleasant
to remember you.
But right now
it still hurts.
For all of it
I am grateful
and would not
have it any
other way.
Even though
I lost you
you were
the answer
to prayers
that I prayed.
© Francisco G. Rodriquez, 2017
Saturday, July 22, 2017
The Poet's Soul
The poet's soul
is a curious thing,
sometimes cries,
sometimes sings.
At times a quivering
emotional jello,
others a loud
rage-filled bellow.
As soft as the down
of a new-hatched bird,
as sharp as the blade
of a samurai sword.
Innocent and child-like
in matters of the world,
crafty and cunning
in love's torrid whorl.
The poet's soul
is both gift and curse,
for we who paint life
in rhyme and verse.
is a curious thing,
sometimes cries,
sometimes sings.
At times a quivering
emotional jello,
others a loud
rage-filled bellow.
As soft as the down
of a new-hatched bird,
as sharp as the blade
of a samurai sword.
Innocent and child-like
in matters of the world,
crafty and cunning
in love's torrid whorl.
The poet's soul
is both gift and curse,
for we who paint life
in rhyme and verse.
© Francisco G. Rodriquez, 2017
Thursday, July 20, 2017
Mi Casa No Casa
Biracial at birth
back in the day,
back when it hurt,
a half-Mexican stray.
Not quite white,
not quite brown,
quasi-colored skin
with no proper noun.
Mi casa no casa,
I stood in between,
no hablo espanol,
no tengo a quien.
Never sure where I fit,
which culture to embrace,
getting by on my wits,
no race, no face, no space.
Mi casa no casa,
I had no place to go,
I blazed the trail I made,
and made my way alone.
Today it is different,
mixed is the new norm,
part this, part that,
new boxes on forms.
We of mixed colors
are taking the world,
for love has no borders,
and hair has more curls.
Mi casa no casa.
May that die with me.
Todos una raza,
el mundo nuevo esta aqui.
© Francisco G. Rodriquez, 2017
 |
| Image copyright Positive.News. |
back when it hurt,
a half-Mexican stray.
Not quite white,
not quite brown,
quasi-colored skin
with no proper noun.
Mi casa no casa,
I stood in between,
no hablo espanol,
no tengo a quien.
Never sure where I fit,
which culture to embrace,
getting by on my wits,
no race, no face, no space.
Mi casa no casa,I had no place to go,
I blazed the trail I made,
and made my way alone.
Today it is different,
mixed is the new norm,
part this, part that,
new boxes on forms.
We of mixed colors
are taking the world,
for love has no borders,
and hair has more curls.
Mi casa no casa.
May that die with me.
Todos una raza,
el mundo nuevo esta aqui.
© Francisco G. Rodriquez, 2017
Tuesday, July 18, 2017
Tombstones
She asked to meet my family,
so I took her to the cemetery.
I introduced her to the tombstones
of my mother and father,
brother, sister, sister-in-law.
I explained that half of my family is there,
so this is where half of my heart lies,
languishing in full blown eternity,
family memories moldering in the grave.
The graveyard was cold and snowy,
a fitting scene for a January day,
the nearby road buzzed with traffic,
overhead the sky was ashen gray.
We lingered not long.
It takes but little time
to commune with loved ones
who died and left you behind.
I knew that day
she and I would not last
for she had no experience
of family who have passed.
She could not fathom
the finality of family death,
had no sympathy or patience
for the graveyard's final rest.
She can never understand
until it is her turn to know
how half your heart can lie buried
under bitter cold wet snow.
© Francisco G. Rodriquez, 2017
so I took her to the cemetery.I introduced her to the tombstones
of my mother and father,
brother, sister, sister-in-law.
I explained that half of my family is there,
so this is where half of my heart lies,
languishing in full blown eternity,
family memories moldering in the grave.
The graveyard was cold and snowy,
a fitting scene for a January day,
the nearby road buzzed with traffic,
overhead the sky was ashen gray.
We lingered not long.
It takes but little time
to commune with loved ones
who died and left you behind.
I knew that day
she and I would not last
for she had no experience
of family who have passed.
She could not fathom
the finality of family death,
had no sympathy or patience
for the graveyard's final rest.
She can never understand
until it is her turn to know
how half your heart can lie buried
under bitter cold wet snow.
© Francisco G. Rodriquez, 2017
Monday, July 17, 2017
Innocent Love
 |
| Photo copyright Jill Atkinson, 2017 |
the kind that had no questions.
Love that shone in our faces,
put the light of life in our eyes.
I remember being happy
over ice cream and a new toy.
When friendship came easy,
and trust was freely given.
I remember summer nights,
warm breezes, firefly chases.
Hot days of roaming the woods
looking for poor kid adventures.
I remember when smiles were genuine,
and lies were a terrible sin to commit.
And many days of holding hands
giving big hugs and doing small favors.
I remember innocent love
when I see my granddaughter smile.
When I hear her laughter
and watch her play.
I remember hope when
she says she loves me, too.
The unmitigated truth in her face
lightens my heavy old soul.
© Francisco G. Rodriquez, 2017
Friday, July 14, 2017
Love Poems
Nobody loveslove poems
anymore
Who has the
time to care?
The demands of
work, children
family and friends
make romance seem
old-fashioned
perhaps even a
waste of time
We can't even be
bothered much to
meet anymore
preferring our dates
to be mobile
express and if
possible online
But I gave you
my time
my poetry
my attention
and my care
whatever else my foibles
if you needed me I was there
Yes, words are cheap
and love is hard to define
in poetry that most often
can't be coaxed to even rhyme
Still, I gave you my words
my heart and very soul
to say in worn out language
the things that can't be told
It wasn't enough
You found another
less poetic sort
Because nobody loves
love poems
anymore
© Francisco G. Rodriquez, 2017
Monday, July 10, 2017
Love I've Thrown Away
You will always be
my worst regret
and best memory
The hole in my heart
where you once lived
may tear me apart
The words that I write
cannot redress
the loss of your light
You gave me so much
the best of love
your soft healing touch
Allow me to say
you were the best
love I've thrown away
© Francisco G. Rodriquez, 2017
my worst regret
and best memory
The hole in my heart
where you once lived
may tear me apart
cannot redress
the loss of your light
You gave me so much
the best of love
your soft healing touch
Allow me to say
you were the best
love I've thrown away
© Francisco G. Rodriquez, 2017
Tuesday, June 27, 2017
Now
The word now is a powerful and mysterious word.
It can be used as either a noun, or a verb.
The instant I tell you that now has arrived,
It will have flashed quickly past both of our eyes.
Every new moment renews now anew.
No way to stop it, rewind or review.
Now has us all in its metaphysical spell.
The ever flowing present never has failed.
Time goes on forever, as does the now.
As life ever endeavors to slow it all down.
It can be used as either a noun, or a verb.
The instant I tell you that now has arrived,
It will have flashed quickly past both of our eyes.
Every new moment renews now anew.
No way to stop it, rewind or review.
Now has us all in its metaphysical spell.
The ever flowing present never has failed.
Time goes on forever, as does the now.
As life ever endeavors to slow it all down.
© Francisco G.
Rodriquez, 2017
Thursday, June 15, 2017
Broke Down Beat Up Heart
is a rusty old car
worn out brakes
needs new tires
doors won't open
except from outside
windows rolled down
handles broken inside
My beat up heart
had too many drivers
grinding down gears
crash cart survivors
drove me into a ditch
left me without a hitch
Broken down old beater
the kind you can't trust very far
Only thing good is the heater
and the engine still purrs
Crappy rusted out old wreck
still going and stubborn as heck
Perhaps I should consider
installing a taxi cab meter
onto my old broken down
beat up heart
© Francisco G. Rodriquez, 2017
Wednesday, June 14, 2017
Walmart Parking Lot Life and Death Drama
I stopped at Walmart after work
yesterday to pick up a few things. For whatever reason, most Walmart parking
lots in Oklahoma seem to be a popular gathering spot for Grackles, those shiny
black birds with long tails and little red eyes that aggressively stare you
down as you walk past. "What'chew lookin' at?" it seems like they are
saying.
As I was loading my items into the
back of my vehicle, I noticed a movement zipping from underneath my truck to
the one right next to it. Then a grackle went hopping along the same path. I
turned to see what was going on, and just then a tiny, brown, desperate little
mouse came running right toward me, with the grackle in hot pursuit. The bird
would grab the mouse by its tail and yank upward, like it was trying to flip the
mouse into the air. I could tell the mouse was tired and wounded. It paused
between my shoes, looking up at me for an instant, like it was asking for help.
I raised my shoe and kicked at the bird. It flitted backward, and looked at me
with an indignant glare. The mouse ran back under my truck. The bird gave me a
wide circle before going back to the chase.
In that moment, my sympathy was
with the mouse. There have been days lately when I swear I feel just like that
hapless little rodent. I wanted to help, but couldn't imagine myself running
around in dress clothes, chasing a bird and a mouse through a Walmart parking
lot. Logically, I knew that I was only watching nature play itself out; there
is nothing inherently evil or wrong in the drama between predator and prey.
Still, I wondered if God ever feels the way I did in that moment, watching we
humans go about the business of shooting, stabbing and otherwise killing each
other, often saying we are acting on His behalf?
The mouse ran along the curb, looking
for a place to make its escape. The bird kept pestering and pecking, and I knew
soon the chase would end. Not knowing what else to do, I got into my truck and
started the engine. I swear I saw the bird raise a feather at me as I turned
out of the parking lot. I found myself hoping the bird would choke on a mouse
bone.
© Francisco G. Rodriquez, 2017
© Francisco G. Rodriquez, 2017
Tuesday, June 13, 2017
Wondrous Spaces
 |
| Grand Canyon from Navajo Overlook -- © 2015 Richard R. Barron |
Our world is filled
with wondrous spaces,
magical places
that demonstrate
just how small we are
in the scheme of things.
Without hands or eyes
nature paints a beautiful sky,
a breathtaking landscape,
and humanity stands in awe,
feeling at once grand,
yet incredibly small.
Mountain ranges bounded
by oceans endless,
space full rounded
by bright stars limitless,
this world but a speck
floating in infinite time,
a pool of deep dark forever.
The poet teaches
W.B. preaches we can
hold infinity in our hands;
that our vision is limited
only by the blinders on our brains.
Open vistas, massive geologic structures,
perspectives from a mountainside,
all expand our presence in the world,
make us yearn for wilder days of yore,
when we lived a harder life,
and loved the land
like a husband loves a bride.
Wondrous spaces are sacred places,
deserving of our devotion and love.
They enrapture and bind us,
beckon and remind us
of a grander presence
that can only be described
as coming from above.
© Francisco G. Rodriquez, 2017
© Francisco G. Rodriquez, 2017
Monday, June 12, 2017
The Illiterati
They revel in their ignorant bliss;
happiest when they can hiss
at the educated masses,
eager to burn books into ashes.
The strong arms of stronger men,
they threaten violence just to win,
unwitting tools of the upper classes,
misinformed fools showing their asses.
The illiterati take pride in not knowing
how much they do not know;
noisily amplify the lies flowing
from crazy like a fox TV news shows.
Most never had a chance at the American dream,
so they invest their truth in alt-right Internet memes,
and while claiming to know the founder's intentions,
vote to reduce their own hard-earned pensions.
They are terrified of the nation they think will unfold,
having swallowed most of the racist lies they were told,
and so rally to drive foreigners out of this land,
while believing themselves to be God's helping hand.
There is no reaching the illiterati,
there is no cure for this cancerous rotting
that blinds the minds of those such as these,
who willfully lock themselves into cells with no keys.
© Francisco G. Rodriquez, 2017
happiest when they can hiss
at the educated masses,
eager to burn books into ashes.
The strong arms of stronger men,
they threaten violence just to win,
unwitting tools of the upper classes,
misinformed fools showing their asses.
The illiterati take pride in not knowing
how much they do not know;
noisily amplify the lies flowing
from crazy like a fox TV news shows.
Most never had a chance at the American dream,
so they invest their truth in alt-right Internet memes,
and while claiming to know the founder's intentions,
vote to reduce their own hard-earned pensions.
They are terrified of the nation they think will unfold,
having swallowed most of the racist lies they were told,
and so rally to drive foreigners out of this land,
while believing themselves to be God's helping hand.
There is no reaching the illiterati,
there is no cure for this cancerous rotting
that blinds the minds of those such as these,
who willfully lock themselves into cells with no keys.
© Francisco G. Rodriquez, 2017
Saturday, June 10, 2017
Campbell's Monomyth
Joseph Campbell taught us to look beyond the particulars of any given mythology or religious tradition, and to instead consider the universality they might contain. He demonstrated that there is a basic skeletal structure of most mythologies, particularly those that that he designated as "hero myths." In his book The Hero with A Thousand Faces, first published in 1949 (!) and still available in print today, he examines the hero's journey, and establishes his theory of the monomyth. The monomyth is the skeleton upon which hangs the flesh of any given hero myth.
Campbell differentiated two types of heroes: the physical hero (e.g., Hercules), and the spiritual hero (e.g., Jesus, Buddha, Abraham, Mohammed). His monomyth model applies more evidently in tales of physical heros, like Odysseus, Gilgamesh, and Luke Skywalker. Campbell asserts that regardless of the hero and the details of his or her tale, the basic elements of the story have a universality that stretches across time and culture. There is a sameness to the story line, regardless of the specifics of that story line.
1.) There is often an auspicious birth. The child is born of a virgin (Jesus), for example; or immediately takes three steps and proclaims that this is his last incarnation (Buddha); or his mother is impregnated by seeing a falling star (Laozi); or often, a god impregnates a human female (Hercules). The auspicious birth presages that this person is different, and that their life story has weight and meaning.
2.) At some point in their lives, the hero is called out of normal society, and makes a decision to follow a calling, or is otherwise lured into an adventure. Jesus, went into the desert; Bilbo Baggins went on an adventure. 3.) At this point of the journey, the hero often encounters a helper of some kind, a sage or sprite who initiates them into a higher understanding, a broader vision of reality (e.g., Luke Skywalker and Obi Wan Kenobi; or the little goat guy, Philoctetes, and Hercules). 4.) The hero is then faced with some kind of ordeal that marks their passage into the adventure, a discovery, or a turn from normal reality into an epic purpose. Campbell calls this "crossing the threshold." The important thing is that the hero makes a choice to pursue the adventure.
5.) Afterward, the hero is faced with a variety of tests or trials, against which she must prove her worthiness. Again, the hero is often assisted by other figures or things. They may find, or be given, magical items that help them successfully overcome the tests. For example, Perseus is given winged sandals and a helmet that renders him invisible. So, too, Bilbo Baggins finds a ring that makes him invisible, and gets him out of several scrapes. 6.) As in any good story or movie, there is ultimately a climax, a final battle, struggle or revelation, a moment when the hero's life -- and often the fate of their people or the world -- is at stake. Of course, the hero will prevail.
7.) After killing the dragon, defeating the monster, or tricking the lesser god(s), the hero's adventure comes to a close. It is at this point that he has a crucial decision to make. He can persist in the place of adventure, and find more adventure, or he can decide to return home, bringing with him the magic, knowledge, or insight that he has gathered on his journey. Campbell uses the tale of Jonah in the belly of the whale. After being vomited back onto shore, Jonah immediately returns to human society with his incredible tale of events and understandings. 8.) It is at this point that the knowledge acquired by the hero becomes the province of normal human beings; the magic, the knowledge; the expanded perspective is shared with the rest of human kind.
What fascinated Campbell, and what I too find intriguing, is the manner in which these same elements, this same kind of journey, occurrs repeatedly in human mythologies, regardless of the culture or time from which it arose. Campbell's thought was influenced by a German scholar named Adolf Bastian, who is credited for helping develop the discipline of anthropology. He was also the first proponent of the "psychic unity of mankind," the idea that all humans share the same basic mental structure and framework.
Bastian's own study of mythologies led him to theorize that they contained what he called "elementary" and "folk" components. The "folk" components are comprised of the local, culturally-relevant elements of the story. They are the parts of the myth that its hearers can recognize and understand, and relate to their own social and cultural environment. The "elementary" part of the myth represents the basic underlying structure of mythology, the "monomyth" that Campbell theorizes in his famous work The Hero of the Thousand Faces.
Campbell was also influenced by German scholar Otto Rank, and in particular his book The Myth of the Birth of the Hero. In this book Rank compares the birth and early life story of Moses with the birth mythologies of other well-known heroes from different cultures, like Sargon and Oedipus. In this work, Rank equates the hero myths with human dreams, arguing that they represent repressed human desires, and are therefore informative of the human mind and psyche. Rank was an early disciple of Sigmund Freud, although he later split with Freud's method of psychoanalysis. As an early psychologist, Rank was interested in the way mythologies represent, or provide evidence for, larger, basic human psychological needs and desires. It is probably Rank's work that inspired Campbell to famously say, "... a dream is a personal experience of that deep, dark ground that is the support of our conscious lives, and a myth is the society's dream. The myth is the public dream and the dream is the private myth. If your private myth, your dream, happens to coincide with that of the society, you are in good accord with your group. If it isn't, you've got an adventure in the dark forest ahead of you."
Throughout his life and studies, Campbell remained fascinated by what mythology and literature can teach us about human psychic nature. His work established that, in mythologies, there are common (elementary) traits that cross cultural and time boundaries. He believed that fact was significant, that it indicated areas where further scholarship and exploration was needed. Why, for instance, do the same elemental mythological structures crop up again and again? What does that tell us about human nature? Is there something larger, something deeper, something more universal in this fact that we should be paying attention to in our own considerations and studies?
I think the answer to all of those questions is yes. The basis of many forms of communication is a repeating pattern.
© Francisco G. Rodriquez, 2017
Campbell differentiated two types of heroes: the physical hero (e.g., Hercules), and the spiritual hero (e.g., Jesus, Buddha, Abraham, Mohammed). His monomyth model applies more evidently in tales of physical heros, like Odysseus, Gilgamesh, and Luke Skywalker. Campbell asserts that regardless of the hero and the details of his or her tale, the basic elements of the story have a universality that stretches across time and culture. There is a sameness to the story line, regardless of the specifics of that story line.
1.) There is often an auspicious birth. The child is born of a virgin (Jesus), for example; or immediately takes three steps and proclaims that this is his last incarnation (Buddha); or his mother is impregnated by seeing a falling star (Laozi); or often, a god impregnates a human female (Hercules). The auspicious birth presages that this person is different, and that their life story has weight and meaning.
2.) At some point in their lives, the hero is called out of normal society, and makes a decision to follow a calling, or is otherwise lured into an adventure. Jesus, went into the desert; Bilbo Baggins went on an adventure. 3.) At this point of the journey, the hero often encounters a helper of some kind, a sage or sprite who initiates them into a higher understanding, a broader vision of reality (e.g., Luke Skywalker and Obi Wan Kenobi; or the little goat guy, Philoctetes, and Hercules). 4.) The hero is then faced with some kind of ordeal that marks their passage into the adventure, a discovery, or a turn from normal reality into an epic purpose. Campbell calls this "crossing the threshold." The important thing is that the hero makes a choice to pursue the adventure.
5.) Afterward, the hero is faced with a variety of tests or trials, against which she must prove her worthiness. Again, the hero is often assisted by other figures or things. They may find, or be given, magical items that help them successfully overcome the tests. For example, Perseus is given winged sandals and a helmet that renders him invisible. So, too, Bilbo Baggins finds a ring that makes him invisible, and gets him out of several scrapes. 6.) As in any good story or movie, there is ultimately a climax, a final battle, struggle or revelation, a moment when the hero's life -- and often the fate of their people or the world -- is at stake. Of course, the hero will prevail.
7.) After killing the dragon, defeating the monster, or tricking the lesser god(s), the hero's adventure comes to a close. It is at this point that he has a crucial decision to make. He can persist in the place of adventure, and find more adventure, or he can decide to return home, bringing with him the magic, knowledge, or insight that he has gathered on his journey. Campbell uses the tale of Jonah in the belly of the whale. After being vomited back onto shore, Jonah immediately returns to human society with his incredible tale of events and understandings. 8.) It is at this point that the knowledge acquired by the hero becomes the province of normal human beings; the magic, the knowledge; the expanded perspective is shared with the rest of human kind.
What fascinated Campbell, and what I too find intriguing, is the manner in which these same elements, this same kind of journey, occurrs repeatedly in human mythologies, regardless of the culture or time from which it arose. Campbell's thought was influenced by a German scholar named Adolf Bastian, who is credited for helping develop the discipline of anthropology. He was also the first proponent of the "psychic unity of mankind," the idea that all humans share the same basic mental structure and framework.
Bastian's own study of mythologies led him to theorize that they contained what he called "elementary" and "folk" components. The "folk" components are comprised of the local, culturally-relevant elements of the story. They are the parts of the myth that its hearers can recognize and understand, and relate to their own social and cultural environment. The "elementary" part of the myth represents the basic underlying structure of mythology, the "monomyth" that Campbell theorizes in his famous work The Hero of the Thousand Faces.
Campbell was also influenced by German scholar Otto Rank, and in particular his book The Myth of the Birth of the Hero. In this book Rank compares the birth and early life story of Moses with the birth mythologies of other well-known heroes from different cultures, like Sargon and Oedipus. In this work, Rank equates the hero myths with human dreams, arguing that they represent repressed human desires, and are therefore informative of the human mind and psyche. Rank was an early disciple of Sigmund Freud, although he later split with Freud's method of psychoanalysis. As an early psychologist, Rank was interested in the way mythologies represent, or provide evidence for, larger, basic human psychological needs and desires. It is probably Rank's work that inspired Campbell to famously say, "... a dream is a personal experience of that deep, dark ground that is the support of our conscious lives, and a myth is the society's dream. The myth is the public dream and the dream is the private myth. If your private myth, your dream, happens to coincide with that of the society, you are in good accord with your group. If it isn't, you've got an adventure in the dark forest ahead of you."
Throughout his life and studies, Campbell remained fascinated by what mythology and literature can teach us about human psychic nature. His work established that, in mythologies, there are common (elementary) traits that cross cultural and time boundaries. He believed that fact was significant, that it indicated areas where further scholarship and exploration was needed. Why, for instance, do the same elemental mythological structures crop up again and again? What does that tell us about human nature? Is there something larger, something deeper, something more universal in this fact that we should be paying attention to in our own considerations and studies?
I think the answer to all of those questions is yes. The basis of many forms of communication is a repeating pattern.
© Francisco G. Rodriquez, 2017
Monday, June 05, 2017
Empty Boxes of Certitude
In the marketplace of ideas, the easy way to success is to feed your audience information that reaffirms their prior biases and beliefs. In essence, this is how Rush Limbaugh, Glen Beck, Sean Hannity and Bill O'Reilly achieved their fame. All they do is wrap traditionalism, racism, nationalism and revolutionary populism in shiny and entertaining gift paper. They are not advancing any new (or real) information, with the possible exception of trending conspiracy theories and political scandal. They tell their listeners, in subtle and not so subtle ways, that 1.) they are "smart," and they are "winners" for listening or watching, and 2.) their preconceived notions and prejudices are good, healthy, normal, even virtuous. In the end, their listeners and viewers usually gain nothing more than headlines, and an empty box of certitude.
This happens on the left, too. Liberals and conservatives have competing media megaphones. For people like Rachel Maddow, Chris Matthews, Joy Reid, their aim is also to reaffirm and praise the worldview of their liberal viewers. The path to success is exactly the same. The wrapping paper may be different, but the underlying empty box is surprisingly similar.
It happens in academia, too, I think. Healthy scholarship is supposed to add to the overall extent of human knowledge -- it is expressly charged with creating new knowledge. What often happens instead is that people get tunnel vision within their own discipline, and do not bother to question the guiding knowledge paradigm wherein they exist. They speak only to other scholars in their field, and often in lengthy, dense, pedantic and impenetrable academic jargon. Regular people, like those who listen to Rush Limbaugh and Rachel Maddow, often can't access the new knowledge, if indeed it is there. It makes one wonder if the various academic disciplines, not unlike various religious traditions, are just brightly colored empty boxes?
In the world of ideas, creating new and accessible knowledge and information that can help a person rethink their prior biases and prejudices, and escape their empty boxes of certitude, is the harder thing to do. As I look around, I see most of us trapped inside respective two-dimensional squares of self-imposed limitation, where we can choose to hear only what we want to hear. But that is becoming harder, as voices on all sides seem to be increasing in volume, intensity, anger and fear. Samuel Huntington, historian and political scientist, wrote about the clash of civilizations. Today, we see a clash of realities, a clash of completely differing explanations for how the world is, and why it is that way. There is no longer an authoritative neutral arbiter of reality and fact. Both science and religion aspire to that position, but so far neither is winning.
This lack of agreed upon truth, combined with the cacophony of clashing realities, is creating a sense of unease and insecurity. Our nation now has a Homeland Security division, ostensibly to protect us from terrorist attack. It also serves as a very real manifestation of our sense of insecurity. We are collectively floundering. We have lost any cohesive identity. We are afraid of what might happen next, at any moment, to our nation, our homes, and our families. These symptoms can all be attributed to the fact that we seem to be missing a central authoritative and secure truth.
Bill Clinton once said, "When people are insecure, they'd rather have somebody who is strong and wrong than someone who's weak and right." This seems to be a common theme in human societies throughout history. The cultural norms which seemed to stand for so long suddenly start to falter. The central truths that everyone previously agreed to follow are questioned, and so too are the gods. The Greek tragedy Oedipus the King informs us about a similar time in Athenian history, when the gods were questioned, and there were strange things afoot in the kingdom. It is in these moments when the strong man arises, and a portion of the people may seem suddenly ready to accede to almost anything in an effort to secure a little more security. They are all too ready to crawl into an empty box of certitude that has been garrulously gift wrapped for them. They may then listen only to the strong leader who is wrong, and become all too happy to completely ignore, or even crucify, the weak leader who is right.
© Francisco G. Rodriquez, 2017
Saturday, June 03, 2017
Modern Day Lepers
What fascinates me about the comparative study of religion and religious history are the similarities across time and cultures. Although the content of beliefs may change, again and again we see the same WAYS of believing and thinking. It is the WAY people believe, and how those beliefs work inside an individual's world view, that I find intriguing -- the true universal element of religion. I am less interested, now, in WHAT people believe, and more interested in the WAY they believe. Somehow, I think this way of examining human belief sets is important to defusing the religious and political conflict we are witnessing in our modern world.
As an example, from the days of Jesus all the way to St. Francis of Assisi, people with leprosy were shunned and avoided. The frightening physical manifestations of the disease were horrifying to see -- stumps of arms and fingers, horribly disfigured people, lesions and sores. It is easy to understand why people would be scared to be around, or in close contact, with lepers. As we know, lepers were often ostracized, forced to live outside the community, reviled and avoided by the "good" people of society.
In those days, leprosy was thought to be caused by sin. If a person had leprosy, it was because they deserved it. They were thought of as morally corrupt individuals, and their sins brought the disease upon them as punishment from God.
Neither Jesus nor St. Francis seemed to believe this, as both are known for healing or working among lepers. Of course, we know today that leprosy is a disease caused by a type of bacteria. So in retrospect, we know that people who believed lepers were sinners, and therefore deserving of the disease, were factually and historically wrong.
I see a similar kind of thinking among the so-called conservative and pseudo-religious wing of the modern Republican party. People of this ilk state plainly that poor people are poor because they deserve to be poor. They argue that gay people should not receive civil rights protection because their lifestyle is an "abomination against God." They argue that social support programs like Food Stamps and Welfare should be eliminated or reduced because, in their estimation, the recipients are not really deserving, or worse, are defrauding the government. Although the content of these beliefs is different, the structure of the beliefs are strikingly similar to thinking that lepers were being punished for their sins. It is a way of thinking based upon an assumption of moral superiority and self-righteousness. It is a way of thinking that "God loves me despite my flaws, sins and shortcomings, but God punishes you because you deserve it." This kind of thinking led some people to proclaim AIDS as a punishment for homosexuality. It is thinking on the same spectrum as that which led the Nazis to segregate, persecute and exterminate millions of Jews during World War II.
This way of thinking is making modern day lepers out of economically disadvantaged people in our nation, and around the world. It is creating life threatening circumstances and dangerous social environments for gay people here and across the globe. It underpins a very selfish effort by certain sectors of our populace to blame the victims of economic disparity. It is, perhaps, a psychological projection of their own evil natures and intentions onto people of differing socioeconomic status, or differing sexual and gender orientations. It is very much the kettle calling the pot black.
It demonstrates that what people believe changes with history and social context, but how they believe remains surprisingly consistent. If we hope to disrupt this kind of behavior, this hypocritical self-righteousness and self-piety, we need to examine it more closely; we need to understand why this kind of believing is a persistent feature of human thought.
© Francisco G. Rodriquez, 2017
As an example, from the days of Jesus all the way to St. Francis of Assisi, people with leprosy were shunned and avoided. The frightening physical manifestations of the disease were horrifying to see -- stumps of arms and fingers, horribly disfigured people, lesions and sores. It is easy to understand why people would be scared to be around, or in close contact, with lepers. As we know, lepers were often ostracized, forced to live outside the community, reviled and avoided by the "good" people of society.
In those days, leprosy was thought to be caused by sin. If a person had leprosy, it was because they deserved it. They were thought of as morally corrupt individuals, and their sins brought the disease upon them as punishment from God.
Neither Jesus nor St. Francis seemed to believe this, as both are known for healing or working among lepers. Of course, we know today that leprosy is a disease caused by a type of bacteria. So in retrospect, we know that people who believed lepers were sinners, and therefore deserving of the disease, were factually and historically wrong.
I see a similar kind of thinking among the so-called conservative and pseudo-religious wing of the modern Republican party. People of this ilk state plainly that poor people are poor because they deserve to be poor. They argue that gay people should not receive civil rights protection because their lifestyle is an "abomination against God." They argue that social support programs like Food Stamps and Welfare should be eliminated or reduced because, in their estimation, the recipients are not really deserving, or worse, are defrauding the government. Although the content of these beliefs is different, the structure of the beliefs are strikingly similar to thinking that lepers were being punished for their sins. It is a way of thinking based upon an assumption of moral superiority and self-righteousness. It is a way of thinking that "God loves me despite my flaws, sins and shortcomings, but God punishes you because you deserve it." This kind of thinking led some people to proclaim AIDS as a punishment for homosexuality. It is thinking on the same spectrum as that which led the Nazis to segregate, persecute and exterminate millions of Jews during World War II.
This way of thinking is making modern day lepers out of economically disadvantaged people in our nation, and around the world. It is creating life threatening circumstances and dangerous social environments for gay people here and across the globe. It underpins a very selfish effort by certain sectors of our populace to blame the victims of economic disparity. It is, perhaps, a psychological projection of their own evil natures and intentions onto people of differing socioeconomic status, or differing sexual and gender orientations. It is very much the kettle calling the pot black.
It demonstrates that what people believe changes with history and social context, but how they believe remains surprisingly consistent. If we hope to disrupt this kind of behavior, this hypocritical self-righteousness and self-piety, we need to examine it more closely; we need to understand why this kind of believing is a persistent feature of human thought.
© Francisco G. Rodriquez, 2017
Monday, May 15, 2017
Whispers
Lean into the silence
let loneliness fill the soul
Only when it is empty
can the heart be made whole
Wisdom is never shouted
it is whispered from within
Love is never doubted
nor lost in a madding din
Find quiet places
within and without
where listening is easy
and whispers resound
Be silent and be still
the universe will provide
be emptied and be filled
peace will enter and abide
© Francisco G. Rodriquez, 2017
nor lost in a madding din
Find quiet places
within and without
where listening is easy
and whispers resound
Be silent and be still
the universe will provide
be emptied and be filled
peace will enter and abide
© Francisco G. Rodriquez, 2017
Sunday, May 14, 2017
Marrow of Sadness
I have sucked the marrow of sadness
from the bones of broken relationships.
I have been thirsty for love that vanishes
like a water mirage in the distant heat.
This is the desert of advancing age,
where the slippery sands of past decisions
shift and glide beneath my feet,
and regret, like a scorpion, skitters and stings.
The horizon is open, boundless and humbling.
The sun is shining, merciless and bright.
The skeletons of past love and conquest
lay bleached by the burning white orb.
The days stretch into distant forever,
and nights are bitter, cold, and silent.
Still, I am alive, so I press onward;
lost, perhaps, but determined to survive.
So I suck the marrow of sadness
from the bones of broken relationships,
and take from that meager nourishment
the strength I need to finally make it home.
© Francisco G. Rodriquez, 2017
from the bones of broken relationships.
I have been thirsty for love that vanishes
like a water mirage in the distant heat.
This is the desert of advancing age,
where the slippery sands of past decisions
shift and glide beneath my feet,
and regret, like a scorpion, skitters and stings.
The horizon is open, boundless and humbling.
The sun is shining, merciless and bright.
The skeletons of past love and conquest
lay bleached by the burning white orb.
The days stretch into distant forever,
and nights are bitter, cold, and silent.
Still, I am alive, so I press onward;
lost, perhaps, but determined to survive.
So I suck the marrow of sadness
from the bones of broken relationships,
and take from that meager nourishment
the strength I need to finally make it home.
© Francisco G. Rodriquez, 2017
Saturday, May 13, 2017
Little Arms
How can such little arms
give such mighty hugs?
How have you captured
my heart with your
little smile?
My granddaughter.
The light of my eyes,
the breadth of my soul.
You are a blessing
like your mother before.
A tiny angel of joy,
with headstrong will
and an open heart.
You will be a titan,
an amazement of strength
and intelligent resolve.
Be kind to your mother,
she will always need your love.
Let God's beneficence
shine down on you
all the days of your life.
Promise to join me someday
far from now
in a place where pain and death
are but distant tales of yore.
And know that here in this life
I cherish the bounty of love I feel
every time you wrap me
in your powerful little arms.
© Francisco G. Rodriquez, 2017
give such mighty hugs?
How have you captured
my heart with your
little smile?
My granddaughter.The light of my eyes,
the breadth of my soul.
You are a blessing
like your mother before.
A tiny angel of joy,
with headstrong will
and an open heart.
You will be a titan,
an amazement of strength
and intelligent resolve.
Be kind to your mother,
she will always need your love.
Let God's beneficence
shine down on you
all the days of your life.
Promise to join me someday
far from now
in a place where pain and death
are but distant tales of yore.
And know that here in this life
I cherish the bounty of love I feel
every time you wrap me
in your powerful little arms.
© Francisco G. Rodriquez, 2017
Tuesday, March 28, 2017
Thursday, February 23, 2017
Expected Death
As I age, the death of close loved ones
begins to bear more weight.
When I witness the final days of someone
I have known for most of my life,
I feel eternity's presence
in a profound and very real way.
Time slows down just before,
and right after, someone passes.
Life takes on a surreal quality
as we move from death bed
to funeral home to grave side,
with barely a pause for breath
Expected deaths are horrible to experience,
staying the last few days with the dying,
seeing their body struggle instinctively to survive
long after the will to live has passed away
And afterward life
most cruelly
goes on.
After each death
I start playing the
death lottery.
Who will be next?
Will it be me?
Another brother or sister?
A friend, or someone else
I hold most dear?
As I watch my family and friends
being whittled down by time and death,
I can no longer escape the reality
that my own death is getting closer.
That is just the way things are.
Life is incomplete without death.
Time is meaningless unless it passes.
Love is forever only after it
ventures bravely into death's eternity.
begins to bear more weight.
When I witness the final days of someone
I have known for most of my life,
I feel eternity's presence
in a profound and very real way.
Time slows down just before,
and right after, someone passes.
Life takes on a surreal quality
as we move from death bed
to funeral home to grave side,
with barely a pause for breath
Expected deaths are horrible to experience,
staying the last few days with the dying,
seeing their body struggle instinctively to survive
long after the will to live has passed away
And afterward life
most cruelly
goes on.
After each death
I start playing the
death lottery.
Who will be next?
Will it be me?
Another brother or sister?
A friend, or someone else
I hold most dear?
As I watch my family and friends
being whittled down by time and death,
I can no longer escape the reality
that my own death is getting closer.
That is just the way things are.
Life is incomplete without death.
Time is meaningless unless it passes.
Love is forever only after it
ventures bravely into death's eternity.
Thursday, July 21, 2016
Unheard
How can I call myself a poet
if what I write is never seen?
Unshared.
Unpublished.
Unread.
My poems are mostly still born
living only on my computer
existing only in my balding head.
I have been content
allowing myself to be unheard,
having flattered myself endlessly
as a misunderstood word nerd.
The truth is I am frightened,
afraid my poems will be rejected,
or worse that they are boring
and my poesy disrespected.
Angelou says to trust the universe.
When you put it out there
it finds its way to the persons
most in need.
So that is why I keep trying,
even though no one ever
seems to understand.
if what I write is never seen?
Unshared.
Unpublished.
Unread.
My poems are mostly still born
living only on my computer
existing only in my balding head.
I have been content
allowing myself to be unheard,
having flattered myself endlessly
as a misunderstood word nerd.
The truth is I am frightened,
afraid my poems will be rejected,
or worse that they are boring
and my poesy disrespected.
Angelou says to trust the universe.
When you put it out there
it finds its way to the persons
most in need.
So that is why I keep trying,
even though no one ever
seems to understand.
Monday, November 02, 2015
Criss-Cross Heart
Fold a paper heart,
it leaves behind a crease.
When you flatten
that paper heart
the crease remains,
a lasting reminder
of the painful fold,
of losing love and
passion gone cold.
Now fold that paper heart
a dozen times or more,
then unfold it yet again
and see creases by the score.
That is the way of life,
of love, and painful losses,
each a crease upon the heart,
each a burden of crosses.
We cannot escape these
creases upon our hearts.
If we live, we are destined
to feel our lives torn apart.
Furrows upon a heart
are like wrinkles on a brain,
they are lessons we have learned
and knowledge we have retained.
So even though my heart is now
battered and scarred from many cuts,
I will hand it over again to new love
and tell myself that it is tough,
and can withstand being folded again.
it leaves behind a crease.
When you flatten
that paper heart
the crease remains,
a lasting reminder
of the painful fold,
of losing love and
passion gone cold.
Now fold that paper heart
a dozen times or more,
then unfold it yet again
and see creases by the score.
That is the way of life,
of love, and painful losses,
each a crease upon the heart,
each a burden of crosses.
We cannot escape these
creases upon our hearts.
If we live, we are destined
to feel our lives torn apart.
Furrows upon a heart
are like wrinkles on a brain,
they are lessons we have learned
and knowledge we have retained.
So even though my heart is now
battered and scarred from many cuts,
I will hand it over again to new love
and tell myself that it is tough,
and can withstand being folded again.
Sunday, November 01, 2015
Shine But No Substance
It was all shine
and no substance
the love I
felt for you
Glittering on the outside
flat gray underneath
it was wind
without trees
to slow it down
In retrospect
I wonder why
we ever loved at all
Perhaps it was
a young man's love
fueled more by
desire than by
depth of feeling
Even so I have no regrets
What we had was an
experience worth having
and no substance
the love I
felt for you
Glittering on the outside
flat gray underneath
it was wind
without trees
to slow it down
In retrospect
I wonder why
we ever loved at all
Perhaps it was
a young man's love
fueled more by
desire than by
depth of feeling
Even so I have no regrets
What we had was an
experience worth having
Friday, October 30, 2015
Driven by delusion
Perhaps I am wrong,
but I no longer care to be
driven by the delusion
that I make a difference
in the world.
The same ten commandments
that informed the morality
of the ancients are still
equally valid today.
People have not changed
their natures in over
5,000 years of recorded
human history.
Wars.
Hatred.
Murder.
Lying.
Cheating.
Stealing.
Adultery.
These are permanent
human character flaws.
Poverty.
Famine.
Starvation.
Illness.
Refugees.
Innocent children
riven by the
horns of political wars.
These are the facts
of human history
going beyond memory.
I used to think
that the bottle of water I bought,
or the shoes that I wore,
or the money I gave to faceless
charitable organizations would
actually make the world a
better place.
I know better now.
Many charities are profitable only
for the administrators of the organization.
And all socially conscious businesses
are simply marketing their wares
by other means.
So I no longer allow myself
the luxury of delusion
that my small, inconsequential
thoughts, actions or purchases
make a goddamn bit of difference
in this world.
People are as they will always be.
The world is the best that human
beings can make it, given their
perennially flawed behaviors.
Now, I exist moment by moment,
mourning the senseless bloodshed,
witnessing the self-serving political lies,
noticing the religiously self-righteous
who serve up hatred on a golden platter.
If there is an afterlife,
complete with a judgmental god,
I hope to hell that I get a chance
to tattle on all shit I have observed
during my travail in this world.
My revelation is that
long after I am dead,
the world will still be plagued
by wars, murder, hatreds and grief.
But maybe I am wrong.
but I no longer care to be
driven by the delusion
that I make a difference
in the world.
The same ten commandments
that informed the morality
of the ancients are still
equally valid today.
People have not changed
their natures in over
5,000 years of recorded
human history.
Wars.
Hatred.
Murder.
Lying.
Cheating.
Stealing.
Adultery.
These are permanent
human character flaws.
Poverty.
Famine.
Starvation.
Illness.
Refugees.
Innocent children
riven by the
horns of political wars.
These are the facts
of human history
going beyond memory.
I used to think
that the bottle of water I bought,
or the shoes that I wore,
or the money I gave to faceless
charitable organizations would
actually make the world a
better place.
I know better now.
Many charities are profitable only
for the administrators of the organization.
And all socially conscious businesses
are simply marketing their wares
by other means.
So I no longer allow myself
the luxury of delusion
that my small, inconsequential
thoughts, actions or purchases
make a goddamn bit of difference
in this world.
People are as they will always be.
The world is the best that human
beings can make it, given their
perennially flawed behaviors.
Now, I exist moment by moment,
mourning the senseless bloodshed,
witnessing the self-serving political lies,
noticing the religiously self-righteous
who serve up hatred on a golden platter.
If there is an afterlife,
complete with a judgmental god,
I hope to hell that I get a chance
to tattle on all shit I have observed
during my travail in this world.
My revelation is that
long after I am dead,
the world will still be plagued
by wars, murder, hatreds and grief.
But maybe I am wrong.
Thursday, June 25, 2015
The State of Your Heart
What is the state
of your heart?
Has love overtaken,
or has it forsaken
and left you afraid
of a fresh start?
Is your heart in it,
or do you prevent it
from being pierced
by Cupid's red dart?
What is the state
of your heart?
Remembering love
is not enough,
but are you ready
for emotion this sharp?
Or is your fear
now so dear
that you refuse to play
upon love's angelic harp?
Look long in the mirror
at your own graying face
before you answer or
move from this place.
Kairos passes by quickly
leaving behind remorse
and regret at missed
opportunities.
When lady love bends her
light in your direction,
should you even pause
long enough to wonder?
What is the state
of your heart?
of your heart?
Has love overtaken,
or has it forsaken
and left you afraid
of a fresh start?
Is your heart in it,
or do you prevent it
from being pierced
by Cupid's red dart?
What is the state
of your heart?
Remembering love
is not enough,
but are you ready
for emotion this sharp?
Or is your fear
now so dear
that you refuse to play
upon love's angelic harp?
Look long in the mirror
at your own graying face
before you answer or
move from this place.
Kairos passes by quickly
leaving behind remorse
and regret at missed
opportunities.
When lady love bends her
light in your direction,
should you even pause
long enough to wonder?
What is the state
of your heart?
Monday, June 22, 2015
Even If....
Even if love hurts
it is worth it
Love comes with
no guarantees
there are ups and downs
beginnings and endings
falling in love and
pulling ourselves out again
We live
we learn
we love
we burn
bridges back to
places we
no longer
care to go
We laugh
we cry
we give up
we try
and when we
are lucky
very lucky
we even manage
sometimes to
love until we die
But even if
love turns to ashes
even if our hearts
lose their gold
love is always worth it
for the ways that
it enriches our souls
it is worth it
Love comes with
no guarantees
there are ups and downs
beginnings and endings
falling in love and
pulling ourselves out again
We live
we learn
we love
we burn
bridges back to
places we
no longer
care to go
We laugh
we cry
we give up
we try
and when we
are lucky
very lucky
we even manage
sometimes to
love until we die
But even if
love turns to ashes
even if our hearts
lose their gold
love is always worth it
for the ways that
it enriches our souls
Friday, June 19, 2015
Non-Binary
Until there was you
I never knew
there was another
way of being
You taught me that
my binary world
was a world of
false choices
There are more options
than zeros and ones
blacks and whites
boys and girls
You inhabit a universe
of richly appointed paradox
where male and female abide
in perfect unity within the one
and grammar rules are rendered
meaningless for explaining
the non-binary gendered
You help me remember a time
when God was non-binary
dwelling in the houses of both
the holy mother and father
and the twain were as one
In their own image created God
male and female created them
and humans lived in perfect Eden
the dyad existing as monad
in a non-binary verse
antecedent of any curse
I never knew
there was another
way of being
You taught me that
my binary world
was a world of
false choices
There are more options
than zeros and ones
blacks and whites
boys and girls
You inhabit a universe
of richly appointed paradox
where male and female abide
in perfect unity within the one
and grammar rules are rendered
meaningless for explaining
the non-binary gendered
You help me remember a time
when God was non-binary
dwelling in the houses of both
the holy mother and father
and the twain were as one
In their own image created God
male and female created them
and humans lived in perfect Eden
the dyad existing as monad
in a non-binary verse
antecedent of any curse
Sunday, June 14, 2015
Velcro ®
Assisted living center,
interior early afternoon,
an old man pauses
while strapping up
his velcro ® strap shoe.
He looks at his wife
of many years
across the room,
and thinks about
their time together,
a long trail of joy, loss
success, failure, fears,
and smiles as she
buttons up her dress.
"You and I are like velcro ®"
he shouts so she can hear.
She gives him the look,
a slight shake of the head,
a shrug, and he understands
without words she is asking
what on earth he means.
"One side is roughed up fabric,"
he says while walking to her side,
the other shoe held in his hand.
"The other side is full of little
hooks, barbs and spears."
He pulls the velcro ® strap
across the top of his shoe,
making a ripping rasping sound.
"Neither side is perfect,"
he says now standing next to her.
"But it is the imperfections that
hold both sides together. It is
the imperfections that cause the
strap to hold and stick."
She looks at him and smiles.
"Our imperfections are what
made us a perfect match for all
these many years, and brought
us to this happy anniversary day."
She leans in and kisses him.
Just then a knock on the door,
their daughter come to drive
them to a celebration of their
decades long love.
The man quickly pulls on
his other shoe and tightens
the velcro ® strap,
then hand in hand they walk
through the door,
the man having
completely forgotten
both of his socks
laying on the floor.
interior early afternoon,
an old man pauses
while strapping up
his velcro ® strap shoe.
He looks at his wife
of many years
across the room,
and thinks about
their time together,
a long trail of joy, loss
success, failure, fears,
and smiles as she
buttons up her dress.
"You and I are like velcro ®"
he shouts so she can hear.
She gives him the look,
a slight shake of the head,
a shrug, and he understands
without words she is asking
what on earth he means.
"One side is roughed up fabric,"
he says while walking to her side,
the other shoe held in his hand.
"The other side is full of little
hooks, barbs and spears."
He pulls the velcro ® strap
across the top of his shoe,
making a ripping rasping sound.
"Neither side is perfect,"
he says now standing next to her.
"But it is the imperfections that
hold both sides together. It is
the imperfections that cause the
strap to hold and stick."
She looks at him and smiles.
"Our imperfections are what
made us a perfect match for all
these many years, and brought
us to this happy anniversary day."
She leans in and kisses him.
Just then a knock on the door,
their daughter come to drive
them to a celebration of their
decades long love.
The man quickly pulls on
his other shoe and tightens
the velcro ® strap,
then hand in hand they walk
through the door,
the man having
completely forgotten
both of his socks
laying on the floor.
Kissing You
Kissing you
makes me smile
and forget my worries
for a while
The sparkle in
your deep dark eyes
skips my heart
I am hypnotized
Joie de vivre
and fireworks too
all because
I am kissing you
makes me smile
and forget my worries
for a while
The sparkle in
your deep dark eyes
skips my heart
I am hypnotized
Joie de vivre
and fireworks too
all because
I am kissing you
Saturday, June 13, 2015
First Firefly
I saw the first firefly
of the season tonight
and it reminded me of
when you kids would
spend warm summer evenings
laughing loudly and running
through backyards
and lamplight streets
catching fireflies
and making lifelong friends
Holding the glow in your tiny hands
you marveled at how nature created
wondrous and mysterious little
stars that flew on invisible wings
through youthful summer nights
And I marveled at how lucky
I was to have my own little stars
sitting in my lap and laughing at
silly things said and done
and placing tiny hands inside
the hand of their father
who held on to his children
and wished on flying stars
that it would never end
of the season tonight
and it reminded me of
when you kids would
spend warm summer evenings
laughing loudly and running
through backyards
and lamplight streets
catching fireflies
and making lifelong friends
Holding the glow in your tiny hands
you marveled at how nature created
wondrous and mysterious little
stars that flew on invisible wings
through youthful summer nights
And I marveled at how lucky
I was to have my own little stars
sitting in my lap and laughing at
silly things said and done
and placing tiny hands inside
the hand of their father
who held on to his children
and wished on flying stars
that it would never end
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