Kepler--the planetary musician

Kepler attempted to interrelate notes on the musical scale to the geometry of the solar system. Geometry—the mind of God—aesthetics of music—he saw it all as varied expressions of the same life substance. Planets orbits hummed intelligible tones as they progressed in their orbits. He arrived at the 3rd law of planetary motion, while attempting to fit orbits into the musical scale. He began with the hypothesis that orbital paths were circular—yet when he could no longer deny the evidence that they were elliptical, his understanding of God changed as well. This was one of the more inspiring bits of information I read while skimming The Cosmic Mystique, a book I happened upon at the library the other day—I don’t really recommend the book BTW.

I find this very gratifying because while I was struggling through my chemistry courses, the concepts I was learning were very much informing my understanding of the religious, shall we say. I often see the connectedness of life. I see interconnectedness and similarity more readily than I see difference. Viruses are an image of how evil infiltrates the kingdom of God. It’s an aggressive evil. It takes over like a Nazi. Parasites are a different sort of evil. They are like the little foxes that destroy the vine. The Heisenberg principle—numerous theologians love the Heisenberg. Fission. Fusion. The possibilities are endless. Keep checking back for descriptions of scientific principles…but look beneath them to find other meaning there.

wheel chair stranger

I was sitting next to the curb in downtown Minneapolis, listening to some music in the CD player of my car, with a friend—windows open, hot breeze blowin. When I saw sorriest sight I’ve ever seen. A shirtless, wheelchair bound, old guy, with his leg in a brace, sticking strait out the front. He tried to shout at us above the music to get our attention. He asked if we could help him and if we had change. I told him I had car wash tokens and gum. He took the gum, and asked for change again. I asked him if he took a credit card. That cracked him up and he went on his way. Next time I should try the “rise and walk” healing evangelist routine.

IT three and library lurkers

I’m headed out to Virginia to visit my sister, on AmTrac. I have become weary of the airport and all its security checks and hurry up and wait routines. I’m sitting next to 3 IT guys who came to the TC to an IT conference: Eric, Matt and Dave. They’ve warned me about the dining car Nazis and likened the reservation sign-up, waiting line, and service to preparing for the execution chamber. The dining car reservation announcement that just came over the loud speaker did sound a little severe—bringing on a fresh volley of sarcastic humor.

Mostly, I’ve slept in a huddled ball next to the window, drooling a stream onto my pillow, as though it’s the last sleep I’ll ever have. I’m reading a book on being and non-being—A comparative treatise of thought between Barth and Tillich’s philosophy on the matter. I woke up every now and again to lengthy discussions on how to build a program and monitoring system, which will track the progress of employees and their various client assignments. Maybe I should work on the book I’m editing, “Science and Religion.”

On the second leg of the trip I am sitting next to two ladies, incidentally they too keep the world organized, both are librarians. The one who sat next to me is a reference librarian in the Library of Congress. The other worked in various places but is German and has extensive knowledge of all sorts of random facts. Again, I overhear extensive conversation on how to catalogue various pieces and on what is rare and valuable. Somehow they’ve even obtained the collection of children’s books from the last Czar of Russia.

we all OR us and them

A few years ago I showed up for a neighborhood meeting, which happened to be the annual elections for the district council. I got elected and now, recently I was nominated to chair the neighborhood action committee. Which means it is my responsibility to see that we engage at least some of the 31,000 very diverse people in crime prevention or community building programs. Now this wasn’t because I distinguished myself in any amazing way—rather, I was accidentally at a key meeting. Yet, by far it’s the best opportunity I’ve had to try out my leadership wings.

Mostly, it means I got to sit through boring and convoluted meetings in which I didn’t understand half the acronyms, nor the process for about a year and now that I’m sort of catching on, I’m in charge. Those who know me know I am never involved in politics—and this community volunteer thing is like the first step in the running for office direction. Being born and raised without any politics on the radar at all—I knew nearly nothing of city governance by strangers, having in its place communal governance and guidance by family and elders. So, I often run into realizations about how different of a concept of neighborhood I hold.

Tonight, I was at a meeting where this difference was very stark. We were being instructed about the procedures of citizen’s arrest. Good information. Yet I was a bit taken aback. My prima fascia reaction to a possible crime is not 911, it is inserting yourself into the situation and taking personal responsibility for its resolution. Developing a relationship with the “possible” perpetrator or neighborhood problem. Social pressure to do the “right” thing, based on relationships.

I live this out even in my neighborhood. Likely, the most “scary” story was of our neighborhood sex offender—that was before we knew he was a sex offender. He was the “uncle” to the “problem family” in our neighborhood. Because we were on very familiar terms with the neighbors, he came with the family. And the family was in and out of our house all the time. He too came over sometimes. He was flirtatious--and nothing gets my goat faster. I tried to piss him off so he wouldn't like me too much. My roommate went out with him a few times. I didn’t approve but I didn't want to deal with the drama of a confrontation. That’s all easy to say, now that we know: he was apprehended for kidnapping and raping a woman about two years ago. Later, our roommate told us she had been at his house and watched TV with him, on his bed. Yikes! The Lord was with her!

While, I believe in taking responsibility for the social and moral well-being of one’s neighbor. I have put myself and others in danger—those in my intentional community who bought into my vision. As I have demonstrated, I didn’t follow through on my own vision. I didn’t warn my roomate. I cowered under the pressure of her most probable response. In this crazy world of mix between seeing the other as one of us OR them the bad guys and us the good guys: I suppose we could lock all the doors, turned on the air and let our cars take us to the social circles of our choices. But would we be any safer with the results of our own choices?

is this Che(ish) enough?

A friend gave me a good idea. He said he'd buy me a hat (barre?--I have no idea how to spell it) if I would model it for our photographer buddy Oleg. Somehow, they think I'm some rabble rousing revolutionary. I like the revolution idea and purposful deviance has always been my motto. So I think this doctored image of myself (thanks to Photoshop) can be my signature. The spirit of peace revolution. Long live the revolution!  

animal hospital exposed

One of the issues I’ve run into, while in community and church is demonstrated by my parable Animal Hospital. I’ve seen the issue everywhere, so it isn’t just exclusive to the community of faith. It seems to be, at least in part, brought on by the ignorance of over-specialization: a trend in the modern world that has been creating a very particular intelligence vacuum.

The message of animal hospital is: don’t “surgically alter” the intrinsic components of how God created you or your people group and even more importantly, don’t let others—institutions, individuals, governments—convince you to do violence to your self in the name of their agendas and good will—no matter how well intentioned and well reputed they are. Doing any sort of cross-cultural leaping requires that one understands these dynamics well—and is sensitive to that which he/she attempts to “change” in the other culture. There are times when cultures do serious core damage to the structural integrity and beauty of another culture in the name of good will.

But more basically, this happens, cultural differences aside. It most often includes differences that one hasn’t been taught to recognize and place into context. This is where overspecialization is to blame. Specialization is great when it comes to expertise on the details, however, if not held in sway by context and a robust understanding of connectivity to broader themes, specialization is futile. Within the church, the specialization backlash was created by custom crafted programs designed to meet the specific “needs” and life-stages of the congregants: toddlers, teens, singles, single-agains, dad’s of teens groups, women’s prayer brunch, therapy groups etc. The over-specialization and categorization by its very structure is unfriendly to that which is different and outside the said categories. It breeds a mentality of order with no demonstrative elements of transcending and integrating. This is nothing new. But things become dangerous when over-specialized experts are given authority and entrusted with the fixing of people--when valid difference is taken for a malidy.

http://modern-parables.blogspot.com/2006/06/animal-hospital.html

There is a classic written by H. G. Wells, The Country of the Blind, has the same sort of message.

http://www.classicreader.com/read.php/sid.6/bookid.165/

tribute to Joanna

my soul was empty
my heart ached
sobs wretched my little body
I dreamed you had died
leaving me behind

yet the morning light cracked my teary eyes
only to find you in my embrace, body and breath
because your face was peaceful
because your face was sweet
I did not wake you to tell you I loved you

in life we held you so tightly
in this life that is death
for life is but walking death
and only death births eternal life

though I miss you
though I hold you tightly
though I believe in Lazarus
I will not wake you to tell you I love you

and because I love you
I give you to whom you long for
your Creator, your father, your lover, your friend
he alone is your shepherd
in Him you shall have no want

we who are cloaked in darkness
we who’s substance is merely a dream
we give you to your bridegroom
who has veiled you in joy, peace and understanding
he has robed you in His life
he has received you to himself
for he alone desired you for his bride

we deliver you
from this veil of darkness
from this shadow of death
from this world of dreams

we who held you so tightly
we unclasp our fading arms

we release you
to the arms that will draw you close
to the lips that will kiss you with breath
to the passionate love that will sustain you

we give you to LIFE
we give you to Christ
on this your wedding day

At times funerals are fertile fields to sow new seeds—to speak truths into listening ears and open hearts—to change old patterns and bring in new ones. I remember having a profound sense of humility and purpose come over me as I wrote the words of this poem before my sister’s funeral. I spoke them with prophetic proclamation, across a pulpit no woman had ever spoken across before. I felt as though the Spirit had engulfed me and I was no longer speaking. Death would not have the last word! I collapsed afterwards. Every bit of strength was used up. Today, women mourners read their poems. They also take their turn at turning the soil into the grave. Denominational divisions are set aside as each speaks of a common hope. Death is a time to rethink participation in life.

a time to mourn

So I’m taking a bit of a hiatus from my exuberant freedom to fully enter into some incredible moments of mouning and grief of this past week. My mother called today to tell me about a school mate who has also committed suicide, after killing his girlfriend and unborn child. I mourned the little deaths we choose to live in. For my birthday, I attended the funeral of another young man from my home church community, who took his life. Both young men, about the same age, will be buried in the same cemetery—out in the sticks, where the breeze caries whiffs the neighbor’s pig barn. Those who greeted me with Happy Birthday were answered with a stream of tears. Yet I laughed and cried when I was celebrated by a Ghanaian pastor who grabbed his guitar and sang happy birthday to me. I remember feeling the same way on my eleventh birthday when I attended my grandfather’s funeral. I felt sufficiently celebrated when the neighbor lady gave me a bag of m&ns.

I’ve become quite familiar with death. It has a very particular aura. I once stood at its door, yet turned back only to watch my sister step through. Why her and not me? The week of mourning no longer brings tears about her, only stark memories. I had cursed the bright blue sky for mocking me, the day she died. I did not see its baby blue tone till my spirit laid her to rest, 6 months later. We kept on referring to it as “the wedding, I mean the funeral,” throughout the exhausting week of numbing decisions and preparation. Who’s going to comb her hair? Who’s going to pick up her “personal effects?”

Now, I talk to my oldest friends about dying. I look into the eyes of a dear friend who fades visibly week by week. I tell another that I wish to be with her when she passes from this life to the next. It is a sacred moment meant to shared.

death

They rolled the casket to the alter in the largest country church they could find. Mom, Dad and two sisters followed close behind. The mourners kept a deafening silence. An occasional muffled sob. Twenty three is too young to decide it’s over. What sorrow? What absolute madness? What darkness must have overcome this budding light?

Weep my sister for this is your brother. Wail! All you mothers. This is your son. Fathers, this is the pride of your life. This is your future. Death has visited us cruelly, yet again. One more has walked into its chilling embrace. What shame. What guilt. What utter despair.

The mourners sit. And the words are proclaimed in harmonious song…

Because He lives, I can face tomorrow.
Because He lives, All fear is gone.
Because I know He holds the future,
And life is worth the living just because He lives.

What? Dare we believe? Can we see beyond this darkness?

He did. He looked into the darkness with narrowed eyes. He spoke to it with measured words.

Oh, death where is your sting? Oh grave, where is your victory? This is not the end. This is not the final say.

God sent His son, they called Him Jesus
He came to love, heal, and forgive.
He lived and died to buy my pardon,
An empty grave is there to prove my Savior lives.

perfectly, as God made me

There are times I am amazed at how many people claim me into their ethnicity. I am particularly filled with glee and satisfaction when yet another “different” ethnic group claims me. A week ago I scored yet another ethnic group: Greek or maybe more particularly Greek Orthodox. The lady who I had introduced myself to didn’t ask if I was Greek, she simply said, “Now, you are Greek Orthodox (as opposed to the others I was with).” Along with this versatile complexion, comes a sort of internal mechanism that tunes me into the mannerisms and habits of the culture group around me subconsciously. My accent changes slightly. I bow slightly when greeting my Hmong neighbor. I wow my Japanese friend with my “polite” table manners—polite according to the Japanese—I have no conscious knowledge of Japanese graces. I speak softly to two other Hmong neighbors and I start talking black to my other black neighbors—and stop abruptly as I realize, oops, some people take offense to that.

Long black hair is my most versatile feature. Olive toned skin blends me into a majority of the 10-40 window nations. My dark browns place me almost anywhere. I tend to assimilate into most people groups and situations—if that is my intended purpose. Challenging and reforming is my other intent once I have infiltrated. Appearance is only a tool toward that end. The character, Mystique, in the x-men trilogy, is my characteristic character. (That she is in close relationship to Destiny, in the comic series, is interesting). I also find an affinity to Vin Diesel, because, ethnically, he’s a little hard to place. If I wouldn’t be a Christian, I think I would pursue employment as an information thief, spy or an infiltrator of some sort. I would have to learn how to lie though.

I have been all of the following: African American, Cuban, Columbian, Mexican, any type of Latin American—that is the lighter skin toned mix of Latin American. I have been Italian, Middle Eastern, a light mix of Indian, Spanish, Gypsy, Italian, Greek. I am rarely identified as German which is what I am 100%.

Actually, my brother also has a lot of the same features and coloring I do. He was searched and interrogated to the nth degree when he traveled to Israel. They thought he was Palestinian with his black hair and prominent 5 o’clock shadow.

as I lay on your grave

I went to lay on your grave today.
I imagined we were young again
put down for our afternoon naps
tickling, talking, silliness
till at last we fell asleep

Now you are asleep
and I am awake
the cold marble stone
cools my cheek
the burr oaks wave at us
against the baby blue sky

Death, why have you fallen in love with youth
so many babies here
too many youth in their prime
rest together
with my sister dearest

now again
the ground will be broken for you
oh, death
as another of your young lovers
succumbs to your wiles

Please pray for the community of my childhood--for the family--for a fellow blogger. http://dorcassmucker.blogspot.com/2006/07/no-words-for-this.html

a graduation high?

So it’s like I’ve emerged from a deep dark tunnel and now I’m out in the light. It’s summer! I love where I live. I love life! And I wake up early to indulge in it. I hardly recognize myself anymore. Gone is the woeful Cassandra, with her worried brow and heavy heart. Yipper skipper here I come—I think I’ll take a run and a swim instead of an afternoon nap. I’m still an introvert but now I flit from here, there and everywhere—from one social sphere to another. A Bulgarian and a Hispanic friend’s wedding shower. A date with a high school friend. A heartful conversation with her husband. A movie with an ad-hoc group of Seminarians and such. Home to my parents. Off to the church of my childhood. An accidental encounter and deep conversation with an armchair theologian from my parents’ other church. Teaching a new Ugandan friend how to drive my car. Praying with my Peruvian friend. Meeting all her Peruvian friends and going out on the town till 2 am. Two new friends from Oleg’s circle of friends. Socializing with the other directors on my district board. Dinner with the newest director from the Native American Family Center. Hanging out with blorge and Chris and friends. New people from other house churches I’m attempting to connect. Thought projects. Books to read. Home improvement projects. Cooking and cleaning. Gardening. It’s a riot. It’s insane as compared to a year ago. I love it! I love life! I can barely sleep anymore. I don’t know where all the energy comes from. I go to bed late and I wake up at the crack of dawn. At first I thought it was a graduation high but it’s not subsiding much. My sister-in-law asked me if I’m in love. Yeah, I’m in love. I’m in love with life. And I’m rejoicing in this season of praise.
Hallelujah!

on revolution—reform your spirit first

It is of absolute necessity to live with internal joyful, exuberance for life while in the same breath, in firm resolve, standing against, or confronting, all that is wrong in the world. Our confrontations should be short, firm and strategic. As though the vivacious stream of consciousness was suddenly interrupted by a sobering message, only to draw us back into a fuller joy. No one should dwell endlessly in the despair of all that has gone amiss. Mourning and retreat are but seasons—paths back to joyful, vivacious life.

Or one could incite revolution out of anger—you will need to correctly direct the angry masses into desired end.

forgetting Zion

Psalms 137
1 By the rivers of Babylon we sat and wept when we remembered Zion. 2 There on the poplars we hung our harps, 3 for there our captors asked us for songs, our tormentors demanded songs of joy; they said, "Sing us one of the songs of Zion!" 4 How can we sing the songs of the Lord while in a foreign land?

I memorized this passage when I was not more than 10. I remember the images of expatriated people, mourning on riverbanks, caught in my mind. I pitied their sadness. I too was sad for them. Recently, I ran into a song—a take off this psalm. I love its depressive mood. I love that it is sung in a low base rumble. I’ve played it a million times. It grips the soul of this expatriate. The poetry, the imagery, the subtle message--absolutely amazing!

By the Rivers Dark

By Leonard Cohen

By the rivers dark
I wandered on.
I lived my life
In Babylon.

And I did forget
My holy song:
And I had no strength
In Babylon.

By the rivers dark
Where I could not see
Who was waiting there
Who was hunting me.

And he cut my lip
And he cut my heart.
So I could not drink
From the river dark.

And he covered me,
And I saw within,
My lawless heart
And my wedding ring,

I did not know
And I could not see
Who was waiting there,
Who was hunting me.

By the rivers dark
I panicked on.
I belonged at last
To Babylon.

Then he struck my heart
With a deadly force,
And he said, ‘This heart:
It is not yours.’

And he gave the wind
My wedding ring;
And he circled us
With everything.

By the rivers dark,
In a wounded dawn,
I live my life
In Babylon.

Though I take my song
From a withered limb,
Both song and tree,
They sing for him.

Be the truth unsaid
And the blessing gone,
If I forget
My Babylon.

I did not know
And I could not see
Who was waiting there,
Who was hunting me.

By the rivers dark,
Where it all goes on;
By the rivers dark
In Babylon.

reader poll

What would you like to hear about?
At any given time there are numerous diverse categories of topics cooking in my brain that I could blog about/record for future usefulness.

parables—typically of the church.
parabolic message revealed—would you like to give my commentary of the message of my parables posted, with the certain understanding that my expressed message is not exhaustive.
encounters—these are stories of my adventures in strategically or accidentally wandering into the hub of the life and reality of “the other”—the alien, the poor, the rich and strangers. I have not written about these much because these encounters are very sacred to me because of the people they involve. I don’t want to exploit them for an interesting story. I would like to find a way of doing that.
reform and revolution—This is a topic that has always been close to my heart. I would like to write about strategy and principles, as well as character. I have been aiming at this target with my parables but parables are supposed to be provocative at an emotional level. This approach would bring out the scientist and the Cassandra in me.
formative principles—I have a number of principles I live by or would like to live by in greater fullness, which I am on one hand attempting to process and crystallize into a succinct theological expression but on the other hand is inseparably married to strategic action and ultimately leads to impact my “lived in world” by perpetuating the spirit of this Christian principle
stories of self and home—I throw these in to let people see my humanness. I believe it important to be touchably human and real.
scripture—I would like to express what I find fascinating in scripture.
dreams--Some people say dreams don't matter. Some place them in a closed category of the subversive human consciousness. To some, they are just fun or terrifying. What happens when they are true? Why are there so many people secretly hoping for meaning to be spoken into their dreams?

depressed about the state of the church

Every once in a while I get really depressed about the state of the church. Everything seems wrong. Some people attempt solutions to the ongoing cycle of sin passed from person to person, generation to generation, class to class, yet ultimately, if one is to be real with him/herself, we all contribute to the brokenness and perpetuate more, except for by the grace of God, which seems far too absent. In these times, I find great comfort in reading Ezekiel 34, reading myself into the bad shepherd character, for I too am that bad shepherd. I also understand Christ’s role in redeeming the bad shepherd. However, I am comforted by the fact that God himself will shepherd his sheep…despite me…despite the church.

Ezekiel 34

…'This is what the Sovereign Lord says: Woe to the shepherds of Israel who only take care of themselves! Should not shepherds take care of the flock? 3 You eat the curds, clothe yourselves with the wool and slaughter the choice animals, but you do not take care of the flock. 4 You have not strengthened the weak or healed the sick or bound up the injured. You have not brought back the strays or searched for the lost. You have ruled them harshly and brutally. 5 So they were scattered because there was no shepherd, and when they were scattered they became food for all the wild animals. 6 My sheep wandered over all the mountains and on every high hill. They were scattered over the whole earth, and no one searched or looked for them.

…10 This is what the Sovereign Lord says: I am against the shepherds and will hold them accountable for my flock. I will remove them from tending the flock so that the shepherds can no longer feed themselves. I will rescue my flock from their mouths, and it will no longer be food for them. 11 "'For this is what the Sovereign Lord says: I myself will search for my sheep and look after them. 12 As a shepherd looks after his scattered flock when he is with them, so will I look after my sheep. I will rescue them from all the places where they were scattered on a day of clouds and darkness. 13 I will bring them out from the nations and gather them from the countries, and I will bring them into their own land. I will pasture them on the … 15 I myself will tend my sheep and have them lie down, declares the Sovereign Lord. 16 I will search for the lost and bring back the strays. I will bind up the injured and strengthen the weak, but the sleek and the strong I will destroy. I will shepherd the flock with justice.

17 "'As for you, my flock, this is what the Sovereign Lord says: I will judge between one sheep and another, and between rams and goats. 18 Is it not enough for you to feed on the good pasture? Must you also trample the rest of your pasture with your feet? Is it not enough for you to drink clear water? Must you also muddy the rest with your feet? 19 Must my flock feed on what you have trampled and drink what you have muddied with your feet? 20 "'Therefore this is what the Sovereign Lord says to them: See, I myself will judge between the fat sheep and the lean sheep.

animal hospital

I went to visit the most famous animal hospital. And no stranger sight did I behold! I was enticed to come and observe the healing it boasted of. “All diseases treated for free!” I had never heard of such generosity and success. Yet through the door I did walk to visit with the recovering patients. They were tired but happy—happy their surgery was a success. I spoke with the goat, whose beard and horns had been removed. He eyed himself in the mirror, pleased at his transformation. The camel too was on the mend. His back held an elegant curve. “Hump removal surgery,” he said, “It’s quite the thing.” The llama was next. I’ve been much too arrogant he said, “They shortened my neck to just the right size. And enlarged my head to fit my body size.” The cow was next and she was a sight to behold. They took her udder and erased her spots, narrowed her nose and shortened her tongue. “They’ve freed me from my bondage to humans,” she said. “No more will I be milked for what I’m worth.”

The surgery rooms were labeled by types: cosmetic surgery, structural surgery, and heart surgery. The waiting lists were long at the first. Few dared the second. And the third had no waiting at all. Our areas of specialization are very particular, I was told. The bookkeeping department was overworked and understaffed. Documents, patient records, analysis notes and x-rays lay in large stacks everywhere, waiting to be filed. Yet these administrative and periferal issues were negligible in comparison to the successful surgeries.

The surgeries were the success story. The public relations department was the best of its kind. What more could one ask for in a hospital?

at home

I went home to my parents this past weekend. Friday night we’re sitting around chatting (remember, no TV). The following are some snippets of the conversation.

The topic of my parents’ 34th anniversary having been yesterday came up. Most of us had forgotten and were giving each other the oops face, while the smoothest talker was covering for the rest of us. “So, Mom and Dad what special thing did you do for your anniversary?” My mom’s quick response was, “nix. Mia, hen haut schafed (Nothing. We worked hard).” Well, did you forget?” we asked. “No!”my dad said gruffly, “After 34 years, how could you forget?”

…Well then, I suppose German peasant culture would be the extreme opposite of the celebratory Hispanic culture I’ve come to be a part of. (Friends: Please note, we children were shocked at our parents’ response…shocked but not without understanding. Rarely, did my parent have the luxury of engaging in so called "celebratory activities").

One thing I have to explain before telling the next anicdote is how sometimes especially the women’s traditional attire becomes cumbersome on the farm. Occasionally, the white head coverings are pinned to our hair didn’t stay on. Once, my father was hauling manure out of the calf barn when he happened upon a covering, in the manure. Wonder what happened there? ...We’ve left our skirts behind in barbed wire fences, burned our butts on the hot tin roof we were sliding down and gotten cockaburrs in unthinkable places. Despite the occasional inconveniences of our way of life, we were better for the wear and we did wear our “bonnets” religiously, all the time. After all, obedience to God was more important than any inconvenience encountered. And since wearing the covering is a constant sign of God’s authority and protection over us, to go without was practically unchristian. So, there were often debates about whether the worldly people who didn’t wear a covering were not Christian or if only those who rejected this teaching were in essence taking off their salvation.

Mom is telling the stories of her summer lawnmowing adventures. They have a big farm site that they keep mowed and groomed to picture perfection. So Mom had been mowing under some low hanging trees, when she discovered…

“That you had lost her head in the branches a few trees back,” I said.

“No, I lost my covering.” Mom said.

“So, when I doubled back, I picked my covering out of the tree and put it on again.”

“Well, did the tree become a Christian?” my sister asked.

“Yeah, Mom, it became a Christian and then you came back around and took its salvation away again.”

stranger encounters: Henry

I’m gonna start telling my stranger encounter stories. I don’t know what has been goin on but I seem to have been runnin into the most interesting strangers recently. Perhaps, it’s because it’s spring. Maybe it’s because I’ve finally pulled my head out of my books long enough to actually see the world I walk in. Or perhaps it is as the law enforcement people at the community meeting said last night, there is just a lot of loitering going on in the East Side this summer, linked to increased housing foreclosures, rising unemployment etc. Anyway...here's to a summer of waking up and looking into the eyes of the stranger beside you.

A homeless man introduced himself to me and offered me a cigarette last Sunday morning. I had walked to the park for some fresh air and solitude. It was early. I couldn’t sleep due to the adrenaline high from the previous day. I was sitting in the grass next to the manmade babbling brook as the sun levitated off the horizon.

He had been standing next to his bicycle weighed down with an awkwardly large garbage bag of essentials, I suppose. He came over to where I was sitting under a tree and asked if my name was Brenda. He asked if I knew of an Amy, Greta, Rachel or Rebecca. I told him, “no.” He asked me if I was native American. I said, “no.” He was drinking water out of a reused orange juice bottle filled with dill pickle spears. He wore a construction helmet and gloves with the fingers cut off. He was courteous but had an instructive tone in his voice as he told me about my neighborhood, the name of which he got off the t-shirt I was wearing. He told me about the Ford Plant… “Now let me tell you something about their product: wasteless, wireless, smokeless, paperless, engineless, fruitless, potless, workless…” By then a middle aged blue collar had taken it upon himself to walk by and interrupt. “You are a no good piece of (expletive), he said, addressing the homeless guy. “I know what you are up to,” he insisted. The two men start to argue loudly, each attempting to out talk the other. The early morning risers start to stare our direction. I tell the blue collar, “Thank you and I’m fine, however, I would rather enjoy the morning without arguing and I was holding my own.” The blue collar seemed satisfied and moved on.

I ask the homeless man what he will be doing today. He told me he’ll be hanging out a bit longer until the churches open up. I thanked him for the good conversation and walked back home. He was pleasant. He was generous: he offered me a cigarette. He asked me what I wanted for breakfast, although all we could pursue was an imaginative wish feast. I asked him his name. His name was Henry.

the artist

When I was young and tender, they brought me into a room of solid white walls. They said they loved me and were going to paint beauty and happiness for me. They gave me toys to play with and then they brought in the best artist money could afford. He silently began to paint the white walls in brilliant colors: sunsets, mountains, banquets full of rich food and drink, beautiful horses and dogs and cats. They must have bought this man’s soul because he stayed with me all day and all night painting scene after delightful scene. As I got older I began to talk to the artist, I asked him to paint me another horse, a black one please. He even let me help paint when I wanted to. He told me I was a budding artist. I smiled and I was proud. Then one day he painted a window on the wall. In the window he painted a dirty street with naked children and crumbling shacks. I stood back in reverence and shock as he painted the scene in the window with tears flowing down his cheeks. Suddenly, they came back. They saw what he had done and were very angry. They made him erase the window but it left a hole in the wall. I wondered why they were angry. I wondered why my artist cried. I asked him to paint me more pictures like the window. So at night he did. He painted pictures of war and famine. He would cry and I would sob. Yet before morning we would erase them, leaving another hole in the wall. Eventually, there were so many holes in the wall, we couldn’t see the sunsets and the mountains and the banquets or pets without also seeing the holes in the wall.

Then one day I asked the artist, why he had painted all these pictures. For the first time in my life, he spoke. He told me of the place he was born. He was the naked child in the dirty street. He was the soldier. He was the hunger stricken alien. He had sold himself to make my life a beautiful picture. I cried and I sobbed. I ranted and I raged. And in my anger I tore that room to shreds and set it on fire. Now I live in the dirty streets the artist once painted for me. The naked children play and fight in the streets outside my door. The bombs wake me up at night. I barely eat because of the famine. “They” are gone now. They never even visit. I never liked them for deceiving me anyway. The artist. I don’t know where he is either. He too surely was in on the plot. But every day I laugh as I remember. I am no longer a child. Now, I sit in the dirt and hang pretty pictures on the mud walls of a different room. No more am I deceived as I sit in the doorway of my hut overlooking a dusty, war torn, infested street. I laugh and tell stories like the artist did. Some come by to listen. Others pay me no mind. Mostly, I am happy with my walls of mud.

I would like some feedback on this parable.
Who is the artist to you? Who are "they"? What is the moral of this parable? What does it say to you about yourself/others?