Tuesday, December 30, 2014

do you love me more than these?

Your promise is not an easy one:
For your promise is simply this:
 I am with you.
In sickness and in health,
In riches and poverty.
I am with you.

Your promise is not an easy one:
that if I would descend to the depths of the netherworld,
that if I would end up alone and lonely in the cold,
that if I would end up deserted, beached on the lonely
shores of failure,
your promise would be unbroken.

These bridal vows, lifted
from Solomon's Song,
are renewed today, this Christmas day,
And all the days that follow it.
This sweet and solemn covenant
That you offer to me,
Freely, of your own volition,
Awes me, humbles me,
And frightens me.
That there can exist a love so great,
A mercy so limitless,
And I am so limited in scope,
So truncated in imagination,
That I can hardly understand
But can only respond:
with the words:
You know that I love you.

I hardly even know it,
Most days I cannot believe it,
But you--and perhaps only you--
You know that I love you.
I do not "wish" to love you,
I do not "try" to love you,
I do not "hope to one day fully love you,"
You know that I do--in fact--love you.
And that truth by which I live my life
Is all the promise
I can muster in return for yours.

Saturday, December 27, 2014

ode to homes of Christmas past

before the images fade from view:
remember the tea kettle--
the sweet little red tea kettle,
cheerfully brewing your tea--
and the way that the tea cupboard looked
and the smell of searching for baked goods
in the pantry.

Imagine, for just a second,
if it will not break your heart,
the dip in the floor on the first step down
from the landing.
Remember the curve of the couches,
and the feel of the pillows sliding off
the slick leather,
and laughing because we store
the vitamins and wine in the same cabinet.

Recall the blue curtains on the French doors
and the table cloth from Ecuador,
or the one from Kolkata,
the international coasters--
touching Istanbul
and Madrid as you clean
the living room--
I. Am. India.

Feel for a second the feeling
of hanging your keys on the
row of pegs that always falls down,
and the satisfaction of all the mugs
lined up like little ducklings
on the kitchen ledge.
Remember punching in the
security code, pressing "Away"
when someone was still sleeping
Think of the feel of the carpet,
as you rolled around, laughing.
Remember the dinners with wine,
guitars and ukuleles singing.
And think of your thermostat,
taking the temperature of our home and hearts.

Who was crabby?
Who needed tea?
Who needed a knock on the door
and a listening ear?--
Or a shoulder to cry on or
just a bit of space to breathe.
Who was out shopping for retail
Who had been gone from home since
And who was doing homework
late in the library?

The clutter on the kitchen counter
and the stacks of junk mail
always needing to be thrown away
were a lot more manageable
when living with four
broken images of the divine,
who each day, filled my cup
with tea and joy-
a good measure, pressed down,
shaken together and spilling over
into the spaces of my heart
that retain the memories
of how our kitchen smelled
of avocado toast and warm, sweet candles.

Friday, December 26, 2014

on the second day of Christmas

...my true love gave to me:

lots of lights.


Simple dog, simple joys

Thursday, December 25, 2014

when ages beyond number had run their course

The most challenging part of this piece for me was the second line of text having to do with the Virgin Mary. She above all was chosen to bear the Christ child and then she endured the horror and sorrow of his death on the cross. 
How can her significance and suffering be portrayed musically? 

 After exploring several paths, I decided to depict this by a single note. 
On the word "Virgo," the altos sing a dissonant appoggiatura G-sharp. It's the only tone in the entire work that is foreign to the main key of D. That note stands out against a consonant backdrop as if a sonic light has suddenly been focused upon it, edifying its meaning. 

It is the most important note in the piece.

--Morten Lauridsen, "It’s a Still Life That Runs Deep: The Influence of Zurbaran’s Still Life With Lemons, Oranges and a Rose on Morten Lauridsen’s Composition 'O Magnum Mysterium',"
Wall Street Journal,  February 2009

Christmas has always been a time that is steeped in traditions.
Growing up, we had many beautiful traditions: my mother made us matching Christmas pajamas; we had an annual ornament hunt; we made oodles of traditional cookies; we watched the traditional Christmas movies; we celebrated all the feasts in Advent that are so familiar and comfortable--Our Lady of Guadalupe, Santa Lucia, St. Nicholas Day; and we crafted gargantuan gingerbread creations (among whose ranks were the Titanic, a functioning lighthouse, a windmill, a full-size Candy Land board, to name a few).

Now that we are all growing up and growing older and growing away--spreading out of our house like pumpkin vines shooting over autumn leaves--our traditions remain, but in more subdued forms. They are not as necessary or important, they seem. Somehow, it is just our presence together that is important. And our traditions shape that time together, but they are not the point nor the purpose.

Last year began a new tradition for me, as it was the first time I think I'd ever heard Morten Lauridsen's O Magnum Mysterium at Mass. I think. I can't be sure, because the melody sounds like every single heartbeat that's ever coursed through my body. So definitively pin-pointing when was the first time I heard it exactly is a bit difficult.

Last night, at Mass, the choir sang O Holy Night, Lo, How a Rose E'er Blooming, etc. Songs that would formerly have satisfied me. But now, I think, Lauridsen's piece has spoilt me. I will no longer be able to celebrate Christmas properly without listening to O Magnum Mysterium (on repeat, of course).
I will never find another piece that truly encapsulates Christmas as Lauridsen's O Magnum Mysterium does.
None. Ever. Again. In. My. Life.

The wonder of Christmas is partly derived from the utter insanity it is, to think that one human life matters so much that still, thousands of years later, one man rises in front of a congregation to proclaim that, in this specific time:
in the one hundred and ninety-fourth Olympiad; in the year seven hundred and fifty-two since the foundation of the City of Rome; in the forty-second year of the reign of Caesar Octavian Augustus, 
there was this cataclysmic event: God entered into the world of men. The world seems to shiver at such a momentous thought: that grace Himself has entered the world, entered into the story of humanity, has become a player in history like you and I. How can the story be the same after that? How can we be so magnificent to believe that such particular, quantifiable events have such cosmic implications? And yet, there we gather, listening to the man announce the fullness of time.

 The Word--eternal, mighty, consubstantial (oh comforting word! Word that assures us that no other being but God Himself was sent to save us) with the Father--came into our midst through the lowly portal of a woman's uterus, was born as a weak, helpless, innocent child, at the mercy of--well, everything. What baby can survive in the world if she is not tended to ceaselessly, nurtured tirelessly, and cherished, caressed, comforted, made to feel safe?

In his motet, Lauridsen somehow captures not only the immense wonder and glory of today, but also its heartbreak, and the momentous suffering and hardship that it portends.
Mary, writes Caryll Houselander (and I will poorly paraphrase her here), by giving Christ His humanity, has already started Him off on the journey that will end in the cross.
Here, even in the joyous celebration of new life, death is imminent; for this journey that begins today will eventually lead to a cross.
And yet, on this dark night, on this cold day, lit by thousands of little lights, and the warm glow of family surrounding one another, there is a love so real that it still reverberates through our world today.
It is a love that never fails.
Today, sorrows of the cross on the horizon are trumped by the sheer wonder of this love that has made itself so weak, in order to enter so intimately into this human family. It might give us pause to remember that this baby we adore, so innocent, fragile, and love-able, will hang as the man of sorrows--the afflicted servant--on Golgotha one day for our sake.
That is the moment that is captured in Lauridsen's appoggiatura g-sharp--a sharp, stinging grace note that sets the pure wonder of the day in high relief.
So we keep all these things, marveling at everything that we have heard and seen, pondering them in our hearts.

Wednesday, December 24, 2014

whom canines sigh for

I see him, though not now; 
I behold him, though not near:
--Numbers 24: 17

Our psychotic puppy has become fascinated by lights.
Which, it being Christmas-tide, are [in]conveniently sprinkled all over our house.
He has become particularly entranced by the lights that hang above our kitchen cabinets.
Accordingly, he has set up camp right in the small pathway between the counter and the cabinets, staring up at the lights. Which, is obviously a ginormous inconvenience for the rest of us, who have to maneuver around him.
As he stares up at the lights, his limbs shaking (which is disturbing), his pupils widening in a really concerning way, he whimpers a bit, and begins to pant, utterly transfixed by the unblinking glow of the icicle lights that hang from our ceiling.
We haven't timed him yet, but it looks like--if left undisturbed-- he could go on staring at the lights for potentially an eternity.
Sometimes, his excitement overwhelms him, and he runs away from the lights, then runs back, as if he was expecting them to have disappeared or changed somehow. Then he cocks his head to one side, and his ear folds back on itself, making him look officially deranged. And he keeps staring.

We keep trying to find other things to attract his attention, since he looks absolutely psychotic staring up at the Christmas lights all day long. The smell of fresh pizza from the oven was about the only thing that did it.

While sitting at our kitchen table, looking for inspiration, my eyes landed on our dog (desperate times, desperate measures), and I instantly thought of those words of Balaam's prophecy. Perhaps, I thought, that is what living in a truly liturgical posture looks like: eyes transfixed on the light, unmoved and undeterred by the frantic attempts of others to distract us. A star shall rise from Jacob, quoth Balaam, and those whose eyes remain fixed upon the horizon will be the first to see it.

On that note, I'm going to go take our dog on a run now. Because staring at a Christmas light for hours on end has got to do a number on one's psychological health.

Tuesday, December 23, 2014

you say I am blessed because of this

If He does not remove those vexations, we do not suppose ourselves to be neglected by Him, but rather, in patient endurance of evil, hope to be made partakers of greater good, for so His strength is perfected in our weakness. 
Letter 130 of St. Augustine to Proba, Chapter 14, 26.

This Advent, I have found myself more often than not, truly vexed.
I was annoyed at the man in the unmarked black van who offered me a ride ("Where're you going? airport? downtown? uptown?") when I was waiting for the bus. (Seriously? Really? Oh perfect, I was actually just waiting for an unmarked van to kidnap me thank goodness you arrived.)
I was perplexed by the ease and routine with which humans can lie and take advantage of one another.
I was distraught by the violence and the injustice that seems to be ceaselessly perpetuated, world without end, one human against another.
I was frustrated by the commercialism of the Christmas season in New York City.
While the Rockefeller Center tree, the ice-skating, and the pop-up shops in Bryant Park are all lovely, and I enjoy walking by the clever window displays in Lord & Taylor and Saks 5th Avenue as much as the next person (and grumbling about "tourists blocking up the sidewalk" grumble, grumble), they are not quite the point. They are like cream cheese on a really good bagel. Really good bagels don't need cream cheese. If you have a really good bagel, then cream cheese is just a nice additional fun thing. But if you have lived on crappy bagels all your life (as I have for the majority of my life), then you're going to live in the delusion of thinking that cream cheese is a vital part of eating a bagel.
When, really, nothing could be farther from the truth.
Really good bagels don't need cream cheese; and Christmas doesn't need to have any fancy window displays or glitter to be Christmas.
(Oh this is very Seussian: Maybe Christmas, he thought, doesn't come from a store. Maybe Christmas...perhaps... means a little bit more. Let's see if I can steer this poor post away from a sloppy Death by Sentiment)
I'm not trying to be a Grinch, because I love sparkly lights and holiday-ish razzle-dazzle. I love all of it. It's magical and marvelous, and it puts a bounce in my step on a day that I'm dragging my feet (usually. Unless I'm walking behind a someone who's laden down with shopping bags. Then it's grumble grumble commercialism grumble grumble.)
But it's not the point, and I think a lot of people are rightly frustrated by Christmas, when the only sort of Christmas they see is a lights display on 5th Avenue, carols blasting over H&M's loudspeaker, and weekend sales at Tiffany's.
What is the point of this sort of Christmas, this rather excessive display? When the world is so full of vexation and injustice, full of murder and mayhem.

If only, perhaps, we would look a little harder, we would see a little child born--not unto a wealthy brownstone on Upper West Side, or an apartment on East 63rd and 5th--not born in the midst of splashy displays of Palestinian wealth, but inside a humble stable. I think of this stable every time I pass the grungy garage next to the bodega down the block.
I would not want to give birth to a child in that garage, nor would I want to spend the night in that garage with my first born. And in fact, I think if there were a donkey and an ox inside that barn with me, I would throw a hissy fit instead of "pondering all these things in my heart." There would be words, and I'm not talking about the good tidings of great joy kind. I would be one incredibly peeved theotokos. 
But that is what Christmas is about: that God entered the world in the midst of inconvenience and discomfort, in the midst of trial and tribulation instead of comfort and glamour.
Christ did not come to dispel all inequality and injustice--if only it were that simple. If only God could wave a magic wand and turn us into automatons that treated each other with kindness and love all the time, and were selfless instead of selfish. Rather, Christ chose to enter the world to assure the victims of inequality that they are not alone; He came to enter into the struggle for justice on the side of the underdog. Which, if that was Christmas is all about, it seems to me to be a very relevant sort of holiday for our world, a world rife with violence, unrest, confusion, and despair.

Then, perhaps the moments this Advent when I have been most indignant, frustrated, annoyed, confused, perplexed, and pissed-off are the moments where I have been truly preparing myself for Christmas.
Those are the moments I have been acknowledging how broken our world is--and how broken I myself am--and how I need a savior so desperately, along with the rest of this mess of a globe.
If only this was what we thought of when someone wished us a Merry Christmas:
May, in all your moments of darkness, of sadness, of great pain, you understand that the one to whom you cry is right beside you--that God has truly come to dwell with you. 
Now. Here. In the intimate particular of our lives.

Monday, December 22, 2014

an ode to Minnesota

I tear through the Philadelphia airport,
my feet racing to my next gate
(just a few moments to spare!),
the gate that will take me home to
the Winter Wonderland of my origin.
I think I am in love with Philadelphia,
simply because she is not New York.
I grin like a dope as I speed-walk
through the terminals,
And I think "God only Knows"
plays in my head and I understand
the magic of traveling home.
I make it to my plane (woo!)
And fall asleep next to a skinny man
with a ukulele and a perfectly trimmed beard.
I let the sea of clouds and patches
of farmland roll under the wing of the aircraft
unheeded and unwatched, because I must
hibernate until we reach the Lindbergh terminal.
The dust of Minnesotan shores kisses my feet,
and I am tempted to bow down and kiss
the neatly tiled floors of D'Amico & Sons,
shining like a diamond in a bog,
because it is the most Minnesotan of all corner cafés,
and I beam at every single person I meet,
and they smile back, but we're too concerned about
respecting each other's personal space to say: "good morning"
so we just smile, because we want to assure them that we
wish them well, and hope they have a Merry Christmas,
or whatever holiday they celebrate.
But let's be honest, it's probably Christmas,
with lots of jello mold and lutefisk,
and grandpa baking blueberry pie while grandma stokes the fire--
real fire, with real logs in a real fireplace--that sends
swirls of smoke up into the crisp, navy-blue night sky,
cut by the teeth-like shadows of evergreen trees
which surround their modest house.
Everyone I pass is slender, tall, and tow-haired;
even the Jewish man with yarmulke and ritual fringes
looks like he descended from some Nordic god.
They are denizens of the snowy north.
The shitty upholstery of the Minneapolis-St. Paul airport
is a welcome sight to city-sore eyes.
It is blessèd because it is a part of this fair city:
clean, comfortable, and each person looks
like they belong in the wild outdoors,
kayaking or biking along the Grand Rounds
in summertime by Minnehaha.
And then I come home to my cul-de-sac,
And all our halls are decked with Christmas decorations.
And inside my refrigerator there are
peanut butter chocolate chip scones.
Oh, truly, there is a balm in Gilead.

Sunday, December 21, 2014

it pulls you down away from me

I've given everyone I know
A good reason to go
I was surprised you stuck around
--Fun. "All Alright"

I am wearied of dispensing kisses
like Pez candy to small boys,
Who gobble each up greedily,
With unwearying, grasping hands.
I have grown tired of lending kisses,
borrowing them to moochers
who never have the kindness
to eventually return the smooches,
Who fail to prove lendees with security,
Leaving a woeful and empty-handed lender,
Grown cynic by much usery.
This world's is too greedy for this peasant king,
I am coming home to Ithaca,
To make an honest woman of me yet.

I swore one warm June night,
As I watched the fireflies dart through
The still night air,
That I would remember me how much
My kisses mean.
I am through, I said,
Of inconsequential meetings of
flesh and tongue,
rendered without meaning.
I would never lie with an injurious tongue,
Then why--oh why--is my body such a perjurer,
Speaking in a language full of falsity?
When untrue words pass my lips, I blush,
And stammer, ashamed of me for professing
Something I am not.
So now my body must be held to a standard,
higher and purer, deeper and more true,
A newer banner of integrity.
I am coming home to Ithaca,
To make an honest woman of me yet.

And the next time I am on your shores,
I will disembark more gracefully,
Knowing that my ship has sailed
through stormy waters,
but has followed your lighthouse faithfully,
a homing beacon straight to Ithaca.
Unlike the schemer Odysseus,
wily and untrue,
Waylaid by Circes and Calypsos,
Distracted by the privileges of
Ancient men,
Lording over each new island empire
With my hubris and my chiseled Grecian chest,
I set my course for your loom and chamber,
Not to be deterred.
With steady heart, I gaze to the horizon,
Searching for the tumbled coastline
Of your shores.
I am coming home to Ithaca,
To make an honest woman of me yet.

Friday, December 19, 2014

an ounce of twenty-twenty vision

Walking away, I think:
How do I--
I am interrupted
By me,
Endless Me,
Stretching over the sidewalk,
Curling around wrought-iron railings,
Filling up the City landscape,
From Battery Park to 180th Street.
There I am.
A lot of Me.
Spilling out
Of every empty crevice,
That I hope
Will contain
A You.

Wednesday, December 17, 2014

shimmering reality underneath

"Art uncovers relations that ordinary seeing and experiencing obscure or even deny."
--Rowan Williams, Grace & Necessity

On my walk to work each day, I pass a young girl outside her apartment building.
Some days, she is with her brother, who runs faster than she does, and can cross the street in one big bound. Some days, she is just exiting the front door, while her mother stands and watches. Some days she is standing by the traffic signal, her body braced against the cold. Some days, she is playing with the newspaper box and singing softly to herself.

The first days, when I would pass her, I would smile with my eyes, but, both of us being shy of one another, we wouldn't say anything. But acknowledge this stranger sharing our street. Then, after a few weeks, I would smile with my mouth and my eyes. And she would smile back. Now, when we pass, I wave and say good morning. And she says hello back, but doesn't wave. And I feel the sisterhood that arises when you encounter another person in the midst of an anonymous city; a kinship of humanness in the crush of the machine. Somehow the repetition of a person in your day makes them more real. They exist in a pattern outside of yours, an independent movement that intersects with your own. It is endlessly jarring to find yourself constantly bumping into them.

But jarring in a way that jolts you out of the complacency of self-absorption. Jarring in a way that reminds you: wake up! The world is rife with humans living out their stories. Jarring in a way that encourages you to look more closely at the world around you.
Because if you look closely, you'll see messages graffitied on the sidewalk.
You'll see rows of brownstones reflecting the rain water.
You'll see the sunrise over the East river, turning the sky into a mottled mural of carmine and gentle amber.
You'll see the world rising into activity out of the slumber of the night, slowly bustling down the quiet streets that bleed into the chaos of midtown.
You'll hear the train rumbling by overhead on the elevated tracks, and you'll watch the rainwater drip off of tunnels.
You'll smell the sweet rolls and the tacquerias and the bodegas making something or other.

The world is such a rolling, roiling mass of senses and sensory experiences, washing over you as you clip-clop down the sidewalk.
It is so easy to get lost in the ocean of everything all around you.
Encountering another person is like a lonely scuba diver finding another diver underneath the waves.
Can you imagine what a surprise that would be? As one is expecting only sting-rays and keeping company with clownfish, to find, amid the coral reef, an inmistakable human face and form, someone kindred to yourself in the midst of the foreign and the alien.
And I imagine these two underwater travelers, too, would wordlessly smile and wave, and then part ways to follow their path beneath the sea.

Sunday, December 14, 2014


Her mother carefully folded together the newspaper into the shape of a delicate little ship. She stood on the edge of the bridge, clinging to the railing. Her eyes wandered back and forth between the clear blue water below, and her mother's hands, swiftly and delicately crafting a small bark out of the paper, the newsprint smudging from the warmth of her fingertips.
Gently, tenderly, her mother tucked in the corners, smoothed out the creases, opened a flap here, made two corners meet one another, until she had crafted a dear little ship.
The small girl eagerly reached for the newspaper craft, but her mother checked her hungry motion for but a moment.
Behind her mother, the black-eyed Susans swayed in the summer wind. Her mother reached for two flowers, and stuck them in the prow of the boat, two glad little banners to celebrate the christening of their small paper boat.
One for your wish, said her mother, and one for mine.
The child closed her eyes and wished very hard.
For the new doll that she had seen in the department store window.
For her father to bring mints home with him from the office tonight.
For her sister to not eat the last leftover slice of birthday cake.
For summer holiday to last forever.
For her mother to never grow older, so that they could always run together in the park, and make paper boats on their favorite bridge together.
What are your wishes, Mama? the girl asked her mother.
Her mother smiled.
I wished, she said, that our little boat will sail very far before the water soaks it through.
What will happen, asked the girl, when the water soaks through it?
It will sink, said the mother.
The girl was disappointed. She had hoped their boat would sail down the stream all the way down to the river.
She had heard that the river reached to the ocean. But she could hardly believe that such an ordinary thing as her river reached all the way to something so grand and full of occasion as the shores of the ocean.
How far will our boat go, Mama? asked the girl.
Let's follow it and find out.
The girl leaned over the railing of the bridge, and held the boat out over the edge.
Her fingers trembled, as she felt the immense anticipation of a boat on the eve of its maiden voyage and its doom.
She let it fall, and it landed with a miniature splash on the crystal surface of the stream.
She ran down in front of her mother to the creek's bank.
The small current carried the boat gently away from them, but not so fast that they could not keep pace.
The girl and her mother followed the boat as long as the boat could stay afloat, which was not, sadly, for long.
As they reached the third bend in the creek bank, the boat, saturated with water, slowed, and began to sink in a whirlpool, underneath the rippling water.
The girl watched, dismayed, at the ending of her toy, and yet she was surprised to feel inside her heart a certain, small grain of satisfaction.
Why, Mama, am I sad that our boat has sunk. And yet, the fact that it is gone now still makes me happy?
It has come to its natural conclusion, her mother said, with a trace of sadness in her voice.
That small twinge of sadness made the girl look up into her mother's eyes.
But the eyes were smiling, although they shimmered as they reflected the sunlight on the water.
So the girl said nothing, but watched as the two yellow flowers bobbed on the surface of the stream, their petals floating on the current, small promises that their wishes would one day reach the sea.

Saturday, December 13, 2014

reeds and trees

Because a man 
Even if he be wise, feels no disgrace 
In learning many things, in taking care 
Not to be over-rigid. 
You have seen 
Trees on the margin of a stream in winter: 
Those yielding to the flood save every twig, 
And those resisting perish root and branch. 
--Antigone, Sophocles

The other day, my friend reminded me of a sad story from last January. And it caused me to reflect on how full of sadness and difficulty this past year really was. It is so easy to forget that it was a year of hardship, because it was also a year of great joy. And the joy sticks in my mind more permanently than the sorrow.

But as I pondered last winter, I thought of one night as I sat with a crying friend in the beautiful Walsh chapel. In front of us was the beautiful stained glass window of the Visitation: Mary reaching out to embrace Elizabeth, who echoed her cousin's open arms of welcome. We mimicked the image by holding one another: but no one uttered any Magnificats.

He uses such strange material for His purposes, why it is that lives which, judged by our standards, are tragic and frustrated may, in fact, be the most glorious.”--Caryll Houselander

It felt strange and unexpected, to be so at a loss just when we felt so assured of ourselves. Four years of careful growth had formed us into slender stalks of healthy wheat, ready for the harvest, full-grown, standing tall and strong. All of a sudden, the soil that we were planted was broken up by the rough hand of the tiller.
It hurts; it is confusing to find yourself being churned in with the rich loam, the plow dragging your strong stalk down to earth, when you are just beginning to bear fruit.

And yet, what a beautiful gift to be given: to have to start over again, just when you have reached your prime. Just as you are beginning to find your feet, to walk, the rug is pulled out from underneath you, and you find yourself back to crawling. It is a gift most welcome, even if it is a difficult on to bear.

And I think I will hold on to that image for a long time: of being comfortable, secure in myself, my world, my status, my community; and then suddenly feeling myself uprooted and unsure. It is a reminder that there are very few things in life that one can hold onto with the assurance that they will always be there.

But there is an uprooting, a plowing, a razing that occurs naturally in life. A burning of the underbrush that helps a forest grow. All the seasons in life include a season of death. And this season of death leads to a season of renewal.

Friday, December 12, 2014

without cost you have received

It’s easy to love a deer
But try to care about bugs and scrawny trees
Love the puddle of lukewarm water
From last week’s rain.
-- "Love for Other Things", Tom Hennen

I stepped off the stone steps, onto the sidewalk, then into the stream of traffic. My sneakers were itching for a run, and I was ready to dart through Central Park's paths, feeling the wind fly under my legs and the world move more swiftly beneath my feet. As I stepped off the sidewalk into the crosswalk, I passed a man with a walker.

The walker seemed to be a barely functioning aide to him, as he dragged his feet along underneath him. Uncooperative, his legs wobbled as they managed step after torturous step. I slowed my gazelle's gallop down until I was walking next to him--paused for a moment--my motion suspended as his own movement checked mine.

Excuse me, sir, I asked: Do you need a hand at all?
With what? I mentally responded to myself.
It seems rude to ask someone if they need assistance, because you're poking through their exterior veneer of poise and self-possession. You are saying: I couldn't help but notice you look as if you aren't quite as in control of this situation as you would like to be; I couldn't help but notice that you are vulnerable. Pointing out someone's vulnerability is hardly a kindness, is it?

But perhaps that is because I am too in love with my own veneer of invulnerability, my own desire to appear unbreakable and unstoppable. Perhaps I am just projecting this tendency of mine to discourage any helping hand onto my fellow sisters and brothers all around me.

This man looked up, a smile breaking on his face.
Oh no, he said. I'm fine.
But he smiled. And I smiled.
And so I walked with him across the crosswalk, at his pace. A slow, laborious pace, where each step took effort, and each footfall was a victory. The red hand went up before we were halfway across, and the headlights of the cars lined up on the edge of the crosswalk looked menacing, as they prepared to roar across the white lines demarcating our zone of safety. So I walked with him, honored for a moment to play Simon opposite his Savior.

When we finally landed from our perilous crossing on the concrete port of the sidewalk, I asked him if there was anywhere else I could walk with him.
Oh no, he responded, as he made his way to the library. It's a bit of a struggle, isn't it?  But, you know, life," he said, "is a struggle."

So he walked to the library, and I ran off to the park.
And I thought of how very important it is to stop and walk with someone who is walking at a slower pace. Because when I grow up, and my feet can no longer leap across central park hills and quickly dodge yellow taxis, I hope that someone will walk with me, as I drag my uncooperative limbs to the library, and perhaps I can share with them a line of wisdom that my years of living has taught me. And maybe they will walk away, as I did, with the witness of my struggle impressed in their minds, and the strength of my spirit instructing their hearts.

So thank God for men with walkers, whose hurting feet and steady pace teaches us novices how to walk with the Lord.

Wednesday, December 10, 2014

nubes pluant justum

God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, 
courage to change the things I can,
and wisdom to know the difference.

Familiar words, right?
The Serenity Prayer is perhaps one of the most well-known modern prayers, made famous by its ubiquitous presence on the covers of Barnes & Nobles journals and Hallmark trapper keepers. And usually that's where the quote ends.

But wait, there's more.

Reinhold Niebuhr, of Union Theological Seminary penned the famous prayer, but he did not just write those three short lines. He writes on:
...and wisdom to know the difference,
living one day at a time, enjoying one moment at a time,

A call to live in the present. How beautiful and timely.

...accepting hardship as the pathway to peace.

Just today we heard that Christ's yoke is easy and His burden light. But how foreign this idea is to our world. That suffering and pain--perhaps meaningless and pointless, unjust and burdensome suffering and pain can be the avenue to our salvation. This is the hope that the Christian story brings: that all suffering, even the most cruel and unjust, can become our pathway to hope. If we look at the story of Christ we see that He lived out this truth. His death was untimely, immeasurably cruel, and a senseless act of violence. The Resurrection does not erase that fact, it does not erase the cruelty and the evil; rather, it opens up an avenue of life that is beyond the reach of all evil. But this new union with God, with light and with life as made by possible by Christ is crucial if our suffering is to mean anything. Without the Cross and Resurrection, our suffering is senseless, but through both, God has entered into every ugly part of our life and turned it into an opportunity for grace and new life.

Taking as Jesus did this sinful world as it is,
not as I would have it, trusting that he will make all things right
if I surrender to his will

Last Friday, I marched with so many people who were frustrated, tired, angry, and saddened by innocent death and the lack of justice in our world.
As we lay under the Christmas tree in Bryant Park, a sad December rain poured down on our faces.
And the words of Isaiah came to mind:
Drop down, ye heavens, from above, and let the skies pour down the Just One.
(Is 45:8)
Our world, so broken, so hungry and tired for justice, was begging for that rain.
In that moment, the great sadness and beauty of Advent hit my rain with the force of a rainstorm.
There I was, among people who walked in darkness, yearning to see a great light, yearning for a Savior to come into this broken world.
But He is already here.
Christ has not stopped massacres and injustices, rather He has suffered them Himself. He has undergone the pain of being a victim of injustice and violence. Because when you love someone, there is no part of their life in which you will not share. Is that comforting?
Perhaps it is a harsher sort of comfort, a more dearly bought serenity.

that I may be reasonably happy in this life
and supremely happy with him forever in the next.
--Reinhold Niebuhr, Serenity Prayer

Tuesday, December 9, 2014

the world's only realist

“He never even suggests that pain will be banished from the world. Still less does he exalt himself above it in transports of pity or enthusiasm. With customary realism, he looks it straight in the eye; he never loses courage, never grows tired or disappointed. The sympathetic, all-comprehending heart of Jesus Christ is stronger than pain."
--The Lord, Romano Guardini

You understand-
your realism is stronger than any other, harder truth.
And the harsh breaking of it hurts my heart,
as it runs along the train tracks,
squeaking like nails across steel.

The tenderness of the lights
is like a punch to the guts.
The sweetness of the music
is the sound of scissors snipping,
severing our last life-line.
I watch the words fade into the clouds
like I watch the world's last ship
fade into the waves,
mounting higher,
gaping aquatic Rockies,
bound to swallow us whole.

And so I take the very last poem
and dip it into the salty trough of water,
just as a wave crests to meet my hand,
and watch as the very fragile paper--
more delicate than you
predicted it would be--
succumbs to the rippling
fingers of water
that rush through its fibers,
ripping the ink from the weaving,
tearing the words from the web,
and running with them,
back into the ocean.

Reality's a cruel mistress,
but I have dodged her
slings and arrows long enough.
I steel myself for the very worse,
screw up my resolve
to just below the sticking place,
leaving a small thread
of space
for you to have some leeway.

With a sigh,
the sonnet sinks beneath the
roiling plain of stormy blue.
And I watch,
as it floats past my reach,
and back to you.

Monday, December 8, 2014

well how CAN this be?

"Once we see this clearly, we realize that for Jesus, the problem is quite a different one. He sees the mystery of suffering much more profoundly--deep at the root-tip of human existence, and inseparable from sin and estrangement from God. He knows it to be the door in the soul that leads to God, or that at least can lead to him; result of sin but also means of purification and return."
--The Lord, Romano Guardini

The first reading of Mass today is one of the top 100 Bible Passages that is in the most danger, I think, of becoming rote.
This passage, which is the moment in the third chapter of Genesis when God encounters Adam post-fall.
If you listen to the actual story, not just letting the words sweep over you, but actually sink into you, you'll hear something so tender and tragic and moving that today's feast will be brought into high relief.
So: first we have the call of God to Adam. The Creator of the Universe, calling out to His most beloved creation, this man into whom He breathed His own life, into whom He imparted such a great deal of Himself. This man has gone missing, has intentionally hid Himself from God.
When called, Adam steps forth, and tries to explain why he was hiding. Despite trying to create an elaborate excuse that rationally explains his actions, the reasoning behind his actions that Adam shares is a damning account. Well, Adam stutters, I hid because I was naked. One can't just walk around naked. Aren't I wise? Now I know that being naked is Not a Thing.

I don't know about you, but I find myself mimicking this particular action of Adam's far too often. Instead of just simply owning up to a wrongdoing, admitting to myself: "I did this. This was wrong and I freely chose to do it", I come up with so many excuses, elaborate arguments to hide my own actions, by own being from myself. Sometimes self-awareness is too daunting a prospect for our souls to take on, so we, like Adam, hid the real reason for our avoidance of the Lord. Why were we really hiding? We stutter, like Adam, for some reason trying to pretend that our selfish grasping was not actually that. It was something wise of us, really, wasn't it? Wasn't it? Or,  at least, natural?

But God gently asks, patiently, with kindness, leading Adam out of his lie, into the truth, even though it is painful: "Who told you that you were naked?" Poor Adam cannot escape: the truth is always there, confronting him. In his attempt to excuse himself, he has just given himself away. In one last desperate attempt, Adam tries to pin the blame not only on Eve, but on God. "The woman whom you put here with me." The utter childishness of such an action ought to make us cringe; not only out of embarrassment for our first ancestor, but because we see these actions echoed so painfully in our own lives.

There is something embarrassing and illogical that lies inside of all humans. It usually is most visible not in the large, epic crimes of nations and grand historical figures, but in the petty, daily sins. Our petty sins are so horrific, because they reveal something petty inside of us, something mean and small, something miserly and greedy. Our daily struggle to do right reveals to us an unattractive instinct inside of all of us for grasping and grabbing that rears its head in these small margins of possibility each day.

How all too ordinary it is to say to ourselves: "If this person/car next to me tries to squeeze into this crowded subway car/budge me in line/merge in front of me on the highway, I am going to lose it/honk at them/elbow them in the ribs," or has felt gladness at another person being the company scapegoat rather than ourselves, or has ever worried about there being "enough for me," or has taken something for their own that was about to be given as a gift anyway. There is a point where we are actually illogical: if we operated on pure logic, then Lady Logic would lead us to do good. But we are not. We are led by logic up to the point of action, then it is up to us--up to our courage and our virtue--to take the leap from abstract known goodness into goodness-in-action. And yet we don't. This is where it gets me. Although it would be logical to do good, we do not do it. We chose our selfish desires of the moment. This ugly pettiness of ours is most unattractive, but we usually cover it up so well, we rarely have to confront it. But it is the impetus that drives most of our wrong-doing.

This absolutely illogical bent of desire is what the Theotókos did not have. She was, somehow, free from this basic instinct towards pettiness. And what a great glory. Imagine the Joy that would be hers at receiving a gift with no whiff of anxiety or selfishness. Imagine the great love and charity with which she would rejoice in the goodness of others. Imagine the complete, utter, total gift of self that was Mary's fiat. While I can say: "Yes" over and over again, I am still held back: by my own limitations, the my own borders of selfish desire. These limitations did not exist for the Theotókos. Her "Yes" had no limits: it was complete, pure, total, quite willingly and knowingly uttered. If there ever was a yes so ready and able to bear Christ into the world, it would truly be the "Yes" of Mary.

And today, we celebrate this "Yes", and the sweet grace that allowed her to utter it, not just for her sake, but certainly for ours. And for Adam, poor Adam, still stuck in his own small, mean, grasping. Mary has uttered his "Yes" for him again. She has re-taught our first ancestors what it means to walk with God. And soon, as she takes his small little toddler hand in hers, she will teach the little God-man what it means to walk.

It was as if the human race were a little dark house, without light or air, locked and latched. The wind of the Holy Spirit had beaten on the door, rattled the windows, tapped on the dark glass with the tiny hands of flowers, flung golden seed against it, even, in hours of storm, lashed it with boughs of a great tree-the prophecy of the Cross-and yet the Spirit was outside. But one day a girl opened the door, and the little house was swept pure and sweet by the wind. Seas of light swept through it, and the light remained in it; and in that little house a Child was born and the Child was God.
--The Reed of God, Caryll Houselander

Saturday, December 6, 2014

an apology for unseen music

I do not usually seek the seduction of
poetic force
wrapping my dim world in lighted poesy.
The world is much richer
without the Midas touch
of quicksilver words encasing
eternal beings.

I never mapped a cartograph
of those times we walked among
the lanes together
and fingered crumbling tombstones and the moldy rotting leaves,
our hands soldered together
with our fingertips,
sodden with the  dew of too-early mornings.

But perhaps there are mysteries in our past,
things too dangerous to be spoken of,
that still smart with such a strength,
our pens and tounges revolt,
and refuse to make a word
for moments that are best left
crystallized impermanently
in the grey limbo of Lethe's banks.

Or, perhaps--a theory more dangerous still--
nothing in each story is beyond the reach
of the light that creeps
from the dark horizon hills
into the womb of the waking world,
that slender, fundamental beam of light,
dismissing shadows as unnecessary,
that bathes the world in an eternal glow,
the generous, life-giving luminosity
that limits the edges of each dark shape.

It threatens, with a sweet, sharp edge,
to draw the petals into the
rose's center,
to break the adamant-like spell that
holds the tense buds apart,
to string the ring of roses round
the central orb
and anchor it there,
to bring all the distinct shapes
into union.

Where will I be?--
when the light has suffered nothing to remain dark.
Where will I remain?--
a creature suffused in shadow.
The light beckons me into something more
eternal than just an I,
the terror of its immanent demands
might break the bedrock of pride
that serves as my objectionable cornerstone.
Perhaps--a theory I can hardly
bring myself to bear--
it beckons me into
a We.

Thursday, December 4, 2014

but it still falls

" Matthew ten, verse twenty-nine," Vincenzo Giuliani said quietly. "'Not one sparrow can fall to the ground without your father knowing it.' "
"But the sparrow still falls," Felipe said quietly.

--The Sparrow, Mary Doria Russell

When my friend first recommended to me a book called "The Sparrow" I thought: Oh how nice: it's probably a great devotional book about Mary or Jesus or St. Francis, or like you know just like gentle lambs frolicking under the providence of God. A sweet devotional book, with some meditation on providence and sparrows flying about in the tender hands of the Lord, singing sweet psalms of praise in the dewy mornings.

That is not this book.
There are no gentle, innocent lambs in this book.
There is nothing sweet and soft in the denouement of this book. The shrouded evil that has attacked, battered, and broken our main protagonist priest is only revealed in the last few pages, and it is an evil so bizarre and ugly that the shock of reading those words will be an impression I remember for a long time.

But in this tale of broken and mangled human nature, I found a story of Divine Providence more powerful than any tale of lambs in meadows. But what an incredible books about providence--more powerful than lambs frolicking in a meadow.

It reminded me of one of my favorite books, Silence, (coming soon to a cinema near you, courtesy of Martin Scorsese, starring Andrew Garfield, whose casting in this movie is courtesy of Divine Providence) While Shusaku Endo's Silence is a sharper novel, more poignant and theologically more mature, The Sparrow follows in its footsteps with delicate artistry and on an unabashed epic scale. They are books where God is felt in His heartbreaking and haunting distance; where the question that runs through each chapter is: Where is God in all this?

My heresy sensors were on red alert throughout the book. "Heresy Sensors" are the name that my friend and I have christened that unique tension that appears, mounting inside of us, as an unknown and as-yet untested homilist begins his sermon at Mass. In the presence of a bringer-of-truth, something screws itself up in your stomach, a fundamental fear of being lied to. You listen to them and wonder: can I really trust this person? Will this person lead me astray or lead me aright?
Some fundamental concern and anxiety screws itself up inside our hearts, and we find ourselves on the edge of our seats, our ears tensed up as we brace ourselves for the first thud of an indelicate, ungraceful sentence of unorthodoxy.

This is not because we are fashioning ourselves as Grand Inquisitors, championing a cold, cruel justice in the name of Correct Thinking. Rather, our Heresy Sensors are what I imagine watching a second Philippe Petit dance between the Twin Towers would be like. You are watching a human being attempt something grand, beautiful, and terrifying: trying to walk the thin, delicate road of Truth. Who can attempt it without falling, careening into the quarter-mile cavern of sky between you and ground? Speaking the Truth is not for the faint of heart, and I tremble as I watch a man step out into the void with nothing but a cable and a long balancing pole to aid him.

 As I turned each page of the book, I felt the thrill of watching these characters dance on the edge of truth, particularly the character who spoke with the author's voice, and her counterpart and foil. It was breathtaking. Just when I thought that the book would just be about to endorse full-fledged, scandalous error, it would spin around delicately and subtly to the brink of orthodoxy. Ms. Russell's lovely, thoughtful, and anything but conclusive prose leads the reader to the edge of truth, but leaves it suspended in the air, inescapable, compelling, yet tantalizingly just beyond an easy grasp. There is never an easy grasp of truth, and Ms. Russell is not going to pander to our wishful thinking that would have it so. Her story has a lovely adolescent, tempestuous theology. It is raw, honest, provocative, with gaping wounds from growing pains, and a firm intuitive grasp of the truth, without the ability to articulate its subtleties.

This book drove me to do what I swore I would never do: follow in my mother's footsteps and read the ending of a novel prematurely. I was stuck on page 100, and I was so curious, fed-up, and frustrated with not knowing what evil had fallen upon poor Fr. Sandoz on this other world of Rakhat that I just read ahead to where he finally choked up a confession of his story. Because, until I finally had the story, I was reading 100 some-odd pages of a man wallowing in his misery. Unless I had a story and a reason behind the misery, I was quickly losing sympathy and patience. So I read the ending before the fullness of time.

I defend my inexcusable choice for two reasons: the suspense isn't spoiled so very much: you know from the very beginning that something tragic happens to Sandoz, and that he ends up back on earth, broken and alone from page one of the novel. And secondly, knowing the pain that Fr. Sandoz was feeling, the book read less as a thriller, with suspense as the driving force that pulled me along until the shocking and heart-breaking end. Rather, it was a tender and bitter Via Dolorosa, that I walked with Fr. Sandoz and his fellow travelers. Which, I felt, brought home the reality of the novel in a deeper way. The Passion that Fr. Sandoz undergoes is truly awful, ugly, brutal, and evil, and knowing that this was the climax of his journey tinged the events leading up to it with a much keener sadness and beauty.

--"What is this man?" 
"He is a soul in search of  God."
--Brother Behr

I have never read a book that has so consistently moved me to tears--tears of sorrow, and tears of great love. Throughout the book, I found myself in awe of a God so beautiful and desirable, that, even in such dark nights, when He is completely hidden from us, when nothing seems farther from us than our Beloved, He is there. That some how all the ugliness of the world cannot tear the desire to seek God out of the human soul. Is that what Divine Providence is in its essence? Is it dangerous, Ms. Russell's book asks, to let oneself fall in love with God? Of course it is.
How can it not break your heart?

 The "passion" that Fr. Sandoz undergoes is brutal, ugly, full of the wickedness of sin. It is harsh, ugly, like Flannery O'Connor-levels of brutal grace and then some. But, perhaps the hope--our grim and desperate hope, as heavy and as essential as an anchor--is that there is really no situation which can break the human being's connection to God. There is no place--in this solar system or another--where we can be held away from God. Not in a sentimental way, but just in a solemn factual way. But, that, we believe, is the entire point of the paschal mystery, of Christ's death, descent into hell, and Resurrection. There is not one part of the human condition into which God will not descend with us.

So: Where is God in all this? He is here. He is not far off; His immanence may be intangible, but it is inescapably true. This may be the only consolation and comfort we ever receive, this terrifying and brutal truth. But maybe this is the consolation that, as we could only confess to ourselves in our darkest nights and moments of deepest honesty, is the only one that fundamentally, truly matters.  

 "He's the genuine article. He has been all along. He is still held fast in the formless stone, but he's closer to God right now than I have ever been in my life. And I don't even have the courage to envy him."--Fr. Giulian

Wednesday, December 3, 2014


The sublimity of your youth is a fetching show of strength,
a stunning look into the lives of him who knows.
Your face, your eyes,
beheld by one
who loves the rasp inside your vocal chords when evening's foggy soup
subsides and leaves its residue clinging to the walls of your esophagii.

You are not cowed,
by crowds, by loneliness,
perhaps, even, by me.

The lone biographer of your anonymous epiphany.

Tuesday, December 2, 2014

they flutter like the butterfly's eyelashes

the place where faith would give the clay of flesh its flight, 
a semblance whose stones would tug the heart towards prayer, 
build in it the desiring of heaven.  
--Chartres, Glenn Shea

How sad for anyone who prayers only with the end of the lips.
--Christian Meditations, "Fifth Sunday After Easter", Blessed Basil Moreau
Inside a little prayer book I find a thousand million words, all arranged in forms that I wish I had the power to create, but usually fail to bring into existence. Instead, I find that in the words of the Suscipe, the Anima Christi, and the Prayer of St. Bonaventure, I have given form to thoughts already in my heart. And, by praying these words over and over, I find that they teach my heart how to desire, and on what to focus them.

The words that we ingest form our minds, these words provide the code with which our incredible apparatus of thought functions. Words are the amino acids to the proteins of our brain; they are the building blocks that construct our thoughts, which are what shape our words, which are what inform our actions, which define who we become. The words that we ingest influence our entire self, they influence how our thoughts are shaped, they create new thoughts in our brains, they have a sway on our very actions.

The words that I ingest each day, in small little blue book, embossed with gold that holds the spidery black print on the feather-light paper page, are the food I feed my heart. They teach my heart what to say, by showing her how to say it. Basil Moreau says that "Prayer consists less of words than of desires and aspirations of the heart that need no long formulas nor abundance of word. Prayer is a fervent and continuous desire." If inchoate desire is the raw material of prayer, then these find black letters are the gentle chisel that molds it into something fine and beautiful. These words teach the desire what it truly is; for the desire, on its own, cannot know anything but itself. It burns continually on its own self-perpetuating fuel, a yearning stronger than death that can be so easily quenched. If not tended to, the fire of desire will weaken, turn to a desolate smoldering. It will be reduced to quickened heartbeats and sweaty palms. The desire that could have seared transcendence into my soul will be relegated to the dusty confines of animal earth, vegetating on its own impotence.

So these words, by daily reminding that little flame of desire inside my breast what it longs for, kindles the flame when it has burned down to only glowing embers. These words are the bellows that fan the flames, when it is as strong and deep as a smithy's fire. These words are what instructs the fire how to burn, that teach the flame to dance aright. These words are not the prayer; but without them, I would find myself hard-pressed to learn to pray. Like a child learning to walk, these are the low coffee tables, the soft piano cushions, the edges of sofas that provide me with a firm grip as I learn to move my feet. They whisper even as they aid: One day you will be grown and will have no need of us. Not because we are rendered obsolete, but because the muscles in your legs will be carved with memories in the shape of us. As perfect teachers open all their wisdom to their students, the lessons that we taught you will become incarnate in the first free footfall of your child feet.

Let us ask, crying out until we are answered. It is neither lukewarm prayers that touch the heart of God nor weak sighs that accomplish the work of our conversion. It is not the idle chatter of our lips or the actual cry from the mouth that we have to have heard. Rather it is the cry of the heart.
--Christian Meditations, "Third Sunday After Epiphany", Blessed Basil Moreau

Wednesday, November 26, 2014

The Temptation of Daniel Bar-Neshika

There was a sort of tug inside of him.
He felt it, but he couldn't locate it.
The tug continued, pulling at his stomach like a sour hangover. 
He was at a loss, gasping, his mind reeking of the stale desire haunting his heart.
He felt his eyes go limpid, his focus soften. The look of eyes that wander from iris to lips and back to iris, on the cusp of a kiss.
He stared out into the dark tunnel, which had suddenly become more compelling than his book.
There it was: that tug, that ache, that need.
It had stopped being a tug, and became a force: a weight that was securely lodged in his stomach, irremovable. Discomforting most particularly in its seeming permanence.
His mouth went dry, and he found himself, unaccountably, nervous.
Lightning bolts of restlessness and static shock rippled up and down his calf muscles. His legs began to feel weak and limp, as if they had suffered an overdose of an automatically enthusiastic massage chair.
He looked across the bar at his friends, certainly indulging in more fun than he.
But, for the love of all things holy, it was a Monday.
Who could stomach that much fun on a Monday?
He felt all sorts of warning signals flash in front of his eyes. He wished he could ignore them.
There was no obligation to follow their instructions, other than his own integrity.
It would be so easy to forget the many instructions his own mind had dictated to his lesser members. His mind was rebelling, the changeable thing.
So he closed his eyes to steady himself, as the vertigo of dull vertigo rushed over him.
If I don't, he thought, I'll regret this in the morning.
As one who is righteously pleased with himself, he was never anxious for experiences. The experiences he had were interesting, illuminating, and always thought-provoking. So he didn't see the point in regretting the ones that had past. Some of which, he was sure, would be equally as edifying as the experiences he had chosen. But, on the whole, probably mediocre, and really they were probably worth missing.
He bit his lip, chewing at the dry skin. An unfortunate and ungainly habit he couldn't shake, particularly when nervous. Dammit, why was he even nervous?
Was that really what this pit of fear stuck in his gut and throat and feet and mouth was, an internal rash of anxiety?
He wished that he could itch the load inside of him, as one itches a bad outbreak of hives.
Although futile, the action creates an illusion of ameliorating the condition.
I cannot scratch this itch, he thought miserably.
He fidgeted in his chair. The smooth, supposedly ergo-dynamic waves in the wooden seat annoying his tailbone, and frustrating any attempt to make himself comfortable.
He felt adrift, cut off from his friends surrounding him by the discomfort of his seat, the dangerous signals of alarm inside his head, and this persistent, damnable pulse of peril inside his body, sighing into his lungs with each inhale.
His stomach growled with paranoia.

Piercing through his muddy haze of agitation, a vision of a vast and airy vault crashed into his line of vision. His fingers followed the path of the delicate flying marble, as it flew through the air, as elegant and exquisite as a dragonfly's wing.
He rotated slowly under the canopy of the excruciatingly dainty marble, drinking in the melodies of stone written upon the ceiling in graceful and subtle melodies. 
For as long as his sight endured, he basked in glorious cavern, as the vision of an eternal something far more lovely swallowed up his fear.

Monday, November 24, 2014

stalactites in the subway

There are stalactites dripping from the ceiling of the subway lobby in Times Square.
I find this mesmerizing, and somewhat mystical.
Oblivious to the light and noise around them, the stalactites drip, undisturbed.
If they were dripping in a cavern deep underneath the earth, or in a brightly lit tunnel, they would never know.
They do not know the difference.
They just drip, calmly. 
Making up in serenity what they lack in sentience.


I am a firm believer in kindness.
In the words of Mother Teresa: "The world is lost for want of sweetness and kindness."
But also, I have been learning that part of living in a city of 8 million people means learning to set your own boundaries, because they hardly exist in the crush of people all around you. When people walk through the New York Subway, usually they do it because they are trying to get from Point A to Point B (surprise, surprise). Usually, people don't really just like loiter in the Subway. Except the Jehovah's Witnesses. I swear the Jehovah's Witnesses have set up a 24-hour post in the New York subways. Thus, inevitably, as I charged through the subway passage, a Jehovah's witness called out to me: "How are you?"
Feeling young, chipper, in good spirits, and full of good will towards all my fellow humans, I smiled and called out brightly: 
"Great!! Thank you!!"
He started to try to keep pace with me and tell me something about joining the chosen few or the rapture or "How Does God Define Real Success" but I could not hear him and I had to go do what they pay me the big bucks for, so I cut him off cheerfully:
"I actually have to go to work," I called out brightly and firmly over the crowd, in the same tone of voice I tell students: "That's not actually a question, that's you complaining about the grade you earned! And if you have a real question, I'll be happy to answer it!"
I actually have to go to work. That's why I'm in this subway, you see.

The man with bloodshot eyes approached me, and got right in front of me, with a confused but eager leer. There is an invisible barrier of space which is kept intact even in the most crowded of situations, even when packed together like sardines on the Six train. Usually you can tell that someone has breached this barrier by their manner: by the way they look at you, the length of their eye contact, by an erection* (*this actually happened. Fact, not ficton). Due to this particular man's sort of stoned demeanor and bloodshot eyes, I assumed that he was after drugs of some sort, and, if I was forced to make a guess, I would rule out Advil or Tylenol. Whatever illegal variety of substances he desired, I didn't want to wait around to find out. Hastily, I said in the firm voice that I use to tell my students to print out their homework and bring it to class on Monday. (And, yes you must print it, no you may not just email it to me): "I'm sorry, I cannot help you, sir. I am not here for that." I honestly had no clue why why he was there, but I figured it was not for the same reason that I was, so, with that, I walked to the other mural.
I hate to make rash judgements about my fellow humans, or diagnose their problems for them willy-nilly, but whatever other issues this man was dealing with in his life, he had one very clear problem: he absolutely could not read context clues. Oh, a girl in a Forever 21 Trench Coat, and a Grande Starbucks Hazelnut Latte? Clearly she must be a person who is vending some white pony.
Context clues, friend.

All this while, as I was waiting for my person to meet me, a man across the subway passage from me was playing an ungodly instrument, which was making an unbearable noise halfway between screeching and tinkling. I think it was supposed to be music, but it sure as hell didn't sound like it.
I was tempted to do great violence to the souped-up guitar upon which he was plucking the devilish notes. But, I do not believe in indulging in violence, or even fantasies of violence, as I believe it lessens our humanity. Violence debases all of us, reducing us to our sub-human instincts. Accordingly, as I listened to this man's strange instrument squeak out hellish discordant noises, I let myself fantasize several different scenarios in which I courteously walked up to him and said some variation of:
"Hey! I appreciate the effort! Thanks for trying to share your talent with the world. I know you think you sound good, but you actually don't. So why don't you go take some music lessons, and leave us all with some peace and quiet?"
Or: "Dear human being whom I respect: your instrument is using its outside voice right now instead of its inside voice. So I need it to start using its inside voice, since we are inside."
Or: "Thank you so much for playing! Music time is over now, unfortunately. So pack up your things and we'll see you next week!!!"
In all of these imaginary scenarios, he walked away with new valuable self-knowledge; his instrument remained unscathed; and all of us were left with the blessedly and comparatively peaceful noise of trains rushing by and people bustling by on cellphones.
Win. Win.
Unfortunately, I was too selfish to risk my comfort for the good of the community, so we suffered through the subterranean racket.


But the stalactites kept dripping, unaware of the discordant chaos around them. In complete stillness, their little drops of moisture created small mounds of calculus deposits on the ground beneath them. Blissfully ignorant of their surroundings, the stalactites kept growing, unaware that they were intrusions of nature into the habitat of man.

Saturday, November 22, 2014

behind the beautiful forevers

"Often in journalism, stories about the poor began with a reporter going to an NGO and saying, 'Tell me about the good work you're doing, and let me follow you, and maybe if you could just pick out some real success stories, I'll write about them.' I think that those kind of stories do an injustice to the enormous amount of creative and enterprising problem-solving that low-income people do for themselves, that most of the ways that people get out of poverty in the United States, in India and anywhere else I've ever been is through their own imaginations and their own fortitude." 
--Katherine Boo, author of Behind the Beautiful Forevers, as quoted on NPR

 Katherine Boo's gorgeous, terrifying, heart-breaking, and glorious book was one of the more painful things that I have ever read.

I just finished reading Behind the Beautiful Forevers, which is a non-fiction narrative of families in Mumbai's slum city of Annawadi, focusing on tragic events in a close-knit ring of families, and the destruction that falls upon their lives.

When we flew into the Mumbai airport, I will never forget seeing the corrugated metal slum huts hugging the airport fence. It was the first time I had ever experienced a stark contrast between another world and mine. How close those homes were to the bus I was riding on; and yet, how far away they were. The inhabitants of those huts would never cross the fence into this airport; they were never going to fly on a plane from this airport to mine. It was a harsh realization. I wonder if one of those cities I saw was Annawadi.

The panoramic group portrait that Ms. Boo draws of the inhabitants of Annawadi paints her subjects with vivid, inescapable clarity. The reality of their stories, their names, their situations leaps off that page and hits you in the small of your stomach. Their stories are real stories. The deaths that occurred here were real deaths. Tragic suicides, pointless murders. The staggering amount of pain that is compressed into several young lives is nearly incomprehensible. One particularly poignant vignette she recounts is the story of an injured scavenger on the side of the road leading into the slum. Four of our characters pass him without doing anything. One assuming he'll be taken care of by someone else, one too scarred by his last encounter with the corrupt and cruel police officers to take any action, another too busy, trying to catch a bus, and so, the poor scavenger dies of thirst, exposure, and bleeding.
His body is cleaned up by the police a few hours later, and his death is written down as tuberculosis before his body is shipped off to a medical school to fill their cadaver quota.

I felt that that story she chose to tell was rather a damning story: for I do the same thing everyday. Not that I pass by men bleeding on the side of the street. But, everyday, I pass a man or a woman begging, asking for a handout, sleeping in a subway station, and I, too, assume that someone else is going to take care of them. I leave the common task of humanity: to care for our fellow men and women to someone else. This is a sin of omission not easily navigated. But Ms. Boo's portrait of poverty is primarily moral poverty. Poverty creates this moral vacuum in a young man or a woman. One of her young protagonists, Abdul, uses the image of ice: he wants to be ice: better, different, more solid than his surroundings, but he is just dirty water, he says, like the rest of Annawadi.
The forces that keep these families in poverty, that stifle their will to succeed, despite their best efforts, are the same forces of sin that perpetuate injustice in all our lives. If there were a way for human beings to reach beyond their own selfishness, then perhaps these families might be homeowners. If humans could transcend their own selfish desires, then perhaps the corrupt slumlord would funnel money to the elementary school instead of his own pocket. If the success of a neighbor was greeted with joy and not envy, then perhaps families would not have to suffer so many unnecessary evils.

In the uncomfortably real, high-stakes world of Annawadi, Ms. Boo creates a picture of not only Abdul and Sinul, Fatima and Karam, but of you and me. We, too, have probably acted out of malice, or envy, or self-interest, but, thanks to the bubble of comfort separating us from our neighbors, we never see the fruits of the ugly seeds we sow. In Annawadi, there is no illusion of separation: the consequences of virtue and vice are felt sharply by each member of the community. So we come to identify with these characters, whose lives are so saturated in desperation and drama. Yet, when an American businessman or tourist enters the book, we realize we are a part of their world. Our representative in this narrative is the rich, clueless American tourist in the luxury Hyatt, just meters from the homes of our protagonists. Just yards apart, but in a completely different world.
We are sundered from them by the airport wall.

Thursday, November 20, 2014

denizens of the six train

When some people talk about money 
They speak as if it were a mysterious lover 
Who went out to buy milk and never 
Came back, and it makes me nostalgic 
For the years I lived on coffee and bread,
Hungry all the time, walking to work on payday 
Like a woman journeying for water 
From a village without a well, then living 
One or two nights like everyone else 
On roast chicken and red wine. 
--Tracy Smith, The Good Life 

Very rarely do I ever stop and think: Am I living my life well? Am I living as I ought to? Am I living in a way that when I look back on these years, I will think to myself: I lived a good life, as I ought to have, for those strange years when I was a young and clueless child.

The other day, however, I saw this poem--the above poem--on the Six train, and it made me nostalgic for today. I realized that what the poem is describing is the now time in my life.
Now is the time in my life I don't have quite enough money to buy new pieces of my wardrobe whenever I feel like it. Now is the time in my life when I can't buy lunch, I have to pack it. Now is the time of my life I'm living on coffee and bread (well, actually tea and greek yogurt. And vegetables. I promise there are vegetables). Now is the time when I walk instead of using the last $2.50 on the metrocard. Now is the time that I take the Six train, full of jostling, crazy, annoying, bizarre, wonderful human life instead of taking the cab.

The other day on the Six train (which is how too many of my stories start) a man walked on, trying hard to look anonymous, in his leopard-tie-dyed colored everything. As soon as the train got underway, he began to sing and dance. Dance as in throwing himself around the train in a variety of death-defying acrobatics. Dance as in walking on the ceiling. Dance as in crazy antics. It was wonderful. The other day on the Six train, a pregnant woman walked on, and she was so beautiful, that's all I could notice, before I realized she needed a seat. The other day on the Six train, a group of raucous youths sang songs so loudly, we all giggled at their drunken antics, instead of yelling at them. The other day on the Six train I saw two children befriend one another, as they watched the dark tunnel speed by, I saw a mother feeding her children fruit snacks, I heard two boys talking about their seventh grade conquests (ew), and I was squished against a man's dark wool coat that smelled like cigarettes and beef jerky. The Six train is so full of humans, life, annoyances, and stories. There are so many stories on the Six train.
Now is the time in my life when the world doesn't quite make sense: it's just a dizzying, somewhat annoying conglomeration of stories, weaving themselves in and out of the background. And, at the end of the day, it's a glorious crush of people.

Now is the time in my life when my life is still very much in my hands. I am learning how to give it away, bit-by-bit, day-by-day. During the daytime, it is spent in grading papers, smiling at students, and telling them they do actually need to serve their JUG, because the teacher didn't "give" it to them, they "earned" it. It means giving up hours I would rather spend reading in coaching them in improv, or Microsoft Word, or kindness. I no longer exist entirely for myself anymore--but a little bit for them. I can't go out for drinks after the show, because if I don't get sleep, I'll snap at the annoying youngster in the first row instead of smiling. Something has changed, and my life is given a new weight; lightened by the burdened of a new responsibility to others in this new community.

But in the evening, when I come before the Eucharist, in the sweet company of a hundred million angels and saints, I enter into that moment in solitude. Sweet, glorious, perpetual, virgin solitude.
This is now: this time in my life, where one determines what this period of uncertainty will be, what themes will flavor it, what telos will determine it. So that for the rest of my life, I can look back on what is now and say: this was the good life.

Wednesday, November 19, 2014

ghosts that we knew

The Mona Lisa smile is so mysterious, mischievous. She seems to mock us for working so many years to unravel her secret. Isn't it funny, I thought, as I wandered past hosts of other priceless works, and found a crowd of selfie-snapping Americans, buzzing around this famous portrait like ants on picnic crumbs, that certain pieces of art become valued above others. Why is this? I wondered. Perhaps, I thought, for their story.With a history as fabulous and fantastical as the story of the Mona Lisa, it is no wonder that this piece of artwork is invaluably precious.
And yet, although the United States' debt could not buy the Mona Lisa, it is nothing compared to the worth of a human life. And perhaps it is the human lives and their stories that are tied up in the Mona Lisa's story that gives it such value. The thefts, the intrigues, the drama of nations, the speculation on the passions and emotions that led to this portrait's creation, have all given this painting its value beyond measure. Beautiful, masterful, the Mona Lisa deserves to be remembered, although its composition is innovative, its style breaking out of older, staider portrait styles, it is not the first revolutionary portrait to do so. The humans of the Mona Lisa give its unassuming, mysterious subject value.

On a smaller, less magnificent scale, it is our stories that give value to the objects that we ourselves prize. For the things I own, I love because of the stories inside of them. I do not love things until they have become old and worn, until the paint has begun to peel with use, or the gilding to fade, the zippers to break. And then, I cannot let them go.

Ten years ago, I valued the gorgeous Bible my parents had given me for Christmas at naught. A Bible. Boring. Unused. Mostly unwanted. It's cover, boasting gilded etchings of Christ and His evangelists, was mostly untouched. The pages were immaculate, pristine, and still, for the most part, unread.
And now, how I wish, as I run my fingers over the cover, whose gold has faded under sweaty hands in Kolkata, worn from much travel, much use, being thrown in backpacks, pored over the night before a test, I wish that I could have that pristine golden cover back. As I squint to see the icons still etched into the cover, how I wish they could have their gold back, undervalued while it was there, irreplaceable now that it is gone.

My perfume, which smells like every date night I've ever been on--from picnics in the Minnesota parks to frozen dinners with fireworks. It smells like every formal dance--from senior prom, to Commencement Ball. It smells like every Easter Sunday, every morning I'm too lazy to shower, every night getting ready to Go Dancing in that sparkly, shiny way that only young college women can.

My computer, which now falls asleep or dies within ten minutes of being unplugged from a power source; that has scratches and dents from falling off of lofted beds, or being trundled all over Europe, from being stuffed into backpacks, from being carried through Rome, from too many writing assignments, and way too many tabs opened, is now one of my most treasured possessions. I love it like Miranda Priestly loves her assistants: without it, my work is futile.

My boots, which, whenever I put on, I feel the ache and tiredness from walking all over Europe. I feel the cobblestones of Rome, digging into the heels. As I slip my foot inside the boot, and zip up the well-worn zipper, I feel my leg encased in a swath of comfort, in a little faux-leather home in a strange land. I remember all the adventures I have been on in those boots, all the dust that has clung to the broken heels. To my surprise, I  have grown fond of these small little vehicles of wanderlust. I am not in the habit of loving things, but these particular things now have a special place in my heart, for the stories they have woven into their tread.

Sunday, November 16, 2014

all in good fun

What if, we thought, we were so in love with our alma mater, that we decided to name our children after it.
Not after the University itself, because calling a child "Notre" or "Dame" just wouldn't really work.
But what about after one of our favorite buildings, we thought?
Having no other mental stimulation than a bottle of wine, and
"I'm just going to name my child Regis Philbin Black Box Theatre Mullins."

TBH: the only thing I would enjoy more than receiving a bouquet of flowers would be receiving a giant tub of hummus.. #DEREKlife #priorities.

I love receiving flowers from men. Receiving flowers from men means that they are willing to

Gingerbread Houses. My mother started many wonderful Christmas traditions, including, but not limited to the gingerbread-house-building tradition. It lasted for many years, until the fatal year of 2013, when our gingerbread house fell apart. A ginger-bread divided against itself cannot stand, and we became as divided as a broken gingerbread wall or fractured royal icing. We became splintered, fractured into gingerbread pieces.

Our mood was broken from the start. Our morale was about as high as a colony of groundhogs PMS-ing. We were grumpy. Moody. Desolate. Destroyed.
Ho Ho ho? more like Ho ho help.

Disgruntled siblings, upset about design choices, irate over the choices of gingerbread gables, they skulk downstairs, hurling dire and vile imprecations at the few brave siblings who continue to ice gingerbread walls.

Writing a director's note.
Writer's block.
What will help.
Maybe I should take a walk?
Go be inspired by nature?
Find an art gallery somewhere to explore?
Go talk to an interesting person?
Go to Facebook.
Find a Facebook friend.
Stalk them.
Stalk the hell outta 'em.
Stalk them all the way back to grade 9.
Wow. Now you know what they looked like as sophomores in highschool.
You know what their social media personality in 11th grade was.
You know what their Facebook persona was that they tried to cultivate as sophomores.

Anyhow, Facebook stalking high school crushes is more important than responding to emails.

Thursday, November 13, 2014


Sometimes, just:

De profundis clamavi ad te, Domine.

Wednesday, November 12, 2014

exaggerations of semitic language

“If anyone comes to me without hating his father and mother, wife and children, brothers and sisters, and even his own life, he cannot be my disciple."
We hear this passage and we're always like: Whoa! Hold up there, Luke. Are you sure you heard that one right? Because I didn't think hate was really a part of this whole Jesus-thing. Hate doesn't sound right to me. This has got to be a typo... Jerome! Jerome, what did the original say? before you stomped all over the sweet Greek with your vulgar Latin conjugations.
But I think this is one of the most beautiful and romantic passages in all of the New Testament. For it reveals the central unity of who God must be for us. "A jealous God" we call Him, because the only other demand we can imagine that remotely resembles that of Christ's is the demand of a lover who selfishly wants all of us for himself.

But this is where our human imagination is limited in scope: when we hate all else: when we resolutely turn our backs on and reject everything else in our life, pursuing recklessly and whole-heartedly the Triune God of love, then we will find that we actually have more love to give. Then, truly we can begin the journey of learning to love. Tearing down our golden calves is not the work of one moment, but it is the journey of a disciple's life: to learn to slowly and surely dismantle all that we would put in the place of God.

When this Trinity is at the heart of our world: the lover, the beloved, and the love between them, then we will find ourselves poured out for others, when we least expect it. When, perhaps we would rather keep to ourselves. But by putting God at the center, we have opened our lives up, our hearts up to not only those that we do love and cherish, but to those for whom we might not harbor natural affection. If we hate all others, and dedicate our love to God, then all of our paltry human hates, quarrels; dislikes and disagreements, must evaporate under the heat of the infinite demand of love.

And life is sweet, as one of the hated ones. It is very great gladness to find oneself rejected for the sake of the Gospel. Rejection usually stings so sharply--like acid, like fire, like stepping on a hundred hornets all at once--but to be hated for the sake of Christ is an honor. When we find ourselves cast aside, because there is a God who demands the whole-hearted worship and our entire selves, that is a Joy. It is, perhaps, rare, but when found, altogether precious and perfect.

Tuesday, November 11, 2014

crisp cuts of moonlight

But it is Our Lady--and no other saint--whom we can really imitate. 
 All the canonized saints had special vocations, and special gifts for their fulfillment. 

 Each saint has his special work: one person’s work. But Our Lady had to include in her vocation, in her life’s work, the essential thing that was to be hidden in every other vocation, in every life. She is not only human; she is humanity. The one thing that she did and does is the one thing that we all have to do, namely, to bear Christ into the world.
--Caryll Houselander, The Reed of God

Our bearing Christ into the world is usually not very glamorous, and, the troubling thing is that it will not look like anyone else's bearing Christ into the world. We have been called to something unique and glorious, which is unlike anyone else's. But it is absolutely essential that we bear Christ into the little corner of the world that we inhabit.

For Christ wished to enter into every single human experience. Each one of them--none of them would be too small or insignificant for his human presence. To paraphrase Rowan Williams: "human life was thought by God to be worth dying for." Our lives are too precious to not become sacraments of Christ. Christ was physically and temporally limited in his human life to the confines of 1st century Palestine. In His Incarnation, He could not experience the hunger of the small Victorian waif, or the great exhaustion of the woman working in the factories, and the man fighting in the cold, muddy trenches. He could not experience the impatience of waiting for a train or the frustration of a run in your pantyhose. But, in our sufferings, we complete the sufferings of Christ. In our joys, we add to the Joy of the Resurrection.

God demands all of our lives. Not in a scary way, where suddenly we have no more life, because we have given it away. But in an infinitely more terrifying way: our lives matter, because God desires every single bit of them. There is no moment we can waste, saying that they are our own. A moment we can keep all to ourselves, waste, and throw away, because it does not matter. It matters. Every single inch of our lives matters, because it is desired by God. God yearns to reveal Himself to the world through each of us.

What should be the most comforting fact to us is often the most disconcerting and annoying. We are too content, to paraphrase another British theological wit, "too content with mudpies." Our desires are not too strong, but too weak. We wish that we were someone else; we wish that our lives were someone else's. We find that we cannot be content with our self. Surely, God cannot work with our perpetual awkwardness, with our timidity, with our insecurities, and our self-doubt. Surely, if we do not gloss over our faults, they will be too glaringly ugly to be sacraments of love. Surely, if only we had this gift or that talent, or could just manage to be more organized, then we could achieve sainthood.

But, perhaps that we are all that we are intended to be, and the only thing that is lacking is that we exit our shell of self-doubt, and offer what fragments of self we can pull together up as our offering of love. In exchange for the love poured out upon us, we return whatever we have created from that love.
Perhaps this is why Mary is the model for all Christian disciples. Because, we learn that it is not the audacity of Joan of Arc, the wisdom of Thomas Aquinas, or the insanity of Francis that we need to be a saint. These are the particular gifts given to particular persons. All that is necessary for any of us in our vocations is to let all the parts of our selves that we would never deem worthy of being vehicles of grace become so. The great folly of Christianity is that it deems any part of nature, no matter how broken and ugly, as a possible conduit of grace.

And that great folly is our hope.

Monday, November 10, 2014

in hot blood

I am a woman most offended,
wearing hosiery that can't be mended.
You'd think that if you paid
seven fifty-five
for a flimsy skein of silk that
it could possibly survive
for more than oh, maybe-- a day?
But, no, in our modern capitalistic clime,
Our clothes are made to break and fray,
squeezing value out of every dime.
And so I totter into work,
with steely face
and laddered thighs.

Slathering my calves with invisible nail polish,
I attempted to arrest the inevitable demolish-
ment of my poor pantyhose,
for what's a girl to do without a pair of those
delicate and fragile death-traps
whose threads, if ruffled by too harsh a zephyr, snaps
and snags and tears and rips and unravels,
leaving my business casual chic in shambles.

Whenever I would move my toe,
or cross my knees, or wag them to and fro,
the delicate little rivulets and runs
would trickle up my leg,
breaking the weaving open, one by one,
taunting me with their own inevitable action.
I was left without a suitable reaction.

So, I, stuttering with rage, thinking:
What have we come to in our day and age.
When women can not go down to the corner drugstore
and purchase tights that last a week or more?!
betook myself into the powder room to mope
over passing of my ravaged nude control top
Oh Lord, I prayed, inside my bathroom stall,
Why do I bother buying anything at all?
My penny-pinching wallet was protesting
at wasting its efforts for a temporary vesting.
An imprudent spenditure of funds, it tsked.
While I pouted, feeling ill-used and miffed.

And then, I laughed.
For just the night before I wrote,
a scene that needed something more concrete:
a dilemma or an issue must occur,
to demonstrate our heroine's thrift and verve.
And so I laughed.
For this was a feminine problem per excellance,
which I now had for my artistic provenance!
Wracking my brains for inspiration,
I found it in this mundane consternation.
Out, damned run, I chirped at my ripped hose,
All the perfumes of Arabia were ne'er sweeter than those.