Original Face

Last Best Hope

    Another Independence Day.  Another birthday for the nation whom Lincoln dubbed the "last, best hope of mankind."  Time to take pause.  To reflect.  And then to celebrate,light the fireworks, let the bells ring and the canons roar.

"next to of course god america i
love you land of the pilgrims' and so forth oh
say can you see by the dawn's early my
country 'tis of centuries come and go
and are no more what of it we should worry
in every language even deafanddumb
thy sons acclaim your glorious name by gorry
by jingo by gee by gosh by gum
why talk of beauty what could be more beaut-
iful than these heroic happy dead
who rushed like lions to the roaring slaughter
they did not stop to think they died instead
then shall the voice of liberty be mute?"

He spoke. And drank rapidly a glass of water

e.e. cummings 

O Death

    When I was a young boy, one of the first "real" books which I read pierced my soul.  It takes a nanosecond for me to recall reading John Gunther's "Death Be Not Proud" recounting the last months of his teenage son as he lost his battle with brain cancer.  The profound sadness which pervaded me that day comes back to me quite easily.  It showed me, and continues to show me, the particularity and universality of mourning. 
    Some time later I came to wonder how Gunther came upon that powerful title.  It comes from a sonnet of John Donne.  Surprisingly, Donne's death does not win, in the end.  Rather at the end of time, death is the vanquished foe.
    As Memorial Day approaches, it is good to remember Donne's words.

DEATH be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not so,
For, those, whom thou think'st, thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee,	5
Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee doe goe,
Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie.
Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell,	10
And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well,
And better then thy stroake; why swell'st thou then;
One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.

Congratulations, Ensign Isaac.

    It takes a special kind of something...sense of honor, dedication, courage...to decide to join our nation's armed forces these days.  The commonly held belief (which some of our elitist senators have stated publicly) is that the military is only for losers who can't do anything else.  Nothing could be farther from the truth.  And as proof, I give you exhibit A:  freshly commissioned Ensign Isaac, USCG.
    I have known Isaac since before he was born.  Gifted in many ways and having had an excellent education at Cohen Hillel School and the Commonwealth School, Isaac could have chosen where he wanted to go to college without much difficulty.  With his skills in math and computers a well paid job in Silicon Valley was easily within his reach.  Instead, he took the tough step of telling his parents that he wanted to go to the Coast Guard Academy.  (Knowing his wonderful and forceful mother, I can tell you that it took a real pair of stones to announce his plans to Deborah.)  As you can imagine, it wasn't at all what Deborah and Evan had envisioned for their only son when he grew up.
    But grow up he did.  He is now a fine officer who will be patrolling off the Rhode Island coast protecting seafarers and the rest of us at a hundredth of what he could have be making.  And he and his parents couldn't be prouder or happier.
    Isaac is not unusual.  He is typical of the young men and women who continue to serve this country not because they have nothing better to do, but because they could aspire to doing nothing higher.

Sick of being sick

       Head colds blow.  Literally.  My nose is raw and bleeding from the tissues I have had to use over the past 24 hours.  I wonder when a piece of my lung will find its way into my handkerchief with how hard and frequently I have been hacking.  My voice?  Well, let's just say that it sounds like a castrated frog on steroids.  Day after day it seems as if the cold from Hell just will not leave me alone. 
    I am not someone who gets sick often.  Headaches, sure.  But knock-down dragged out flights with a nasty virus, no.  However, this year it has caught up with me.  This is my second virus of the winter season and repetition does not make the heart grow any fonder.
    Anyway, I gotta go to the drugstore.  I'm all out of day and night time cold meds and the idea of another sleepless night wishing the Grim Reaper take me already is not something I want to face if I can avoid it.

RIP, Mr. Buckley

    WFB died today.  If you don't know who WFB was, then you have not been part of the conservative intellectual movement.  In fact, you probably have not been attentive to the debates on politics and political theory over the past half century.  William F. Buckley, Jr. was the pater familias of modern American conservatism.  As a young man, immediately out of college he became an infant terrible with God and Man at Yale, in which he indicted his university for, what several decades later would be known as, political correctness.  With his rapier wit and a vocabulary as vast as the Oxford English Dictionary, Buckley singlehandedly demolished the left wing conceit that all conservatives were intellectual cretins.
    Without Buckley there would have been no Reagan.  The Cold War would have not have ended the way it did.  Simply put, without Buckley the America we know would not be.  He demonstrated the power of ideas in the world of action.
    He also taught how to conduct one's self while engaged in the public arena.  He did it with good cheer, wide eyed cherubic grins as well as the respect of his colleagues on both sides of the political divide.  When you were with him, he gave you his full attention, regardless if you were merely an undergraduate news reporter or the President.  He was the sine qua none Yale Man.
    Rest well, Mr. Buckley...and, thank you.

   

Snow days

    Every kid loves snow days.  They rank a little below a call from the governor just before midnight calling off the "chair."  They were God's reprieves from whatever was due those days.  Instead, of mundane work, it was time for cavorting or sleeping in.  True sabbath rest.
    With the passage of years the demands of the world always interfere with these landings on Free Parking.  Snow becomes merely another obstacle that makes our tasks more difficult and time consuming.  Traffic jams and deep puddles replace our snow angels and snowball fights.  It is hackneyed to write that something is lost in all of this, but it is.
    Every once in a while, a bit more frequently here in New England, God throws so much weather at us that even adults have to give in and give up the quotidian tasks set for the day.  Today was one of those days.  Meetings, one very long planned, were canceled.  Telephone calls to offices were greeted by voice-mails that will not be checked until Monday.  There was no getting around it.  Work was on hold for the day.
    It has been nice to go back in time.  To sit and read while watching the world outside of my window turn white.  And to know that others have been doing the same thing-- none of us feeling guilty in the least.

Hillary is dead

    No not that Hillary. 
    The real Hillary died today.  Sir Edmund Hillary, who along with his climbing partner, Tenzing Norgay, were the first to scale Everest died at 88 years of age.  Long after Hillary Clinton or other political figures have faded from the scene, the achievements of these two brave souls will live on.  To many people it may seem as if climbing Everest is not mammoth achievement.  After all, today commercial operators set fixed ropes to the summit.  Yet until Hillary and Norgay the highest point on the planet was considered out of bounds, an impossible challenge.  Crazy to even contemplate seriously.  Undaunted, they went ahead and showed all of us that the impossible is merely just seemingly so.
    Like all explorers, Hillary is a reminder of what is noble in the human spirit.  May he rest in peace.

Huh, what's it mean?

It's New Year's Eve.  Soon the ball in New York's Times Square will drop and we will all sing 'Auld Lang Syne."  The Scottish poet, Robert Burns, is said to have authored it but he said that he just remembered a Highland folk song and wrote it down.  Even when it is translated into the modern idiom, it doesn't make much sense as a song, let alone the song that (because of the band leader Guy Lombardo) has become the standard for ushering out the old and in with the new.

But that's ok.  In fact, it may be just the thing to sing on New Year's.

Like most of what we do for the rest of the year, it doesn't make a hell of a lot of sense but somehow it seems to fit.  We muddle along, singing a tune to which we hardly know the words and haven't the foggiest notion of its meaning.  Yet we do it, and not too badly.

Happy new year.  May it be a damn sight better than the last.

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
    And never brought to mind?
    Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
    And auld lang syne?    

  Chorus:
           For auld lang syne, my dear,
           For auld lang syne.
           We'll take a cup o' kindness yet,
           For auld lang syne.

And surely ye'll be your pint-stowp!
And surely I'll be mine!
And we'll take a cup o' kindness yet,
for auld lang syne

We twa hae run about the braes
    And pou'd the gowans fine.
    We've wandered mony a weary foot,
    Sin' auld lang syne.

We twa hae sported i' the burn,
    From morning sun till dine,
    But seas between us braid hae roared
    Sin' auld lang syne.

And ther's a hand, my trusty friend,
    And gie's a hand o' thine;
    We'll tak' a right good willie-waught,,
    For auld lang syne.

On this day

Sometimes music captures the spirit of a day, of a period.  Here are a few songs to think about today.

Alan Jackson's

Where Were You (When The World Stopped Turning)

Where were you when the world stopped turning that September day
Out in the yard with your wife and children
Working on some stage in LA
Did you stand there in shock at the site of
That black smoke rising against that blue sky
Did you shout out in anger
In fear for your neighbor
Or did you just sit down and cry
 
Did you weep for the children
Who lost their dear loved ones
And pray for the ones who don't know
Did you rejoice for the people who walked from the rubble
And sob for the ones left below
 
Did you burst out in pride
For the red white and blue
The heroes who died just doing what they do
Did you look up to heaven for some kind of answer
And look at yourself to what really matters
 
I'm just a singer of simple songs
I'm not a real political man
I watch CNN but I'm not sure I can tell you
The difference in Iraq and Iran
But I know Jesus and I talk to God
And I remember this from when I was young
Faith hope and love are some good things he gave us
And the greatest is love
 
Where were you when the world stopped turning that September day
Teaching a class full of innocent children
Driving down some cold interstate
Did you feel guilty cause you're a survivor
In a crowded room did you feel alone
Did you call up your mother and tell her you love her
Did you dust off that bible at home
Did you open your eyes and hope it never happened
Close your eyes and not go to sleep
Did you notice the sunset the first time in ages
Speak with some stranger on the street
Did you lay down at night and think of tomorrow
Go out and buy you a gun
Did you turn off that violent old movie you're watching
And turn on "I Love Lucy" reruns
Did you go to a church and hold hands with some stranger
Stand in line and give your own blood
Did you just stay home and cling tight to your family
Thank God you had somebody to love
 
I'm just a singer of simple songs
I'm not a real political man
I watch CNN but I'm not sure I can tell you
The difference in Iraq and Iran
But I know Jesus and I talk to God
And I remember this from when I was young
Faith hope and love are some good things he gave us
And the greatest is love
 
I'm just a singer of simple songs
I'm not a real political man
I watch CNN but I'm not sure I can tell you
The difference in Iraq and Iran
But I know Jesus and I talk to God
And I remember this from when I was young
Faith hope and love are some good things he gave us
And the greatest is love
 
The greatest is love
The greatest is love
 
Where were you when the world stopped turning that September day

 

There is a song which has become the most downloaded on the internet.  Tim McGraw has tapped into a sentiment which is overtly emotional in a way that that older European nations may consider to be naive, but is truly American.  On this anniversary, I thought I'd post this to remember all who have sacrificed themselves in the current fight.

If You're Reading This...

If you’re reading this
My Momma is sitting there
Looks like I only got a one-way ticket over here
I sure wish I could give you one more kiss
And war was just a game we played when we were kids
Well I’m laying down my gun
I’m hanging up my boots
I’m up here with God
And we’re BOTH watching over you

So lay me down
In that open field out on the edge of town
And know my soul
Is where my momma always prayed that it would go
And if you’re reading this
I’m already home

If you’re reading this
Half way around the world
I won’t be there to see the birth of our little girl
I hope she looks like you
I hope she fights like me
Stands up for the innocent and the weak
I’m laying down my gun
I’m hanging up my boots
Tell Dad I don’t regret that I followed in his shoes

So lay me down
In that open field out on the edge of town
And know my soul
Is where my Momma always prayed that it would go
And if you’re reading this
I’m already home

If you’re reading this
There’s gonna come a day
When you move on and find someone else
And that’s okay
Just remember this
I’m in a better place
Where soldiers live in peace
And angels sing Amazing Grace

So lay me down
In that open field out on the edge of town
And know my soul
Is where my momma always prayed that it would go
And if you’re reading this
If you’re reading this
I’m already home

Today, as the issue as to whether we should withdraw before the war in the Mideast is over is being heatedly debated in Congress and the rest of the Nation, here is Darryl Worley's response.

Have You Forgotten?

I hear people saying we don’t need this war
I say there’s some things worth fighting for
What about our freedom and this piece of ground
We didn’t get to keep ‘em by backing down
They say we don’t realize the mess we’re getting in
Before you start your preaching let me ask you this my friend

Have you forgotten how it felt that day?
To see your homeland under fire
And her people blown away
Have you forgotten when those towers fell?
We had neighbors still inside going thru a living hell
And you say we shouldn’t worry ’bout bin Laden
Have you forgotten?

They took all the footage off my T.V.
Said it’s too disturbing for you and me
It’ll just breed anger that’s what the experts say
If it was up to me I’d show it everyday
Some say this country’s just out looking for a fight
After 9/11 man I’d have to say that’s right

Have you forgotten how it felt that day?
To see your homeland under fire
And her people blown away
Have you forgotten when those towers fell?
We had neighbors still inside going thru a living hell
And you say we shouldn’t worry ’bout bin Laden
Have you forgotten?

I’ve been there with the soldiers
Who’ve gone away to war
And you can bet that they remember
Just what they’re fighting for

Have you forgotten how it felt that day?
To see your homeland under fire
And her people blown away
Have you forgotten when those towers fell?
We had neighbors still inside going thru a living hell
And you say we shouldn’t worry ’bout bin Laden
Have you forgotten?

Have you forgotten all the people killed?
Some went down like heros in that Pennsylvania field
Have you forgotten about our Pentagon?
All the loved ones that we lost and those left to carry on
Don’t you tell me not to worry about bin Laden
Have you forgotten?

Have you forgotten?
Have you forgotten?

Regardless of your position on the war, this is the day when the nation's innocence was lost forever.  Take stock, remember.

It's bokken

Pulling out the bokken from its sheath tucked into my obi, I move it with a quick thrust, attempting to keep the nearly meter long wooden sword parallel to the ground. Then up over my head, joining my left hand to my right and down as my right foot provides needed stability.  The blows over, it is time for "chibori," or the cleaning of the blade, made with a quick circle of the arm and then, finally, to holster it and retreat.

There is no opponent.  Not now, not ever. 

The movements of the bokken or the shinken, a "live" sword, are strictly choreographed.  Hundreds of years old these katas are distillations of movements in the way haikus are a distillation of the poetic form.  They are repeated to gain mastery of them and in doing so to find something deeper within ourselves.

Of course, that mastery comes at the price of sore backs, shoulders, wrists and legs.  But like with all of the Japanese martial arts, it is through discipline that freedom is gained.

Tonight there is no satori, no freedom , no peace.  There is sweat that makes the bokken slip and lose its position.  It is not parallel.  Time to do it again. Again.  Again.