vitalwholeness

There was a day
really there was, really
when youthful idealism brought forth visions
of a transformed world
which is not bad, in itself

in fact, if no one ever painted such a portrait
it would surely never come

But one day, along the road
the whole world got too big
and shrunk to part of it
one facet of the whole
a geographic miniature
that, I was sure, cobbled
together with every other piece
would do.

The circle grew smaller
at least the realistic circle
until the boundaries were touchable
down to me, mine and maybe yours
and then just the closest sentient beings
I might influence, until
there was just me, myself.

Surely, this world can change
transform, become new, get born
The deeper I dove, the larger
that world, inside, just me, became
until it, too, was out of reach,
an untenable goal that must remain
unfinished, mostly, partially.

Down in the basement of idealism
where the concrete smells musty
a combination of 3-in-1 oil and mold
a single wood shaving curled up
in a corner, saying my name again
and with it, the smallest of seeds,
a new realm grew, but not
looking like the old one, filled
with glory and grand fixes.
This paper thin remnant of a tree
acts like a radium sliver, spreading
its rays around itself in unexpected
ways, directions unanticipated
until the circle started to grow
outward, again, but this time
the way was not grandiose, layered
with equal measures of dubious
outcomes and teaspoons of ego.

This time it grew with some force
of its own, a power with neither pretense
or force, for it was its own force
and in it was life, and that life was
hope, which is always sufficient, enough
as big as the world which it does
transform, after all, where we began
so very long ago, really.

do you remember
when that one student had a project
a student like you years ago
and she needs to interview
somebody about something
and report on it, like it’s important

she shows up with
one more requirement on the way
to graduation, an interview
and I oblige, speaking
to her questions, answers
dutifully recorded, listening
as she scribbles
on her pad

I’ve done too many of these
to be grandiose and over-rate
my importance, to feel
flattered, like this moment
is going to launch my career
as the ringmaster under the big top

It is no more or less than one key
of the ivories, either black or white
for a young person, just necessary
and for me, an obligation, I think
as every key is necessary
for the whole piece, in its time
to start and stop, complete

In a recent trip to the mecca of the 19th century American wine universe, Hermann, Missouri, I retraced the history of that Vatican of the grape world. Imagine, a German transplant culture town with 60 wineries in the town limits and thousands of acres of vineyards. It is the number one wine producer in North America and third in the world. Until 1919, that is, and prohibition. Suddenly, as though overnight, the town’s economy was crushed as grapes in the press. It all came to an end. The vineyards were burned, casks destroyed, and wine poured out into the streets. A way of life came to an end.

This, for a town dependent on producing wine, was the beginning of their great depression. It continued the great decline right on through that time, through the 1st and 2nd world wars and didn’t come out of the shadows until the end of the 1950s. Decades after the land went dry there was a renaissance and vineyards – seven of them – were back.

The great reminder for me was the way in which huge forces beyond our local control often dominate and change life forever. This happens as no direct result of our own efforts. The Tsunami rolls in and the game changes forever.

I once heard someone say that we often find ourselves trying to seal the leaks in our basements only look out and see that the whole neighborhood is flooded. Something much bigger than our own situation is at work and it’s affecting everyone. For those of us in the religion world that has been especially true. The context has changed radically and, as Phyllis Tickle has been fond of saying (The Great Emergence), every 500 years or so the church has a mega yard sale and everything is out on the church lawn on tables. Some items will be discarded while other things kept, recycled and used. But the sale is on. It has to be for life to go on … transformed.

We can concentrate on shoring up our own house, but prohibition has been declared and the game changer put in motion. The neighborhood is flooded. It’s more than any one church, any one denomination. And the ones that seem to be flourishing today will, in the relatively near future, be experiencing the same kinds of things.

What I love about Jesus is how his spirit survives all the twists and turns. He moves against the grain, swims against the current. And just when you think you have him all sewn up he escapes your attempts at domestication so he can be relevant to the next generation.

God is. Jesus speaks and does. Faith receives. Love triumphs. And there is a cup of wine in the center of a circle with bread resting beside it. Stop for a minute. It’s enough.

Best be careful about what you Shofar for …

When the diagnosis came, many things stopped
for practical reasons, mostly
There wasn’t time, or it didn’t matter that much
or I would pick it up later, like a penny that fell out of my pocket
Chess went on vacation, the pieces untouched
sitting lonely on the board, frozen in time

But it was not because of energy or time
recreation postponed until another day
Chess stopped because the part me that
plots and schemes, corners the opponent
calculates board position and works ahead
anticipates and projects and corners
just lost interest.

Unlike other pleasantries, the strings strummed
whistle piped or bike ridden
chess went on a much longer sabbatical

Because I felt so guilty, having abandoned the game
I tried it again the other day

The pieces weighed a thousand pounds each
and I could hardly move them square to square
It is not because I need medication quick
or can’t move other things in my life
because I can.

No, it is this, this game, these pieces
what they require of brain and spirit.
And I wonder if the part of me that must be a certain way
to be good at chess
is at cross purposes
with being different in the rest of my life

Our plans and scheming have their limits
severe ones, those illusions of control
and the part of me that knows this more
laughs at chess like the gods laugh at grasshoppers
The game has suddenly become so small
that I don’t have interest in finding it
under the microscope
the board a postage stamp, silicone chip
a little cell of a checker box
that floats on an immense sea of mystery.

Spending time figuring out my mind in this way
seems so beside the point, even as an amusement
a distraction, the little conquest for the tabletop
I haven’t found much room left for that
even in a game.

The myth of kings and queens, rooks and bishops,
lowly pawns in their courses
has been broken
and the game of true intellectuals
isn’t so smart
anymore