Meditation on the Sun

I sit here at the picnic table on the square and let my pen pray
As I hold my face to the light, letting the sun warm me,
Letting the brightness fill me, letting the beauty rise up
And overflow, spilling carelessly where it will in extravagant
Heaps and piles. After all, compared to my small life,
The sun is an inexhaustible source, indiscriminately flooding
The universe with light, a fiery lesson in how to live.

The ANSWER!

In Douglas Adam's classic series The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, a group of hyper-intelligent, pan-dimensional philosophers builds a computer that can once and for all deliver to them the ultimate answer to life, the universe, and everything. After ruminating for seven and a half million years, the computer finally gives them the answer.

It turns out the ultimate answer is 42.

Flabbergasted, the philosophers realized they never had a clear idea of what the actual question was. The computer (named Deep Thought) then helps them design another, more powerful computer to figure out what the question is. They call it Earth.

One of the reasons I find this series of books so laugh-out-loud-funny is that they contain a lot of truth. You can find Answers anywhere really. Preachers, gurus, self-help books, politicians, activists, scientists, scholars, and a million other sources all claim to have the Answer. We seem to be hard-wired to want the Answer. We think it will make life easier if we just knew. It's nice to believe there is a clear, unambiguous source of absolute truth, an external standard that elucidates all of life (as well as the universe and everything). Once we have the Answer, other people's opinions no longer matter; we know! Once we have the Answer, hard problems go away, replaced with blind certainty.

Some of us think we actually do know. There are fundamentalists (both religious and secular) who believe they know the Answer, that everyone could know the answer if everyone would just listen to them. Of course, the question arises, which group of fundamentalists truly has the Answer, since they don't all agree?

Answers are funny things. They have a tendency to depend on the questions we are asking, and there are a lot of different potential questions out there, even within the bounds of religion. For example, if your question is, "Why is life so hard and unfair?" your answer might have to do with being part of a special group or a final reckoning in the afterlife, with intangible rewards, in fact. If your question is, "How do I find meaning in my life?" your answer might have to do with social justice or service. If your question is, "What can I know for sure?" your answer might look a lot like atheism. The point is, I wonder if we don't often wind up arguing about answers when maybe we would be better off discussing questions.

So what question are you asking? How does your question affect the Answer you come up with?

Say, "ARRR," me hearties

Avast, ye scurvy dogs, I say
It's National Talk Like a Pirate Day
So shout "ARRRR!" with me
As we head out to sea
To converse in the pirate way.

Two haiku

Mist clings to the land
Under skies of pink and blue--
September sunrise.


What's that mewling?
Is the car's engine purring?
Oh my, a kitten!


This morning, I stopped the car to write down the first haiku. I heard what I thought was a strange bird. After a few moments, I realized it was a cat mewling; and, remembering Pippin, our one-eyed cat, wandering around the car before I left the house, I was afraid he had gotten himself caught up in the car somehow.

I got out and looked, but couldn't see anything. There was very clearly something meowing in the engine compartment, however. I called Amy, but Pippin was at home. It was a kitten. I jacked up the car, but still couldn't get to it or see it. I tried tempting it with a bit of meat from my lunch: no luck. Finally, a mechanic on his way to work stopped and knew where a cat could hide in my engine car--up under the engine block! He crawled on top the engine and reached down behind it and came up with a little, very scared, very angry grey kitten.

Just about then, my father-in-law showed up to help too. I'm rather helpless with these things! I couldn't keep it; we have like eleven pets already. I couldn't turn it loose; it was too young to make it out in the fields on its own. I couldn't put it in my car, because I'm crazy allergic to cats. Finally, I spread out my soft windshield sunshade in the trunk and put it there.

I texted my boss that I'd be late and took the kitten to the animal shelter in Kirksville. They weren't open, but finally agreed to take the kitten when I explained my plight. What a morning!

Stephen's Park Sijo

The rising sun sketches a bright stripe across the water

To mark the path the sun will follow in the coming hours.

I turn the other way and walk the road that leads me home.

Tomorrow

Lying in the darkness,
I stare at my watch in surprise;
Surely it is time to rise,
But no, it's not even tomorrow yet!

Of course, it never is--
Tomorrow, I mean.
Like infinity and someday and desire,
Tomorrow is a moving target.

So I read a bit
And write in my journal
Waiting for the magic of sleep
To transform the day.

Writer's Block

I don't feel like writing poetry today;
I'd rather pack my bags and drive away
To some distant place that I've never seen
Where mountains rise above forest and stream.

I'd sit and soak the grandeur in
Before I turned to go again
To find another lonely place
And gaze into my inner face
Until I saw what's written there
In poetry to sad to bear.

Crooked little dreams

Crooked little dreams--
Jagged edges poke and prod,
Ending sleep before
Consciousness arrives.

Morning maybe, but
Good ended after last night's
Anticipation
Bowed to fickle sleep.

Morning Walk

Early morning mist is lifting
Slowly, softly, clearing, drifting
Over the trees and cooing doves
Into the pale blue sky above.

The air is still and cool today
Afternoon warmth still far away.
The day is filled with autumn's breath
The scent of leaves consigned to death

I step into the rising sun
And turn toward home; my walk is done,
My greeting to the day complete;
It's time to shower, dress, and eat.

Cornfest haiku

Funnel cakes, lemon
Shake-ups--summer flavors sour'd
By flat Elvis songs

Ukulele Haiku

Tiny, four-stringed thing
I can't seem to stop smiling
At this dancing flea

A Limerick

I went to the Chinese buffet
All you can eat--it's the American way
I scarfed 'til I puked
In the fresh egg drop soup
And the waitress said no more today

Vagabond @ Home

I look carefully in every direction without finding it.
I frown--if not here, then where?
I leaf through magazines, search the web,
Spin the globe that sits behind the sofa.
I pace through the house, following the usual
Circuitous route from room to room,
But I've seen it all before, and it is difficult
To see it now, these old familiar views.
I sigh, finally stopping in front of the bookshelf.
Heart of Darkness? River-Horse? O Come Ye Back to Ireland?
I consider carefully for several minutes
Before heading for my front door.
I guess I will just go for a walk.

The Listener

I nod my head, full of understanding,
Smiling at just the right moments,
Shaking my head at the sorrow of life.
You can tell he really cares, they think.

Meanwhile, I am somewhere far away,
Smiling and humming lightly to myself,
Grateful that I managed to escape
Whatever it was they were trying to say.

Forgiveness

Forgiveness is not an occasional art, it is a permanent attitude.

--Martin Luther

This quote showed up in my inbox a few months ago and got me started thinking about forgiveness. The traditional view of forgiveness is that it is a discrete, chosen response to a specific wrong suffered. Someone insults or injures me; and, instead of getting them back or hating them, I choose to forgive them--an occasional art. So what does it mean for forgiveness to be a permanent attitude? Another quote on forgiveness showed up in my inbox that perhaps sheds some light on this:

Forgiveness is giving up the right to retaliate. Forgiveness is the willingness to have something happen the way it happened. It's not true that you can't forgive something; it's a matter of the will, and you always have the choice. Forgiveness is never dependent on what the other person does or does not do; it is always under our control. Forgiveness is giving up the insistence on being understood.... Jesus forgave those who crucified him. This is a radically new way of thinking. For those who accept and practice this discipline, there is a release of energy and a sense of freedom.--Pixie Koestline Hammond
For Everything There Is a Season

Giving up the right to retaliate, to have things turn out the way I want, to be understood. This is a radical notion indeed. Sure I'll forgive someone; but, deep down, I want them to know that they've done wrong but that I, in my benevolence, have forgiven them. What I really want is what I perceive to be justice. You hurt me, and my gracious (hah!) forgiveness ought to make you feel like the worm you are! After all, things should have turned out better. Don't I deserve that?

Another way to say this might be that forgiveness is not having to be right or in control. Ouch. I like being in control. If I'm in a car, I'd rather be driving. I get a little jittery when I'm in big, noisy crowds; I mean, anything could happen! Small children are a challenge for me for the same reasons. Don't even get me started on being right. Let's just agree that I am; and, if it appears that I'm not, you probably don't understand what I mean. You see my problem.

Perhaps true forgiveness, forgiveness as a continuous attitude, is recognizing that I am not in control and do not have any guarantees about being right, being understood, or getting my way. Instead of responding to wrongs suffered, what if I were to give up feeling wronged and, therefore, suffering?

Right and wrong, sin and punishment, guilt and justification--perhaps Christianity's obsession with these things has clouded my perspective. Obsessed with my own guilt and forgiveness, I make a big deal out of forgiving the guilt of others.

My childhood in the jungle

When I was in the first grade, my best friend was Jonathan. We spent our recesses tromping through jungles and emitting spine-tingling calls of challenge as we swung through the trees on vines. Hey, they don't call it a jungle gym for nothing! Of course, we had a regular diet of Tarzan cartoons and live action Tarzan reruns starring Ron Ely on the Sunday afternoon TV matinee to fuel our imaginations.

There was one notable difference in our particular fantasy, however: Jonathan finally confided in me that he was actually Boy, Tarzan's young helper (Ward? Son? Who was Boy, anyway?). The details of why he was attending first grade at a small mid-western church school were never fully explained. Perhaps Tarzan and Jane had wanted him to have an American religious education before returning to Africa to help safeguard peace and justice in the jungle.

I never actually caught sight of N'Kima when Jonathan would try to point him out to me in the trees across the street from the school playground. N'Kima, in case you are wondering, is the capuchin monkey (although I believe I always thought he was a gibbon) that was Tarzan's right-hand primate in the filmation cartoons of the 70's. He filled much the same role as Cheeta the chimpanzee did in the live action movies. Presumably, N'Kima was there to watch over Boy (aka Jonathan) so that no mysterious jungle warriors or shamans found their way to Kansas City as part of a nefarious plot to enact vengeance upon the Lord of the Jungle through Boy. I'm not sure what N'Kima would have done had any evil villains actually appeared; perhaps he had Tarzan's pager number.

I can't say whether I truly believed Jonathan's stories. He was a fun playmate, I was a shy and awkward boy, and truth is a much more flexible thing for children than for adults. Why cause a fight and lose my best friend over something as minor as a few grandiose delusions? Looking back, I suspect his reasons for making the claims might have been rather similar to mine for going along with them.

I think I also went along with Jonathan's claims because because I identified with his feeling of displacement. Part of the mobile, lower middle class who thought they were buying into the American Dream, we found ourselves isolated from distant relatives--rootless strangers hiding in the lonely uniformity of suburban neighborhoods. Humans crave identity. If we don't find one in family and community, we'll use whatever comes to hand. Jungle boys dropped into America--yeah that felt about as authentic as anything else. At least we had a monkey looking out for us, albeit an invisible one as far as I was concerned. How many first-graders can say that?

Bon Appetit

I really enjoyed Jim Haynes' essay for NPR's series "This I Believe," Inviting the World To Dinner. He discusses his love of introducing people to people and his belief that we can love each other even if we do not understand each other.

African Peanut Soup

I didn't make this recipe up, just modified it to suit our needs. Enjoy!

Ingredients:

• 1 tablespoon olive oil
• 1 medium onion, chopped
• 1 large red bell pepper, chopped
• 2 cloves garlic, minced
• 1 14 ounce can crushed tomatoes, with liquid
• 4 cups stock (vegetable or chicken)
• 1/8 teaspoon pepper
• 1/4 teaspoon chili powder
• 2/3 cup smooth peanut butter (preferably without added sugar and preservatives)
• 1/2 cup instant brown rice
• salt to taste
• sherry to taste
  

1. Heat oil in a stockpot over medium-high heat. Cook the onion and bell pepper until lightly browned and tender, stirring in garlic near the end to prevent burning.
2. Stir in tomatoes, stock, pepper, and chili powder. Reduce heat to low and simmer, uncovered, for 30 minutes.
3. Stir in rice, cover, and simmer until rice is tender.
   
4. Stir in peanut butter until well blended.
5. Add salt to taste and a dash of sherry.
6. Serve. Makes about 5 servings.